Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  It was a late afternoon in that seasonal hiatus between coming winter and departing fall. Virtually all the trees along the Powder River’s south fork, where the tribe made its winter camp, were barren, except for a few stubborn leaves that clung to branches protected from the wind. They had been for a walk and stopped outside her lodge. Zeb was about to say goodbye, but Horse’s Mane took a step toward him, her leather dress clinging to her thighs and rounded breasts, which were just inches from his lower ribs, her large brown, almost hazel, eyes fixed, questioning, up into his, “You do not need to return to your lodge.”

  Zeb didn’t know quite what to make of that statement or what she was getting at, but he was uncomfortably aware her proximity heightened the energy between them. And that thought quickly manifested in an increased tightness in the crotch of his fringed leather pants. He must have shown his inexperienced embarrassment because Horse’s Mane looked down at his middle and then back up into his eyes with a warm, teasing smile, her pale-tan face darkening slightly. She took his hand and nodded her head at her lodge. Like a newborn colt on his first trail following a bell mare, he followed her through the lodge flap noticing a single, definite nod of approval from Tree Dove, who watched the scene from the next lodge down toward the river.

  Inside the tipi, he stood dumbly, not sure what to do, whether he should do anything, or whether he should leave. Outside, the river rushed by.

  Zeb blinked and stared at the barren oak trees, wondering why the deer tracks triggered memories he’d rather push away. Hell, he embarrassed himself with these thoughts even now. Maybe it was the women on the wagon train, or the sparks flying between Johannes and Inga. And it was damn hard to miss the sexual tension running like lightning between Reuben and Rebecca. Odd thing, too, how loathing played into it all. It riled him to know Sarah had been manhandled by that deranged wolf, Jacob.

  The smoke from the cigarette he had rolled a few minutes ago drifted upward, spiraling into the branches and disappearing. He ought to be paying more mind to staying downwind of the does, but the memories were a luxury, and an indulgence he didn’t often allow. And remembering how Horse’s Mane had smiled shyly at him that day was dang sure a pleasant one.

  She had squatted down delicately, rekindling the embers of the lodge fire into small flames that cast moving shadows on the sloped walls of the tipi. Her leather dress drew up tightly against her buttocks, accentuating the flare of her hips and the long tapered shape of her thighs. His leather breeches became increasingly uncomfortable. He shoved his hands in his pockets trying to cover the growing bulge.

  Horse’s Mane stood, moved to him and placed one hand softly across his crotch, cupping him. With her other hand she untied his shirt’s buckskin draws, leaned forward and tenderly kissed his chest. Zeb had heard men talk of moments like this, but he didn’t feel prepared. Horse’s Mane, sensing his inexperience, motioned to him to raise his arms, and she began to work the shirt up his middle, speaking to him in a low, alluring singsong. She gestured for him to finish the process, signing that he was too tall for her to reach over his head. His shirt stripped off, she stood back and slowly, seductively, one rawhide lace at a time, untied the top of her dress. Zeb’s pulse was racing so loudly he could no longer hear the river. The single, throbbing, sensation rising from his groin was almost painful.

  She crossed her arms in front of her and with each hand smoothed the dress from one shoulder, then the other, taking care that it fell slowly down across the fullness of her breasts, then the smooth flesh of her belly, then deep curve of her hips, until it lay in a crumpled heap surrounding her feet.

  She had taken his hand and led him over to the buffalo robe bedding. Then, sensuously, delicately, her soft, full lips followed the descending line of the top of his pants, barely brushing his skin as she eased them over his hips and down to his knees. Her tongue flicked out slow, warm and gentle, lathing the tip of his hardness, its rigidity now almost purple. She pulled him down to the robes, still holding his hand and leaned back against the skins, her light tan flesh accented by the coarse grey-brown hair of the tatanka. She lowered his hand to the dark temple of hair where her legs joined. Zeb’s fingers instinctively stoked the velvet wetness. She bit her lower lip and whimpered, pulling him to her, over her, on her. She bent her legs, pulling her knees back toward her sides, wrapping one arm around his back. With the other, she guided him into her.

