Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Jacob had a surly look on his face as he observed Sarah’s smile and the way her big blue eyes fixed brightly on Reuben’s face.

  “What can we bring tonight?” Sarah inquired. Reuben watched Jacob’s hands tighten on the lines.

  Jacob leaned over the side of the wagon, and spat on Lahn’s right fore-hoof. “I’ve got better things do go then go jabber with a bunch of goody-two-shoes and listen to that red-bearded bastard who thinks he’s the King of England. I’d wager there’s not a poker player in the lot of them. We will just stay at our wagon. We won’t be missing much.” Jacob glared at him with a nasty challenge in his eyes.

  Reuben started to speak, but Sarah interrupted him. Her voice was tight, she had straightened her shoulders and sat stiffly, her pointed gaze directed at Jacob. “I am going down to the gathering, Jacob. You may do as you please.” Reuben thought he detected a strain of fear and trepidation in her defiance, and he was sure she would not have said what she did had he not been present.

  Jacob’s lower lip curled in a sneer. “I say where and when we go anywhere, and what I say stands, woman.” Reuben edged his horse closer to the wagon so that he was only feet from Jacob. Ignoring the man, he addressed Sarah. “Look forward to seeing you there, Sarah. If there are any problems, let us know.”

  Jacob clenched his hands around the lines so tightly his knuckles turned white. He didn’t look at Reuben, but focused his attention on Sarah, his voice rising, “You’ll do what I say.” There was enough loud threat behind the words that Reuben noticed Dr. Leonard in the wagon ahead lean around his front canvas to see what the commotion was. Then the sudden sound of a horse approaching drew everyone’s attention away.

  Zeb reined in on Sarah’s side of the wagon. Jacob fixed baleful eyes on the mountain man. His voice was bitter and malicious. “I seen you tailin’ us for the last two hours, coonskin.”

  Zeb’s lips compressed into a narrow slit below his mustache. He nodded his head at Sarah. “Good day, Miss Sarah. How are you feeling this afternoon?”

  “Thank you for asking, Zeb. I feel much better.”

  “I suppose you’ll be coming to the fixins tonight?” Those words were addressed to Sarah, but Reuben noticed Zeb’s unwavering stare at Jacob.

  Jacob gritted his teeth with such force that the muscles in his jaw trembled, but he said nothing. He lifted the lines and snapped them down hard on the backs of the team. The wagon lurched forward and both Zeb and Reuben had to spin their horses to stay abreast.

  The momentary ruckus subsided and the wagon slowed. “Yes, I’ll be there, Zeb.” Sarah gave him a soft smile, then turned toward Reuben, her smile widening.

  That ought to settle things for now. Prettywhen she’s angry, too, Reuben noted. “I need to ride up and talk to Johannes. I’m sure he’s tired of rubbing against splinters all day and would like some saddle time.”

  The long scars on Zeb’s cheek eased back toward his ear with a slight, forced relaxing of his lips. “I reckon I’ll just drop back right to where I’ve been. Good view.”

  “See you tonight." Reuben tugged down on his hat brim and spun the large tan-yellow horse around.

  Reuben spurred Lahn into a slow lope and wondered about Zeb’s obvious attraction to Sarah. “What do you think, Lahn? Maybe it’s just that I feel a need to protect her from that no-good Irishman?” Lahn did not offer an opinion. Maybe I should make sure I don’t interfere with whatever might develop between the redhead and Zeb. He’s taciturn, but he’s a good man. Felt it in the first minute we met back there at the livery in St. Louis. Reuben laughed out loud, his chuckles blending with the cadence of Lahn’s hooves. There’s no doubt Zeb is more than capable of standing up to the likes of Jacob O'Shanahan.

  Reuben was yanked from his thoughts by Mac’s voice booming from up at the front. “Halt the wagons. Five-minute break. Reuben— where the hell are you?”

  CHAPTER 10

  MARCH 18, 1855

  CIRCULAR

  Reuben galloped up to Mac. His mare, Red, was standing still but impatiently lifting her front foreleg, pawing the spring-softened ground.

  “I figure we have about two hours of light left,” Mac said, looking westward. Then he swung his gaze south. “See that rise up there? About two miles, no trees?”

