Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Young Samuel, frozen and mute by her screams, walked in dazed circles inside the dark barn. He saw the pitchfork, with its sharp prongs imbedded in a bale of straw. He jerked it free and held it like a lance, but it was only a pitchfork. No good against guns. He stabbed the bale, again and again, wanting to fight, but not wanting to be seen, wanting his father, but afraid of what he knew would happen to this God-fearing man he loved. “Fighting is never the way to solve anything, son.” Those words paled in the horrible reality of the afternoon.

  His mother’s screams went on for hours then fell to whimpers. Then she was silent. The shadows lengthened in the late afternoon sun. The burly man and one other walked out on the porch buttoning their britches. One went to the horses and returned with a whiskey jug. In turn, they slung it over their elbows and took long gulps, sometimes rubbing their crotches, thrusting their hips out and laughing as they guzzled.

  Crouched in the shadows of the barn and still gripping the pitchfork, Samuel heard the distant sound of a horse at an easy lope—his father on Dot, their now old, grey mare. The marauders heard it, too. They scurried back into the house and closed the door. The oil lamps were lit and their yellow light radiated invitingly from the windows. Samuel stood up numbly, despairing. He realized through his fog that they were making the house looked natural. They were setting a trap for his father. He wanted to run out to him, but somehow his legs would not move. The more he told himself he must warn his Pa, the less strength in his limbs, until finally the pitchfork fell to the dirt floor and he sank down to his knees, his other hand sliding along the vertical rough-sawn lumber frame of the barn door, driving a jagged splinter into his palm that went unnoticed.

  The short white blaze on Dot’s forehead shone in the dimming light. Samuel watched as his father paused, seeing the horses tied outside the house. Company is always welcome, son. How many times had he heard those words? A surge of nausea swept from his gut up to his throat. He pressed his nose against the doorframe, his right eye peering around the edge of the wood. His father dismounted, called a cheerful, “Hello there!” and began untying the saddlepack, his back to the front door. When he turned, four of them stood on the porch, two with rifles and two with pistols.

  His father froze. The last words from out of his mouth before his voice was drowned out by the simultaneous roar of the guns was a despairing, questioning shout, “Sun Raaaaaaaay....” The volley knocked his father’s body back into Dot. Several bullets either went through him or directly hit the aging, gentle mare that Samuel had known all his life and learned to ride on. Dot collapsed, screaming in pain and uncomprehending fear as the bullets pierced her, too. Samuel gagged.

  The next moment was etched in Sam’s mind and in every cell of his body. The burly man walked down to his father, who was weakly trying to raise his head, drew a second pistol, shouted, “Stinkin shit Injun lover,” cocked the hammer and fired.

  Dot, her grey coat splattered with bloody bits of his father’s skull, waved her hooves frantically as she tried to regain her footing, but she couldn’t. Her head and upper body rose and fell to the earth as she strained to rise, her terrified whinnies echoing off the side of the house directly at the barn door. The burly man pulled out a knife, and walked toward her head. He paused, re-sheathed the knife, and viciously kicked the mare. He turned with a wave of his hand as if dismissing trash, and walked back into the house, laughing.

  Samuel clutched his belly and vomited. Then everything went dark.

  When he finally regained his senses, he staggered to his feet and looked out toward the house. He heard an unearthly howl and realized it was rising from his own throat, his own clenched jaws. The charred remains of their home glowed and smoked. Here and there, still standing, larger upright beams canted in eerie angles toward the black sky. The acrid smell of burnt wood hung in the night air, along with another smell, that of burning hair, like singed hog’s skin at butchering time. The odor was punctuated by the infrequent weak whinnies of Dot. It was the smell, and the mare, even more than his mother’s screams or his father’s head blown to bits, that sealed his vile hatred that night.

