Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  The drifted remnants of the tempest lingered in deep hollows and on the lee sides of ridges, where the pummeling winds had swept the onslaught of flakes. The tribe lost several horses in the holocaust of weather. Those not staked near the tipis had sought shelter in the coulees, the bodies of some were found when the storm broke; small patches of red, brown, or mottled hair visible above the snow mounded around them. The rib cages had blown clear, like grave markers carved by the hands of the Great Spirit.

  They did not get an early start on the first day of their post-storm move, as they had been unable to strike the tipis until the morning frost had evaporated from the hides. Once the lodge poles were lowered and the hides rolled, the travois could be latched and the packing begun. At the head of the column, Eagle Talon saw the frail shoulders of Flying Arrow sway uncertainly with the gait of the big, dark sorrel he rode, a gift to him from the soldiers of the Great White Father far to the east. The old chief’s lance pointed proudly toward the sky.

  Beside him, but one respectful pace behind, rode Tracks on Rock, his broad, bronze shoulders accentuated by the bright colors of his beaded vest. The two tribal leaders each wore several feathers in their hair. Eagle Talon smiled as he pictured their ornate war and ceremonial headdresses, carefully packed away in rawhide parfleches. Flying Arrow’s had trails of feathers that hung to his thighs when he was mounted. The strings of feathers on the heavy buffalo horn headdress of Tracks on Rock were almost as long. Two ermine skins hung beneath the horns, accenting the medicine man’s long, black hair. Eagle Talon unconsciously smoothed the eight eagle feathers that hung downward from the side of his hair, fastened to one braid with a round, flat section of elk antler painted by Walks with Moon. I need many more coups, he thought to himself with a sigh.

  Behind Flying Arrow and Tracks on Rock rode the lesser chiefs and members of the Council. Following them was the long irregular line of women and children, and horses dragging travois, two shorter poles crossed and latched with rawhide at the horse’s withers, then loaded with the family’s possessions—rolled or folded tipis, parfleches filled with ceremonial items, food, utensils, and clothing. The heavier lodge poles, sometimes as many as twenty, were strapped to the family’s extra horses and balanced equally on each side.

  Eagle Talon looked toward Walks with Moon, who rode distant but parallel with him, her horse dragging their travois, her right hand holding the lead rope of another horse laden with their lodge poles. His other fourteen horses, mostly mustangs, spread in a trailing tether behind. One of the few women mounted in the band, Walks with Moon’s smile was radiant as she nodded at him. Eagle Talon was fully aware this was a subject of tongue-wagging by some of the older women, but he didn’t care. The horse she rode had been stolen from the Crows, and with more horses than all the other braves but one, his wife was not going to walk, particularly when with child. Pony Hoof was horseback also, her two-week-old papoose swaddled in skins and wrapped in a cradleboard hanging from the saddle.

  He watched Walks with Moon as she rode, her pelvis rocking slightly back and forth as the mustang paced in stride beneath her. The easy movement of her hips, and the tightening of the leather over her legs, stirred him. We shall have to have a late supper again tonight, he thought with a smile.

  His eyes looked out beyond the moving throng of the tribe into the vast emptiness that seemed to swallow them. A goshawk hovered, almost stationary, wings a blur, then dove. Enjoy your breakfast, my friend. Eagle Talon smiled at the good omen. Far out in the gently contoured landscape, the occasional figure of a warrior could be seen dipping then emerging again, only to disappear in the next small draw. The near-guard. There were eight braves surrounding the tribe, riding three arrow-flights away. He looked further toward the horizon. Ten more warriors were out there somewhere, at least a half-sun’s ride away at full gallop, like a great, extended, protective phalanx all around, behind, and in front of the moving village. Two parties of two braves each were far ahead of them, perhaps several suns’ ride ahead, entrusted with locating potential danger and searching for the great beasts that the tribe depended on—meat, fat, bones for tools, hides for clothes, lodges, rawhide and leather, robes for bedding, horns for spoons, and carrying the fire—all these things the tatankas provided.

