Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Eagle Talon had sized the handgrip in the center of the rear of the shield to fit over his upper arm, affording him added versatility in transport or use. The skins were stretched tightly with thick rawhide he tied around a single, almost one-inch diameter alder branch. It had taken him several days to soak and bend the alder until its ends overlapped, forming a circle. The ends were tightly wrapped by triple rawhide bands that he wove through small holes whittled through the wood.

  Walks with Moon knew it was one of the finest shields in the tribe. Her husband was proud of it and rarely left the tipi without it. “Your gift has added strong medicine,” he admitted privately to her, smiling, and she, too, felt a twinge of pride.

  His unstrung bow rested against the sidewall of the tipi next to the shield, as did the supple leather quiver full of arrows, their fletching of black, white, and a mottled grey duck feathers, a lethal bouquet that extended approximately ten inches from the folded over, stitched lip of the quiver.

  Eagle Talon looked somber. The sun was slipping behind the tipi and his lower body was in shade. He usually teased her with his eyes, but this day his lips were compressed and his features hard. There was not the usual appreciative flow of his gaze up and down her body.

  She stood in front of him clutching the two pots that contained the small pile of gourds and wooden stirring spoons she had taken down to the river. He looked up at her, his wide eyes dark and serious, as stoic as the dark marks on the bark of an aspen. He said nothing.

  They had shared the same fire for more than two winters now, and she had learned to allow him his silence, though these moods did not come often.

  “We had a fine time at the river today. Some sand and current and my pots are shiny and clean,” she set them down on the ground. “I think they are worth twice as many pelts as you traded.” This type of gentle prod usually elicited a smile, and a good-natured retaliation, but Eagle Talon’s face remained stony.

  She stood quietly, waiting.

  “Some of our scouts have reported back,” Eagle Talon said in a firm, low voice. “There have been several attacks against white wagons. Our scouts are convinced it is the work of renegades, Crow, or perhaps Pawnee.”

  She sat down beside him, folding her legs beneath her, and leaned into his words.

  “A French trapper they called Pierre, his entire party, and his Blackfoot woman were killed and scalped southeast of the soldiers’ fort on the River of the Laramie. The white soldiers are blaming the Sioux. They are using these events as one of the excuses to not honor the treaty The People made with the representative of the White Father five winters ago. Other scouts have reported two lines of white wagons are headed to where the sun sets south of us. They’re still on the lands of the Pawnee. One set of wagons seems to have medicine men who perform strange ceremonies, and it appears it will take the northerly route north of the Padouca River in the direction of the soldiers’ fort along the Laramie. The other is not at the juncture yet where a decision must be made, but the scouts feel they will turn south toward the Mountain of the Little Beaver That Never Reached the Top, the mountain the hairy faces call Longs Peak. This is the earliest we’ve seen white wagons. It is possible they spent the winter at the soldiers’ fort they call Kearney far toward the rising sun. We fear there will be more wagons, more hairy faces, more soldiers.”

  He paused and squinted at her face, which was still bright with the sunlight. “And more disregard for the agreements The People made with the White Father.”

  “What did the Council have to say of this news?”

  “There are those, you know them, Turtle Walks and Horse’s Leg who wish to paint for war and drive the white man out before they become strong. There are others who say we must form alliances with the other tribes, including the Crow.” Eagle Talon grimaced, and shook his head. “Still others like Sitting Bull and Buffalo Hoof counsel patience. They believe there is little to fear, a few white men will not make a difference, and, in the end, the White Father will honor his word to The People. The Council dispersed, making no decisions other than Tracks on Rock has determined we should break camp, move the village, and follow the tatanka herds to the southeast this year rather than to the east or north. There remains much snow north of here and the tatanka are likely to migrate in that direction later than usual.”

  Walks with Moon felt a wave of unease, “My father thinks we should move southeast, nearer the white wagon trails?”

  “Yes.” It was obvious Eagle Talon did not agree.

