Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “No,” said Johannes, “But they need tending to, so there’s no sense anybody more than one doing it. Mostly I bring them food, water, and supplies. They are all without family, as I am.” He felt the last few words catch in his voice as he uttered them.

  “Aren’t you worried about getting sick?” asked the sergeant. Johannes shrugged and looked the Irishman in the eyes. “It will be what it will be. I’ve survived a lot. Bullets and sabers,” he patted the saber on his side, “can’t kill me, so I don’t believe some little fever will.”

  The cavalry sergeant and captain exchanged glances.

  Henderson’s eyes again fixed on Reuben’s Colt. He spoke slowly, “Come across an outlaw just about dead a few days back. Poor bugger had a hole from a Colt in his body. The pack of thieves he ran with just left him when his horse gave out. Before he died, he was raving about some young gun hand who kilt him and five others when they tried to attack some wagons,” he paused. “Any idea who that would be, Reuben?”

  Reuben’s lips pursed. Obviously surprised, Johannes thought, at the spread of news of their encounter with the Black Feather bunch. Reuben held the captain’s eye. “That would be me,” he said softly.

  The sergeant’s eyes were wide. The captain measured his words carefully. “Well, Mr. Frank, the word is out.” He nodded behind him. “My men are still talking ’bout that story. They thought the poor bugger was delirious. It will be all over the fort and the Oregon Trail and,” his eyes flicked to the wagons, “Cherry Creek, too. You be careful.”

  Reuben looked unworried, “Thank you Captain. I will keep that in mind.”

  “May we ride in?”

  Reuben smiled. “Of course. We have another hour before we get started moving again.” He started to laugh, “We have a never-ending supply of buffalo chips, and our scout killed a buffalo cow a few days back, so we are stocked up on salted meat and jerky. Maybe the women can fix your troops some lunch. I’m sure they would be most pleased.”

  The captain glanced toward the wagons. “That third wagon set slightly offset from the circle is your sick wagon?”

  Reuben nodded. The captain looked at him. “We would be obliged. My men could do with some food, and the coffee sounds good. Mind if we ride in on the opposite side from that Conestoga?”

  Reuben nodded again, wheeled Lahn, and began to trot back toward the wagons.

  Johannes was about to do the same when Captain Henderson called out, “Why don’t you ride in with me. We can talk along the way.” He smiled grimly, “as long as you don’t mind me askin’ you to be on the downwind side. I don’t trust that fever.”

  Johannes laughed. “Downwind of you it will be.”

  The captain raised his hand, pointed at the wagons, and called out, “Forward Hoooah,” and the troops began moving, the two captains from worlds apart riding side by side.

  “What are your plans when you get to Cherry Creek, Captain?” Johannes realized the American officer was staring at him intently. Johannes shrugged. “I promised Reuben to help him establish his ranch. I’ll do that at the least. He will need the help. He’s planning to hire some men in Cherry Creek and has our scout to help them, too.”

  “What’s the scout’s name?”

  “Zeb.”

  The captain partially reined up, looking surprised. “Zebarriah Taylor?” The respect and recognition in his voice was undeniable. Johannes nodded. “Well, no wonder that young man can lead these wagons, and you folks survived that attack by such a large war party. That is one famous mountain man you’re traveling with. Knows Indians, too. Spent time with the Sioux up toward the Big Horns it’s my understanding. Never met him myself, but I hear he leads a mighty solitary existence down in the southwest part of the Territories. Hell of a trapper. Works the tributaries of the river they call the Uncompahgre. Supposedly he has a cabin in the Red Mountains down there, but no one knows exactly where.”

  Johannes felt himself start at the mention of the Red Mountains and the Uncompahgre. That is why Zeb agreed to come with Reuben. He kept his face expressionless. “He’s a good man. Tough, steady, quiet, and he just gets it done.”

  Captain Henderson nodded, “Yep, that’s what I’ve heard. Sure looking forward to meeting him finally after all these years.”

  “Probably won’t happen, Captain. He is already a half-day’s ride ahead, reconnoitering. We want to avoid a day like we had at Two Otters Creek with the Pawnee.”