  The men’s horses were gone. Dot’s great grey head moved weakly and one front leg pawed the dirt. Her breath came in a wheeze, stirring small puffs of dust near her nostrils. Samuel walked stiffly over and picked up the pitchfork. Holding it by the handle, he dragged it dejectedly behind him, as if in a dream, until he reached the mare. His father’s body was gone, perhaps drug to the house before they torched it. He fell to his knees next to Dot and began to cry, great, ratcheting, heaving sounds he did not recognize as his own. One hand stroked the neck of the dying horse. A dull recognition of her terrible agony caused him to rise. He lifted the pitchfork and, through the blur of tears, aimed its pointed tines at the top of Dot’s neck, just behind her jaw, before plunging down with all his might. She convulsed, shuddered, her eyes rolled white toward him, and then the mare, too, was gone from his world.

  It took three years, but Samuel finally tracked down the heavyset white man with the two black feathers in his hat. He had kept the blubbering hulk alive for two weeks, cutting off fingers and toes each day, finally castrating him and letting him bleed to death, savoring the pain and glazed fear in the man’s eyes. He plucked the feathers from the fat man’s hat and braided them into his hair, grown long and dark since the day at the farm. He raised the bloody knife to the sky and proclaimed, From this day on, I am Black Feather, and I shall make the white men scream!

  Black Feather opened his eyes. He was sweating profusely. His throat burned as if he had thrown up. With a start, he realized the girl had taken her hands from her face and was staring at him with large green eyes, as if sensing a kindred pain.

  The hand on his shoulder startled him. Catlike, he leapt to his feet, his knife extended. Snake jumped back, “Damn boss, that’s the second time today you drew that blade on me. I was just comin’ to tell you it was time to move out. We been here a half-hour. We thought you wanted to make Box Elder Draw by nightfall.”

  Black Feather straightened from his crouch, pulled the knife back in toward him and sneered, “If there’s a third, I will cut your hand off. Don’t ever sneak up on me again.” He looked back at the girl. Her face was again buried behind her hands and she was trembling. He sheathed the knife blade and stood for moment looking down at her. Very pretty girl. She’s going to be a hell of a woman. He bent down to her and leaned close, “It’s time to go, can you walk?” Again there was no response.

  He carefully slid one arm under her bent knees and worked the other behind her shoulders. He lifted her off the ground effortlessly, carried her over to his horse, and handed her to Pedro. “After I’m up, put her behind me and lash her again.” Pedro nodded.

  Black Feather opened his mouth but Pedro cut him off, “I know Patron, gently.” Black Feather nodded, and sprang into the saddle.

  They rode steadily the rest of the day, taking only one quick break, and stopping long after dark when they reached Box Elder. Black Feather put out six picket sentries and two more on the horses.

  “Gonzalez, Hank and Turtle Face, put up a half-faced bivouac over there in those trees for me and the girl. Use the branches from that cedar for the roof. I want the half-face toward the horses.” Even in the darkness Black Feather could see the white flashes of teeth as they grinned at one another. Others in the band who had overheard his order slapped each other on the back. He knew what they were thinking, and he didn’t care. “Pedro, grab my bed role and two extra blankets.”

  “But, Patron, there are no extra blankets in your bed role.”

  “I know that. Take two from the men.”

  Pedro scurried to gather up the bedding and followed Black Feather over to the simple, makeshift lean-to. Two thick, vertical, five-foot forked sticks had been pounded into the ground a foot deep. A single small log lay horizontal across the forks, two others descended at an angle to the ground, and the cedar boughs had been laid over that primitive frame.


  Black Feather knelt, the girl in his arms and nodded his head at Pedro, “Lay out those blankets there.” After Pedro had done so, he gently laid the young woman on top of them. She immediately turned away and curled into a fetal position, hiding her face in her hands.

  Spreading out his own role, Black Feather delicately covered the figure of the girl with one of the blankets. “We could make a trade,” he said. “That hardtack biscuit for your name?” There was no response, nothing but silence.

  Fifty yards away, the small campfire the men had built was dying. Everyone had turned in after the long day. He looked at the form lying a few feet from him, his eyes traveling its length. She was not yet mature, but the coming curve of her hips was unmistakable and the angular shape of her upper body, even under the blanket, was provocative. For a moment he was tempted, but his mind flashed back to his recall of the afternoon. He half-sighed, half-grunted. He rolled over on the blanket, his back to her. He pulled the collar of the tunic up around his neck and shut his eyes.

