Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Black Feather spent a moment closely studying the remaining twenty-three in his band. Some would not meet his eyes. All had looks of tired frustration and anger, and many exuded an air of restless enmity and mistrust.

  “Snake, go fetch that mustang of González’s for me. I think I will put Dot on the horse.”

  To his side, he heard Pedro mutter something in Spanish. He swiveled his head, “What do you want, Pedro? Let the horse wander around? You want a mustang riderless when I’m riding double? We don’t have the luxury of doing things proper. We gotta get to them foothills, mend up, and plan our next move.”

  “We sure as hell hope this plan is better than the last one.” Black Feather turned sharply to Snake. This time the man didn’t look down.

  Black Feather’s eyes flitted momentarily to the others. They were all looking at him, tense, alert. Dark clouds before the storm, he thought again. He closed his mouth and forced a half-smile. “No matter, Snake.” If I ride over to the horse, chances are there will be ten lead holes through my body, he glanced back behind him. Dot was looking up at him with those big green eyes, and through the girl, or worse yet, what they’ll do if she’s not dead… Black Feather nodded, showing no outward sign, but his hand was ready to make a grab for the pistol, and he was already calculating who would be first, second, then third.

  Maintaining the partial smile took effort. Without taking his eyes off the men, he said in a level voice, “Dot, why don’t you ease off the back of the stallion, go over there, and get that horse. You know how to ride, don’t you?” He felt her nod “yes” against his back.

  “Get on, then. We will wait for you.” Dot carefully swung one thin leg over the rear of the stallion and then, supporting herself with her elbows, lowered her feet partially to the ground, dropping the last foot.

  “Good, now get that mustang.” Black Feather could tell Dot’s progress by the eyes of his men, and he backed the stallion a bit so that Pedro was fully in his field of vision. He could see by the way the hungry eyes of some of them drifted slowly with the girl’s movements that she was getting near the horse. “That’s a good girl. Take those reins and pull yourself up in that saddle.”

  When the eyes were all focused on him again, he knew she had mounted.

  “Pedro, you know the way to the Big Thompson. Let’s stay low crossing the Pawnee. Take the lead. The girl and I will take the rear. It’s only fair if we eat a little dust, too.”

  “Si, Patron.” Pedro’s words had a bite to them as he set off at a canter. The rest of the men exchanged looks and then, one by one, trotted by them. Tex was the last man. As he rode by he pulled his lips back from his teeth, pressed his tongue into the gap so that it protruded in an ugly pink boil, and cast a wild-eyed look at Black Feather.

  Crazy as a drunk bed bug. Black Feather nodded another half-smile at the wild face as if he had not noticed either the warning energy the man radiated, or his lunatic behavior. He waited till Tex was a full fifty feet ahead of them then turned to Dot. “How’s that saddle feel?” She looked up at him, and the first smile he had seen on her lips since that day on the Poudre, more than two months prior, wafted across her face.

  “So, you like to ride? I bet you had a favorite horse? Maybe the one you learned to ride on. What was its name?”

  The small, tender, tentative smile didn’t leave her face, but she said nothing.

  “That’s fine. You can tell me another time.”

  It was midafternoon, and unseasonably warm. Black Feather peeled off the jacket he had stripped from the blue belly he killed in ’54, his eyes roving the familiar hogbacks and buttes, and beyond them, the rugged foothills of the Rockies and the Rawah, just miles out.

  He looked over at Dot. Her slight blond figure seemed especially small astride González’s stocky mustang. He watched her for a moment. She rode with fluidity, a slight exaggeration in her hips. Black Feather watched her pelvis move to and fro in the bow of the saddle seat for a few seconds and then forced himself to raise his eyes. He had meant to lift them to her face, but they lingered where the west wind pressed the thin shirt against her small, petite, not fully developed breasts, slight accentuations in the fabric where her nipples pressed against the cloth.

  Her face had a relaxed expression, though her posture was still guarded. She looked over at him, her lips creasing into that same partial half-smile she had revealed for the first time a few hours before. Should have put her on horse long before this.

  “I’m going to ride up to talk to Pedro. We’re gonna take a short rest and make sure the trail is clear. Get up a little closer to Tex— but not too close. I’ll be right back.”

