Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Behind Sarah, Johannes was giving directions to four men as the group sprinted for the wagons in the creek, water up around their knees as they ran. Johannes was obviously pointing out positions he wanted them to take even while running, his red sash and saber clearly visible, his Sharps carbine in one hand and Colt Army in the other.

  Mac followed her gaze. “He’s all military, that one. No hesitation. Pure instinct and training. Better than most officers we got, for sure. Good luck, Sarah. Good luck, Rebecca.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Reuben, follow me.”

  Reuben turned, then wheeled back to Rebecca, wrapped his free arm around her, and pulled her roughly to him. Sarah’s heart raced as she watched him quickly, and deeply, kiss the brunette. Then he turned and followed the running, bulky form of the wagon master down the line of wagons.

  Out beyond the wagons, Sarah could now see Zeb clearly, Buck a beautiful blur of speed underneath him, the mountain man hunched over the horse’s neck, pistol in one hand. Seconds later, several wagons down the line, they vaulted over the tongue of a wagon and, with a cloud of swirling dust, Zeb slid off the mustang, doubling over as his feet hit the ground, sinking to one knee, and holding his side.

  “Oh my God!” Without thinking, Sarah ran to him as he stood slowly erect, one hand clutching his ribs. He’s been shot! Her heart was in her throat as she ran up to him and looked up into his face. “Zeb, Zeb, have you been shot? Are you all right?”

  Zeb smiled slowly at her. “I think lookin’ into your big blue eyes, seein’ them freckles, and the way that sunlight is bouncin’ off your hair, makes every bit of that ride worth it.” He chuckled, winced, and Sarah noticed a slight pink bubbling on his lips. She reached up her hands and grabbed his leather shirt with clenched fists. “Dammit, Zeb, have you been shot?”

  “No. Just ribs. I’ll be fine. You get back up there behind the wagon with Rebecca and Inga.”

  “But, Zeb…”

  “I’ll be fine. You get, quick. They’re gonna be here any second.” He ran over to Buck, murmured in the horse’s ear, and drew the Sharps and Enfield from their scabbards. Sprinting to the Leonard’s wagon, he knelt down, holding his side, and rested the Sharps on its tongue. Buck trotted behind him and, to Sarah’s dismay, the horse flattened itself sideways against the creek side of the Conestoga, his muzzle toward his master.

  She heard distant, wild screams and looked up to see the furious horde of Indians, terrible cries coming from their lips like demons descending on heaven. She gathered up her dress and ran back to their wagon. Rebecca was in firing position—the Sharps snug into her shoulder and firm against her cheek, the barrel steady on the wooden ladder rest.

  Sarah took a deep breath, leaned back against the wagon, and closed her eyes. Her lids jerked open with the loud report of Rebecca’s Sharps just feet from her. Rebecca did not look up. “One down,” she said. The petite woman’s tone was steady and level. The wagon train was alive now with the scattered thumps of rifles and musket fire. Sarah peaked around the corner of the wagon. The Indians were coming full bore. Several horses were without riders. She heard the report of their guns, saw flashes of fire over the tops of their horses, and the air filled with the deadly sigh of lead. She heard a scream and turned her head quickly. The boy from the Kentucky wagon, Abraham, was down on the ground holding his knee. His father scrambled over and dragged him by the collar, almost throwing him under their wagon. He picked up the boy’s musket and tossed it to him, pointing. The boy nodded his head and, lying on his back, began to reload. She looked down the other line of wagons. Harris was still in the wagon seat directly under the flag, settled between the driver’s bench and using the sideboard for cover. He took a shot then reached back for a reloaded musket from Margaret.

  There was a sickening “thwak” nearby and one of their lead horses collapsed into the traces. The other horses tried to rear but couldn’t, hobbled by the tangled harness weight holding them down.

  She peaked around the wagon again as Rebecca fired and could clearly see the war paint on the faces of the advancing braves, who had not slowed whatsoever. They were coming closer. Her hand slipped into her dress pocket and closed around the Deringer.

  Rebecca shot again. In front of them, Sarah heard another scream. Reuben and Mac were down at the end by the farthest three wagons, rigs driven by older couples, one of them the retired government man from DC. Reuben and Johannes had remarked he couldn’t hit the target. She blinked when she saw Jacob at their wagon, his pistol out, taking careful aim, then firing, then taking careful aim again. An arrow lodged itself in the corner of the wood frame above his head. He ducked, then reached up, yanked the arrow from the wood, and, with a furtive glance around him, stowed it quickly, but carefully, in the footwell of the wagon seat. Strange, flashed across Sarah’s mind.