  “I do.”

  He watched Mac reach into his jacket and pull out a cylindrical brass tube an inch and a half in diameter and just under ten inches long. He raised the telescope to his right eye and extended its second section, taking a quick look before passing the glass to Reuben. “Take a gander.”

  Peering through the lens, he quickly picked up the hill, but found it impossible to hold the optical piece steady. Mac, watching him, laughed.

  “Dances around, doesn’t it? You can pull your hat down low and hold that forebrim to the top of the tube. That’ll steady it some. But, if you really want to watch something for a while and study the details, you need to dismount and find a rest against a tree or rock. Over the saddle will do in a pinch, but the horses are none too steady, either.”

  Reuben nodded and handed the glass back to Mac, whose blue eyes peered intently from beneath his bushy, red eyebrows. “So tell me, why do you think we should camp there?”

  “It’s high ground. Better view. The lack of trees will make it difficult for anyone to sneak in on us. Looks like it has good grass for the stock, too.”

  Mac looked pleased. “Exactly.”

  He shut the telescope and shoved it back in his jacket. “But remember, you have to adapt to the country. There’s plenty of water now but that becomes a critical consideration the further west we go. The Plains Indians, like the Pawnee, Comanche, Cheyenne, and the Kiowa almost always camp on top of a rise just for those reasons. If you hole up by a river, and that’s going to happen often, look for a spot that is exactly the opposite of the location where you want to have a crossing like we talked about. The best is a big bend or oxbow in the river, concave to your position, with steep banks, and deep fast current. The Sioux are experts at choosing those types of set-ups. That gives you a natural defensive line on two sides. If you string the wagons out proper across the wide part of the bend, you position them so you could bring a crossfire if anyone is stupid enough to want to have a fracas.”

  Reuben looked out at the rise, holding his hat in front and above his head to break the brightness of the sinking sun. “How exactly do you get the circle established on terrain like that?”

  “The lead wagon will follow me. We will just work our way around the contours. You take up the rear and just hold that last wagon in the spot that I turn back and wave to you as we are headed up the slope. I’ll bring the lead and following wagons around ’til we meet up with your rear. Then we will have a circle around the hill on about the same contour, with the high point of the hill and grazing area for the stock in the center.”

  “Will do,” Reuben nodded.

  “One more thing, Reuben. As we move further west, particularly after we get into the Kansas Territories, many of these high spots will have a steep, rough, almost abrupt face on one side or the other. On those hogbacks or buttes, put your back to the steep, and you can double your firepower on the only accessible downhill side. No man, white or red, much likes climbing a hill against rifle muzzles.

  “Generally, the best fight is the one you avoid.” Mac smiled grimly. “There are those that don’t know that rule, though. Let’s get set up. I want to get those pig quarters in the pit for tonight.”

  He paused. “I notice your man, Zeb, has been hanging out mostly in the same spot all day two-thirds the way back in the train. Have him go on ahead and scout that hill. I don’t expect any trouble in these parts, but better safe than sorry. And, it’s wasted time I reckon, but you can tell what women-folk you talk to there ain’t no need to bother getting dressed up.” He chuckled. “Course, I suspect that’ll do about as much good as telling a cat not to eat fish. Go tell the wagons.”

  Reuben nodded then hesitated. “What gav
e you the notion Zeb was ‘my man’?”

  Mac leaned over, spit, and wiped his beard. “I got eyes.”

  Reuben wheeled Lahn around, moist clumps of earth flying from the palomino’s hooves as he sped back down the line of wagons.

  Inga had been looking forward to the evening dinner from the moment Reuben told them the news. Lingering pangs of guilt about her decision on the train to not share her dark secret with Johannes mixed with the anticipation of a social event. But they were far from New York City and getting further with every passing stride of the horses. There was no one on the train or in the remote area to which they were headed that could possibly know certain parts of her past, she told herself. This was a new chapter. Johannes was the first man she had ever truly cared for. Out here, she would never run into any of her “men clients” again. That had been another life, before her work at the Mayor’s mansion. Before Rebecca, visiting the Mayor, had asked that she accompany her west. Most particularly, before Johannes. And, as she had vowed, she would never again stoop to such behavior. Regardless of the circumstances.

