Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Snake looked up, glanced at the cabin, started to say something, then obviously thought better of it. He tossed two biscuits to Black Feather. “When we gonna have some fun, boss? It’s been four weeks since the Poudre and two since we knocked over that east-bound stage. That banker’s wife was good for laughs but only for a few days. I think she particularly liked Tex.”

  The men all laughed raucously and turned their heads to look at Tex, a stocky, bald, round-faced man with a scar on his neck who had joined the band, along with others, shortly after they crossed the South Platte several weeks prior. “I shave my head,” he had told the renegades, “so as the Indians won’t be so apt to scalp me.” It wasn’t an original line, but still a good excuse for sordid laughter.

  He had his horse’s foreleg between his knees now, busy scraping stubborn clay dirt, still wet from snow melt, off the shoe. Listening to the others, he took one more careful scrape with his knife before he lowered the horse’s hoof, patted the medium-sized bay on the shoulder, and turned to the group of twisted smiles around him.

  “Yep, I reckon she was mighty juicy,” his Texas drawl elongating almost every word. “When she stopped moving, it surely weren’t no more fun.” He grinned, his yellow teeth behind thick lips accented by a gaping black space, held up his knife and rotated the blade so that it caught the sun. He chuckled, “So I had to make her juicy again.” The men laughed.

  “Well, it was a damn good thing you were out front and found this cabin before that storm hit,” said Black Feather. “Some of us woulda been done for sure out there in the flats without shelter. And good thinking, taking care of those settlers the way you did before we got here. Saved the girl from seeing it.”

  Tex grinned again, held up the knife, repeated the rotating motion and nodded at the small cabin. “Yep, it surely was a shame them settlers weren’t more hospitable.” He grimaced grotesquely and stuck his tongue against his top teeth so that a portion of rough flesh bulged through the space of the missing tooth.

  Snake and Chief clapped him on the back. “Well, you made ’em hospitable, Tex. Never met more hospitable folks. When did you get so mean?” they joked. Tex’s gruesome smile disappeared suddenly. He turned and stroked his bay. “Ever since my pa killed my ma,” he said quietly.

  Black Feather said nothing and began to walk inside the cabin, but Snake, though momentarily taken aback by Tex’s abrupt mood change, was persistent, “Boss, when you suppose…” The question hung in the air, unfinished.

  Their leader turned slowly and focused his eyes on the thin, wiry man. The group fell silent. “You men have never figured it out. It’s like anything in life. Pigs are fat and happy and hogs get slaughtered. Why do you think we ain’t been caught, killed, or even shot at, except we make the first move?”

  The men glanced at one another uneasily, several of them looking down, scooping the toes of their boots at the sodden ground.

  “That was a big take we made back on the Cache la Poudre. Enough food for several months, powder, ammunition, clothes,” he reached out and tugged on the fine grey wool shirt worn by Chief, “some money, and those scalps will bring a good price. We did okay with the stage, too. That was just luck. Been seein’ them coaches since in 1850. These damn fools thought they could make the run from Laramie to Independence without an escort.” He shook his head disgustedly.

  “When we strike, you know we always do it fast, then ride hard and long. You don’t think what we leave behind goes unnoticed, do you? Why do you think I make sure we try and leave no sign, or telltale marks? About half the time, whoever finds our handiwork don’t know it’s us, and we’re two hundred miles away by then anyway. Hard riding ghosts are tough to find and moving targets is almost impossible to hit.”

  Black Feather could sense the men were not satisfied. “González tells me there’s big bunch of Pawnee on the move ahead of us, maybe two days. We’re probably right behind their rear guard. I imagine they were slowed by the snow, as well. I’ll tell you boys the plans just this once, then don’t ask me again.”

  Black Feather narrowed his eyes. Snake looked down to the ground. “Gonna be wagons ’bout this time every year headed in some way, shape or form toward the Platte and Fort Childs….”

  González broke in with a thick accent, “You mean Fort Kearney. They changed the name a few years back to Kearney.” Black Feather threw a hard look at the Mexican, who fell silent.

