Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Zeb wrapped the reins once around the saddle horn. “Watch the mules, Buck.” He strode toward the couple, their struggles obscured from time to time by the shifting of the horses. When he reached them, the man had the redheaded woman pinned against the back of their wagon, one hand clenched on her upper arm and the other beefy paw around her throat pushing her head back into the canvas. The woman’s wide blue eyes darted wildly from side to side. Surprised at how petite she was, Zeb was struck by the fear and loathing plainly etched in her features.

  Zeb stood several feet back, reached out one long, lanky arm and jabbed the driver’s broad, bulky shoulders tightly fit in a brown canvas jacket. “This barge is mighty cramped—ain’t no place to have a fracas,” Zeb said.

  The man partially turned his head to size Zeb up out of the corner of one eye. His grip around the woman’s throat seemed to tighten. Color was draining from her face as she gasped, her hands digging at the man’s wrist, desperately trying to pry his fingers from her neck.

  “Stay out of my business, coonskin,” spat the man.

  Zeb’s right hand reached swiftly over his shoulder and behind his back. He silently withdrew his fourteen-inch blade knife from its scabbard. He stepped forward, leaned his chest into the man’s back, and put the sharp edge to his throat. The man froze. Zeb pushed his lips so close to the man’s ear that his dirty blond hair mixed with Zeb’s long handlebar mustache. In a cold whisper, Zeb breathed, “Best you take your hands off or in one second I will likely part your head from your shoulders, and I don’t say things twice.”

  Zeb could feel the shock and anger radiate through the man. With one last shove against the woman’s throat, the man released his grip and slowly straightened up. Zeb kept the cold steel of the knife pressed firmly against the flesh, just below the man’s Adams apple.

  “What the hell almighty is all this?” It was the barge captain.

  “Nothin’ much, Andy. Just makin’ sure these teams don’t get spooked.”

  Released from the vise of the burly hands, the woman’s knees buckled and she almost fell to the coarse deck of the vessel. She caught herself with one hand on the wagon gate and slowly stood erect, struggling to breathe, her other hand frantically rubbing her neck. Zeb noticed the small band of freckles across the bridge of a delicate nose and the shape of her slightly parted lips as she gasped for air.

  The man, still in Zeb’s grasp, started to speak and began to turn his body. Zeb pressed the blade into the man’s flesh, enough to indent the skin without drawing blood. He raised his forearm, bringing the man to his tiptoes and off balance.

  “You would do well to keep your mouth shut. This barge needs to make the other side in one piece; otherwise we’ll have bigger problems than this ruckus.”

  “Well, just hold on…” the captain began to speak.

  Zeb cut him off. “If you want to know what went on, ask them in the wagon behind,” he slung his head rearwards. “I suspect they seen what happened.”

  “And, you need to settle down,” he said to the man, his knife still pressed against his thick neck. The woman had regained her breath, though she was still hunched forward massaging her throat.

  “Is this your husband, ma’am?”

  The woman shook her head with an unusual negative vehemence.

  “Well, what is he to you?”

  “She’s my damn fiancée …” the man’s words died in a gurgle as Zeb drew the steel tighter against the man’s windpipe.

  “I weren’t talking to you.” He turned his gaze to the woman. There were tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. “You all right? Can you walk?”

  She tentatively moved her head.

  “Go on back there by the stern where that horse and three mules is. I’ll catch up with you there in a moment, ma’am. After this gentleman gets cooled down a bit.”

  Zeb waited for the sounds of her boots to recede. With a sudden movement, he took the knife from the man’s neck and took two long steps backward, the blade shining in the sun where it pointed from his still extended arm.

  The stocky figure whirled. His face was scarlet and twisted and his eyes enraged. His hand began to run down the outside of his right trouser leg.

  “If that’s a boot blade you’d be going for, I’d think twice.”

  The man hesitated, and sized up Zeb and his stance carefully. His eyes flicked a glance at the brace of pistols, one cap and ball, the other a Colt Army revolver snugged in Zeb’s belt, which anchored the waist of a well-worn fringed buckskin shirt that hung below his hips.

