Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Neither Inga nor Rebecca had lost their puzzled expressions. “Okay, so here we are, but what’s so unique as to be funny, Sarah?”

  “Well, I was just thinking. We are, three fairly good-looking women…”

  “If we do say so ourselves,” said Rebecca with a dry chortle, her laughter joined by both of the other two women.

  “Oh my,” Sarah laughed harder. “Fine, I will share my thought. I would wager Jacob a thousand dollars that we are the only three single women above the age of eighteen on this entire trail from St. Louis to Cherry Creek…” She paused dramatically and looked at the two of them.

  “And…?” demanded Rebecca.

  “And…?” echoed Inga.

  “Who are neither virgins, nor widows, nor married.”

  There was a momentary silence as Inga and Rebecca stared at her from either side, their mouths open, and absorbed her observation. Then, suddenly, all three women broke into simultaneous gales of laughter so loud and cackling that the horses jerked forward and Rebecca had to haul back on the lines.

  “Whoa, horses, whoa,” she gasped for air between laughs. Sarah could not stop laughing. She felt a huge release. Inga was holding her sides.

  Sarah’s laughter subsided, and she became more serious, “However, the two of you are with men you love and who love you. I have not been so fortunate.” Anger welled up in her again as she thought of the injustice of the whole situation.

  Rebecca leaned over and put her arms around her shoulders, Inga did the same from the other side, and Sarah was squeezed from both directions. “Sarah, you’ve certainly had horrible misfortune. But you are beautiful,” said Rebecca.

  “And Zeb is smitten with you!” added Inga.

  Crack! All three of their heads jerked up.

  “What was that?” asked Inga, the anxiety in her voice clear.

  “That was a shot, Inga, somewhere way out in front of us, I think,”

  said Rebecca tersely.

  The second shot was more distinct but still distant. The three women exchanged worried looks.

  “What do you suppose…,” began Inga.

  Suddenly Mac rode by them, at full gallop, his voice booming. “Get those wagons across the Creek. Gather up on the other side. Circle up!”

  Three miles to the southwest of the deadly cloud of dust and fate hurtling toward the wagon train, Eagle Talon squatted next to the lifeless form of Charlie. The bloody handprints around the broken shaft of the arrow were evidence of the hairy-faced-one’s last struggle before he went to meet Spirit. Eagle Talon’s gaze searched the ground around the body for sign.

  He nodded his head and looked up at Three Knives, then turned his glance to Turtle Shield, Brave Pony, and Pointed Lance. “They ambushed him here. The Pawnee warrior that loosed the arrow was hidden there,” he pointed to a small patch of brush one hundred feet away, its spiny branches rising barely two feet above the grass. “White Eyes fell heavily from his horse… tried to remove the arrow.” Eagle Talon rolled the body over, revealing a horrible gash to Charlie’s throat that almost severed his head from his torso, and a raw and bleeding three-inch wound just above his forehead where the flesh and hair had been cut away. “They cut his throat, and one of them rides with scalp.”

  He rose. Three Knives pointed with his musket. “They are chasing the trapper and headed toward the white wagons.”

  Eagle Talon nodded. He sprang on the back of his mustang, carefully fitting his war shield over his arm. He took his bow from around his neck and shoulder and turned to the other four warriors. At the sound of a far-off shot, every head jerked up. A moment passed, and then there was another report.

  “The trapper is warning the wagons,” said Brave Pony. The men nodded their heads in silent agreement.

  Eagle Talon looked at each in turn. “We have been trailing the Pawnee for sixteen suns. They have been trailing the white wagons for two suns. If it were soldiers, or just white men, I would not interfere. Three Knives, two sunsets ago, when we crept close to the white wagons, how many women and papoose did you count?”

  Three Knives held up his hands, all ten fingers spread, and flashed them four times. “Over forty… but Eagle Talon, our instructions were to track the Pawnee for protection of The People. It is bad enough you called the other advance scouts to this place with smoke. We should be spread out at least one-half sun apart.” The warrior’s face was uneasy.

  Eagle Talon lifted his chin and raised his hand. “You speak truly, Three Knives, but Brave Pony and Three Cougars have located the tatanka. Three Cougars has gone back to inform the village of the location of buffalo and to tell the Council of the movements of the Pawnee war party. The Council is fully informed. The Pawnee may win this day, but they will be bloody.

