Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,134

sideways or down. I hardly look at all. I just hold on and let the stallion go.

And he goes and goes.

He doesn’t buck and doesn’t rear up, and I count myself lucky, keeping my belly to his back, my hands in his mane, and my knees pressed tight to his sides. When he finally slows, several miles from where we started, he is spent and subdued. I can’t feel my fingers or my thighs.

“Damn bungu,” I moan. Bungu is the Shoshoni word for horse, and it fits him. When this is over, I’ll have a new black-maned bungu and some new black bruises.

I don’t dare unclamp my hands or my legs, afraid he’ll bolt when I’m not holding on and shake me off at last. We’re both sweat slicked and panting. The river isn’t far, and he can smell it. We’ve run along the flat, the land rising away from the river, which now sits below us down a steep bank. I can see the tops of the trees that crowd the shores, but I don’t slide off Bungu’s back. I’m not walking. He picks his way down to the water; I’m sure it’s the same river that runs south from our camp. When we make it to the bottom and step out from the trees, I discover we’re not alone.

A dozen Indian children play about a hundred yards upstream in a little cove, stabbing at the water with pointy sticks like they’re hunting fish. They’ll never catch anything; they’re too loud. They don’t notice me or Bungu, and I let the horse drink, keeping my eyes peeled for trouble. A group of women descends from the ridge to the water on a path more sloped than the one Bungu took, and I realize that if he’d gone any farther, we would have run right into their camp. Two of the women carry papooses, and I will Bungu to finish so I can ease away without being seen. My throat is dry and my hands are cramped, but I don’t dare leave his back, especially now. They are far enough away that I can’t see small details, but when one woman turns to assist an old woman behind her, I see the papoose on her back. Pale hair curls around the baby’s pink face; the child’s identity is unmistakable.

Washakie was right. Pocatello’s people are in the very next valley.

NAOMI

He is gone so long, and I am angry and scared. Washakie laughed for a long time when John jumped on the back of the gray horse, but he isn’t laughing anymore. Lost Woman is wringing her hands, and from the tone of her voice, Hanabi is scolding Washakie. He acts as though he isn’t concerned, his arms folded and his face serene, but he hasn’t stopped watching the distance where John disappeared. He returns, finally, a dark speck that becomes a plodding horse and a single rider, and I swallow the relief and swipe at the angry tears that are brimming in my eyes. When he’s close enough that I can see he’s uninjured—no blood, no broken limbs, and a straight back—I turn and stomp into our wickiup. He can come find me.

He doesn’t do so immediately, and by the time he enters, my tears have dried, but my temper is hot, and I’m waiting cross-legged on our bed of buffalo robes.

“That was a fool thing to do, John Lowry,” I snap, not even waiting for the skin over the door to fall back into place.

He walks to our bed and sinks down on his haunches so his eyes are almost level with mine.

“Lost Woman was terrified,” I add.

“Her daughter was dragged from a horse. That’s how she died. I already got an earful.” He sounds sad for Lost Woman but not especially penitent.

“What took you so long?” I rage. I want to wrap my hands in his hair and shake him.

“Bungu ran until he was done. That took a while.”

“Bungu? You named your horse Horse?” I am so angry that I’m being mean.

He smiles at me like he’s proud. “You know that word.”

“I do. I know that word and a few others, like kutise. Crazy. That was crazy what you did, John.”

“Oh, Naomi.” He places his big hands on my hips and pulls me toward him. I flop back against the robes to get away and realize my miscalculation when he climbs on top of me, his elbows braced on either side of my head. I’m well and truly pinned,