  The Council had been meeting each night, and some concern was beginning to be expressed about the lack of buffalo. Tracks on Rock and Flying Arrow were unperturbed, or seemed so. Each meeting had ended like the last, with the pronouncement by Tracks on Rock, “When the sun rises, we shall move toward it.”

  They had only one brush with danger thus far. Just prior to the storm, one of the outlying scouts from the south had ridden into camp being hastily set up in the half-light of dust. “Flying Arrow, a large Crow village, with many warriors, is on the move south of us, also heading toward where the sun rises.” A council meeting had been called, and, with the older women nodding approval, it had been decided that they would change their course slightly northward, in the direction of the Flat River, the flowing body of water the white eyes called the Platte. To avoid a confrontation with this larger group of long-time adversaries was a wise thing.

  The sun was in the middle of its arc across the sky and the air noticeably warmer, when he saw Flying Arrow, far ahead, raise his gnarled hand. The tribe stopped, and children, freed from the drudgery of the march, began to shout and run, playing games. Women up and down the line hurriedly took out gourds. Walks with Moon and a few other women extracted tin pots or other white man’s utensils gained in trading. Dried chunks of the dwindling supply of buffalo meat were carefully cut, then ground and softened by the women’s energetic grinding with stone or bone pestles. Others merely ate pemmican, mixed with fat and stored in rawhide storage pouches. Several of the better cooks, including Walks with Moon, added spices they had gathered and dried before winter camp. Sage, wild onions, turnip, and rosemary, along with water, were mixed with the tenderized meat. The men, still mounted, were fed first. Here and there they grouped as they ate, talking across their ponies, gesturing, and nodding their heads.

  Eagle Talon watched Walks with Moon stroll toward him, her movement lithe and seductive, even without exaggeration. She proudly reached up one of her tin pots to him with both hands, grinning up at him, “I’m not hungry, husband. Please eat it all.”

  He leaned closer to her and whispered suggestively, “Perhaps supper can wait for a while after we have the lodge fire going tonight.” He was pleased at the way Walks with Moon’s face lit up.

  Glancing into the pot, he was surprised to see only a small portion of the cold, makeshift mix, the bit of buffalo meat punctuated with silver-green slivers of wild scallions and turnip. He was suddenly concerned. “Walks with Moon, there is not enough here for both of us.”

  “I am not hungry, husband, really.”

  Eagle Talon felt his brow crease, “Tell me, woman, are we low on supplies?”

  Walks with Moon glanced down at her moccasins and then up into his eyes, “Yes, husband, we are—but really, I am not hungry.”

  Eagle Talon shook his head. “You are with child. Our child. You must eat.” He handed the tin to her.

  She reached up her hand and rested it on his knee, “I did not want to worry you, husband, and remember you spent three nights on outer guard. Tree Dove tells me that Tortoise Shell and Hard Hooves come back in from the east tomorrow at sunrise,” she bit her lip, a look of anxiety flitting across her face, “and you go out to the advance scouts for three suns.”

  “This afternoon I shall ride out. Even rabbit meat will quiet the gnawing hunger,” he sighed. “It is too early for snakes. I am concerned, wife. It is not often The People go this long without finding the herds of our great brothers. The entire village has only killed two deer since before the snow, and I’ve not heard of anyone who has seen antelope.”

  “I know, Eagle Talon. We women always find time to talk,” she laughed, but without any humor. “But news travels fast, like smoke on a windy da
y. The big winter has forced the animals far south, and the great snow of two suns ago did not help. But to turn south? There is the danger of Pawnee or Crow.” Looking ill at ease, she again cast her eyes upon her moccasins. “Yet turning north brings us closer to the main wagon trails of the hairy-faced-ones.”

  Eagle Talon looked over her head out to the prairie. “This is our land, our world. It is the home of The People. It will remain so. I do not see why we should alter our course for others,” he swept his shield arm fiercely in a broad semi-circle and looked back at her. “It is the land of The People,” he repeated.

  There were sudden shouts from the head of the column, and they both looked forward, Walks with Moon standing on her tiptoes to see better. To the southeast, a rider could be seen, still very distant, but coming at full gallop. There is news! thought Eagle Talon.

