Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,47

longer smiling. He calls out to me in his language, and the warriors around him frown in confusion. They do not know what to make of me. No one ever does.

“John Lowry, this is Chief Dog Tooth. My uncle. He has found your mules,” Charlie calls, and the man called Dog Tooth grunts and scowls at me. I don’t think he agrees with Charlie’s statement of ownership. His head is shaved but for a protrusion of matted black hair that bursts forth from a single patch on the top of his head. His eyes rove to and fro, taking me in, assessing my strength. He sniffs at me and puffs out his chest.

“Kirikî râsakitâ?” Dog Tooth asks. What is your tribe?

“Pawnee tat,” I answer. “But I have no village. No people. No squaw. Only those mules.” I point at the seven mules, ticking them off in my head. Boomer, Budro, Samson, Delilah, Gus, Jasper, and Judy. I sold Tug, Lasso, Lucky, Coal, and Pepper to Captain Dempsey.

“We found them,” Dog Tooth says.

“I know. But they are mine. The boy will tell you.” I do not call him Charlie. I don’t know if it is simply the name Captain Dempsey has given him, and I don’t want to insult him with a white man’s name in front of his chief.

Charlie slides off my horse and leads her to me, but he does not attempt to gather my mules.

“My nephew tells me you trade with the Dempsey,” Dog Tooth says. He pronounces the name Dempsey with the emphasis on the second syllable, like the captain is a great body of water, the Demp Sea, and not just a barrel-bellied man running a fort in the middle of nowhere.

“Yes. For many years. But I am going west now. With my mules.”

“They are our mules now, John Loudee,” argues a brave with the same protrusion of hair as his chief and a fresh scalp hanging from his spear. Someone calls him Skunk, and it is fitting. The r of my name becomes a soft d on his Pawnee tongue, but Wyatt recognizes that I have been challenged, and I see him inching toward the gun on his saddle.

I touch Wyatt’s arm and shake my head. I will not let this descend into a shootout. Wyatt is not going to die today. No one is going to die today.

“They carry my mark,” I say. The Lowry brand is small and obscure, a chicken track on the left flank, a simple JL, the J hanging on the back of the larger L. But I point it out on Dame and Kettle and then, using my rifle to support me, walk among my mules, touching my brand on each of them. They bow in shamed welcome. They ran away and now want rescue, but I will be lucky to leave with my life, not to mention my mules.

“Dempsey knows these are my mules. The boy knows they are my mules.” I point at Charlie. “If you take them, Dempsey will know you took them from me. That will not be good for your people.”

“We left many Sioux dead in the grass. We are not afraid of the Sioux, and we aren’t afraid of Demp Sea,” Dog Tooth says, but his braves are silent around him, and I wonder if they are simply bone weary or they know he lies. They do not look like victors, and I am fearful that they will consider my mules the only spoils of war available to them.

“You are weak,” Dog Tooth says to me, noting my pallor and my ginger movements.

“I am sick. While I was sick, my mules were scattered.”

“So maybe you will die anyway,” Skunk yells, and the men around him grunt and snicker.

“Maybe I will. But I’m not going to die today. And those are my mules,” I say.

“We have just gone to battle with our enemies, the Sioux. We don’t want to go to battle with Demp Sea,” Charlie says, anxious, and the braves grow quiet again. I hope the boy has not drawn the ire of his chief.

“I will give you one mule. You choose,” I say to the chief. “My gift to you for finding my animals.”

“What about those mules?” Dog Tooth points at Trick and Tumble. “They are not your mules. They do not bear your mark.”

“They are his mules.” I nod toward Wyatt.

“If we take his mules, Dempsey will not care,” Skunk says. Dog Tooth raises his hand to silence the brave. Then