Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,61
haven’t settled, and my legs are still shaking.
“Would he have really given her away?” she asks, her voice as hollowed out as I feel.
“Yes.”
“When you told him no, what did he say?”
“He said white women do not make good squaws.”
“Huh,” Naomi grunts. “I’m not sure Black Paint would make a very good husband.”
I snort despite myself. I am sure Naomi is right.
“Black Paint said he would trade straight across. No horses. Just women. You for her,” I scold. She has already begun to relax, as if the event were of no importance. I try to shock her, to take the conversation further than it went in truth. “He was curious about the spots on your nose. He wanted to know if you are spotted all over, like his favorite pony.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know.” She sounds irritated by the fact, and I am immediately hot with outrage and desire. I want to take a switch to her backside. Then I want to hold her tight with no one watching.
“What else did you say?” she asks, impertinent.
“I said your family could not part with you . . . and you were not mine to trade.”
She turns her head and looks at me, her eyes leaving the horizon where the Dakotah have disappeared. “I am not yours to trade, John. But I am yours,” she says, and I look away, unable to hold her gaze a moment longer. I have no idea what to do with her.
“Will you remember that next time you try to negotiate with a Dakotah war chief?” I plead.
“Nobody was hurt, and you still have your jack, don’t you?” She straightens and juts out her chin, defensive.
“Yes. But we are lucky he didn’t just decide to take you instead.”
The Dakotah move more quickly than we do, even dragging all their worldly goods and herding horses, and we don’t see them again until we climb the hill, the fort in the distance. Fort Laramie sits on a rise on the south side of the Platte, and it is enclosed, along with a dozen homes, by a big adobe wall. Just the sight of dwellings not simply hewn from the prairie or erected out of poles and animal skins enlivens the company to spirits not felt in a good while.
Wagon trains dot the country on both sides of the river, and the lodges of French trappers and their Indian wives hug the walls of the fort and line the north and south banks where emigrants cross. The Dakotah pitch their tipis at the tree line, apart from the emigrant trains yet close enough to the fort to conduct commerce.
But reaching the fort from the north side requires crossing the Platte, something even the lure of shelves filled with wonders and a return to civilization cannot entice Abbott’s company to do. Most of the men cross without their wives, leaving them to spend the day at the wagons, cooking and doing the wash, while the men head to the fort for supplies. I cross for supplies too, leaving all my animals except Samson and Delilah hobbled with the rest of the stock. I promise Webb and Will a surprise if they keep an extra eye out. I need flour and coffee and dried meat; I didn’t set out from St. Joe with enough to cross the country, and though the knife I gave to Black Paint wasn’t my only blade, I don’t like being shorthanded.
The fort reminds me of St. Joe, though on a much smaller scale. Everyone’s doing business, trading, testing, tinkering with their outfits, and restocking their stores. I buy enough flour, food, and grain to fill my packs and a new blade with an elk-horn handle. I purchase a ream of paper for Naomi along with a box of pencils and a whittling knife to sharpen the tips. Her shoes are worn almost bare in the soles, and I purchase a pair of doeskin moccasins so buttery soft she won’t even know they are on her feet. A green dress, a few shades darker than her eyes, is piled in a corner with a stack of trousers and shirts that someone has set aside. I grab it and purchase it too, hoping none of the other men from the train will see me doing so.
A bow and a quiver for Webb and Will, a cradleboard for Wolfe so Naomi and Winifred can keep their arms free, and a new felt hat for Wyatt. I don’t know what I can