  Eagle Talon handed the pot, which Walks with Moon had again placed in his hands during their discussion, back to his wife. “Eat, woman,” he said in a serious tone. Then he smiled, “You will need your strength tonight.” Walks with Moon smiled softly back at him and nodded, before directing anxious eyes toward the growing commotion near her father and Flying Arrow.

  Eagle Talon dug his heels into the side of the mustang with a loud whoop, and the horse lunged ahead at full gallop to the head of the column. He reached the group of braves and lesser chiefs that had gathered around Flying Arrow and Tracks on Rock. The scout, Three Knives, well-known for his excellent eyesight and sense of smell, held his musket in one hand and pointed excitedly behind him to the southeast with the other.

  As Eagle Talon rode up, along with several other braves coming from different directions, he heard scattered words, “Soldiers… tatankas…war party…Pawnee…”

  Flying Arrow spoke. “How many soldiers?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  The musket Three Knives held was one of only three rifles in the tribe, an old 1841 weapon named after the Father of Rivers rumored to lie far east. None of them had ever seen this mighty water, and no one could pronounce the name. Three Knives had traded several good horses for the musket six winters ago.

  Eagle Talon chuckled to himself, though he kept his face serious. He remembered when Three Knives first shot the musket after the French trapper had taught him how to load it. There had been a huge roar, a belch of smoke, and the kick of the weapon had sent the barrel flying up into the air. The hammer and breech struck Three Knives in the forehead, knocking him backward to the ground, bleeding, much to the shouted amusement of the onlookers, which was most of the tribe. Since then, however, Three Knives had learned how to expertly use the weapon, and Eagle Talon had seen him kill antelope at least three times further than he could shoot an arrow, even in an arc.

  His focus returned to Flying Arrow’s voice, “So, the soldiers are headed east and north, also to the Flat River and the white man’s fort they call Kearney?”

  The scout nodded his head vigorously. “And the war party—how many men?” the chief inquired.

  “I did not have a chance to count, I almost rode into them. They were very close. I was lucky to escape. Maybe fifty.”

  Flying Arrow and Tracks on Rock exchanged quick, startled glances. “That is many warriors. How big is the village?”

  “I would say at least one hundred lodges.”

  “Any sign of white wagons?”

  “There’s tracks that indicates a group of wagons passed before the snow. But I think they’re more than halfway to the fort along the River of the Laramie.”

  Flying Arrow’s expression remained stoic. “At least one piece of good news. How many tatanka?”

  Three Knives shook his head. “Not many. Perhaps one hundred and fifty. Perhaps a few more.” He shook his head. “The Pawnee will surely intercept them. They are several suns closer than we,” he added sadly.

  Tracks on Rock nodded. “That is not enough tatanka for two villages. We would wind up with bloodshed and no meat.”

  The group fell respectfully silent as Flying Arrow and Tracks on Rock discussed the situation, occasionally asking opinions from other members of the Council, and glancing at their wives who huddled in a group just beyond the circle of horses, watching and listening intently. Talks with Shadows had worked her way up to the edge of the men’s horses.

  Finally Flying Arrow held up his hand, and the murmur subsided. He nodded to Tracks on Rock to speak. “We shall continue east and slightly north. The Pawnee will be delayed by the small herd of tatankas and will lose several suns. We shall get head of them, and, hopefully, the next, larger herd will be ours. We will double the forward scouts and increase the speed at which we move. I think, also, that Three Knives should shadow the Pawnee war party. Their scouts are maybe several suns ahead of ours. Perhaps they’ve seen something,” he paused, “and I think we should avoid them. Now is the time for food and hides,” he nodded back up toward the women and children. “The People can always fight the Pawnee another day.”

  Men nodded around the loose circle of horses. Tracks on Rock looked over at his wife, the slight assenting shift of her head barely visible to anyone but him before she turned away.

  Eagle Talon craned behind him looking for Walks with Moon. She stood with their horses, her hand shading her eyes trying to see what was happening. I shall tell her everything.

  He realized Flying Arrow had called his name and turned quickly to the war chief. “Yes?”

