We are only twenty feet above the meadow; the jutting cliff face provides a place to observe without getting in the way or trampled by the herd if they swing too close, and judging from the excitement among the women, I don’t think our view is typical. Hanabi keeps saying, “Naomi! See? See?” and clapping her hands. I do see, and my heart is pounding with dread and anticipation. John says Dakotah and Washakie will do the hard part, but knowing John, I am not convinced.
The men have made a wide circle around the herd and carry long spears, and as we watch, they begin closing in, working in teams, isolating a bull or a cow and running it down. John is with Washakie and another brave named Pampi, and he races along behind them as Washakie and Pampi engage in the dance of bringing down a two-thousand-pound bull.
It is a bloody art, and I stare transfixed as Washakie, hanging from his horse at a dead run, slashes the bull’s hind legs with his spear, severing its hamstring so it collapses midstride. The bull careens, his momentum sending him end over end as Pampi, running toward the buffalo at full speed, raises his bow and shoots, putting an arrow in the bull’s neck.
Washakie whoops, and they are off again, but this time it is Pampi who chases the buffalo down with his spear and Washakie who comes in on the angle, John on his heels. Pampi dangles, slashing at the bull’s legs, and Washakie shouts and veers to the side, leaving John to take the shot. He raises his rifle, bearing down into the path of the animal at full speed, and shoots without hesitation, right above the bull’s eyes. The bull slides, coming dangerously close to the dancing legs of the dun. I scream, but the horse doesn’t balk or bolt. Lost Woman pats my leg, Hanabi crows, and across the meadow, Washakie whoops in victory. John does the same, shaking his rifle in the air, his white teeth flashing, his chest heaving. Then they are off again, selecting a bull, turning him, and chasing him down.
When the hunt is over, the harried herd pounding away to safer pastures, fifty buffalo lie dead in the yellow grass: two buffalo for every family, one for me and John, and one for the feast that will feed the whole camp for days.
John returns to the buffalo-strewed field, shirtless and smiling, joyful even. With Lost Woman demonstrating, he helps me split the buffalo from its head to its tail, peeling back the hide to remove the meat from its back before tying two ropes to its front and hind legs and using the horses to flip it over. We repeat the action on the other side, slicing the buffalo from chin to tail to remove the meat on the front. It is heavy, messy work, and neither of us has ever quartered a buffalo before. Lost Woman and Hanabi have two cows skinned and packed in the same time it takes us to do one, but we are both breathless and proud—and covered in blood—when we return to camp.
We slice the meat into thin strips and hang it up to dry. Hanabi says tomorrow we will pound it with rocks and let it dry some more. The hides will take days to treat, but for now, those will wait. We are hungry, and preparations for the feast begin.
Fires dot the growing darkness as the buffalo is fried over the flames in strips and steaks. Lost Woman is turning a roast as big as my head on an iron spit, and the smell hangs in the air, even at the creek, where John and I retreat to wash, scrubbing our clothes before we pull them off and wash ourselves. We keep our backs to each other, shivering in the cold water, before stepping onto the banks and pulling on the homespun clothes John managed to acquire at the Gathering.
John has not come down from the hunt. His smile is easy and his countenance is light, and when he twines his hand in my wet hair to keep it off my dry blouse, his eyes are soft on my face. I breathe in his joy, letting it sit in my lungs and warm my limbs, my lips parted, my hands curled at my sides. His eyes are full of asking, and I step closer, chasing his mouth. He groans and sinks in, wrapping an arm around my waist, leaving the other buried in my hair. He is careful and the kiss is quiet, though my heart is loud and my soul is needy.
I taste him, just a touch of my tongue to his top lip, and he stills, letting me find my way, letting me tell the story of a woman coming home again. He welcomes me there, opening his mouth and letting me linger by the door.
I slide my hands along the rough of his jaw, holding him to me while I tiptoe through the room we shared, back when I was unafraid. I want to lie on the bed and watch him sleep; I want to touch him like I did before. But I hesitate too long, my mouth on his, lost in the memory of then, and he thinks I’ve fled.
His body is thrumming, his breath hot, but he steps back, softly closing the door behind me, letting me go. He takes my hand, and without a word, we walk back toward the wickiups.
JOHN
The fat drips from the meat in our hands and slides down our arms, but we cock our elbows, trying to keep our clothes clean, and keep on eating. We eat too much and then eat some more. I don’t know if Naomi’s been full in a long while, and she eats like she’s starving. She probably is.
The swaying and pleading of the buffalo dance last night have faded into lazy feasting and contented conversation. It’s been a long day, but I’ve never had a better one. I’ve had better moments. Better hours. A better night in a borrowed room at Fort Bridger. But never a better day, and I bask in it, setting aside the worry and the wear, the grief and the guilt, for a few more hours.
Drowsy children, nodding off in their mothers’ laps, are herded to bed. Then a bottle is passed, and the stories begin. I sit not in the circle of men but just outside it, against my saddle, my legs stretched out, with Naomi at my side. Lost Woman folds herself beside us, and when the bottle comes, she takes a deep pull and passes it to Naomi with a look that says, Drink.
Naomi obeys, chokes, but then tips her head back and gulps it down.
“Easy, woman,” I say, and she hands the bottle to me, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I take a sip and pass it on, the burn reminding me of the last time Washakie gave me whiskey, when I told him Naomi had been taken. I push the thought away. Not tonight. I found Naomi, and tonight, that’s all there is.
An old warrior tells a story of a white buffalo who never dies, and I whisper every word to Naomi as she gets sleepy at my side. When I urge her to go to bed, she resists, and I pull her head down in my lap and let her doze. Her hair has dried in waves around her. She’s left it loose, and I love it that way.
Lost Woman leans over her, patting her cheek. “She is coming back,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I whisper, moved. “I think she is.”
“Spirits help,” she says. She smiles, but her eyes are knowing, and I’m not sure which spirits she’s talking about.
“They make you brave and keep you warm,” she adds, clarifying.
I nod.
“They watch over us. I see their prints in the snow sometimes.”
I look at her, brow furrowed, but she is rising, moving toward her wickiup with a hunched back and small steps. She has worked hard today, and her body is sore.
Around the fire, the stories have changed to the hunts of the past and the never-ending battles with the Crow. As I listen, I wonder how old the tales are and how much longer they’ll be told. The world has remained unchanged in the Wind River Valley for a thousand years. Maybe more. But the millennium is coming to an end, and Washakie knows it. He knows, and he is silent by the fire, listening to the old men talk and the young men laugh. His eyes meet mine across the way, and I am suddenly weary.