We reach a river and cross it, and the men let the animals drink. They don’t remove the rope at my neck but drop it, shooing me toward the water. I shuffle down the banks and collapse beside Gert. I am trembling, and I pull too hard on her teat, making her bleat and spraying Wolfe in the face, but I manage to work a stream of milk into his mouth for several minutes before I am pulled up again, away from the river. I did not get a chance to drink. We veer northwest, away from the river. I am thirsty, and Wolfe has started to wail. I beg the men to stop, but they ride on unconcerned until Wolfe’s cries become ragged sighs, and he sleeps again.
The sun is sinking, and we are nearing a camp. A cry goes up, and I know we’ve been seen. The fear that floated above me all day is perched on my shoulders now, and my back is fiery with the strain of staying upright. Dogs bark and rush my legs, and I trip over one. Wolfie’s bunting is soaked through, and the smell of urine is strong. The warriors celebrate with yipping and spears and shields lifted high. The scalps dance, and I sway. The man on the painted pony slides to the ground and with no warning yanks Wolfe from me. My arms are cramped and will not straighten, and I cannot even reach for him. The painted brave hands Wolfe to a woman, who stares at my brother with disdain. She sets him on the ground and turns away. The man calls after her, and he is angry. He picks Wolfe up again and follows her. I am encircled by women and children who tug at my clothes and pull at my hair. One woman slaps my face, and the cut beneath my eye begins to flow once more. I cover my head with my unbending arms, and I push through the crowd toward Wolfe. I hear him crying, but the sound recedes as he is carried away. I scream for him, and the Indian children throw back their little heads and howl too. I realize they are copying me, and his name is like the call of the wolves.
Then the women are moaning and crying too as the dead man is pulled from his horse, the grieving of the village rising like a sudden storm, the kind that sent the waters rushing down the Platte without warning. One of the men slides from his horse, then moves into the circle of women and children and buries his hand in my hair, yanking my head back. He turns my head this way and that, talking all the while. With the hand not gripping my hair, he parts my lips with a dirty finger, and I taste horse and blood. He cracks a knuckle against my teeth and snaps his own, as though my teeth please him. The finger that is in my mouth moves to my left eye, and he peels back my eyelid. I cry out, trying to twist away, but he seems entranced by the color of my eyes. He is showing everyone, wrenching my head, keeping my eye pinned open. A woman spits, and I am blinded by the glob of saliva. The man releases my face but not my hair, and I am dragged, stumbling, behind him, trying to keep my feet beneath me, my hands wrapped around his wrist to prevent my hair from being torn out by the roots. I can’t imagine being scalped would hurt much more.
I don’t know if anyone will come looking for me or baby Wolfe. I don’t know. John. John will come looking. I shudder, and my stomach roils again. Pa and Warren are dead. Ma. Ma is dead too. My mind goes black. Blank. I can’t think of them. I hope John doesn’t come after me. They’ll kill him. They’ll kill me too. I just hope they do it quickly.
JOHN
Naomi is wearing her moccasins. I can tell by her print. Her foot is small, and her tread is short, like she’s stumbling along. There are no footprints besides hers. The rest are horses and two mules. Trick and Tumble. A set of smaller, cloven-hoofed prints makes me think they took Gert too. I’ve lost the trail a few times and have had to circle back. I’ve lost it again and am sure I’m going the wrong way.
A flutter of white tumbles over the dry ground, and I race toward it, chasing it for half a mile before it finally presses up against the sagebrush, momentarily caught. I am screaming in frustration by the time I reach it, and my voice, raspy and raw, frightens my animals. They shimmy and sidestep, and I slide from Samson’s back, pulling the animals forward so I can snag the page I’ve chased for half an hour.
It is a sketch I’ve seen, one I admired. Bones in Boxes is written across the bottom in Naomi’s curling scrawl. I have a vision of her blood-soaked body lying somewhere in the rocks, her book lying open beside her, her pictures scattered in the wind. Then I remember the way she left a trail of pictures for me and Wyatt when we’d gone after my mules, and calm quiets my anguish. Naomi is leaving pages for me again.
NAOMI
I do not open my eyes when I hear the camp stirring, and for a moment I am still with the train, wondering if I am the last to wake. Then I remember where I am. I remember why, and I am flooded with grief so heavy I cannot take a breath. I start to wheeze, gagging and gasping, and the dog I spent the night beside begins to nuzzle the juncture of my thighs, where the blood of my menses has seeped through my dress. I kick him away, giving up my pretense of sleep, and roll to my side, tucking my legs to my chest. Another nudge in my side. Thinking it is the dog, I swat at it and touch someone’s leg instead.
She looms above me, the old woman, her face so worn and brown she looks like she is made of tree bark. She peers at me, deep-set eyes black and shining, and beckons me to follow. I duck out of the lodge and flinch against the rising sun. They are breaking camp. Children are running, the men are gathering the horses, and women are packing. The other shelters have all been brought down, and the fires have been doused. They are leaving in a rush, and many stare, but no one stops me. It was much the same the night before. The man who dragged me by the hair took me into his lodge. He shoved me in a corner with a mangy dog and growled something I couldn’t understand. The old woman brought me water and a blanket. I drank, and then I slept.
Now she urges me down toward the stream. She is small, a full head shorter than I am, but her grip on my arm is firm, and I don’t know what else to do but obey. And I am thirsty. I move downstream, the old woman watching me from the banks. I set my satchel with my book of pictures, still hanging around my neck, on a rock and remove my stockings and my moccasins and sit, fully clothed, in the creek. The water engulfs me to my chin. I scrub at the soiled fabric between my legs and pull the rags free from the pockets in my dress, rinsing them too. The water is cold and the morning young, and I shiver and quake as I try to wash as best I can. I consider escape, floating away with the current. I look at the old woman; she stares back at me. A wisp of her gray hair waves goodbye, and I wonder if she knows my thoughts. Then a child cries, and I am ashamed. I cannot leave without Wolfe. I rise, water sluicing from my dress, and hobble back to shore, my tender feet curling around the slick stones.
I cannot ask her where Wolfe is. Instead, I mime a baby in my arms. The old woman doesn’t react, and I try harder, tapping my chest and cradling an invisible infant. She says something I don’t understand, says it again louder, then breaks the circle of my arms, forcing them to my sides, shaking her head. I fear she is trying to tell me what I already know. Wolfe is no longer mine.
I try to tell her my name. “Nay-oh-mee,” I say slowly, patting my chest. “Naomi.”
She grunts, and I say it again, desperate. “Naomi.”
“Nayohmee,” she repeats, running all the sounds together.
“Yes,” I say and nod. “Yes. Naomi Lowry.” Naomi May Lowry. I blink back sudden tears.