Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,121
the warrior’s hands. He puts them back in the satchel and closes the top.
“I will give you the dun for all of them,” I say. I’m no good at this. I want them too much, and he knows it. He looks at the dun, appreciative, but he shakes his head.
“It is a good horse, but I don’t need another horse. I have won many horses. Fifty horses. Wahatehwe always wins!” He yells these last words, goading the men around him, and some whoop and some hiss.
“I will beat you, Wahatehwe!” someone yells back. It is Magwich, and he is astride another horse.
“I have beat you ten times, Magwich. You will have no horses left. Who else will race me?”
He waits, his arms extended in challenge, but no one answers. He laughs, shrugging it off. “No one wants to race me now. Wahatehwe always wins.”
“I will race you,” I say. The men around us crow in excitement. “And if I win, I get Face Woman’s pictures.”
“I will race you both!” Magwich yells. “And if I win, I will take the woman and my horses.”
“I will not race for the woman, and I will not race Magwich,” I say, my eyes on Wahatehwe. “Only you. For the pictures.” I do not yell or even raise my voice, but the men around us spread the word.
“If I win? What do I get?” Wahatehwe says, but I can tell he wants to accept, regardless.
“You do not need another horse,” I remind him. He laughs, teeth flashing. His big scar makes his smile droop on one side, and I like him more for it.
“If I win, Face Woman will paint another skin for me,” he says, but I hesitate again.
“Face Woman is not well,” I say. Naomi is not well, and I need her pictures. Wahatehwe frowns and looks at Magwich. He grunts and looks back at me, his gaze hard. I don’t think he likes Magwich, and my esteem for him rises again.
“We will race. If you win, I will give you the pictures. If I win . . . I will keep them. That is all,” he says.
“Let’s race!” Magwich shouts.
Wahatehwe looks at me, his eyes speculative. “Magwich is angry. I said I would give him all the horses he lost in exchange for the Face Woman. Five horses. He decided the woman was more valuable. Now he has no horses and no woman. And he continues to lose.”
Magwich is going to lose his life if I remain in his presence, but I say nothing.
Wahatehwe looks away and raises his voice, addressing the gamblers.
“Wahatehwe and the Pani daipo will race. Not Magwich.”
“You are afraid of Magwich!” Magwich yells from atop his horse. Wahatehwe ignores him. I ignore him. A cry goes up, and bets are placed, and I send a boy from Washakie’s band back for my saddle. It’s outside my tent, the only tent in a valley of wickiups and tipis; he won’t have any trouble finding it. Washakie has arrived. He sits at the edge of the clearing astride his dark horse with the white star and stays clear of the gambling. If he has raced at all, I don’t know, but I doubt he would risk that horse. Pocatello and his men are at the starting line, placing their bets; Magwich is complaining to whomever will listen.
The boy returns with my saddle, his face alight with anticipation, and I hand him a coin from my bags. He flips it, smiles, and scampers away. I saddle the dun and swing up onto his back. He dances and tosses his head, eager to go, and I hear a few of the bets change. I don’t know how their system works and have no wish to find out. If I win, I get the pictures, and that’s all I care about.
I let the dun scamper a bit, warming up his limbs, but no one is patient enough for me to test the course. I move toward the line, but Wahatehwe is not the only one waiting there. Magwich insists on racing, and no one dares deny him.
“If I win, I get the woman,” Magwich insists.
“No. If you win, you win. You get nothing from me,” I say. I don’t even look at him. Wahatehwe is between us at the line, and I move the dun beside his paint, refusing to be goaded by the loathsome Magwich.
“If I win, I will take my horses,” Magwich warns Wahatehwe. The crowd goes silent, awaiting Wahatehwe’s response.