  “Damn!” Zeb dropped the cigarette butt, which had burned down enough to singe his fingertips. He spat on the small blisters that had already formed and reached down to field-strip the butt before it fired the dry leaves.

  They had spent the winter together. In the spring, the tribe broke camp and headed east to follow the buffalo. Zeb moved on toward the Tetons. He never saw her again. Hell, I ain’t seen none of them again. Wonder how old Flying Arrow is now, and them kids of Tree Dove must be full grown. He shook his head.

  There had been a few other women through the years. A Ute halfbreed, not much to look at, but the best cook he had ever met, died of fever just a few months after he had taken her into his cabin. Zeb laughed to himself as he recalled the wild, pretty, young blond daughter of the Army officer. His troop—on some “exploratory expedition” as the captain had explained—camped for four days down on the Uncompahgre River, a mile below his lowest cabin on the flanks of Las Montanas Rojas. He had taken an instant attraction to her, and she to him. Each night Zeb had stolen her silently out of the soldier’s camp. Easier than stealing ponies. She had about the same level of experience as he. Their short-lived relationship had been fun, hot passion, laughs, tender giggles, and bathing nude in the cold waters of the river under the moon. That the squad of soldiers and her father slept just a quarter of a mile away, heightened the excitement and fire of their frequent unions.

  Zeb started to roll another cigarette. There had been one other. Might be the only one that got to me, Zeb sighed, his exhale caught in the breeze of the river bottom and whisked away. He had taken the mules to Bent’s Fort on the Arkansas for supplies. Melinda’s family, along with other—in Zeb’s opinion—overly pious pioneers, was headed west to the Salt Lake. She was beautiful, slender, with auburn hair and a coquettish, vibrant manner. Every move, every interaction, every sentence from her full lips was a come hither provocation.

  The daughter of a preacher, Melinda had a rebellious streak against her father and his mores. Zeb had been speechless when they met at the bustling mercantile. He had bought a bath, visited a barber for the first time in a decade, and extended what he had planned to be a one-day supply trip to a week then two. They spent the afternoons together, walking, talking, holding hands. She stole his heart. He had picked wildflowers for her the day before her family, with the rest of the wagons, was to depart. Blushing furiously, with stammered words and the carefully picked wildflowers, he had proposed.

  She had laughed, unkindly, batted her eyelashes and nimbly escaped his first attempt to kiss her. “Oh, Zeb, how nice. But we barely know each other. What would my father think? If you ever get to Salt Lake though, look me up. I am sure our farm will be the biggest in the valley. It should be no problem to find me.”

  With an odd laugh, almost triumphant in its tone, she had turned and walked back toward her wagon, leaving Zeb standing motionless, the flowers drooping in one hand, the ring he had purchased with the money he had intended from the sale of pelts to use for balls and powder in the other. She had stopped, turned, and waved. “If, of course, I am not already taken by then.”

  Zeb rose and began to cautiously follow the tracks of the camp meat, but his thoughts continued. Now, there was Sarah. An entirely different attraction than he’d known with any of the others. She made him feel like a man, a father, a protector, and a spectator.

  Zeb cursed as half of the tobacco fell out of the partially rolled cigarette paper. He threw the rolling paper away, disgusted. She was with that Irishman, though Zeb noticed there had not been a single night the stocky bully was not camped unc
omfortably underneath the wagon, the rig shut tight, and Sarah on the inside. She is obviously attracted to Reuben. That’s clear. And, you have to be at least twice her age, you old fool. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t get the image of the sun-streaked highlights in her red hair or the inviting bridge of freckles across her nose, from his mind. Each track he followed not only brought him closer to the does, but also to an unsettled feeling in the pit of his gut.