  A few seconds later Black Feather heard a small voice, almost a woman’s but not quite, a single word spoken. Dorothy. His eyes snapped open. He was surprised as much at the bitter irony as he was to finally hear her speak. Not wanting to frighten her, he neither moved nor rolled over. “Dorothy? A full-grown woman’s name. I shall call you Dot.”

  There was a long moment’s silence, and the little voice said, “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MARCH 23, 1855

  DANGEROUS

  As they descended into the shallow valley, the sounds of the river became more strident, the noise saturating the tree-covered slope both beckoning and warning.

  The land rose in a series of shelves, alluvial plains eons old, and the vegetation became ever denser near the river. From above, Reuben saw Mac rein in Red and stand in the saddle. The glistening current wound serpentine below him, part of the river visible, other portions obscured by the growth of dense deciduous trees and wild undergrowth that had replaced the grassy meadows and scattered shrubs through which the wagons had been traveling.

  Mac turned in the saddle and thundered, “Reuben! Zeb!” Buck and Zeb appeared from the timber on one side of the plateau, moving ghost-like toward Mac downslope. Reuben trotted in from the wagons, which were halted several hundred yards uphill of the wagon master.

  When Zeb was alongside, Mac turned to him, “Why don’t you mosey on down there, get yourself and your horse across and take a quick look-see on the other side. I doubt it, but let’s make sure we don’t have any company.”

  There was an almost imperceptible tip of the coonskin cap atop Zeb’s intractable, rugged features. Reuben watched him reach down and shove the Sharps into the empty leather of the over-under belly scabbard. When it was secure, he reached down and withdrew the Enfield, held the musket up, and inspected the breech. Without a word or look at him or Mac, he whispered, “Down, Buck,” and the big paint began to pick his way down the last of the slope, toward the edge of the river, Zeb’s tall, slender form swaying in the saddle with each of the gelding’s cautious steps.

  Mac unfurled the telescope and carefully surveyed the stretches of river he could see, alternately cursing Red who seemed delighted to move each time her master had the lens to his eyes. Reuben chuckled, “I think that horse is teasing you.” Mac moved the telescope several inches from his eye, didn’t turn his head, but clicked his eyeballs at Reuben and then back to telescope. It was not an unfriendly glance, but it was serious, and Reuben felt his smile fade.

  “I thought this was one of the easiest of the larger rivers we need to cross?”

  “It can be. It’s not the largest tributary of the Missouri, but did you notice the clouds gathering to the southwest last night? That’s some of the highest country in the Ozarks, the San François Mountains.” Mac pointed across the river, “See that rock, on the opposite bank, big, grey, with the point?”

  Reuben picked it out immediately, “Yes, what’s its significance?”

  “You can gauge how much water is in this river by that rock. High as that waterline is, there was either a big rain upstream, or what’s frozen up near its source is starting to melt.”

  Mac lowered the telescope and shoved it in his jacket. “Damn, I was hoping this was going to be easier, but the water is between us and where we want to go, so I guess the pilgrims are going to have some higher level training sooner than we all supposed.”

  Reuben watched him run his fingers through his beard, contemplating his next order. “Head back down the wagon line,” he said. “Tell folks we are taking a short break. I want to see if Zeb finds anything on the other side. That trouble west of here between the slavers and the non-slavers has been creeping east. My gut tells me we need be a bit more careful. There’s folks that get all riled up over their notion of right and wrong.”

  He spat a stream of brown juice off to the side. “Then there are those that just use the excuse to kill you. They’d blame it on the color of the sun if they couldn’t come up with any other reason. Anyways, tell everyone to check their goods. Anything they can make watertight, do it. If they have to, they can shift things around so cargo that needs to stay drier is on top. But, tell ’em don’t make the wagons topheavy; keep the weight low as possible. And let them know any extra stock will be driven across separate in a few bunches.”

