“There’s the Hastingses’ dining room table,” Wyatt says, pointing. “You’d think they woulda put it to use.” I know what he means. Coffins have been constructed from sideboards and wagon beds, from crates and boxes and anything else people had. The Hastingses’ table could have provided proper burial for three grown men, including the hired man who died of cholera driving their wagon.
The Hastingses hauled the damn thing across the Platte in their huge Conestoga, only to decide they weren’t hauling it a step farther. Their hired man—the one still living—shoved it out onto the prairie, bidding it good riddance as he tossed out six tufted chairs to keep it company. Someone thought it amusing to set the table upright and tuck the chairs in around it. Buzzards circle overhead as though waiting for dinner to be served. It is the only good shade for miles, and buzzards or not, I can’t continue.
“I gotta stop, Wyatt. Just for a bit,” I whisper, but he hears me and has slid from his saddle before I can untie the rope around my waist. I am much bigger than the boy, and he teeters beneath my weight but manages to half drag, half carry me to the abandoned table, pulling out a chair so I can climb beneath it. He shoves something beneath my head, lays my rifle beside me, and forces some water down my throat. I am asleep before I can thank him.
I dream of Charlie and the Pawnee village, of Kettle being bred to Indian ponies and throwing foals with human faces.
“What are you going to do, half man?” an Indian woman asks in my mother’s voice.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know. She pats my cheeks, her hands insistent.
“Pítku ásu’。” Two Feet. Put one foot in front of the other, Two Feet.
“Mr. Lowry. Mr. Lowry, wake up.” Wyatt is trying to rouse me. Memory floods back, and the Indian woman is gone, along with my mother’s voice.
“C?ikstit karasku?” Wyatt asks. Are you well? I peer up at him, disoriented and dry mouthed. Wyatt doesn’t speak Pawnee.
“What?” I moan.
“What happened to you, Mr. Lowry? Why are you here?”
It isn’t Wyatt. It’s Charlie. They are Charlie’s hands, and it is Charlie’s voice. I reach for my canteen, not sure if it’s real, not certain Charlie is real, or if I am still caught in the dream space. Charlie helps me drink, holding my head the way Wyatt did, and the warm slosh of liquid down my throat convinces me I’m awake.
“Where is Wyatt?” I croak. I do not ask in Pawnee, but Charlie seems to understand.
“There is no one here but me and you, Mr. Lowry. Me, you, Dame, and your jack.”
Relief washes through me, and I peer beyond him. Kettle is partially hidden behind Dame, but I can see his spindly legs and the tips of his big ears. Dame chuffs and extends her long nose toward me in greeting.
“They came back to the fort, back to their friends,” Charlie continues in Pawnee. “Captain Dempsey said something must have happened to you, and he said I should bring them back across the Platte, just in case you were looking for them. When I saw you, I thought you were dead. This is a strange lodge.” He pats the table with a cheeky grin.
“And my mules? Any sign of my mules?”
“No.” Charlie shakes his head. “What has happened to you?” he asks again. “Where is your train?”
“Help me stand,” I plead, and Charlie shoves the table out of the way so he can get above me. He wraps his arms around my chest and hoists me up, grunting a little at our mismatched size. He is probably the age of Wyatt but several inches shorter and much leaner.
“Is that your . . . Wyatt?” Charlie asks, pointing to a rider racing toward us, ringed in dust and leading a mule. For a moment I think I am seeing double, then treble, and beyond him the cloud grows as if he leads an army.
“How many men do you see?” I ask Charlie. He begins to whoop and dance, waving his arms, and I cling to the table, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“I see many, many men, Mr. Lowry. The warriors have returned!” Charlie yells, and my breaths turn to fire.
“Where the hell is Wyatt?” I mutter.
And then I realize I’m looking at him.
From a distance it almost appears as if he leads the charge, but upon closer inspection, it becomes obvious that he is fleeing from the Pawnee, riding Trick and leading Tumble, who are running full out toward the water, more terrified by the presence behind them than by the long stretch of river laid out in front of them. I straighten, drawing my rifle up beside me, resting it on the table so it can be seen.
“Charlie! Take my horse. Ride out to meet them. Tell them I am a friend.”
Charlie doesn’t argue but fists his hands in Dame’s mane, swings himself onto her back, and races toward the riders barreling toward us. Poor Wyatt must think he is being cut off. He shouts my name, and I wave my rifle, trying to reassure him.
Kettle brays in terror.
“Whoa, Kettle,” I demand. “It’s Trick and Tumble. We know Trick and Tumble.” But it is not just Trick and Tumble, and Kettle brays and kicks up his heels. I beg him to go easy. If he decides to bolt, I don’t have the strength to stop him.
For a moment, I fear for Charlie, running toward his people on a borrowed horse and wearing a cavalry cap, but he is yipping with the confidence of family, and the band of Pawnee braves begins to pull up, abandoning their hard pursuit of Wyatt, though they do not stop completely.
Wyatt reaches me, sliding from Trick without coming to a complete stop. He’s lost his hat, but somehow he’s kept his seat and control of Trick and Tumble, who are shuddering to escape the band of Pawnee coming over the rise.
“They’ve got your mules, John,” Wyatt pants. “And I don’t think they’re inclined to give them back.” I am proud of the boy. He hasn’t lost his wits or his tongue, though his face is slicked with sweat and his eyes are wide with fear. Together, we watch them approach, not speaking, not plotting, just waiting for whatever is to come.
The Pawnee are bloodied, and their ponies are coated in dust. Across the backs of three of the ponies are slung the bodies of their dead. Charlie is no longer celebrating, no longer smiling. He calls out to me in his language, and the warriors around him frown in confusion. They do not know what to make of me. No one ever does.
“John Lowry, this is Chief Dog Tooth. My uncle. He has found your mules,” Charlie calls, and the man called Dog Tooth grunts and scowls at me. I don’t think he agrees with Charlie’s statement of ownership. His head is shaved but for a protrusion of matted black hair that bursts forth from a single patch on the top of his head. His eyes rove to and fro, taking me in, assessing my strength. He sniffs at me and puffs out his chest.
“Kirik? rasakita?” Dog Tooth asks. What is your tribe?
“Pawnee tat,” I answer. “But I have no village. No people. No squaw. Only those mules.” I point at the seven mules, ticking them off in my head. Boomer, Budro, Samson, Delilah, Gus, Jasper, and Judy. I sold Tug, Lasso, Lucky, Coal, and Pepper to Captain Dempsey.
“We found them,” Dog Tooth says.
“I know. But they are mine. The boy will tell you.” I do not call him Charlie. I don’t know if it is simply the name Captain Dempsey has given him, and I don’t want to insult him with a white man’s name in front of his chief.