  The burly towhead straightened up. “Nobody does that to Jacob O’Shanahan,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

  Zeb regarded him coolly. “I just did. Now git up in your wagon, have a little sip of whiskey and get unwound. This here crossing will be done shortly. You’ll have far bigger things to worry about over the coming months.”

  Jacob hesitated and then gave a surly shrug. “Didn’t catch your name, coonskin.”

  “Coonskin is my hat. I didn’t mention my name.”

  Jacob leered, “Well, I’m sure we will meet up again, coonskin.”

  Zeb relaxed slightly, took another stride back and gestured with the tip of the knife, “Up to the front. And yep, I ’spect we will.”

  He waited until the man clambered back into the driver’s seat so just his thick left shoulder was visible behind the front arc of canvas, and then turned and walked back toward the woman and his animals. She was leaning against the side of the barge. The long delicate fingers of one hand stroked Buck’s neck. The horse seemed to lean slightly into her touch. She was trembling, still very pale. Very beautiful. The thought flitted across Zeb’s mind along with a memory—another time, another woman. Mebbe it’s the rising sun shining auburn in her red locks. A bruise was forming around her neck. One hand was spread across her abdomen just below the very pleasant shallow curve of her hips.

  Zeb stood several feet away. “You alright, ma’am?”

  The woman nodded her head slightly. “I’m Sarah, Sarah Bonney. Thank you for helping me I…I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Zeb moved quickly, “Lean out over the side, ma’am, you’ll be all right.”

  Sarah clutched the lip of the gunwale with one hand, kept the other pressed against her belly, bent over the barge sidewall and retched. Zeb stood behind her, his hands resting gently on her square, but slight, shoulders, steadying the small heaving form.

  When the nausea had passed, she turned and rested weakly against the bulwark. “I’m sorry—,” she started to say, but Zeb interrupted.

  “Nothin’ to be sorry about. I got a bandana in the saddlebag.” He walked to Buck, untied the rawhide fasteners on the flap and turned back to Sarah. “None too clean, but it’ll do.” He held out the reddish-brown square cut cotton cloth.

  “You don’t want my vomit on your bandana,” Sarah protested feebly.

  “Makes no never mind. I can just rinse it in the river when we get off. Take it.” Zeb insisted.

  She nodded thanks and Zeb noticed how the curled auburn tips of her hair caught the light and brushed against her cheek as she moved her head. He chided himself and stepped back respectfully. “Miss Bonney, I am Zebarriah Taylor. Them who know me better call me Zeb. That accent of yours—English?”

  Sarah looked up into Zeb’s eyes and smiled pensively. “Yes, Mr. Taylor. I am from England. Liverpool, to be exact. I landed in New York just a month ago. It seems so much longer.” A look of anger and something else shadowed her face momentarily. Her lower lip trembled, she blushed, looked out over the river, and then turned her head back to Zeb. “Are you headed west? Are you going with the wagon train?”

  The last question seemed to carry a tone of hope. Her beautiful blue eyes dropped to the two raised purple scars that extended from below his left ear to his chin. He realized with a start it was the first time he actually cared that he had them. Lowering his chin, he angled his face so they were not quite as visible.

 
; “Yes, ma’am, had some business back here, and some supplies to fetch in St. Louis,” he nodded at the laden mules and new Grimsley saddles. “Now I’m headed west with the wagons, though I suspect I’ll keep some distance for the most part. I’m working…” somehow speaking that word seemed foreign, and he hesitated, “… I’m helping some folks on the train.” He paused again. “It was a bear that done those.” He looked down at his thick, elk hide moccasin boots and scuffed one toe on the uneven boards of the deck.

  “They make you look quite distinguished, Mr. Taylor…like someone who has had experience in life.” Boldly, she continued, “Like your salt and pepper mustache. Sometime perhaps you shall tell me the story of your bear.” Sarah took a breath and smiled. “If you want to, of course. What was your business back here? If you don’t mind me asking.” Some color came back into her face.