  Sitting by the small fire he had built, Zeb held an awl and two strips of leather in his hands. The hobbled mules grazed contentedly about twenty feet away, and Buck rubbed his neck up and down against the smooth bark of a beech tree, scratching himself, the white portions of his hide shining dully in the firelight, the mottled darker brown pinto markings disappearing into the night behind him. The two big does had long since been skinned, butchered and cut into strips. The Kentuckians had packed the venison back to the wagon train.

  Zeb looked up. He could see the fires of the train twinkling in the distance, forming a lonely, traveling circle of civilization in a black void of wilderness. He focused again on his project, and carefully worked the awl through the leather, drawing the rawhide thread tight. A few more stitches, and he held the elk hide leg moccasin up to the firelight, turning it in all directions, regarding his work critically.

  He picked up the other one, held them side by side and then held them out toward Buck, “What do you think, horse? Not too bad, eh?” Buck stopped rubbing his neck on the tree, regarded Zeb and the moccasins, blew a soft snort from his nose, and went back to scratching.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. I think I’ll finish these up tomorrow night. They ought to work just fine.”

  He wrapped the moccasins carefully in the extra blanket he was using as his pillow and propped the folded wool against his saddle. Zeb looked up at the stars and smiled. Then he wrapped himself in the other two wool blankets that constituted his bedroll and settled down for the night, the flames of the small fire leaping up as they caught the dry core of the small cedar log he had laid on top of the embers.

  CHAPTER 20

  APRIL 10, 1855

  COMMISERATION

  Inga bent to tighten the laces on her boots then straightened and stretched, surveying the camp. To the east, the sky glowed, the indigo blue of departing night absorbed by a spreading pink that sifted upward, gilding the edges of several long wisps of clouds with the crimson fire of dawn. Never before had she seen such a sunrise.

  The countryside had been evolving over the past weeks. The familiar stands of oak, beech, and elm were gradually yielding to wide open spaces framed by the very occasional grey faces of intermittent, narrow cottonwood stands with bushy eyebrows of alder and red willow concentrated around springs or along small creeks. Even Rebecca’s attire had evolved. At the beginning of the journey, her dress was better suited to the courts, palaces, and gala events of Europe. Gradually, her clothing had become more sensible. Inga noticed, but said nothing.

  She had become accustomed to the morning noises of the wagon train, too—the sounds of creaking leather and jingling metal as men led oxen, horses and mules to harness. The constant hum of voices was punctuated by an occasional shout or curse when hitching up teams was going less than smoothly—usually because of an unwilling animal or an inexperienced pioneer.

  Several small fires flickered, welcoming the day as mothers with small children heated up a quick breakfast for the young ones and coffee for their men. Inga saw Harris down on his hands and knees, his ponderous belly almost touching the ground, looking underneath the wagon bed at the rear left wheel. Elijah and Abraham were busy cleaning their Kentucky long rifles, alternately running swabs down the barrels, then holding the guns, muzzles to their eyes, so the bores would catch the brightening sky, and they could check their handiwork. The night before they had helped Zeb, the mountain man, bring the meat from two deer to camp, in part to repay the other wagons that had helped replenish their supplies after their close call in the Gasconade River. Fortunately, the next crossing of the larger Osage River had gone without mishap.

  Inga smiled to herself thinking about the chatter and camaraderie of the previous evening. The entire camp had pitched in to prepare and preserve the meat. Some venison was cooked, preserved in salt and wrapped. Other portions were smoked and flavored as jerky. The camp worked together like a synchronized team. Several men started fires. Five women, including her and Milady Marx, had hauled large cast-iron boiling pots to the crackling flames. Zeb and the Kentucky family expertly carved thin strips of meat, trimmed from the larger chunks they had cut from the carcasses.

  Some women supervised the pots as the venison boiled. Others tended the jerky fires, or took the lean cooked strips of venison and rolled them in salt, working the mineral into the tissue, and then dropped the slabs in a briny bath to chill. Later in the evening, when everyone agreed the meat had properly cooled, Mac produced a large role of paraffin paper from the supply wagon, proudly proclaiming he was “the completely prepared wagon master.”

