Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “What is that?” asked Reuben, indicating the sash.

  Johannes eyes sparkled, and he smiled, completely at ease, almost eager, Reuben realized. “That, my dear friend Reuben, is a battle sash. Some say it brings luck.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Johannes turned to Mac. “I suggest I take one rider, Charlie—he seems to be pretty good with a long gun—and we will ride out several hundred yards to the left to get on their right flank, dismount, and have the rifles at the ready.”

  Mac’s teeth shown through the mat of red hair around his lips. “A crossfire if needed, eh? An old Cavalry tactic, I believe.” He gave Johannes a knowing look, “Good idea. Go!”

  Johannes gestured to Charlie, and they detached themselves from the group at a canter. Mac turned to the men around him, “You boys rest easy. Be absolutely ready—have those hammers cocked, but you don’t do nothing—not even move a muscle unless I tell you, or lead starts flying. We’re aiming to avoid a fight, not have one. These scum are most likely cold killer outlaws, but they don’t wanna die anymore then we do.” He glanced down at the Navy Squareback Colt and holster on Reuben’s hip. “I would take the thong off that hammer, son.”

  He turned back to the men. “We’re gonna ride real slow and easy. Don’t bunch up. Stay at least ten to fifteen feet from the rider on either side of you. No sense making a compact target for a lucky shot. I suspect they will break into two bunches. A half-dozen or ten of them will get right close to see what we’re made of. The rest of them will hold back.” He chuckled. “We will see if they know any Cavalry and attach a couple of hombres to flank Johannes, but I suspect they won’t.” His yellow teeth flashed again in the jumble of beard. “Let’s go.”

  Reuben slid his Sharps from its scabbard. Spread out in a line, the men from the wagons advanced at a walk toward the oncoming riders.

  As Mac had speculated, the main body of their adversaries stopped well out of rifle range. Their general features were still visible, however, and several were pointing at Johannes and Charlie, who had by now dismounted and were kneeling with rifles resting on one knee.

  The two groups of riders maintained their steady approach toward each other. Reuben’s mouth was dry, but not from fear. He felt an exhilarating rush of adrenaline. The colors of the day seemed sharper. The air had a special clarity. The immense rolling country radiated energy. Lahn felt it, too. The horse moved forward almost at a prance, ears pricked, nostrils flared. More than any other moment since dis-embarking from the Edinburgh, Reuben felt American.

  “Looks like they want to get close,” Mac called out in a low voice to the men on either side of him. He sheathed his Musketoon and pulled out his 1855 Colt Revolving shotgun, checking the loads in each magazine of the five-shot cylinder.

  “Hold up,” he commanded. “Let ’em come to us.”

  Reuben gripped Lahn’s reins in his left hand and extended the fingers on his right. Steady, no shake, no twitch. He felt detached, a spectator rather than a participant.

  The other riders, eleven of them, drew closer, also spread out ten to fifteen feet apart. Several had wool coats; others wore leathers, some just filthy shirts. A few had feathers embedded in braided hair. All had rifles or muskets, either held warily across a saddle pommel, or perched stock butt down on one thigh, muzzle in the air, finger on the trigger.

  Astride a broad, grey horse, an equally stocky man sat, his round meaty shoulders wrapped in the once colorful stripes of a serape. He looked Spanish and rode to the left of the man who was obviously the leader. He had a tall, powerfully angular figure, with dark swarthy features that were not quite fully Indian. His long, dark brown hair hung in strings down his back, his heavy, faded, red wool shirt was visible under an open, blue army jacket, which Reuben realized with a start had a hole in its lapel framed by a dark reddish stain. A woman’s necklace dangled around the half-breed’s neck. His eyes were narrow, and there was a scar above his lips that formed a thin line above a jutting, square jaw. Two black feathers, fastened by a silver concho, dangled from his headband. Their tips hung to his shoulder. He radiated a dark energy, a sinister malevolence.