  Her light blond eyebrows frowned, shadowing the widening of her big green eyes. “I’ll be right back. I promise.” He kicked the stallion and the horse broke into a lope. As he passed his straggling band, he was acutely aware of the bitter stares that ricocheted off his back as he rode by. He reached Pedro quickly.

  “Pedro, we’ll turn into this canyon comin’ up. Send Snake and Johnson up to the top of that ridge. Have ’em check out Big Thompson Valley before we cross. Then we’ll head north into those rolling hills south of the Horse’s Tooth Rock and camp up in there tonight. There are several good spots.”

  Pedro blinked and his eyes flickered with an unfriendly look. Black Feather wheeled the stallion and trotted back down his motley column. Behind him, he heard Pedro call out, “Snake and Johnson. When we pull up, climb up to the top there and see what you can see.” Also audible were Snake’s curses, not much more than a whisper, but meant to be heard.

  As he neared Dot, her features, which been drawn and worried, eased and her face relaxed. Not a smile, but close. We’re making progress. He smiled in return, loped the stallion around her rear, and rode next to, but slightly in front of her. Ahead of them, the men filed into a small rocky draw. Snake and Johnson were dismounting and pulling their long guns from their scabbards. Snake cast several furtive, less than friendly, looks in his direction.

  He was shocked by the voice slightly to his left and behind him. A woman’s voice, almost. A complete sentence, almost. He put his hand back on the rump of the black stallion and cranked his upper body around, “Did you say something, Dot?”

  The soft skin of her eyelids fell twice in blinks, “Brush for the horse?”

  I’ll be damned. Horses. They really are the key.

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s a single saddle bag with a horse brush in it.” He pointed, “But see that sage, part way up in that clearing between the rocks? Just grab a couple of handfuls and rub him down. Doesn’t do quite so well as a brush, but horses seem to like it.”

  The girl nodded and Black Feather leaned down to hold her reins. She firmly pulled the leathers from his hands, wrapped them around the saddle horn with an air of practice, and dismounted, jumping from the stirrups to the ground.

  Black Feather felt himself grin. “I guess you didn’t need help, did you?” She looked up at him and shook her head, then began to pick her way toward the sage.

  Black Feather slipped from the stallion’s saddle, keeping the horse between him and his men. As he pulled the Musketoon from its scabbard, he did a quick hand-check of the Colt Army in his belt to make sure it wasn’t hung up on anything, knowing his movements were shielded from prying eyes by the torso of the horse. During it all, his eyes were above the stallion’s neck, surveying the men. I better not sleep tonight, he instructed himself.

  There was a high-pitched scream from behind him. The men jumped up, some of them reaching for pistols, others grabbing their long guns. Black Feather drew the pistol and turned, his left hand gripping the rifle. Dot had collapsed next to the sage, rocking and crying, holding her left leg. Snake bite! He ran to her and rolled up the cuffs of the wool pants he had taken from Hank, one of the smallest men in the outfit before he was killed by that pearl-handled Colt that ill-fated day almost a month before.

  He froze at the sound of the
rattles and turned his head slowly. A four-foot diamondback was coiled just feet away; its pale pink, forked tongue flickering, searching, tasting; its opaque, reptilian eyes fixed on his. With the slowest of movements, he drew his knife. The snake struck, the blade flashed, and the twitching, writhing body of the rattler quietly coiled and uncoiled almost at his feet, headless. He wiped the sparse blood from the blade on his leggings and focused on the twin, welling punctures halfway up the side of her calf. Her face was white and her shoulders trembled. What’s it been, a minute? Maybe two?

  He untied the bandana from his head, wrapped it tight around her thigh, stuck a gnarled sage branch under the cloth, and twisted it. “You okay?” he asked. She nodded, her pupils beginning to dilate. “Hold this and tighten it when I tell you. Got it?” The blond head bobbed up and down.

  He looked into her eyes. “This is gonna hurt. But if I don’t, you’ll die. You understand?”

  The young woman bit her lower lip and nodded, tears rolling from her eyes. Black Feather steadied his hand and pressed the sharp point of the knife against her flesh, making two deep cuts in the form of a cross over the punctures. He lifted her leg and bent his head, fastening his lips to her skin and the ooze of blood. He could feel the leg muscle spasm under his mouth. That poison is already working. He sucked hard, turned his head and spat. Then again. And again.

