We pass Chimney Rock the next day, its stovepipe handle shooting up into a cloudless sky, and Scott’s Bluff the next, all named by intrepid trappers and explorers who lived to tell about their adventures and make maps for treasure hunters and westward pioneers. One after the other, we trundle past monuments to the distance we’ve traveled and markers of the miles we have yet to go. I find myself wondering what their other names might be. What do the Sioux and the Pawnee call the landmarks? At the Ancient Bluffs, among the names carved by emigrants, we find figures engraved on the rock as well, figures no white man made.
Naomi has little interest in documenting things as they are. Instead, she draws a towering Chimney Rock with Webb perched on the steeple, Jail Rock with Lawrence Caldwell imprisoned inside—it makes me laugh in spite of myself—and Courthouse Rock, the size of a toadstool, being held in the palm of her mother’s hand. I tell her the landscape is making her see things, fanciful things, like a young Indian brave on a vision quest, in search of his destiny.
She seems fascinated by the notion and asks me if I believe in such things. When I don’t answer, she tells me about her mother’s dreams. She tells me her mother has seen me walking on the water in a feathered headdress, and I put my hand over her lips and shake my head. She falls silent immediately, her mouth warm against my hand.
“Don’t imagine I am something I’m not, Naomi.”
She nods and I release her, her eyes questioning. It is the only time I have intentionally touched her since she slept at my side when I was sick. The moments we steal when the camp has settled, when she comes to find me, her brother in her arms, are like her pictures. Naomi is a romantic. A dreamer. She sees what others don’t, but what she sees, what she draws, is not reality, and our times together have the same otherworldly cast.
I avoid her for several days, jarred by her retelling of her mother’s dream. I was raised on the Bible. I know who Jesus is. I don’t like the comparison. I also don’t like the bird that becomes a man in a headdress. A chief, walking on water. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t think what it means matters all that much, but it makes me feel like an oddity, something to be examined and exhumed. And that is not what I want to be. Especially not to Naomi.
But my avoidance lasts only as long as I’m not on watch. The moment I’m alone with the herd, the camp quiet, I’m watching for her, and she doesn’t disappoint.
I’m cautious when I am with her. I don’t get too close. I don’t touch her cheeks or her little brown hands. They are so brown from the sun they don’t look like they belong to her. I don’t try to kiss her. Scaring her away with a kiss didn’t work out so well. I didn’t end up scaring her at all, but damn if I didn’t scare myself. So I keep the space between us, even in the darkness when she walks with Wolfe or makes a nest in the grass.
During the day, we keep our distance, but there is no privacy in the train, and I am too aware of curious stares. Webb is always underfoot, Will too, though I don’t mind much. They’re good boys, all the Mays. It’s like my father said. It’s all in the mother; the jack doesn’t make much difference. Winifred May is a damn good woman, and William knows it, which is to his credit. The best thing about him is her. I don’t care for William much, but I haven’t met many men I’ve especially liked. They’re suspicious of me, I’m suspicious of them, and that’s the way of it.
Still, I watch Naomi and she watches me, and a train of tired people, gaunt faced and bleary eyed, watches us. I can’t help myself. She is too thin. All the women are. The men too, shrunk down to gristle and grit. We don’t think about how the food tastes; we just shovel it in, whatever it is. But where others are stooped and skittish, she is slight and straight, shoulders back, eyes steady.
Looking at Naomi makes me feel a little crazy. She matters too much, and I’ve begun to believe that I might have her, that I might make it all the way to California with my mules and my money and Naomi too. I’ve begun to hope, and I’m not sure I like the way it feels. It’s a little like being thrown from a horse or a green mule and hitting the ground so hard the breath is chased from your chest. For a moment you think you’re a goner. Then the air floods back in, and the relief is so strong you just lie there and suck it in.
And you can’t suck it in fast enough.
That’s what hope feels like: the best air you’ve ever breathed after the worst fall you’ve ever taken. It hurts.
Adam Hines pays a few visits to her campfire, along with his mother-in-law, Mrs. Caldwell. His wife has been dead a month, and he’s looking for another. I don’t think he’s a bad man. Just a weak one. Or a typical one. I don’t know. The deacon’s daughter has let it be known she’ll take him on, but she’s not as pretty as Naomi. Not as smart or as capable. Not as funny or as fierce. Not by a long shot. So Adam’s stopped by to see if Naomi will have him.
I stay away to let her decide, my anger and my painful hope sitting on my shoulders, fighting back and forth. I see how men look at her. Even the married ones. Especially the married ones. Hell, Abbott even looks at her, and he informed me he doesn’t have any feeling anymore between his legs.
“Got kicked good and hard by a horse a few years back. Never been the same since,” he says. “Can’t say I miss it.”
I wish I didn’t have any feeling between mine. I don’t want to be another panting dog, though Naomi doesn’t treat me like one. She doesn’t give Adam Hines any encouragement. She doesn’t give any of the other men her attention or her time. But I will not compete. I will not woo her. And I will not be a spectacle for a train of emigrants who have nothing better to do than watch me watch her. Still, I feel closer to her than I have ever felt to anyone before.
And I’ve begun to hope.
9
FORT LARAMIE
JOHN
Most evenings, Wyatt or one of the other boys his age—those who do not have wagons to drive—is sent ahead of the train to scout for a place to make camp for the night. He draws the duty again tonight and comes back on Trick half an hour later, racing toward the wagons the way he did when Dog Tooth and fifty Pawnee braves were on his tail. He reports that a band of Indians—men, women, and children, along with their dogs, horses, and tipis—is already camped on the best grass before the slow climb to Fort John, also called Fort Laramie, which we should make on the morrow.
The company is startled by their numbers, and everyone wants to continue on to the fort, afraid to camp nearby in case there is trouble. But the moon is a sliver, and the night will be dark, making travel after sundown difficult. Fort John still lies half a day’s journey ahead, and Abbott reassures us that we will have no trouble from the Indians.
“They’re Dakotah—Sioux—and they’re used to the trains coming through here. They’re just as wary of us as we are of them,” Abbott says.
They do not appear to be staying long, or maybe, like us, they’ve just arrived, but they look on in disinterest as we trundle by. They rest from the heat of the day beneath half-erected tipis, the poles they drag behind their packhorses lying about among the skins and supplies.