  She turned and looked at Johannes as they ascended diagonally across the shallow rise. He was concentrating on guiding the team over the uneven grounds. There was something very sensual about his intelligent, intent focus, and she felt an involuntary constriction in her breasts and warmth begin to spread in her hips. She smiled a satisfied inner smile. I can’t imagine anyone ever making my heart beat more quickly.

  Johannes felt her gaze and turned to her, taking his eyes momentarily from the team. He flashed her a smile. “What are you looking at, Inga?”

  “My man,” she whispered, and wrapped her arm around his, leaning into him as she did so.

  “Damn right,” Johannes made a comical show of pretending to look around as if to see if anyone was listening. “But, shhhhh…this could ruin my reputation.”

  Inga felt an odd twist in her stomach at the word “reputation.” She let a few moments pass. “I wonder what I should wear?” she said somewhat to herself, but also to Johannes.

  Rebecca turned to her. “We should dress as ladies do for an event. I am not sure I have time to change, but I certainly intend on tidying up, removing this infernal dust from my attire, fixing my hair, and perhaps changing my hat and jewelry.”

  The silent mirth on Johannes’ face was evident. “This is not a ball at the Queen’s palace, Rebecca. Comfortable, clean, with as little fuss as possible will do just fine.”

  Tilting her nose slightly upward, Rebecca ignored Johannes before directing her dialogue to Inga. “You and I can take some time and sort the wagon so that we have a little space to change and dress for tonight, or any other time.” She sniffed, and glared at Johannes, “The men obviously gave no such thought to our needs when they loaded.”

  Her eyes returned to Inga. “We can also sort out how to arrange our beds, particularly since Reuben and Johannes will be sleeping under the wagon.” She obviously found it impossible to keep the tinge of triumphant irony from that final portion of her pronouncement, and Inga caught the look of satisfaction in her eyes when Johannes pursed his lips.

  “That sounds like a good plan, Milady Marx. I’m very much looking forward to meeting everybody else, and seeing who else from the Edinburgh is on the wagon train. Did you hear Reuben mention it?”

  Rebecca sniffed again. “Given the typical passenger I saw on the Edinburgh, I doubt that will be of much interest.”

  CHAPTER 11

  MARCH 18, 1855

  DOE HIDE & BROWN SHOULDERS

  Walks with Moon languished in the warmth of the buffalo robes after Eagle Talon left the tipi. Finally, she stirred, readying herself for a day that promised to be full.

  The other younger women of the tribe would be meeting down at the water midmorning, when the sun climbed high enough to cast its warmth across the waters. Their rendezvous was always on the inside curve of a sandbar formed by a bend in the river. The coarse, red-gold sand tapered gradually into the streambed before disappearing beneath deeper currents. These shallow edges caught sun in the middle of the still-short days and were perfect for washing and bathing.

  Walks with Moon enjoyed listening—though she did not partake—in the gossip thinly disguised as yesterday’s news from different lodges, and the arguments over what the decisions of the Council would be. Each morning, as they talked at the river, the women would discretely bathe and clean a few items from their tipis, buffalo horn ladles and bowls, or dried roots that would be used for the noonday meal.

  Inside the lodge, Walks with Moon smiled to herself. No doubt Talks with Shadows would have some prognostications about what was being decided by the men. She would make these statements with surety, in a most convincing, all-knowing tone. Invariably, she would be wrong. The other women teased Talks with Shadows unmercifully about her incorrect forecasts. She would always shrug off the jests, suggesting, “I would have been right, if ….” Most often, she would launch into a brand new, intricately woven story of yet another vision that had come to her.

  Pony Hoof would compare the size of her belly with those of every other pregnant woman, a select and revered club, to which Walks with Moon now belonged. Pony Hoof, who was but a moon from delivery, had the largest, roundest midriff, which she pointed out whenever the chance arose. Walks with Moon laughed quietly. After the baby comes, Pony Hoof will no longer have the stature of biggest belly. Will she begin to feast and feast, attempting to maintain her elevated status?