  Rebecca’s Sharps barked again. The eighth round. Sure enough, Rebecca turned from her crouched position and handed Sarah the Sharps. “Reload. Be quick about it. Inga, give me the Enfield.” Rebecca grabbed the musket from Inga’s trembling outstretched arm, and again set herself up in her shooting position. In the same instant, three Indians and their mustangs vaulted over wagon tongues at various points in the curve of wagons, quickly followed by four more. Several more horses screamed and dropped in their harnesses. An oxen brayed in terror and fell slowly on its side, kicking its legs. More shots rang out and several Indians, who had breached the line, toppled from their horses. One loosed an arrow and four wagons away one of the pioneers rose to full height, clawing at the wooden shaft protruding from his chest, then sank to his knees, and rolled over into the dust.

  There were more and more Indians now inside their circle, splitting the pioneer firepower from the outside of their shield of wagons. The two wagons in the river were burning. Johannes and another man were dragging Thelma and the doctor through the creek. The corpses of two pioneers and two warriors drifted downstream bobbing in the current like lifeless logs. Sarah stood stupefied. Her knees trembled. The sweat of heat and fear ran down her temples in grimy streaks. Smoke from the burning canvases, dust, and grey puffs of gunpowder rendered everything surreal, softening the apparitional shapes of the wounded and bodies strewn in grotesque positions. The guttural whoops of the attackers, screams of petrified and dying animals, and moans of pain echoed amongst the wagons and the sharp sounds of gunshots.

  Sarah held the Sharps in one hand, breech open, ready for loading, frozen in shocked disbelief. The scene was incomprehensible. Through the haze of the battle raging around the wagons, she saw the shadowy figures of Mac, Reuben, and Johannes sprinting to a breach where the Indians had pulled over one of the smaller rigs. In that gap, Zeb, a knife in each hand, and two other men from the train, struggled in mortal combat with an increasing number of lance and tomahawk wielding invaders. Reuben and Mac each carried two rifles. Johannes had his carbine in one grip, pistol in the other. His saber scabbard slapped against his leg as he ran.

  Sarah saw him look over his shoulder and could barely make out his shout. “Behind us!”

  Johannes wheeled, ghostlike in the brownish grey cloud that enveloped the conflict, and stood calmly erect, his pistol extended. He fired once from the Colt. The rider of the horse bearing down on the three jerked violently from the impact of the .44-caliber slug, then somersaulted backward over the rear of his steed. He lay unmoving, barely discernible in the groundswell of dust.

  Sarah’s eyes quickly searched the nearby wagons. Jacob had disappeared. Her mouth fell open when she saw Harris wrestling with a much smaller Indian who was obviously after that heirloom American flag, hanging ripped, tattered, and limp in the semi-opaque heat. Disbelief knifed through her numb detachment. What type of people are these who risk their life for a piece of old cloth? Below Harris, Margaret wielded her musket like a club, keeping another attacker at bay. Two men ran through the din to assist her.

  “Sarah, load the damn rifle!” came Rebecca’s frantic shout.

  Sarah jolted back to re
ality. Trying to control the trembling that had overtaken her body, she jammed the cartridge into the Sharps with shaking fingers, then handed the long gun to Rebecca who, in turn, gave her the Enfield she had just discharged. Rebecca turned, rested the receiver and forestock over the lip of the wagon, and swung the muzzle as she found another target.

  Without looking back, Rebecca commanded in a loud voice, “Inga, reload that Enfield. Quickly!”

  Pressed against the side of the wagon box, Sarah fumbled in the saddle bag Rebecca had draped over the wagon wheel for the next round. She heard a whisper in the air, like the sound a small bird makes on a calm, peaceful evening in the stillness just before dark. And then a sudden, hollow, resounding thud. A woman’s voice cried out in pain.

  “Sarah, get the Enfield from Inga,” Rebecca almost screamed. The urgency in Rebecca’s voice made Sarah peer around the corner of the wagon, the next load for the Sharps in her hand. Headed at a gallop right for them were three Indians, no more than a few hundred feet away.

  “Oh my God, Inga, the Enfield!” shouted Sarah as she turned to her friend, expecting to grab the musket and give it to Rebecca. She gasped, her breath caught in her throat, her mind suddenly blank.

  Inga lay on the ground writhing, both her hands pressed to her belly. Between her shaking fingers was the shaft of an arrow, its fletching wobbling grotesquely as her body spasmed. Her head was partially lifted off the ground, her eyes wide she looked down at her wound.

  “Sarah, Sarah, I’ve been hit. Oh Lord Jesus. Oh my God,” she whimpered. Her voice rose, “Johannes, Johannes.”

  “Sarah, dammit,” Rebecca panicked, "The rifle. Quick!”

