Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,58
when Dog Tooth and fifty Pawnee braves were on his tail. He reports that a band of Indians—men, women, and children, along with their dogs, horses, and tipis—is already camped on the best grass before the slow climb to Fort John, also called Fort Laramie, which we should make on the morrow.
The company is startled by their numbers, and everyone wants to continue on to the fort, afraid to camp nearby in case there is trouble. But the moon is a sliver, and the night will be dark, making travel after sundown difficult. Fort John still lies half a day’s journey ahead, and Abbott reassures us that we will have no trouble from the Indians.
“They’re Dakotah—Sioux—and they’re used to the trains coming through here. They’re just as wary of us as we are of them,” Abbott says.
They do not appear to be staying long, or maybe, like us, they’ve just arrived, but they look on in disinterest as we trundle by. They rest from the heat of the day beneath half-erected tipis, the poles they drag behind their packhorses lying about among the skins and supplies.
I’ve never seen so many fine horses. A sand-colored dun catches my eye, a black dorsal line descending from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, his forelegs wrapped in the same black, like dark-colored stockings that make every step look like he’s prancing. He reminds me of Dame in his carriage and coloring, though Dame didn’t boast the dun markings.
Webb points to him too, calling out to me from the box seat beside his mother.
“Look at that pretty one, John!” he crows. “Almost as pretty as Dame.”
Despite what Abbott says, the Dakotah are not afraid of us at all. We break for the night a half mile from their temporary encampment, a low ridge between us, but a handful of braves and a few war chiefs approach the circle of our wagons an hour later, horses and skins in tow. The Indians are handsome, well nourished, and well appointed, but they demand to be fed. They seem to enjoy the nervous scurrying of the women and the intimidated gazes of the men.
A big Indian, gold bangles streaming from his long hair and wampum layered around his neck, takes an interest in Kettle. I tell him no trade, but he grows more and more adamant, bringing forth one wild pony after another, parading them past, displaying his wealth. I understand little of what he says, though Abbott has appointed me spokesman. The Pawnee and Sioux are not friendly, and my Pawnee tongue is greeted with derision. Otaktay, my knife-wielding half-breed teacher, spoke a mix of Sioux and English that was all his own, and I’m not sure my association with him will help me understand the Dakotah any better.
One of the braves steps forward, claiming he is a Dakotah war chief, an enemy of the Pawnee, but he speaks the language like he once lived among them, maybe as a child, and I wonder if he is a “two-feet” like me. He seems desperate to prove he is not. He says he is the son of the chief, and he will make war on all Pawnee.
He has blackened his face in celebration of taking the scalp off “a Pawnee dog just like me.” When I do not react or cower when he dangles the scalp in front of my face, he lunges at me and tries to take my hat. I sidestep his attempt but hand the hat to him. I can get a new one at the fort. Wyatt needs one too; he’s been wearing an old straw-brimmed hat that’s missing its top. His blond hair has turned white from the sun right at the crown, making him appear to have a bald spot where the hair is bleached. The black-painted brave touches the white spot with the tip of his spear.
“This one is already scalped,” he says to me. Wyatt flinches, but he keeps his arms folded, standing at my side like a self-appointed guardian, though I outweigh him by fifty pounds.
Several of the women of the train try to distract the Sioux with food, but though they have demanded to eat, they are not hungry for what we are able to provide. Naomi has brought biscuits and passes them to the Dakotah braves like she is presenting them with a great honor.
They are not impressed, and Black Paint has decided he too wants my Mammoth Jack, though I