  “You shall accompany Three Knives. We need our two best warriors to shadow the Pawnee. You will leave as soon as Three Knives has eaten.” Flying Arrow’s gaze lifted past him, and Eagle Talon knew the great warrior was looking at Walks with Moon further back in the strung out line of the tribe. “I cannot guarantee we can relieve you in three suns. You must follow the Pawnee until we do.”

  CHAPTER 27

  APRIL 25, 1855

  THREAD THE NEEDLE

  “Biscuit?” The word was barely more than a whisper.

  Black Feather knelt down, keeping his voice low and level. “Didn’t quite hear you, Dot, that fire is too loud.” Black Feather motioned to the blaze of buffalo chips, crackling in the small, makeshift stone fireplace on the other side of the one-room ramshackle cabin.

  “Biscuit,” she said more loudly, her wide blue eyes staring up at him through stringy, matted, blond hair.

  No life in them yet, Black Feather thought. “Oh, you want a biscuit?” Dot nodded her head with the peculiar slow jerk Black Feather had noticed after the first week on the trail. She had filled out a bit over the last four weeks as they rode slowly northeast, and her face had tanned, the deathly pallor of the few days following the ambush of her parents all but gone.

  Occasionally, she spoke a few words, but only to Black Feather. She cowered from the other men. Black Feather had caught several of them, when they thought his back was turned, making obscene gestures toward her. Hank’s arm was in a makeshift sling, the result of Black Feather shoving him savagely into a cottonwood tree. And Chief was hobbling, the caked bloodstain around the gash in his trousers finally dried.

  A few days after Dot had spoken her first words, water and please, Black Feather returned from a quick ride to the advanced scout five or six miles ahead of the band of outlaws, and found Chief standing in front of the lean-to Black Feather had insisted the men erect for Dot. The outlaw stood, pants pulled down, hairy buttocks exposed, fondling himself in front of the young woman. Without a word, Black Feather crept up behind him and plunged his knife into Chief’s leg. Caught unaware, the crude renegade collapsed and writhed in pain. Black Feather grabbed the convulsing man’s penis, now flaccid, and raised his knife. Only the outlaw’s pleading and blubbering promises to never again go near the girl had saved him.

  After that incident, the men cleared a wide berth around Dot, most of them trying hard to resist the temptation to even look her direction. But the brutal scene had pushed her back into her shell. Unless they were traveling and she was lashed to Black Feather atop his stallion, she had la
y curled in a fetal position, her hands over her face.

  Gradually, she had emerged from that shock, but there remained a vacant, cornered animal look in her eyes. Her words to Black Feather were sparse, never a full sentence. “Water, please,” or “hungry” or “tired” or, like now, “biscuit.”

  He gazed down at her. “I’ll be right back.” Her sudden look of alarm was unmistakable. He knelt down again, “I’m just going to get your biscuit. I’ll be right back. None of them…,” he jerked his head toward the single window in the cabin, framing some of the band gathered outside, “have bothered you lately, have they?”

  She shook her head “no” with that same stiff motion.

  “And they won’t. I won’t let them.” Black Feather resisted the urge to reach out his hand and place it on her knee. “I will not let anybody hurt you. One of these days you’ll feel better,” he swung his arm around. “This is big, beautiful country.” He raised a hand toward the roof of the one-room cabin, “and the sun is shining. The air is clean after that big snow a day ago,” he made an exaggerated inhaling motion and sound. “Try it. Breathe in deep. Smell that good air.”

  Dot blinked and then took a deep breath, and held it, before gradually exhaling. Black Feather chuckled, “See, when Black Feather tells you something, you can trust it. Just like that the air smelled good, nobody’s ever going to hurt you. Now, I will be back with that biscuit.”

  He stood and strode toward the door, pausing to speak to Pedro in Spanish. “Watch over her.” He began to open the door but swung back to his portly lieutenant. Lowering his voice, he said, “Tell three men to get those two bodies out of the barn. Bury them behind it. I don’t want to take a chance on her seeing them.”

  Outside, he walked over to a few of the men gathered outside by the fire. “Throw me two of those biscuits we got outta that wagon on the Poudre.”