  “González is right. I forgot. It’s been a while since I’ve been this far east. We are about two days ride from Fort Kearney. As I recall, they don’t have many soldiers there usually, four companies at the most. They like to keep it guarded by two, sometimes three companies, that means there are only a hundred or so soldiers patrolling this whole area. They will stick pretty much close to the river and the main Mormon and Oregon tracks. First, we will try and find out where them patrols is. Second, we’ll skirt the fort by a fair distance south—at least a day’s ride—thread the needle between the Cavalry and Pawnee and head toward the Little Blue and Seward Rivers southeast of Kearney. Them larger trains usually stick to the bigger tracks, but some years back I had picked off some smaller groups trying to cut off that big north bend of the river before it links up with the Missouri.”

  Heads nodded, and the ruffians listened attentively.

  “There’s thirty-one of us now. That’s the most ever. Depending on how many families are traveling in the smaller trains, I figure thirty-one of us could easy take on forty or more of them. A third of them are farmers and never killed nothin’ in their life except a deer, and a third can’t speak English or come from a big city and don’t know the ass end of a gun.”

  Black Feather held his head high as he listened to himself spell out the plan. “Have some patience, boys, it’ll be well worth it. Think about how much we took off those four wagons on the Poudre, and those six Mormon wagons west of Laramie last year. Now, think about thirty or forty rigs.”

  His eyes moved from one man to the other. “And, think about how many women might be on a train that size.” The men grinned and the approving murmur was growing behind him as he went back to the cabin with the biscuits, one for Dot, and one for himself.

  CHAPTER 28

  MAY 3, 1855

  THE GIFT

  Reuben adjusted the leather buckle strap from which his lariat hung, and then sat comfortably hunched over in the saddle, pencil in one hand, paper in the other. The saddle horn was both a writing surface and support for his crossed forearms. Mac had asked him to assess each wagon for signs of loosening spokes or failing metal tire rims around the wagon wheels. He had gladly accepted the chore, thankful for the excuse to remove himself from Inga’s tearful outbreaks, Johannes’ uncharacteristic strong silence, and Rebecca’s incessant baleful glares each time—and there had been many—that she had put her arms around Inga’s shoulders, gently comforting her. Even Sarah was without her usual smile when their paths crossed. I might as well have brought the storm inside the wagon by allowing Jacob to join us, he thought ruefully.

  Sighing, Reuben forced himself to focus on the task. “The air is going to get drier and drier almost every day now,” Mac had told him that morning. “As wagon wheels lose moisture they shrink, even those New Hampshire ones of white oak, and the trail only gets rougher from here. We’re gonna have to stop every week or so, get that forge out of the second supply wagon, and refit tires and spokes, or we will start losing wheels.”

  Mac had stood, grim-faced, from his squatted stance by the morning fire, taken a last gulp of coffee from his tin cup, and thrown the rest into the embers. “I reckon we only have three days at most to Fort Kearney, and it would sure be good if all the rigs could make it that far so we don’t have to stop. The damn mud of the past few days wasn’t helpful. We can’t wait for no crippled wagon. Best to prevent something bad before it occurs. Get to the front of the column and watch each wagon as it goes by. Then repeat that on the other side. Pay careful attention to the wheels—spokes you see loos
e, any snapping, popping or loose-fitting tires. Be mindful of spokes rattling, or grinding or squeaking. Next water is where we hit the Platte downstream of the fort, so we can’t even soak the wheels for a temporary fix ’til then.”

  As the wagons rumbled by, their canvas tops rolling left and right with the uneven ground, Reuben smiled and nodded at each driver. He and Johannes exchanged cautious glances, but neither of the women sharing the driver’s seat looked his direction. Rebecca, who sat stiffly in the middle, had become a silent buffer between the two tall blondes. Reuben was dismayed that Rebecca seemed to avoid him, especially after all that had transpired that day they had ridden together. The day before the storm. Or storms, he thought glumly.

  Reuben shook his head to clear it and get back to business. He knew Mac was depending on him, and he didn’t want to miss something crucial. He stared ahead as the line continued its slow trek.

  Preacher Walling crossed himself, making the sign of a crucifix as he and his family passed, and Reuben mouthed a “thank-you,” at the same time wondering what his father, Ludwig’s, reaction would’ve been. He glanced quickly back at his wool coat, triple lashed behind the saddle, and patted it. Don’t worry, father—all is well—I will claim our land.