  “This war party will no longer be a threat to The People. They will bring their wounded back to their column. They will move slowly if they have captured any white eyes. We are not far from the white man’s fort, maybe four suns at the speed the wagons travel. Soldiers may come. We have done our job. The Pawnee are no longer a threat except to the hairy faces. If the tribe has moved at the same pace, they may have already intercepted the tatanka. There are over fifteen hundred of our brothers in the herd. There will be plenty of meat and hides. We are alone. We must make our own decisions…”

  Eagle Talon thought back two evenings, how the white man behind the wagon that night gathered the small, dark-haired woman in his arms. The man wore a wide-brimmed, dark brown hat and a pearlhandled pistol slung low on his hip. The intensity of their kiss as Eagle Talon watched, the way she laid her head against the man’s chest afterward, her hand lightly stroking his back, reminded him of Walks with Moon. Though he did not know the man, Eagle Talon had felt a kindred energy that night. He had heard Spirit whisper, Friend. Strength. Honor.

  Eagle Talon blinked at the thud of another distant shot. His eyes bored into those of the other braves. “Imagine if we were five hairy-faced-ones, and we were watching the Pawnee sweep down on our village, knowing women and children were there. What would you want us as white eyes to do then? Those hairy-faced-ones are not our enemies. The Pawnee are our enemies.” He raised his bow. “I go to count Pawnee coup this day. Who rides with me?”

  The other braves exchange glances. Brave Pony smiled, raised his lance high above his head, shook it, and let out a wild scream. “I go with you Eagle Talon to count Pawnee coup, and I shall count more than you!” With a whoop, he launched his mustang down the hill, Eagle Talon’s horse directly behind. The other three braves, after a moment’s hesitation, heeled their horses down the rise, screaming war cries.

  Sarah turned to Rebecca, who was already snapping the lines. “Move, you horses, move!” she yelled and snapped the lines hard again across the team. They lunged into the water, throwing Sarah against the backrest.

  The wagon jerked forward, pulled by the panicked team across the stream’s rugged bottom. Spray from the horse hooves splashed the women as the wagon bounced onto the far shore. Rebecca slapped the reins again, urging the horses further on.

  Fearful, Inga shouted at her, “Where you going, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca didn’t take her eyes off the horses. “We need to get far enough from the stream so the other wagons can form around us,” she shouted. “Otherwise, we will all get boxed in, in the water!”

  Rebecca stood, her small, strong body literally leaning backward to bring the horses to an abrupt stop. Sarah watched as she set the brake and tied off the lines. “I’m going to grab my Sharps. Sarah, do you have your pistol?”

  Sarah patted her dress pocket, nodded, and drew out the Philadelphia Deringer.

  “Do you have reloads for it?”

  Sarah bit her lip. “No. They’re in my wagon.”

  Rebecca paused a moment, looked at Sarah, then turned to Inga. “Inga, you know where my ammunition is. Bring it all up front here, and lay it on the footboard.”

  Inga was uncomprehending, a petrified expression on her face.

&n
bsp; “Inga, do it now!”

  Still, Inga did not move. Rebecca rose, leaned over Sarah’s head, and lightly slapped Inga, once with her palm, and once backhanded. Inga blinked. “Inga, I’m sorry. You must move quickly!”

  Jarred back to reality, Inga scrambled over the back of the seat into the wagon. Sarah could hear her frantically moving cargo to get to Rebecca’s ammunition. Rebecca jumped down from the driver’s seat and took a position behind the tongue of the wagon, checking the load in her Sharps, her back to the creek two hundred feet distant. More wagons rumbled across the water, forming up haphazardly around the prairie schooner, their occupants scrambling down to the ground, virtually all armed except for panic-stricken mothers ushering their children into the backs of the wagons before hastily shutting the canvases.

  One wagon, Sarah could not tell whose, had its rear wheel lodged against the Leonard’s crippled rig. Now, both wagons were immobilized in the middle of the current, while still others tried frantically to cross. She could see Thelma trying to help the doctor into the back of their prairie schooner, but he looked too weak to climb over the seat. The Kentuckians, though much further back in the wagon line, had somehow managed to pull in next to them. Elijah and Abraham worked methodically, Elijah’s wife laying out powder and ball, the young Abraham filling their powder horns, Elijah checking the primer in their muskets. He looked over at the women and called out, “We got ourselves an extra Enfield musket, if ya know how to use it, come get it.”