  “What if we run into white wagons?” Walks with Moon hoped she hid the anxiety from her voice. She wondered what the elder wives were telling their husbands right now.

  “We shall watch and remain invisible. We will go around them, though we will try and learn as much as we can.” Eagle Talon smiled for first time. “However, if we run into Crow or Pawnee, we will count coup and take their horses. I could use more horses.”

  Walks with Moon was relieved to see the smile on her husband’s face and she baited him, though she knew what the answer would be, “You have sixteen horses, husband. You can only ride one at a time.” She laughed when his response was as she suspected.

  “A man can never have enough horses.”

  Eagle Talon stood, pulled her up beside him, put his hands on both her arms, and let his look wander slowly and lovingly down the length of her form, as if slipping the leather from her shoulders with his gaze.

  She giggled up into his face. “I shall prepare supper for us.”

  “Supper can wait,” Eagle Talon said, his eyes twinkling. He took her hand and turned. With his free hand he hastily undid the leather ties to the tipi flap. As she bent her knees and reached back for the pots, she saw Flying Arrow standing at the entrance to his lodge, his arms crossed over his chest. He caught her eye, smiled, and nodded his silver-haired head in approval.

  Inside the lodge, Eagle Talon tossed several sticks on the cold embers, turned to her and took the pots from her hands. He untied the leather strings at the top of her dress where they tightened the soft doe hide across the base of her throat, and then slid the leather from her tan shoulders, this time with his forefingers rather than his eyes.

  The supple suede lining of the dress slid down her body and landed in a dark golden heap around her feet. He took a step back and surveyed her, and then nodded almost imperceptibly at the buffalo robes. A minute later, he slipped under the heavy pelts with her.

  Delighted with the strong warmth of her husband’s naked body along her length, she sighed softly at the tingle of his lips on her breasts. She moved ever closer in his embrace, one hand now gently stroking his fullness. He throbbed in her fingers and she could feel the pulsing in her throat grow more rapid.

  She exhaled slowly from parted lips with steady warm breath in his ear. Her fingers tightened gently around him, and she gasped, her hips involuntarily twitching, as his hands slowly smoothed over the shape of their child in her belly and then found the wetted, ready area between her thighs.

  Eagle Talon slowly rolled her over to her side facing away from him, held her hips and pulled her to his. With several gentle thrusts he embedded himself deeply in her. She felt pleasantly stretched, completely full of the man she loved, and she breathed a groan that mingled with the sounds of river current kissing the edges of rocks outside the tipi.

  Her moans became throaty. Their increasing tempo urged his ever quickening movements and he pulled her closer, tighter, molding her to him, one hand splayed out across her trembling belly. She could feel the muscles in his stomach rhythmically tighten each time he pushed his hips forward. Waves of heat floated through her body. The interior of the tipi seemed to float, suspended on the edge of flight, and then she felt herself contract and spasm around him, the sound of her pleasure driving him to thrust hard once more, their beings centered on the point of his contact deep within her, and she heard him grunt, felt him explode, and then the sensual sensations of their consummation, their flesh, became a shared thi
ng, until she could not tell where her body ended and his began.

  They lay still, their breathing slowly returning to normal, enjoying the gentle aftershock tremors of their coupling. A great horned owl hooted somewhere downstream. She held her breath, wondering about the meaning of this—an owl’s call in early evening might cause some to feel a tremor of terror. But as she listened to the whisper of river current, she thought to herself that the owl’s call had seemed gentle, languid like the river. Perhaps it was not a warning so much as a reminder. But a reminder of what? Had Eagle Talon heard the owl?

  Eagle Talon raised himself up on one elbow. His chiseled face creased with the smile of a man who has shared with his woman. He began to slip out of her. She made a sound of quiet protest and shifted her hips to capture him for a while longer. She did not think he had heard the owl. She exhaled a deep, contented sigh and stroked his hand where it again rested on her belly. “Our people will be safe, won’t we?” she whispered.