  The squad was welcomed by the pioneers. Margaret, Rebecca, and Sarah, along with Elijah’s wife and several of the women, whipped together a quick, but satisfying feast of beans, dried fruit, salted buffalo steaks, and coffee. The troopers lounged around, enjoying the respite from their saddles, talking amongst themselves and with the pioneers, and obviously relishing the movements of Rebecca and Sarah, as well as one or two other women on the train. “Must be a lack of talent at Fort Laramie,” Johannes thought.

  “Damn.” The captain downed his third cup of thick black coffee, stood up, and handed his cup to Sarah with a smile. “Thank you kindly, Miss Bonney.” He turned to Reuben, “It’s been a pleasure.” Reuben grinned. “Ours also, Captain.” He looked up at the sun,

  “We best be moving, too. Are you headed our way?”

  Captain Henderson shook his head and sighed. “No, we are only a week into a month patrol. We’re headin’ northeast, showing the flag, gathering information, and helping where we can. We will turn around somewhere this side of Kearney and come back roughly the same way. There has been little hostile action between here and Cherry Creek, but there are outlaws. Been several attacks on isolated farmsteads and one poor rancher, his wife, and all his hands were killed on their wagons in March down by a river they call the Cache la Poudre, just sixty miles southwest of the fort. Poor devils wintered with us. Fine people. We found their rigs, and what was left of them, but their daughter, she’s fourteen, she was gone.” He shook his head, “I shudder to think of her fate.” His eyes rose quickly to Rebecca and Sarah, and he stiffened, “I’m so sorry ladies, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “That is quite all right. We’ve seen enough thus far in our journey. The ways of the western part of your country are what they are,” said Rebecca. Her eyes flickered to Reuben and she smiled. “But there is far more good than there is evil.”

  The captain nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am, thank you. Again, my apologies.” He turned, lifted one hand to his mouth to amplify, and shouted, “C Squad. Mount up!” Sergeant O’Malley took it from there, “All right men, you’ve rested your sorry bones. It’s time to get back to soldiering. In the saddles, the lot of you, and be smart about it.”

  The captain shook Reuben’s hand and bowed to Rebecca, Sarah, and Margaret. “A pleasure meeting you all. I wish you Godspeed to Cherry Creek. Please say hello if you get to Fort Laramie.”

  He turned to Johannes, straightened to attention, and snapped a smart salute. Johannes did the same. “Perhaps we shall see you again, Captain Svenson. The Army needs good officers. There’s trouble out here, and there’s more trouble, bigger trouble afoot back East.”

  Johannes felt Reuben looking at him intently, and he could see the surprise in the faces of the three women gathered around. “I’ll keep that in mind, Captain.”

  The captain nodded, walked over to his horse, which was being held by the sergeant, and mounted. “Keep your eyes out for savages.” The bugler blew assembly. “Sergeant, form up the column.”

  The column formed in twos, flags flying. Captain Henderson turned in the saddle, looked at Johannes, and smiled. “We’ll be seeing you, Captain.” He turned and raised his hand, “Forward Hoooah.”

  CHAPTER 40

  MAY 17, 1855

  JAGGED FRAME

  Rebecca and Sarah were talking, sharing family stories from back in England. The wagon bumped and creaked. The day was cloudless, warm and bright. Rebecca, looking ahead of the horses, squinted and leaned forward.

  “What is it, Rebecca?” Sarah asked, her voice anxious.
>
  “I don’t know…oh, it’s Reuben.”

  Far out in front of the train, Reuben rode toward the wagons, waving his hat in the air like a mad man. Rebecca jerked the team to a halt, alarmed at his shouting. The other wagons followed suit. “Reach back and get my Sharps and the Enfield,” she said to Sarah.

  “Oh, please, not again,” Sarah moaned, her complexion pale.

  Reuben slowed at the first two wagons, pointing and shouting as he rode by, but he reined in completely at theirs. Lahn skidded to a stop. Reuben half rose out of the saddle, excitement spilling from his eyes, Lahn’s bouncing, and partial turns and prancing, indicating he, too, had been infected by his master’s exuberance.