  Virtually everyone participated in wrapping the salted meat—a quick double roll, fold the ends so they overlapped, and tie with a single, thin strand of rawhide. Mac made some comment about how easy a deer kill would seem after the camp contended with their first buffalo.

  Inga recalled that other than the children, engrossed in taking turns at being the hunted or the hunter, the only person who had remained aloof was that man Jacob. He skulked in the shadows, moving and leaning against alternative wagons as he occasionally changed his vantage point of the activity around the fires. His leering, unsettling, almost intrusive fixation on her and Rebecca, mostly Rebecca, made Inga uncomfortable. He would alter his stares at them with predatory glares at the redheaded Sarah, casting venomous looks at the men—especially Mac, Reuben, and Johannes. At one point he seemed to be sharpening something, a small knife perhaps.

  That unsettling memory yielded to an inner smile as more intimate and tender memories from last evening surfaced. Johannes truly was an explorer—his eyes and lips exploring every inch of her body, gently licking her, preparing her for consummation. She had never had that experience, and she felt a moist rush of warmth as she recalled the delicious spasms his tongue occasioned.

  Inga pressed her thighs together involuntarily, casting embarrassed eyes side to side as she felt a flush rise from her throat to her cheeks. The temporary encampment was busy, preoccupied with getting back on the trail and heading evermore west.

  She leaned back against the wagon and dreamily recalled Johannes’ antics. He had proved most resourceful over the past weeks, devising private places and times where they could make love. She remembered her inner spark of anticipation when she noticed him walk over last night and then lean down to Reuben, who was wrapping meat. He whispered something in his friend’s ear. Reuben had paused his wrapping and flashed Johannes a look of humorous exasperation. Then, he nodded. The two men spoke a few seconds longer. Johannes had laughed and ambled off to the side, apparently waiting.

  Reuben tightened the rawhide tie on the package he was working on and smoothly moved over next to Rebecca. He engaged her in conversation quite obviously, taking the whole scene into account, with the purposeful motive of diverting her attention. Then Inga had suddenly felt Johannes’ hand on her arm. He nodded his head back toward their wagon. With skillful nonchalance, he led their drift out of the direct light of the fire into the descending darkness. Holding her hand, he quickened their pace, almost pulling her along. He lifted her into the rear of the wagon and then vaulted in himself not bothering with the ladder. He quickly closed the tailgate and lashed the canvas flap. She had gone to light the oil lamp.

  “No, my love, no lights. We might amuse the camp with some quite interesting shadows,” he laughed softly.

  He had pulled her to him, not roughly, but firmly. His lips found hers, a needy, passion-filled kiss that literally sucked the breath from her. He gently lowered her backward on her makeshift bed atop the quick
ly diminishing sacks of grain, lifted her dress, petticoats, and chemise up one inner thigh, then the other, alternatively using his hand and tongue until his mouth had been sweetly fastened to her, his tongue delicately lathing her turgid flesh.

  Feeling terribly languid and indulgent at the vivid memory, Inga looked up at the clouds, just now fading from dawn colors to the tepid white of early morning. She closed her eyes and exhaled—a long, deep, contented sigh.

  “What on earth was that for, Inga?”

  Startled, her eyes popped open. Rebecca stood just feet away, looking at Inga oddly, her dark hair curled around the high neck of her gold-trimmed, fitted, grey jacket. She held a bucket of water in one hand and her Sharps rifle in the other.

  Inga felt a blush warm her cheeks. She stammered, “I-I-I…I was just admiring the sunrise, Milady Marx.” Inga did a mock curtsy and both women laughed.

  Rebecca’s face was tanned almost to the light brown of her eyes from weeks in the sun. With the water and rifle she looked every bit like an upscale image of the drawings of pioneer women that Inga had seen in stories in the New York papers as the movement west became more frequent news fodder.

  “Yes, of course, Inga, what was I thinking? What else could it possibly be?” Rebecca said with a teasing tone.