Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,77

happy herding mules than doing endless target practice. Webb has a lariat that he swings over his head while he rides. Trick and Tumble have grown accustomed to his constant motion in the saddle, and poor Gert has been noosed several times a day since joining the train.

“Nothin’ in the whole world is better than mules, right, John?” Webb asks, dismissing Will’s ambitions.

“Oh, I don’t know, Webb. There might be a few,” John says. He glances at me, and Webb wrinkles his nose.

“I can’t think of any.” Webb pouts. “Not a single thing.”

“What about Ma’s songs and blueberry biscuits and Naomi’s pictures?” Will says, ever the peacemaker.

“I do like those things,” Webb admits. “I wish I had a blueberry biscuit right now. What are your favorite things, John?”

John shifts, not liking the personal nature of the question. “I’d have to think on it,” he says. Ma jumps in to save him.

“My favorite things are buttermilk pie, robin’s-egg blue, Webb’s laughter, Will’s prayers, Wyatt’s courage, Naomi’s sass, Pa’s love, Wolfie’s snores, and Elmeda’s friendship.” Ma smiles at Elmeda, including her in the conversation. The Caldwells, the Binghams, and Abbott have joined us around our fire for coffee and a little conversation. We’ve all been feeling lonelier since the train split in two, and folks have begun to seek each other out at bedtime, almost like we did in the beginning.

“I also love Warren’s stories, Elsie’s good humor, and John’s patience,” Ma adds, pinning John with a rueful grin. It’s true. John has the patience of Job when it comes to Webb.

“What do you love, Pa?” Webb asks, making a game of it.

Pa rattles off a few things—fresh meat, sleep, clean water, a smooth road. All things we haven’t seen much of. Everyone takes a turn until the exercise is exhausted, and we’re all feeling a little forlorn and hungry, reminded of apple tarts and feather beds and warm baths in the kitchen. Elsie Bingham has fallen asleep on her side, her head in her husband’s lap, her arms resting on her belly.

“Will you sing us a song, Ma?” Webb asks when we all fall silent. We’re tired, yet none of us have the energy to ready ourselves for bed.

“I can’t sing tonight, Webb. It tickles my throat. I’ll sing tomorrow when my cough goes away,” Ma says.

“Well, Warren’s on watch, so he can’t tell us a story.” Webb sighs. “Do you know any stories, John?”

A dozen pairs of eyes swing John’s way. We’ve all heard Abbott’s stories more times than we care to, and Pa can’t tell a story to save his soul.

John sets down his cup and straightens, like he’s about to bolt.

“I guess I do,” he says, so quiet that everyone bends their heads toward him to better hear. “I don’t know if this is a true story. Or an old story, or a new story. It’s just something my grandmother told me once, the last time I saw her. It is a story of Hawk, a young Pawnee. Pawnee is what my mother was, what I am too, I suppose—”

“I want to be Pawnee,” Webb interrupts. “How do ya get to be one of those?”

“Well . . . this story is about how Hawk became a Comanche—”

“What’s a Comanche?” Webb asks.

“Webb!” Wyatt growls. “Would ya listen, please? You’re gonna scare John away, and then the rest of us won’t get to hear his story.”

“A Comanche is another tribe. They were the great enemies of the Pawnee. They loved to make war on the Pawnee, and the Pawnee loved to make war on them and steal their horses. One night, Hawk—Kut-a’wi-kutz—who had many horses and was very good at stealing them from the Comanche, sneaked into a Comanche camp. He saw many beautiful horses outside a big lodge.”

“What kind of horses were they?” Webb asks, and Wyatt sighs.

“What do you think?” John asks Webb, not seeming to mind his interruptions.

“One was a dun, one was a roan, and one was a pretty paint,” Webb answers, no hesitation.

“I think you are right. Hawk was just about to take all three of them when he saw a shadow inside the lodge. It was a very handsome lodge with feathers and dried buffalo hooves hanging in the doorway and clattering in the wind, making a noise that sounded like his name. Hawk looked around to make sure no one was there, but the clattering hooves and whispering feathers again made the sound of his name. Kut-a’wi-kutz. He thought maybe someone was calling