  He hesitated, and then his hug tightened. “We will be safe, wife. More men are reasonable than not, and, hopefully, they all have a woman such as you, to talk sense into them when needed.”

  His arms tightened around her again, and she felt the softening still buried in her begin to thicken. Her husband’s whisper filtered, husky, through his lips as he nuzzled her neck. “Perhaps we will wait for supper until morning, Walks with Moon.”

  CHAPTER 12

  MARCH 18, 1855

  THE DRESSING ROOM

  The wagons had formed their circle, the heads of each team twenty to thirty feet behind the tailgate of the wagon ahead. Rebecca watched Johannes set the brake and tie off the lines with enough slack so that he could remove the collars from the horses.

  “It appears Mac will simply allow the stock to pasture in the center of the circle tonight,” he said to her. “I’ll get the team unhitched and watered.” He rose, put one hand down on the side rail of the wagon seat, and lightly vaulted to the ground. Turning back to Inga and Rebecca, he held out his arms. “May I?”

  “Thank you, Johannes.” Inga, closest to him, rose and took the single step to the edge of the footboard, and bent down her outstretched arms toward him. His hands caught her under her armpits, and he effortlessly lowered her to the ground.

  Johannes held up his arms again. “Rebecca?”

  She had noted the intimacy between the two, how Johannes took care to ensure that the front of Inga’s body rubbed lightly on his chest for the last few feet before her boots landed on the ground. It irritated her.

  “I shall manage. Thank you, Johannes.” Rebecca climbed down the opposite side of the wagon. She brushed off her sleeves and skirt with short, rapid, energetic strokes and looked at Inga through the space between the horse’s rumps and wagon front, over the tongue. “Let’s get this wagon organized, Inga. Time well spent now will result in far more comfort in the coming weeks.”

  Johannes, already working on the collars of the four horses, looked over the back of the big bay he was unhitching. “Mind you ladies, when you shift things around take care to keep the load even front and back, and side to side.”

  Rebecca walked to the rear, unlatched the tailgate, slid out the small, rough-sawn wooden ladder that had come with the prairie schooner, and set it against the lip of the tailgate. The two women clambered in.

  Rebecca stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the interior jammed with her trunks, grain sacks, ammunition boxes, foodstuffs, tools, tack, and four bedding rolls. “This is a perfect example of why you never let men pack anything. Light that oil lamp then help me with these grain sacks, Inga.”

  In a half an hour, the two of them, struggling together with the heavier items, had the wagon organized. They created a small walkway, perhaps a foot wide, which began at the tailgate and ended at a tiny space they had cleared in the center of the wagon, an approximately two-foot-square area devoid of baggage or cargo. The grain sacks had been laid on their sides and stacked, rather than in a row, on end along with the india-rubber sacks of flour and sugar. Inga’s bed roll was spread out on top of them. On the other side of the wagon, toward the front, they fashioned another relatively level area on top of cargo, lighter, softer items on top, its surface elevated slightly above the rim of the wagon side. Rebecca’s bedroll, much thicker than the others, rested atop that makeshift mattress, which included Reuben’s old leather case, overly secured with four rawhide thongs, cross-tied and knotted. Rebecca tried to ignore her growing curiosity about its contents, and concentrated on their task.

  Satisfied with the wagon’s transformation, Rebecca stepped back to scrutinize their work. “I am certainly glad I insisted on bringing that eiderdown. I think we shall be quite comfortable given the barbarity of the conditions. At least we can now move around a bit, and…,” she pointed at the small barren area in the center of the wagon, “…we have a dressing room.” She laughed. “My poor mum would simply be wrought with all this,” she said, shaking her head.

  “But, it is an adventure, don’t you think Milady Marx? Don’t you feel it? I think we are doing something grand. This is a whole new life quite distinct from anything we’ve ever known.”