  Zeb looked up and felt a grin grow under the bushy shadow of the handlebar curve of his heavy, long mustache. He raised one hand absentmindedly and smoothed a pointed tip where it tapered into the stubble just above his jaw. “One day I might just do that. Nope— don’t mind. It was personal. My family was murdered twenty or so years back—the farm burned out by a mad-dog renegade. I lit out for the West. I had to come back and make my peace.”

  She looked shocked. Zeb took a deep breath, and his eyes flickered toward her wagon, “Is that man, Jacob, your betrothed?”

  Sarah abruptly broke her gaze. Her smile vanished. “No…he’s a… a traveling companion. He tells people that we are engaged to protect my dignity.”

  Zeb sensed a deeply bitter irony in the last statement, and he stood silent. Seems we both have things we’d rather not speak of.

  “I better return to the wagon. It looks like we will be ashore soon.” Over her head, Zeb could see the shallow draft steam tug had begun to veer away from the looming shore. The tow ropes had been run forward and cast to the bank where several brawny men were deftly tying them to haul harnesses on two braces of hitched oxen. They would pull the barge the last fifty yards to the very eastern edge of the frontier Zeb knew as home. He looked behind him. Half a mile distant across the chop of the river, square building shapes of uneven heights marked the edge of St. Louis. I won’t be seeing you again, ever—my head is settled, he thought with satisfaction. To the north, two large white paddle boats with ornate rails and twin, tall, black stacks churned their way slowly down river.

  He turned back, but Sarah was already halfway back to her wagon. Zeb watched her retreating figure for a moment and the slight side to side movement of her hips as she walked, her feminine sway visible even though ensconced in the thick wool and horsehair of her skirt and petticoats.

  The memory returned. With an effort he shoved it back somewhere in the musty corner of his mind where it had slept until now. He felt Buck nuzzle the back of his head. The mustang seemed to have his head a bit cocked to the side, and his big brown eyes stared directly into Zeb’s.

  “What the hell you looking at, Buck? If I want to say more than five words to a woman once every ten years that’s my business.” Buck's ear flicked forward slightly.

  “Wait ’til the damn ramps are all the way down!” Captain Andy shouted up front. There was a soft, muddy grating sound as the upward sloped leading-edge of the keel nestled into the muck and sand that was the eastern edge of the western half of America. Zeb couldn’t see Jacob’s figure, but he could see his hands pulling back harshly on the lines to the horses.

  He reached into his leather shirt, retrieved a suede pouch hanging from his neck, dug out a wad of chew and bit off a chunk. He checked the over-under belly scabbard to make sure the .58 caliber Enfield musket and .52 caliber breech-loading Sharps rifle were snug in the leather, and spat down on the deck. Jacob and Sarah’s wagon had begun to roll down the ramp into shore grass greening with coming spring.

  Zeb watched as the rig creaked from side to side in the uneven boggy ground and made its way to the group of canvas-topped Conestogas and prairie schooners at the top of a slight rise two hundred yards from the river.

  “Mighty interesting. Yep, mighty interesting.” He turned to Buck and the mules. “You fellas ready to get back to the mountains?” Two of the pack animals brayed, and Buck tossed his head up and down impatiently, the hackamore leather squeaking in the brisk air. “Okay then, let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MARCH 18, 1855

  THREADS CONVERGE

  By midmorning, all the wagons were across the river and the beefy, red-haired wagon master, Mac had the train fully organized. He put Inga Bjorne and Rebecca Marx’s prairie schooner third in line, where there was less dust. Johannes Svenson drove the wagon to teach the women how to use the lines and brake on the four-horse team. One of the two extra mounts purchased by Reuben Frank was tied to the back. The other, a powerful palomino of sixteen hands, pranced excitedly under Reuben.