  Black Feather sucked and spat again. He glanced up. Her eyes were closed. There was a twitch in her check. Her skin was pale, very pale. The wound was beginning to swell and swollen tissue now extended several inches in all directions. A blue tint began to show around the punctures and the incision he had made with the knife. The men had gathered below him, twenty feet away at the toe of the rise, watching.

  “Pedro get a small fire going. No smoke. Tex, get some water and heat it up.” He bent his head against the wound and sucked, grimacing at the bitter taste of combined blood and venom. He spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Tighten that tourniquet, Dot.” The girl did not respond. She began to ease her shoulders backward to lie down. He quickly scooped his arm around her back. “No! Don’t lie down. The poison will spread faster. Stay sitting up.” He could feel the bore and unsettling energy of twenty pairs of eyes on his back. He picked Dot up, turned her around, and faced the men, propping her up against a rock so that she could not lie down.

  Pedro had not moved, neither had Tex. “Patron, you seem to care more about the skinny woman than you did about González. You rode with him for four years. She can’t be that good in the bedroll.” Pedro had pulled the worn serape back away from his pistol. Black Feather bent down, pretending to suck on the girl’s leg again, and then straightened, suddenly, pulling his pistol from his belt as he did so. The shot caught Pedro between the eyes and he fell over backward without a sound. The men jumped, shocked.

  Black Feather knelt over the girl, the pistol still extended. “Who’s next?” he snarled.

  Snake came running around from behind a rock, “What the hell was that…There’s nothing doing, not even a rabbit…” He stopped and took in the scene, his mouth open.

  Black Feather could feel the girl’s arm beginning to shake under his left hand. Nausea would set in soon.

  “Most of us have ridden together a long time. I have never forced anyone to stay or go. You make your own choices. But if you’re with me, I demand loyalty, and you do what I say or you’ll pay the price.” He gave a sideways nod to Pedro’s body. “I’ve been getting a bad feeling all day. Matter of fact, it ain’t felt right for several weeks. I aim to save this girl’s life. She ain’t like us and she don’t deserve to die like us. He shifted the gun from one side of the group to the other. “So here’s a choice. You can ride with me or you can light out right now. No harm done, no grudge held.”

  The men, all silent, looked at one another. Black Feather stood. “I don’t have a lot of time here. Every minute that goes by this poison goes more through her system. Who’s in and who’s out?”

  Snake drew himself up, a vicious look on his thin swarthy face. “That girl is all you got on your brain. We ain’t had nothing but bad luck since you took up with her. I’m going to head down to the Uncompahgre. Ain’t supposed to be no troops down there, and not a lot of white men neither. Heard some rumors about gold. Maybe I’ll find me some. Or, maybe I’ll find someone who found some. That might be easier.”

  Several of the men laughed uneasily. Eight other bandits, including Tex, who wore his maniacal grin, stepped back from the circle. “We’re going with Snake,” one of them said. The others tensely nodded. Black Feather wagged his pistol. “Then git.”

  The men walked to their horses, muttering amongst themselves, shoved their rifles roughly into their scabbards, mounted up, and rode out of the canyon at a lope, not looking back.

  Black Feather turned his attention to what remained of his band. “Bama and Chief, make that fire. Get some water on it.” The two men nodded and scrambled to their tasks. “Tom, get yourself up to the top of that ridge and keep your eyes peeled. We’re gonna be here at least a day to see how she does.” He looked down at Dot. Her eyes were closed, her face pale and clammy. He leaned close to her ear. Smells good, but maybe it’s the sage. “What I have to do is gonna hurt like hell. But, I got no choice. If I don’t cut some of that poisoned flesh out of your leg, you’ll die,” he paused, “and that means no more horse riding. How are you feeling?”

  “Burns, burns,” she whispered, tears welling from beneath her closed eyelids. She turned her head and retched.

  Black Feather looked up at the men. “Anyone have any whiskey?” One of the men nodded. “Good, bring it over here, would you, Johnson?” The man ran off toward his horse. The energy is already better. Good decision, can’t ride with eyes in the back of my head every minute.