  Rebecca felt one eyebrow arch. Something deep inside of her agreed with Inga—but she was not about to admit it. She had her plan and was not about to let any stray thought undermine it. “Perhaps, Inga. But it is temporary for me. While I dread having to make this trip back to St. Louis, I suppose I shall be experienced by then. Perhaps the return shall be less tedious since I will be on my way back to England and civilization. Would you happen to know what’s in that leather case of Reuben’s?”

  Inga looked at her closely. “No. But, what about Reuben?”

  Rebecca had begun to rummage through a trunk and had just located the looking glass for which she was searching. Inga’s question irked her. Still bent over, she snapped her eyes to Inga’s. “Reuben? What on earth would Reuben have to do with my return to England?” As she said the words, she again was aware of a nagging feeling quite separate from her terse reply. It annoyed her further.

  “Let’s concentrate on the evening, shall we?” She looked slowly around the wagon interior, and sighed. “It will be a base existence, Inga. The one thing we can maintain is our femininity, and this is the first time we will meet the other travelers. First impressions are important. If you would be so kind as to brush off my clothes and help me with my hair and rouge, I will assist you in dressing. You really need to wear something else for the occasion. I’m sure Johannes will appreciate it, too,” she added dryly. Rebecca smiled at the evident delight which illuminated Inga’s features at the suggestion.

  Engrossed over Inga’s hair, Rebecca heard a horse ride up and the voices of Johannes and Reuben. It sounded as if they were discussing getting grain to the horses and complaining they would have to perform that chore in the dark since the ladies were “hogging the wagon,” as Johannes put it.

  With the back canvas flap of the wagon cover closed, the occasional sweet smell of molasses drifted in waves from the small wooden keg stored in an easily accessible position toward the wagon tailgate. Once in a while, the odor permeated Inga’s nostrils prompting a faint stir of nausea. I love the smell of molasses. Why would that make me feel sick now? she thought as Rebecca fidgeted with her hair, using a brush handle and dampened cloth to curl it. Her handiwork completed, she stepped back and looked Inga up and down with an appraising stare, making minor adjustments to the fabric at her shoulders and waist.

  “Ladies,” Johannes impatient voice penetrated the canvas, “if you don’t hurry up, we will be having what is left of that pig for breakfast.” Reuben followed up with sympathetic laughter.

  “Disregard them,” commanded Rebecca, “we shall be ready when we are ready. Gentlemen wait for ladies.”

  Inga took a deep breath to calm her stomach as Rebecca stood back, her head slightly cocked to one side, and again appraised Inga’s apparel. Inga followed her gaze as she studied the medium blue woo
l skirt and bodice, her eyes especially focused on the neckline’s inward slope from the shoulders, which tapered and drew attention to Inga’s hidden cleavage. Too much so? wondered Inga. She smoothed the skirt’s narrow curve at her hips. Below the hips, the skirt flared in tiny pleats, buoyed by the four stiff, horsehair petticoats Inga wore beneath.

  Rebecca looked up at Inga with satisfaction. “The blue nicely intensifies the color of your eyes, a stunning contrast to your golden hair. I think, my dear Inga, that we shall now make the proper impression!”

  A few minutes later, the two women untied the rear canvas, Rebecca extinguished the oil lamp, and Reuben lowered the tailgate, which they had raised for privacy. In the fading light of coming dusk, Inga watched Rebecca descend the ladder then she followed. Johannes and Reuben stood transfixed. Johannes’ mouth was slightly agape as he surveyed Inga, from the forelocks of her coiffed hair to the toes of her brown leather boots just visible below the hem of her skirt. She smoothed her palms down her thighs, a bit self-conscious.

  Rebecca had done a superlative job given the conditions, and Inga felt beautiful. She had not donned clothes like this since she and Rebecca had lunched together in New York, the day Rebecca had surprised her with her request that Inga leave the mayor’s employ at Gracie Mansion and accompany her west.

  Rebecca turned to her with a smug look. “I told you, my dear, did I not? Now, let’s be off.”