  Jacob and Sarah’s wagon rattled by. The redhead’s face was reserved as she directed a long and lingering look toward him. Jacob stared straight ahead, his countenance set in a dark scowl, his beefy frame tipped forward over the lines, not acknowledging Reuben’s existence. Dr. and Mrs. Leonard plodded by, their Conestoga pulled by four troublesome oxen, one of them moving with a pronounced limp in the rear hip. The doctor’s shoulders shook, and he convulsed with frequent coughing that was audible three or four wagons up or down the line. His face was pale and drawn, and Thelma wore a worried expression as she patted him on the back.

  The last of the wagons moved slowly past him, flying the Johnson’s heirloom American flag with the circular pattern of thirteen stars. Both Margaret and Harris beamed at him as they came abreast of Lahn, their plump hands raised in greeting. Becky and Eleanor poked their young, round faces out the rear of the wagon canvas, giggling. “Are you going to come over for dinner again and tell us more about Prussia, Mr. Frank?”

  “Of course,” hollered Reuben with a laugh. “I’ll talk to your parents and decide which night.” The youngsters shrilled, clapped their pudgy hands, and ducked back into the wagon bed.

  Reuben trotted to the front of the train then repeated the process on the other side, carefully noting which wagons, by the names of their owners, showed need of repair and maintenance. Margaret and Harris’ Conestoga had just passed again when he heard hooves cantering up behind him. He turned in the saddle to see Zeb approaching, his features inscrutable as always, though his jaw was set with a slight scowl.

  “Afternoon, Reuben.”

  Reuben nodded. “How are you, Zeb?”

  “From here on in things might go downhill,” replied the frontiersman. He looked beyond Reuben. “For the last few days I’ve seen occasional dust to the southwest of us. Been keeping my eyes out and haven’t seen nothing, but I’m suspicious that it’s been the same direction and seems to move with the train. I aim to go have me a look-see. Be obliged if you’d let Mac know.”

  Wheeling Lahn around, Reuben studied the vast lands to the southwest. Shallow hills fondled the bases of low-lying, rocky rose and brown buttes. Stands of budding trees and brush worked their ways up the intermittent valleys. The vegetation lines were slightly higher on the northern aspect of the contours. The sun reflected dully off scattered patches of pale green, struggling spring grass valiantly trying to push its way through the still matted, brown, dry cover of winter. Here and there, patches of snowdrifts lingered where the ground remained shady, their brightness subdued by the gritty cloak of blown sand and dirt. He searched the undulations of horizon where they met bright blue sky, but saw nothing.

  He turned back to Zeb. “You sure? I don’t see anything.”

  “I’m sure,” said Zeb tersely. He spurred Buck, and the horse took off in an easy lope. Reuben noticed he drew the Sharps from its scabbard and held the rifle securely in his left hand.

  Reuben cantered toward the head of the train. As he drew even with Sarah’s wagon, he slowed and tugged his hat brim. “How is your day going, Sarah?”

  Sarah looked up, startled, but she held his eyes and reddened. “Just fine, Reuben.” Her tone was not enthusiastic. Jacob shot a quick sideways leer toward Reuben, leaned over the near side of the wagon seat, and spat, just missing Lahn’s hoof, which seemed to be his favorite target.

  “Careful now Jacob, this country is going to get drier and drier. You might need all the spit you’ve got.” Jacob neither replied nor looked up, but Reuben could see his jaw clench under the bruises on his face. Sarah glanced from one man to the other with an alarmed look.

  “Good day to you too, Miss Sarah.” Reuben gently spurred Lahn up toward his original destination, passing his own wagon without checking his horse’s stride. Mac was in his usual position, fifty yards in front and slightly to the left of the lead rig. Reuben noticed he had his Musketoon rifle out, perched sideways between the saddle horn and his hips. The wagon master’s head swiveled carefully to different points in the horizon. Reuben reined in Lahn and fell in step at Mac’s side.

  “Zeb wanted me to tell you he has spotted dust along the horizon to the southwest the last few days. He headed out that way just now to see what it is.”

  Mac nodded. Without taking his eyes off the distant points he was keenly searching, he replied, “I seen it, too. We’re getting into different country now. The land will be different, the trail more rugged, and the weather more extreme.” He paused. Without turning to look at Reuben, he added, “And we’re gonna have to start contending with others.”