  Rebecca sent Sarah to retrieve the Enfield. Sarah held up her dress, cursing at herself for the foolish clothing. As she ran over to the Kentucky wagon, she shot a look out to the expanse to the southwest but saw only distant dust.

  “Abraham,” Sarah asked, “where’s the Enfield?”

  The Kentuckian didn’t say a word, just nodded his head sideways. She saw the musket perched, butt down, behind the rear wheel. She ran over and grabbed it.

  “Hold on, Sarah! Ma, pass Sarah the loads for that gun.” Abraham’s mother ducked back in the wagon, appeared a second later, and handed two canvas bags down to Sarah. Sarah reached up, their eyes met, and the other woman smiled, her facial muscles twitching with fear, and then she ducked back in the wagon. Sarah heard her talking to her children. “Help Mother get these bags up against the sides. They will stop the bullets. Lie down here flat on the floor, and I will tell you a story.”

  Sarah ran back through the commotion to their wagon with the Enfield. Rebecca had laid out a neat row of eight cartridges for the Sharps. She had wedged the ladder between the tongue and driver’s seat as a shooting rest. Rebecca was practicing her firing position. She turned her head over the stock of the Sharps and spoke, “Sarah, you and Inga will reload. I can reload the Sharps quickly with these first eight rounds. When they are gone, I’ll start handing the Sharps back to you. In the meantime, I’ll take a shot from the Enfield, and then hand that to Inga so that we have one rifle employed at all times. Do you know how to load these?”

  Sarah and Inga looked each other, “Not really.”

  Rebecca sighed, set the Sharps down, picked up the Enfield, and quickly gave instructions. “The key is powder and wad first, ramrod down, then the shot, again the ramrod. It is very important for the packing to be tight or it could misfire and be out of action. Better to take your time, be a little bit slower, and do it right.”

  She handed the Enfield to Inga. “Quick, Inga, practice. Say the steps out loud to yourself.”

  She turned to Sarah, thrust the Sharps into her hands. “Okay Sarah, here’s how you load the Sharps.” She snapped open the breech and ran through the steps twice. “With practice you can load a round in about eight seconds.” Sarah practiced unloading and loading the rifle several times. Rebecca flashed a somewhat shaky smile at her. “We will be just fine.”

  The brunette’s brown eyes, alert and wide, moved back across the creek where the last of the wagons were finally making their way across the current pulled by panicked animals, their drivers wide-eyed and shouting. Sarah followed her gaze past the two crippled rigs trapped in the stream. “Reuben and Johannes will be fine,” she said.

  There’s more than a little worry in her voice, thought Sarah. She reached out her hand and put it on Rebecca’s arm. “They will be okay, Rebecca, don’t you worry.” Rebecca smiled, put her hand over Sarah’s and squeezed. “Thank you, Sarah.” Then she whirled with the Sharps in her hands and laid it over the shooting rest, pointing at the ever-growing cloud of advancing dust.

  Mac galloped up, jumping off Red before the mare had slowed to a stop. He lashed the horse quickly to the rear wagon wheel on the creek side of the schooner, wrenching his brass spyglass from the inside of his jacket. “I see Zeb comin’ like hell’s on fire, and behind him dust,” he said to Rebecca, “a pile of it. Whatever it is, it’s still a long ways out.” Out in front of them, they heard another shot, this time much louder. Sarah was sure she could hear very faint cries or screams. Maybe it’s just the wind. She looked over at Inga. Her tall blonde frame was leaning back against the wagon, her eyes closed, her face toward the sky, her lips moving silently. Sarah was certain she was praying.

  Mac lifted the telescope again, this time resting it firm against the edge of the seat. Peering through the glass, he inhaled, then exhaled slowly, as if firing a rifle. Suddenly, he sucked in his breath. “Jesus, Mary, Mother of Christ. God help us.”