  Black Feather spoke softly to the girl. “You’re going to start feeling dizzy. And, you’re going be sick again. You’re going to lose some skin up and down from that bite. It’s just the way it is. I aim to pour a little whiskey on this leg, and then you need to take two big swallows. Can you do that?” Her eyes stayed closed, but she nodded a weak “yes”.

  Johnson handed him a small bottle of whiskey, which he unwrapped from a soiled, faded, red handkerchief. “Thanks, Johnson, I’ll try and save some.” The man smiled.

  Black Feather held his knife over her wound, poured the whiskey on both sides of the blade, let it drip on her calf, and then smoothed it over the angry looking skin with the blade, covering the entire rapidly swelling area. He held the bottle to the girl’s lips, “A good swallow now.” She took a gulp and coughed. “Good, take another swig.” She choked, coughed, and then turned her head to the side and vomited again.

  “Johnson, hand me that bandana.”

  Johnson untied the bandana from his neck, and Black Feather wadded it up and pressed it against Dot’s lips. “Open your mouth, bite on this.” Her mouth opened, straight white teeth. She bit down on the dirty cloth.

  “Johnson, hold her legs down.”

  He looked down at her leg. Going bad quick. He turned his head to check on her. One thin arm was extended, little fingers outstretched, reaching for him. He hesitated a moment, surprised, then closed one big hand over hers and squeezed.

  He turned back to her calf, took a deep breath, and pressed the sharp, curved upper edge of the blade several inches to the side of the puncture wound, and three inches above it. I’ve killed over forty men with this knife and sliced at least that many, and my hand ain’t never shook before. He took another deep breath and began to cut, Dot’s moans of pain through the handkerchief hovering in the spring heat and echoing in his brain among older, more painful memories.

  CHAPTER 46

  MAY 27, 1855

  RAILS OF FREEDOM

  Hiding inside the barn’s wooden grain bin, which was filled with oats, Israel felt like he was floating, suspended. Reminds me of the lake. Hold my breath and just let myself sink. Lucy squeezed his hand and he squeezed back
. He listened to the faint indecipherable echo of voices, the words of the Nebraskan farmer muted by the wooden barn and the grain in which the farmer had hidden them.

  “Charles, you know we get a complaint or report, we gotta check it out. We got laws and it’s our job. Mildred ain’t no liar.”

  “Marshall, I never said Mildred lied. She’s a nice old lady with way too much time. Her imagination is bigger than the damn prairie. A breeze comes through her flower garden and she’s screamin’ down the road about a tornado. You know it, just like I do.”

  “We’re sorry to bother you, Charles. We appreciate you letting us look in the house, root cellars and your loafing sheds. Last thing we gotta check is this here barn. You understand, Charles.”

  “That don’t matter much, John, so have at it. My barn is your barn.”

  “Sam, Tommy—go and check the tool and tack rooms at the other end. One of you go check those stalls. I’ll look around down here.”

  Israel squeezed Lucy’s hand. She returned the pressure. He took another shallow breath from the canebreak stem that extended from his mouth upwards a foot, several inches above the level of grain in the storage bin.

  “Nothin’ in the stalls,” one of the deputies called out.

  A more distant voice shouted, “Ain’t nothin’ over here in the tack room, neither.”

  “John, get Charles’ pitchfork and check them old hay piles by the door. Tommy, go on above and check them grain bins.”

  Lucy squeezed Israel’s hand hard. He gave her two quick ones back. If you can feel my thoughts, Lucy, you relax. Lord, I surely hope the stems ain’t sticking up too high. The grain dust tickled his nose.

  Israel strained to hear. He could make out the occasional muted thud of boots as they hit certain loose, coarse planks on the barn floor, or when one of the lawmen jumped from one level to the next. Sounds like one of ’em is comin’ up this way. Each step taken was more audible, closer, nearer. Lucy squeezed his hand again. The approaching sound of boots was dampened, but now he could hear almost every step. Oh Lord. Definitely on their level. Israel’s mind raced. He could feel the sweat trickling down his sides. He’ll walk around the outside of the bins, then climb them outside ladders and peek inside. Israel tried to remember which way the shadows fell from the lip of the eight-foot round, eight-foot high storage bins, but couldn’t. Each stride of the approaching deputy was clearly audible now, eerily dull as the sound drifted and sifted through the grain. Then the steps ceased. Israel held his breath.