  The renegades stopped their advance fifty feet away. The leader’s horse, a black stallion as muscular as its rider, pawed the earth impatiently as his master’s eyes roved over each and every one of Reuben’s party. They lingered on Zeb. Both men almost imperceptibly shifted the muzzles of their rifles toward one another. The leader urged his horse forward a few steps. Mac did the same.

  They stared at each other in silence. Finally, the man on the black horse spoke. “I count forty-one wagons. Are there more?”

  Reuben was surprised at the man’s excellent English. The outlaw’s rifle was now pointed squarely at Mac, and the seasoned wagon master moved his shotgun to return the favor. Mac leaned over and spit out a wad of chew, never taking his eyes off the man. “I suspect so. Thousands. They just ain’t here yet.”

  The outlaw’s swarthy features showed no reaction, but his eyes shifted to Zeb. “Do I know you? I am called Black Feather.”

  Zeb’s voice was even. “Don’t believe we’ve ever met, though we’ve come close.”

  Black Feather returned his attention to Mac with a sly, contrived half-smile, “We are low on food. Perhaps you have some extra that you could spare?”

  “Don’t think so. We have barely enough ourselves.”

  The thin corners of Black Feather’s mouth twitched. Without taking his eyes of Mac, he nodded his head back toward his band. “Hungry men can get desperate.”

  “Better desperate than dead,” was Mac’s gruff response.

  “We see many women and children. That is a big responsibility for a wagon master to keep them safe.” Even from twenty feet away, Reuben could see Mac’s complexion reddening, and he well knew the wagon master had a quick temper. For whatever reason, Black Feather was intent on goading him. The others in the renegade group had now obviously each picked out one of the men from the wagon train on whom to focus.

  There was another long silence. Reuben instinctively felt Black Feather sizing up the odds. This was not going to end peacefully. He knew he had to have his feet on the ground for what was to come. “I’m getting off my horse,” he called out in a clear and nonchalant tone. Involuntarily, everyone’s eyes clicked to rest on him.

  Black Feather looked amused. “Parting with your horse is not wise in this country. He could disappear forever.”

  Reuben ignored the taunt. “I banged up my leg the other day. Need to stretch, and so you don’t get jittery, I am going to slide this rifle back into the scabbard.” Careful to keep his tone level, movements steady, and Lahn between him and the renegades, Reuben slowly dismounted. There were several incredulous murmurs from the horsemen behind Black Feather.

  Reuben made a great show of stretching his legs, each effort moving him a bit further to the right.

  “Steady, Lahn.” The palomino followed him with his eyes, his reins hanging to the ground. When Reuben was satisfied with his position, he squared his shoulders and faced the opposing horsemen. The slightly left angle offered a clear line of fire toward Black Feather and the four nearest outlaws. He felt the weight of the Colt on his hip. His hands dangled loosely at his sides. “I have had my stretch. Maybe you fellas ought to go do what you need to do, and we will get back to the wagon train.”

  As Reuben had intended, Black Feather dismissed him as a simpleton. His swarthy face turned back to Zeb. “Why are you familiar to me?” The gaze between the two men was locked and unwavering. Zeb’s was full of hatred and contempt.

  “The Taylor Farm, Missouri Basin.”

  Black Feather’s eyes momentarily widened before narrowing again. There was an ominous stillness, and, at that moment, John cocked the hammer of his musket, the click echoing across the barren earth and between the horses. Black Feather’s riders were now swinging their rifles, and, from the corner of his eye, Reuben saw Mac’s shotgun muzzle rise. There was a flash from Black Feather’s ri
fle barrel. Zeb cursed and jerked sideways in the saddle, his Sharps discharging at the same time.

  The Navy Squareback was suddenly in Reuben’s hand, mechanical, practiced, perfect, without thought. He could feel himself crouching, the outside edge of his left palm working the hammer of the smoking pistol. A rider screamed and fell, and then another toppled. A third renegade began to swing his rifle in Reuben’s direction. Reuben felt the Colt buck, and there was a sudden red hole in the man’s forehead, his eyes looked blankly at the sky, his mustang reared back, and he fell silently backwards off the horse. Black Feather unleashed a bloodcurdling scream, Mac’s shotgun roared, then again, and another renegade crumpled over the neck of his horse, blood streaming down the brown sides of the saddle. Jacob’s horse began to buck wildly out of control in a circle, the Irishman dropped his pistol and hung desperately to the saddle horn with both hands, shouting curses. John cried out and slid sideways off his horse, clutching his leg.