  “Look! The Rockies!” he exclaimed, pointing west, his hat in his hand. Sarah looked at Rebecca, her face a mixture of relief and startled excitement. They stood, shielding their eyes with their hands as they peered toward the horizon.

  In the very far distance spread a line of uneven white. Clouds? As Rebecca focused, she could see the wavering bright, uneven tops of the great mountains, unsteady in reflected shimmers that radiated up from the rolling prairie, the snowcapped peaks forming a jagged saw-tooth picture frame between the paintings of the sky and prairie.

  “I see them, I see them,” Sarah almost shouted.

  Reuben grinned, caught Rebecca’s eye and stood in his stirrups, almost dragging her off the wagon as he kissed her, and then he was gone, at the gallop.

  It was one of the few, carefree kisses they had shared since Inga’s death, and Rebecca, her pulse racing, watched him ride down the line of wagons behind them, yelling. She suddenly realized how much she missed the full potent feel of his touch on her skin.

  They crossed Beaver Creek and circled up early, more than several hours before sunset. Reuben rode in, dismounted, and began to unharness the team. The men on night herd duty would drive the animals out to where they would be tethered or hobbled during the night. Sarah, not feeling well, was in the wagon.

  “May I help?” Rebecca asked.

  Reuben turned and looked at her, his eyes slowly dropping her full length.

  “It will be difficult to be of assistance if I am undressed,” she teased.

  “Depends.” He laughed. “Sure, some help would be great, thanks,” Reuben replied.

  She turned to head to the rear of the wagon to begin supper preparations, but he grabbed her hand, almost dragging her to the other side of the rig, away from the interior of the circled encampment.

  “Reuben, for heaven’s sake…”

  He put his hand lightly over her mouth, insistent, and gently pushed her back into the wagon, his full length pressed tightly against her.

  “Reuben, I…”

  He put one finger to her lips and lowered his head until their faces were inches apart, the green of his eyes intense and smoldering. “There has been enough death and heartache, Rebecca, I want—I need—to remember life. I want you,” and then he kissed her, his urgency sweetly smothering her. Her legs felt weak, and her own feverish desire erupted as she felt his need and realized she, too, was starved for something vital, something alive.

  Wordless, they quickly saddled Lahn. Reuben pulled her up behind him, and they cantered off upstream, weaving along the edge of the cottonwoods to a sunlit clearing that opened to a broad expanse of prairie next to the creek.

  He swung her down with one arm, leaped off Lahn, and tore the blanket from behind the saddle, throwing it not yet fully spread out onto the ground. She bent to straighten it but he caught her, drew her to him, and bent his lips to her neck.

  The trees seemed to spin. She tore the buttons of his shirt, as his hand raised her skirt and chemise, slipped beneath her pantaloons, and his fingers found her. She heard herself gasp and she clung desperately to his neck, realizing that she was filled with the same consuming need to replace death with life, sorrow with joy. He whispered softly, urgently, over and over in her ear.

  They struggled from their clothes, each helping the other. Reuben lay the Colt down by the upper corner of the blanket, and once naked, after devouring her with his eyes, he lowered her to the wool, her hand hungrily encircling him.

  They clasped one another, her knees squeezing the sides of his upper chest, her heels digging into his lower back, her lips smothered by his. Their kisses grew in heated passion, and she felt his hips drive forward. Cocooned in his strength, she cried out, her body wracked with tremors, the universe seeming to collapse into them as she contracted with a groan and shuddered. He rolled her over, his arms strong around her back, supporting her, holding her to him, keeping himself in her, the primal wave washing her soul clean, the hot sun blazing down on her bare back, their position driving him even more deeply into her.

  Her motions became more intense, rapid, not of her own volition, driven by a higher instinct, a more powerful urge. Grinding herself into him, spasms rocking her as she took his entire length, his hands on her hips, roughly clenching her to him until the prairie, the creek and the cottonwoods seemed to merge with their joining. She could no longer support herself on her arms and collapsed into his chest and they blended like the sky meeting the earth, the wind caressing them as she felt the searing heat of him fill her center in tandem with their mutual groans. They remained locked together, her clamped tight around him, rocking with sensual aftershocks, gently kissing, reluctant to let each other go.