  Reuben twisted in his saddle and gazed back at the Mississippi. Dawn had retreated with a brilliant palette of indigo to the west and fire-orange flaring to the east. The Mississippi had a slight chop from the morning wind; the ripples reflecting the burgeoning day in a shimmer of color. The east side of the river had been the scene of frenetic activity around the forty-one wagons in the train, which contained several childless couples and a number of families. Two steam tugs dragged barges large enough to accommodate several wagons and teams across the river. The wagons were grouped in single file, pointed west toward the Rockies more than a thousand miles distant. Mac’s shouted directions boomed over the murmur of the river and the chatter of the pioneers. The whinnies of horses, bleats of oxen and brays of mules echoed up and down the line of prairie schooners, Conestogas, and converted farm wagons.

  Turning his eyes west, Reuben contemplated the enormous task ahead and recalled the look in his father’s wise old eyes when he had selected him from the four brothers to fulfill the family’s hopes and aspirations. He felt a momentary pang of doubt, then shook his head and searched for Zeb. A quarter mile to the south, he picked out a figure on a brown and white horse leading three mules. As I would have expected, he mused.

  He turned his attention back to the front of the train. Mac was near the first wagon astride a stocky red sorrel that matched him well. The wagon master cursed as the excited horse shook its head and pranced sideways, then he waved for Reuben to ride over.

  “Reuben, check those last wagons and make sure they’re ready. Let’s get this damned show moving. We’re already late!” Mac bellowed.

  Reuben’s horse shifted with agitation. “Easy, Lahn,” he soothed as he reached down and patted the thick, blond neck of the palomino. The gelding snorted, shook his head and stomped, his feet dancing a quarter circle. Reuben wheeled the muscular horse and cantered toward the rear of the line of wagons. He was not yet used to the deep trough of the western saddle, a far cry from European tack, but he liked the substantial feel of the heavy leather.

  As he passed the rigs at the center of the train, his eyes widened when he saw that the pretty redheaded girl from the steamship Edinburgh sat on the driver’s bench of one of the wagons. And that bully from the ship, Jacob, sat next to her. Sarah had a heavy shawl over her shoulders. Reuben thought she looked cold and unhappy in the cool of the spring morning. Jacob was busy with the brake. Reuben caught Sarah’s eye and she seemed startled. But there was something other than simple surprise in her look. She smiled widely and waved. Reuben pulled down on the brim of his hat in return. The coincidence of Jacob and Sarah on the same wagon train, and the apparent fact that they were a couple, troubled Reuben. Not her type at all. Very off, he thought.

  Reining up in a swirl of dust at the last wagon, a Conestoga, Reuben shouted to the driver, “Ready?”

  “Let’s go,” replied the thick-set man with a ruddy face. He had just unfurled a several-foot-wide American flag from a knotty, barked pole he had lashed to the side of the wagon at the front rim of the curved canvas top.

  As it snapped in the wind, Reuben
thought the colors looked old, a version of the United States flag he had never seen. “Thirteen stars in a circle on the blue?” he inquired. “What does that mean?”

  “This here...,” the driver gestured, beaming, “was the flag my great-grandpappy carried in the revolution. That’s just eighty-odd years ago, ya know. Family has been in Virginny since the sixteen hundreds. It was the first flag of this country called the Betsy Ross Circular. There ain’t many of ’em around anymore. We usually just fly her on July Fourth, but we figgered what we’re doin’ is about as big as then, so—‘cept for bad weather—this cloth is goin’ to be full view to God and country all the way to the Rockies. I aim to fly it on a big tall post before I set the first foundation stone for our homestead.” Next to him, his buxom wife smiled and nodded. Two round-faced little girls peeked from between their parents.

  Reuben was not fully sure of the man’s meaning, but there would be plenty of time for that later. He eased Lahn alongside the wagon and fumbled in his shirt pocket. “Do you like jerky?” he asked as he leaned from the horse, holding out the treat to the children.

  They giggled and hid their faces. “Come on, take it,” Reuben coaxed. He took a bite himself and smacked his lips. “Umm, good.” The children laughed shyly, and the older girl stretched out a pudgy hand and took the dried meat.