  CHAPTER 35

  MAY 10, 1855

  SURPRISE

  Mac turned to Sarah and Rebecca, his eyes wide, one meaty hand pulling at his beard. “It’s Zeb, riding like the wind. Don’t see Charlie, but behind Zeb, a mile, maybe two, there’s a war party of Indians bigger than I’ve seen in a long time.”

  At the sound of whinnying and loud splashing, they looked up to see Johannes and Reuben riding in at a gallop, spray rising in silver arcs from the driving hooves of Lahn and Bente. Like Mac, they leapt off their horses, tying them quickly to the same rear wagon wheel.

  Johannes strode directly to Inga and put his hands on her shoulders. Her face remained pointed skyward, her lips moving. He shook her. “Inga.” She opened her eyes, dropped her head, recognized Johannes, and threw her arms around him. Johannes hugged her back then gently pushed her away. “Inga,” Sarah heard him say, “listen to me carefully. Inga, are you listening?” She nodded her head but said nothing. Her eyes were blinking rapidly. “Get in the wagon, go into my duffel, bring me my saber, and there’s a red sash that’s wrapped around it. Bring it, too. And two boxes each of .36 and .44 pistol ammunition.” Inga ran around the horses to the back of the wagon, and Sarah could hear the tailgate opening.

  Reuben had his Colt Navy out, spinning the cylinder, checking the loads, as was Johannes with his Colt Army. Inga ran to him with the saber and pistol ammunition.

  Reuben walked up to Mac and smiled at Sarah. He looked long and hard into Rebecca’s eyes, then turned to the wagon master. “We heard the shots and came running. There’s nothing happening behind us that we could see. What’s going on?”

  Mac grabbed Reuben’s arm, “Step over here for a minute.”

  Reuben pulled away. “The women have every right to hear.”

  Mac stopped short, looked at Reuben, Sarah, and then Rebecca. His eyes fell to Rebecca’s Sharps, went back up to her face, and he turned to Reuben, “I ’spect you’re right. These women can handle it. What we got is Zeb coming at a dead run for his life. Damn good thing that Buck is one of the fastest horses I ever seen. He’s at an all-out gallop. Ain’t never seen nothing like it. Zeb must’ve been getting those rounds off from his pistol, cause from what I could tell, he ain’t holding a rifle. Behind Zeb, one mile, maybe two, is a line of Indians a quarter-mile wide. Don’t know what’s behind them, but I would estimate there’s at least fifty, maybe more, and they are comin’ like they mean it.”

  He gestured around the wagons haphazardly scattered in a rough semi-circle, the creek at their back. “We didn’t have time to set up a full circle, so this
’ll have to do. Johannes, grab four good men, bring ’em back here and reinforce them two wagons stuck in the stream. Those two brothers in that one wagon can fight, but Thelma and the doc won’t be any good at all. Them two wagons might just be a saving grace for us. Any Indians trying to flank us will be slowed enough by the current so that six good riflemen can pick ’em off using those wagons as their station.”

  Harris, running over from his family’s wagon halfway to the creek in the unorganized arc of rigs that had been formed, joined them, out of breath. Sarah could see Margaret jamming loads into their muskets, every once in a while raising her head, obviously scolding Becky and Eleanor to stay in the wagon and get down.

  “What do you want us to do?” Harris huffed.

  The wagon master looked at him and smiled. “You go back there with Margaret and your kids, Harris. You’ll do just fine, though I would take that flag down. You’re just callin’ attention to yourselves.

  Harris’ eyes narrowed and he straightened his back, “I ain’t takin’ that flag down for no one, and for nothing. It’s flown against the British in two wars. It ain’t never been taken down, and I’m not about to start now.” He shifted his glance to Reuben, “You understand, Mr. Frank, I told you about this flag.”

  Reuben nodded slowly, “I understand, Harris.”

  Without another word, Harris turned and lumbered back toward his rig. Mac raised the telescope, which had never left his hand, again using the corner of the wagon as a rest. “Zeb’s about quarter-mile out now, ridin’ like the wind.” He turned and cupped both hands to his mouth. His voice boomed up and down the uneven line of wagons. “Have your ammunition ready. Set up a reloading team. Pick your targets. One good shot is better than three wild ones. The key is to keep them outside these wagons. Zeb’s comin’ in, so don’t shoot.”