  They had finished supper, the whispers of Beaver Creek just east of their wagon accented by the chirp of crickets, when Reuben, sitting by the fire, smiled, patted his belly and said, “You are turning into quite the cook, Rebecca. Would you grab some molasses? I am going to have another slice of that pan bread.”

  Rebecca’s smile widened. “I should prefer to be called a chef,” she laughed across the fire at him. “I’ll get it from the wagon. We can’t have a hungry man.”

  He looked up at her, his expression intense, his grin wolfish. “No we can’t. If we get done early with the wagon maintenance tomorrow after we cross Badger Creek, perhaps we should saddle up and go for another ride.”

  The look in his eye, the radiant energy, cast her immediately back to just a few hours prior. She fumbled in the back of the wagon, momentarily forgetting what she had come to retrieve. She steadied herself with her hands on the tailgate, letting her heart rate subside and then returned with the molasses and sat beside him.

  “I haven’t seen that red sash on Johannes. Does he wear it just during battles?” she asked, handing Reuben his third cup of coffee, as he ate the pan bread.

  He took one last gulp of coffee, and picked up a tablet of paper that rested on the ground next to him. Rebecca had watched him writing in it before dinner, holding it at an angle to catch the light, writing and thinking. He did the same thing now, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Impressive, she thought, the way he makes lists and plans out things in advance.

  “I’m curious about Johannes’ sash,” she repeated.

  He shot her a preoccupied look, began to speak, hesitated, then simply said, “He doesn’t have it anymore.”

  He was going to say more. “Where did he lose it?” she pressed.

  He sighed, looked up from the pad and held out his arm, “Come on over.”

  He was silent for a moment as she nestled into his side and leaned back against his saddle. Then he said, “You remember. Rebecca, when Johannes took Sarah and us to Inga’s grave, that morning after the main service? When we were waiting for Preacher Walling and the rest to get there?”

  Rebecca nodded. He’s trying not to upset me.

  “That is where the sash is. Johannes told me he had worn it in every fight since his first, at the age of fifteen.” Reuben laughed softly, “He lied to get into the Danish Dragoons, of course. He said the sash carried a spirit which kept him safe. It was his father’s.”

  He fell silent for a moment, looking into the flames. Rebecca heard his voice catch when he continued, shaking his head sadly. “He thought she should have that protect
ion in her travel. And so that, if she had not heard his words at the end, she would know for sure now.”

  They sat for a long time without speaking, Rebecca nestled into him, the saddle supporting them both. When she finally rose, she said softly, “I think I’ll add a piece of wood to the fire, and try that molasses and pan bread combination.”

  She tossed some kindling onto the fire and pried the last square of bread from the pan, dripped molasses over it, and took a bite, some of the heavy syrup catching the corners of her mouth. She reached up the back of her wrist and took two swipes across her lips, licking the sweet sticky topping from her wrist.

  One of Reuben’s eyebrows rose. She chuckled, “A procedure I have acquired from you men. Until this trip, I never knew the real purpose of the back of one’s wrist.”

  “Let me see that wrist,” Reuben said, reaching up from the saddle. As Rebecca extended her hand, he grabbed her and pulled her down, on top of him. He kissed her and she dropped the roll, the molasses forgotten.

  CHAPTER 41

  MAY 18, 1855

  BADGER CREEK

  Rebecca watched as the last wagon rolled across Badger Creek, the oxen fighting to keep their balance, sliding and unsure in the fast, knee-deep current and slippery surface of the round cobbled streambed. Johnson’s Conestoga was still proudly flying the disheveled remains of the Betsy Ross Circular Flag as it bumped up onto the bank and completed the defensive circle Reuben had ordered. From more than a hundred yards across the circled encampment, Rebecca spotted the flash of Margaret’s hand and she waved in return.

  The camp was animated, the spirits of the pioneers lifted from the shock and despair of Two Otters Creek by the far distant sight of the Rockies.

  Outside the circled wagons, Johannes had a group of six horsemen around him. He gestured to each in turn, pointed in a direction and the rider sped off, rifle or musket at the ready. He had shaved and cut his hair. An air of command. The saber dangled from his waist.