  “How deep you figure it is, Mac?”

  Mac dug out out his telescope again and aimed it at the grey rock on the other side the river. “Normally not over the axles of the wagons, but I’m thinking it might be up pretty near the bottom of the wagon beds right now.” He turned back to Reuben, “Well, assistant, how would you handle this?”

  Reuben almost smiled. “You like testing me, don’t you, Mac?” “No, I like learning you, so that you and the folks that depend on you and me are still breathing when we get to Cherry Creek.”

  Reuben nodded his head. Teaches much like my father—and he is right, of course. “Well…” he spoke slowly, his eyes carefully searching various points in the river below them, “I’d ride down there along the bank and study the surface of the water until I found the most shallow spot, not too rocky, as gradual a descent into the water as possible where we enter the river, and a pull-out with the same characteristics, at least several hundred feet downstream.”

  “Not bad, but you left out two important points. First of all, you’re in charge, you can’t leave the wagons sitting up there by themselves with a bunch of greenhorns without somebody in command. Your idea is good but your choice of who does what is bad. Way better to send Charlie and John down there. They know what they’re doing and that’s what they’re paid for. Second thing, you didn’t figure anything about a place to gather the wagons without having an uproar on the other side. We get wagons jammed up on the other bank because there is no room for them to move, and the wagons that are in the river will stall, maybe get swept downstream of the exit point, and then we have a real problem.”

  I should’ve thought of that, Reuben chided himself, his eyes widening. I ought to be taking notes.

  Mac must have read his mind, “You don’t need to be taking notes. You just need to be using that common sense the good Lord gave you. What you need to do is clear as a bell if you think it through, and that’s true of most things.” Mac chuckled, more to himself than to Reuben, “but not all.”

  Reuben returned his gaze to the river, analyzing what Mac had said. He was startled when Mac boomed out, “Get moving. You can look at that damn river all you want, but it ain’t going to change!”

  Lifting his reins and wheeling Lahn around, Reuben urged the horse back up the slope to the wagons, their white canvases and rough wooden sides peeking through the tree trunks. He paused for a moment when he reached the rig that Inga, Rebecca, Johannes and he had called home for the past five days, and would for another two months, or so. Inga and Rebecca were in the driver’s seat, the lines of the team in Inga’s hands. She looked nervous. Rebecca, overdresse
d again, sat in her typical rigid posture, back slightly arched, shoulders squared back and chin elevated. Her hands rested demurely in her lap. Reuben could see by the points of her boots, just below the hem of her deep red traveling dress, that her ankles were properly crossed.

  Johannes emerged from behind the wagon leading the big bay mare that stood almost seventeen hands. She suited Johannes’ height well. She followed Johannes with her head slightly down, her stride just a tad clumsy, but Reuben knew from the mare’s powerful shoulders and haunches that the horse was steady and fast when not loafing.

  Johannes smiled up at Reuben, “I like this horse. I can’t wait to get her out on some open flats and see what she’ll do. I’ve named her, too.”

  Reuben’s curiosity overcame his distraction, “You named her? So what’s her name?”

  Johannes laughed and rubbed the mare’s shoulder lightly. Then with a straight face he answered, “Her name is Bente.”

  Reuben could tell he was trying to suppress a smile and couldn’t wait for him to take the bait. He chuckled, “Okay, I’ll bite. Where in hell did you get the name Bente?”

  “Can’t tell you,” Johannes said, one eyelid closed in a half-wink that belied his enigmatic tone of voice. Then they both broke out in laughter. “I wish you could see your face, Reuben,” he said.

  Reuben leaned down closer to Johannes with a quick glance behind to make sure the women were out of earshot, and said in a low voice, “This will be more difficult than Mac thought. The river appears to be quite a bit higher than normal. Mac is concerned since this is our first crossing. You should drive the wagon. The women just don’t have the skills to do it yet. It is far too early in this expedition to lose supplies, and I know neither of us…,” he looked hard at Johannes, “want any harm to come to the ladies.”