Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,99
that I can’t make out what’s on fire. “I think it is.” He sniffs at the air. “Smell that?”
I do. But that is not what has caught my eye. Directly in front of the column of smoke are two small figures, no bigger than the freckles on Naomi’s nose. I watch, not certain what I’m seeing. The sparse trees of the West have fooled more than one man into thinking he’s got company.
The mules have begun to stomp and shimmy, but the dun is perfectly still, his head high, his nose turned in the direction of my gaze.
“Whoa, mules. Whoa,” I reassure them. They have their ears pinned back like they’re sensing a watering hole being guarded by a wolf and aren’t sure whether they want to risk an approach.
“Giddyap,” I urge, giving the reins a shake.
They begin to move, veering away from the road to pick their way around the rocks and sage to another set of ruts. These tracks aren’t nearly as deep and distinct as those on the main, but they head toward the tiny shapes that quiver in the distance.
Wyatt is quiet beside me, and I’m grateful for his silence. I have questions and no answers. I only know as long as the mules are walking and not balking, we’re not in any immediate danger. They pick up speed, chuffing and bearing down on the reins, and I hold them back, mindful of the wheels beneath me and repairs I don’t want to make. Within minutes the figures reveal themselves.
“John, I think . . . I think that’s Will and Webb.”
I forget about the wagon and the unforgiving seat beneath me and let the mules go. Wyatt clings to the seat with one hand and to his rifle with the other.
“Where’s the rest of the train?” he shouts over the squeal of the wheels. “Where the hell are the wagons?”
The two boys have begun to run, their arms and legs pumping, their shaggy hair bouncing around them. They see us too. Neither of them is wearing hats or shoes—not that Webb ever does—and they are very much alone.
The distance between us is a thousand miles, and I am gripped with dread. For a moment, everything slows and fades, and all I hear is the sound of my heart drowning out everything else. Then I am reining in the mules and jumping down from the seat with my gun and my canteen, running across the uneven ground toward the news I don’t want to hear. Will collapses at my feet, and Webb clings to my legs. I pull Webb up into my arms, and Wyatt tries to help Will stand, but Will’s legs give out again, and Wyatt kneels beside him.
“Will?” Wyatt says, putting his arm around his brother. “Will, what happened? Where is the train?”
“I d-don’t know. They w-w-went on,” Will stammers. “Pa broke a wheel, and Mrs. Bingham was having her b-b-baby.” He’s begun to shake so hard he’s bouncing.
I make him drink a little water, Webb too, though he’s crying and struggles to swallow. And then they tell us the rest.
“Indians,” Will says. “I k-killed one. I didn’t mean to. And then they killed Pa and W-Warren. They killed Mr. B-B-Bingham. And they b-b-burned the w-wagons. The wagons are gone. Ma’s g-g-gone too.”
“We hid in the rocks,” Webb cries, interrupting him. “We hid in the rocks for a long time, and the wagons burned. Will wouldn’t let me up. He laid on top of me and covered my mouth. I woulda killed ’em. I woulda saved Naomi.”
Each breath burns my throat and scalds my chest, but I ask the question.
“Where is she? What happened to Naomi?”
Wyatt is shaking his head, adamant, denying everything he’s heard, but tears are streaming from his eyes. Will is crying now too, and it is Webb who answers me.
“They took Naomi,” Webb cries, lifting his shattered eyes to mine. “They took her away.”
About a mile down the rutted path, I halt the wagon again and make the boys wait for me inside. One wagon is a pile of smoking embers. One wagon is only partially burned, the cover hanging in ashy shreds, like the fire never caught hold.
“Maybe they’re not dead,” Webb insists. And his face carries the hope and dread of every question not yet answered, but Will knows.
“They’re dead, Webb,” he whispers, and he covers his face.
Wyatt wants to come with me, but I threaten to tie him down if he sets foot outside the wagon. “You