  Reuben had not moved. The grip of the sidearm was an extension of his hand. He felt the barrel of the Colt swing like a rattlesnake tracking a rat. He fired again, and one of Black Feather’s men clasped his stomach, groaned with pain and flopped over his horse’s neck. Black Feather raised his rifle over his head and shouted. Almost in unison, the opposing band wheeled their horses and retreated at full gallop. Far to his left, Reuben heard the report from Johannes’ Sharps Carbine. Yet another outlaw toppled from his saddle.

  Coolly, Reuben rose to full height. If he had counted right, he had one bullet remaining in the six-cylinder Colt. Steadying his right hand with his left fingers wrapped around his wrist, he cocked the hammer, aimed high center at a fleeing leather-clad back, and squeezed the trigger. The man’s arms flew in the air, dropping his rifle as he slumped forward on his horse.

  Shifting the revolver to his left hand, Reuben held out his right. No trembling. Slowly and coolly, he took one shell at a time from his cartridge belt and slipped it into an empty magazine of the cylinder of the revolver. When the reloading was complete, he looked up. Mac had ridden over. With a twirl, Reuben slid the Colt back into its holster.

  “I’ll be damned and go to hell.” There was a note of wonder in Mac’s voice. The red-bearded man’s eyes were wide. “Jesus. Do you realize what the hell you done? Johannes got one, I cut one bastard in half with the scattergun, and you shot five of those killers face to face and another when they were on the run. Damn, son, I had no idea you could handle a Colt like that!”

  “Neither did I, Mac. Guess it’s just practice and some natural gift.”

  Zeb rode up, a stain spreading from a red crease across the buckskin sleeve of his upper left arm.

  “Son of a bitch almost kilt me.” He gazed down at Reuben with a look the younger man couldn’t quite fathom. Partly respect, partly surprise, partly concern.

  “You have a way with that pistol, Reuben, young as you are. No doubt about it. Never seen nothin’ like it.” He gestured at the now distant dust of the renegades and swept his arm toward the other men from the wagon train. “You can’t keep this quiet. Word will spread, sure enough. Biggest thing you’re gonna have to do from now on is make sure that gift doesn’t turn into a curse.”

  “Let’s get back to the wagons,” said Mac. “I’m sure everybody’s anxious back there. We can clean up that scratch Zeb got, do some fixing on John’s leg and get him in a wagon bed. Doubt we will be having more trouble from that bunch. They lost too much with nothing to show. Reuben was a surprise, and I don’t think they will want to get in range of that Colt again.” He looked up at the sun. “We got several hours of daylight left. I want to get to the river and get set up before dark. We have a hard day of work tomorrow, and then we can rest at the fort.”

  Johannes and Charlie rode in. Charlie reached out and grabbed John’s arm to steady him in his saddle. Johannes urged Bente over to Reuben and Lahn. There was quiet admiration in Johannes’ voice. “That was some show. I could have used you in the line against the French at Selkirk.” There was also some unusual quality to Johannes’ tone, and Reuben looked at him closely.

  “What?”

  Johannes hesitated. “How do you feel?”

  Reuben shrugged. “Fine. I am sorry John got shot.”

  “That’s all?”

  He could feel constant glances from the other men as they cantered back to the wagons. Reuben felt himself getting annoyed. He did not like being the center of attention, and it was not like Johannes to talk in riddles. “That’s all,” he responded curtly as they neared the lead wagon.

  The tight resentful knot in Reuben’s chest began to unwind at the sight of a slight, female figure with long, dark hair carrying a Sharps rifle two-thirds as long as she was tall. She stood with an anxious air ahead of the lead wagon far at the front of the rest of the gathering pioneers. One hand was on her forehead to cut the glare from the lowering sun as she intently surveyed the incoming riders.