  Reuben surveyed the rolling terrain and uneven skyline. “It doesn’t look that crowded to me.”

  The older man grunted, “It only takes a few to raise hell. This ground dries quick. Slow-moving and dust-stirring as we are, they will find us.”

  Mac ran his dirty fingernails through the long red strands of his beard, thinking. “We should reach the main track of the Mormon Trail and the Platte well before nightfall. I think we will circle up there and get the rest of the mud off the wagons since we’ll have water. That damn storm cost us four or five days. I see by your list there’s four outfits that could use some work. The water will swell the oak, tighten the spokes, and firm up the tire rims—might be enough to get those rigs to Kearney. We can do the repairs there. Should work out just right.”

  “I’d like to help with the work on the wheels and tires,” said Reuben. “That’s a skill I want to learn.”

  Mac shook his head negatively, reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of chew and bit off a huge brown chunk. He extended his arm to Reuben, still not taking his eyes from the distance. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. Then what do you want me to do tomorrow?”

  “I aim to have you and Johannes, and the four best riflemen from this motley crew of pioneers, start riding a defensive perimeter for a quarter-mile around the train. And from here on, when we do stop to work on the rigs, it will be the same. With the forge going, and wheels off the wagons we will be sitting ducks. I suspect Johannes will know what to do.”

  The beginnings of a reply died in Reuben’s throat. Far out he saw a vortex of dust, whirling across the land. It could only be a horse at full gallop.

  Mac raised one arm. “Halt the wagons!” he yelled. The lead Conestoga jolted to a stop as did the other wagons, one by one, behind it. There was a perceptible buzz of puzzlement and fear moving up and down the train as the settlers tried to understand what had caused the sudden delay.

  Reaching inside the lapel of his coat, Mac brought out the spyglass and extended the brass sections to full-length. “Be still you damn critter,” he commanded Red, who was fidgeting from foot to foot. “It’s Zeb, and he ain’t wasting no time getting
back. Don’t see nothin’ behind him, yet.”

  He brought the glass down to his lap, his great bushy eyebrows furrowed in contemplation. “Reuben, if I tell you, you skedaddle on down the train, tell folks to get out their rifles and gather in every other wagon. Get five men on horses and hurry back up here. Tell the men to bring extra ammunition and pistols if they have ’em. I’d choose Johannes, Charlie, John, Harris, and that son of a bitch Jacob. He is always looking for a scrap.”

  Minutes later, Zeb reined in from a full gallop, just feet from them. Buck’s momentum and the west wind enveloped them in billows of dust.

  “Thirty or so. Renegades or an outlaw bunch, I suspect. Been shadowing us for at least two days. I’m thinking they saw my dust. By now they already know how many men, women, and children we got. Most likely they will ease down here, check out how solid we are, and make their move later.”

  “Recognize any of ’em?” asked Mac.

  “I recognized one.” Zeb’s cold tone caught Reuben’s attention, and he looked at his friend closely. Zeb’s face was impassive, but there was a slight twitch in the muscles in one of his cheeks.

  Mac raised the spyglass. “Looks like you hit the nail on the head, Zeb.” He turned to Reuben, “Get those men up here and get everyone doubled up. Now!”

  “Should we put the wagons in a circle?” asked Reuben.

  “No time. Anyways, they’ll figure out we have more firepower. These types hoot like Indians, but they are mostly cowards. They prefer to do their work in the dark against folks that can’t fight back. We will ride out, see what they want, and make sure they get their murdering heads around the truth that it would be best to not tangle with us.”

  Reuben quickly gave directions down the line of wagons. Within minutes, the five horsemen clustered around Mac. Reuben sensed nervousness in both men and horses, and he noticed Jacob wetting his lips continuously. The dust of approaching horses was now visible to the naked eye. Johannes had strapped on the 1840 saber Reuben had lent him the money to buy in New York, and wore a red sash knotted around his waist. He was carefully checking the load in his Sharps 1852 Slanting Breech Carbine, which he insisted was better than the Sharps rifle for mounted warfare. The handle of his .44-caliber Army Colt protruded from his belt.