  Walks with Moon lightly placed the palm of her hand just below her belly button. Happiness coursed through her spirit. You will make your father proud, and I shall love you like no other.

  She straightened the buffalo robes and stirred the embers of the lodge fire. Adding tiny shavings to the glowing coals, she got down on her hands and knees and blew gently on the remnants of fire until the shavings ignited. She carefully added small twigs, then larger sticks until the little fire was blazing and warmth began to push the morning chill from the tipi.

  With the fire crackling, smokeless, she stood close to the flames, slowly twirling around, letting the heat radiate off her still naked figure. She looked down at herself, ran her fingers over her filling breasts, along her sides, over the flare of her hips, and, palms down, extended their reach lower, past her groin, and down the insides of her thighs. She closed her eyes, pretending her hands were Eagle Talon’s powerful calloused fingers, and giggled.

  She looked forward to their coming night of tender but intense passion, which they shared often. Their physical attraction had always been special, but it had reached new heights since she had conceived. Perhaps being with child somehow makes things more pleasurable, she wondered to herself as she slipped on her doeskin dress.

  The soft suede caressed her face and sensitive flesh as it slid over her head and then below her waist and settled on her hips. Its bodice was cut high, with buckskin ties that began just above her breasts and rose in a crisscross almost to her throat to keep her warm in the months before and after summer. Its hem came to just above her knees, good for wading and washing, particularly this time of year when the water was still frigid. A single row of carefully polished elk ivory were stitched just under the collar, and the paints and stains she concocted from juniper, alder, black and other berries, and cactus cores added color just below the ivories.

  She tied the waist with a beaded thong of buffalo hide, its ends split into finely painted leather threads. Only then did she fold down the upper edge of the tipi flap and peek outside. No snow blanketed the ground and the frost had disappeared other than a few patches where the sun’s rays were blocked, and the ground was in shadow.

  No need for moccasins. It is a short way to the river. Walks with Moon ran the shallow-toothed comb Eagle Talon had fashioned for her from the antlers of a mule deer buck through her shoulder length, shiny black hair. The comb had been a wedding gift from her husband, handed to her with a shy smile.

  Still humming, she gathered a few i
tems needed at the river, including two metal pots, among her most prized possessions. Eagle Talon had traded for the pots at her insistent urging when trapper LaBonte and his Arapaho woman, Lola, were in camp prior to the leaves falling from the trees. The pots cost Eagle Talon a good number of beaver and coyote pelts. To this day he complained that he had overpaid. “But, my husband,” she always countered, “the pots were well worth it.” Their teasing disagreement became a treasured matter between them and provided ongoing laughs. Remembering, she smiled.

  Walks with Moon stepped from the tipi. Toward the center of the village she could see Talks with Shadows and several other women already on their way to the river. They were laughing and bobbing their heads. Anxious not to miss any of the discussion, she set down the pots, fastened back the flap to keep in the warmth, and then hurried with eager footsteps to the gathering of friends.

  It was just after midday when she returned from the river. She had planned to sew and prepare the main meal with the ulterior motive of drawing the buffalo hides around her and her husband early.

  She was surprised to see Eagle Talon already sitting cross-legged in front of the tipi, his shield leaning several feet from him against the skin walls of the lodge. The shield was decorated, like her dress, with paints from berries and plants. As was the sacred practice, Eagle Talon had fashioned the shield, measuring it slightly wider than his forearm, fingertips to elbow. He had painted the enemy side with two circles of black and white, the top and bottom of each design pointing toward the center and then the outer edge of the shield. Their white halves directed light and strong energy to the center for protection and surrounded a painted eagle feather with a superimposed image of an eagle talon. Though Eagle Talon had protested, Walks with Moon had painstakingly, and secretly—at her husband’s resigned insistence—stitched a quarter-inch thick crosssection of buffalo horn almost five inches in diameter in the center of the talon. She was careful to work on the shield only inside the tipi, and though Eagle Talon again protested, she had sewn a second layer of tough buffalo hide behind the first. The shield’s center was secured by thick leather strands through a hole she had laboriously fashioned with sharp granite. Tied in a buckskin knot, their ends dangled another six inches.