  CHAPTER 29

  MAY 3, 1855

  MORMON WAGONS

  Blue sky, warm weather, and the distant cheerful sparkles from the Platte River, appearing and disappearing through the trunks of cottonwoods as the wagons passed, did nothing to lift Johannes’ spirits.

  Occasionally, despite himself, he glanced over Rebecca’s head at Inga. Sometimes she returned his stare with a beseeching look, sometimes her eyes were fixed on her fingers, which seemed interminably busy smoothing the fabric of her dress over her thighs. She is either going to wear out that fabric or rub the skin off her hands. He found no humor in the thought.

  Rebecca would occasionally try to make some type of small talk— doing her best, Johannes was sure—to build a bridge across the frozen gulf that had separated him and Inga since that stormy night in the wagon. Inga would occasionally chime in, no doubt in hopes that Rebecca’s attempts would begin the thaw. Several times Johannes felt the urge to speak, to take one hesitating step on the ladder of repair, but he didn’t.

  Inside his head, two voices waged combative argument. The square-jawed, egotistical voice of devil-may-care male screamed, First woman I have ever loved, truly loved. First woman I ever truly trusted, and now this. To hell with it all!

  The other voice, that of the heart, humanity, and reality, argued back. What are you so high and mighty about? You’re not some chaste widower hoping to replace the onlywoman you’ve ever known with an equally virginal new mate. You are a scoundrel, whoring around. You can’t even remember the names of the women you have been with. Now the one woman you are truly in love with, for the first time in your sorry drifting life, is to be discarded? On a principle that you, yourself, has never followed?

  Johannes sighed as the inner voices of his soul argued back and forth. I was an officer and a gentleman—of sorts. I merely did what men do. My mistresses were all willing. Most of them made the initial advance. I promised nothing other than pleasurable times, whether for a night or a month. I made it clear to Inga that I had not been an angel prior to meeting her.

  The argument, invariably, would reverse itself. Who are you kidding? You broke up several families with your self-centered lust. You knew some of those women fell in love with you, yet you tossed them aside as you would a discharged weapon on the field of battle. Sure, stroke yourself, pretend to be the ‘not quite an angel.’ But did you tell her everything? How many hearts have you broken? A hundred? Two hundred? Are you so presumptuous as to maintain that every word from your mouth, as you lured them to your bed, was the absolute truth and nothing but the truth? This woman loves you. You love her. Think of how long it has taken to find this. Think of the blessing bestowed upon you, despite your entirely undeserving existence up to this point. You are in search of a sense of self, of place, of heart. And you would sacrifice it on the altar of hypocritical ego? Shame on you!

  But dammit, she could’ve told me. If she had said something up front, I would’ve understood. Of all people, I would’ve understood.

  He glanced over at Inga. Her cheeks twitched,
and a tear dripped from her chin into her hands, still busy in her lap. His ambivalent heart wrenched, ego and testosterone driven one moment, heartfelt and empathetic the next. Say nothing until you figure this out, Johannes. The other voice asserted itself. Say something, say a little, at least smile at her—ease her pain, and yours, as you weigh these facts and circumstances to find truth.

  He felt his jaw clench and his lips purse. Say and do nothing as you ponder this.

  “Look,” said Rebecca pointing at Charlie up ahead and casting a quick glance at both Johannes and Inga, pausing, he could tell, to see if there would be a response from either of them. “There must be some news. Charlie is stopping at all the wagons.”

  Finishing his short visits with the two wagons ahead of them, Charlie trotted over, wheeled his horse, and moved along with them. “Wagons up ahead. Twenty or so of them, stopped. Mac says we will take a break, trade news, see if they need any help, then continue on toward Kearney.”

  Johannes said nothing, nor did Inga.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Rebecca nodded her head and smiled. Charlie pulled on the brim of his hat and trotted to the wagon behind them. There were twenty-two wagons in the other train. Mac dispatched several outriders to keep watch and halted his group parallel to the other, their line of rigs overlapping the smaller one by nine or ten wagons on either end. One hundred feet of wide wagon ruts from the previous decade separated the two groups.