  Sarah ran the few steps to Inga’s prostrate form. Her skin was the pallor of dirty linen. Her pupils were dilated, and she was breathing shallowly in short rapid breaths, her eyes staring, eyelids blinking rapidly. A wide swath of red was spreading, staining her green traveling dress. Sarah knelt down, “I will be right back, Inga.” Inga clawed feebly at Sarah’s dress. “Sarah, the baby. Do you think the baby is all right?” Sarah fought the urge to vomit, patted Inga’s bloody hand, grabbed the dropped Enfield, and sprinted toward the head of the wagon. The three braves had dismounted and were advancing on foot. “Sarah, throw me the gun!”

  Rebecca caught the musket, juggled it into position, and turned, the first brave just feet away. Sarah reached for the Deringer in her dress pocket. Rebecca brought the musket level, just above her waist, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. Inga had not reloaded! The first warrior reached across the wagon tongue and grabbed Rebecca, his hand quickly around her throat as he tried to drag her toward him, his other arm rising, holding a knife. She struggled, fighting him off, the other two braves close behind.

  Sarah stepped up into the wagon seat, leaned over the front, cocked the hammer of the Deringer and, from two feet away, fired. The top of the man’s head disappeared. He sank to his knees, his hand still clasped around Rebecca’s throat, dragging her down with him. She struggled and finally freed herself from his death grip, but, by that time, the other two braves were almost on them. Sarah cocked her arm and threw the pistol with all the force she could muster. One Indian staggered back, blood spurting from between his fingers, his hand clamped to his forehead just above his eye where the pistol had found its mark. His lips curled, baring his teeth in a sneering smile, and he lunged forward again. Rebecca had the Enfield up, holding it by the barrel like a club.

  From behind them came an unearthly half-scream, half-shout, boiling with anger and anguish—Johannes—his eyes fixed on them. Further down the line of wagons, Reuben was already running toward them; he threw down his rifle and pulled the Colt, his sprinting form drifting in and out of the smoke and haze.

  Johannes wheeled to face a mounted Indian brave with a lance. The tall blonde fenced with his saber, ducked the man’s lance, then ran the sword through the brave, lifting the body off the horse with the blade and throwing it to the ground. He raised the saber, and it flashed again as it disappeared in a downward arc into the dust toward the ground. He swung on top of the vanquished brave’s mustang, issuing a bloodcurdling cry, his bloody saber raised and glinting dully in the sun and haze, and bore down on them at a gallop.

  Sarah jerked, the Indian she had hit with the thrown Deringer had his hand on her wrist, trying to pull her down off the wagon. His eyes glittered black under the bloody split in his eyebrow from the pistol. Red and black paint in alternating wavy lines down his scowl accentuated his hawkish face. Sarah lowered her mouth and sank her teeth into his hand. He shouted in a strange, guttural tongue and let go, jerking his hand away. The other Indian, thick-necked and shouldered, lashed out viciously with his shield, catching Rebecca on the side of the head. She slumped to the ground. He grabbed her by the hair and began dragging her back to his pony. Blood trickled from her mouth as she feebly resisted.

  There was a swish, a flash of steel, and the brave’s arm and hand, which once again had been trying to drag Sarah down from the wagon, was suddenly not attached to his body. Towering above them on the Indian pony was Johannes. Again, his saber flashed. The Indian screamed, holding his throat. The saber dipped, and Sarah watched the Indian fall, gurgling, with a thud to the ground.

  Johannes glanced quickly at Inga, his face ashen, and then at Rebecca, now dragged halfway to the fleeing warrior’s horse. He dug his heels into the mustang, vaulted the tongue, and bore down on the marauding kidnapper, shouting Danish battle cries. Three other Indians on ponies charged out of the swirl of smoky dust, intent on joining the fray. The Indian let go of Rebecca and raised his lance, holding it at the ready as Johannes bore down on him. As Johannes neared the Indian, he lunged with the spear. Johannes parried smoothly with the saber and, as he raised it, twisted it deftly to the side. The headless torso of the brave did a grotesque dance of death before it toppled sideways to the ground.

  Sarah tried to scream, “Johannes, Johannes, behind you,” but no words came out, just a raspy croak. The soldier in Johannes already knew. He wheeled, spurring the mustang. The horse reared up, its forehooves pawing the air, and came back to the ground on the dead run. Johannes charged forward, saber held angled in front of him, his deep baritone voice shouting words Sarah couldn’t recognize, but a challenge that she was sure echoed back to the dawn of man. He rode directly into the three charging Indians, his horse’s momentum knocking one of the other horses over, his saber slashing, moving rapidly, wide swings, thrusts, parries. In a minute, it was over. The three warriors were dead and one of their horses was on the ground, struggling but unable to rise. Johannes shot the wounded animal with his Colt, turned his own horse back at a gallop toward their wagon, and was on the ground running long before he reached the rig. He leapt over the tongue, throwing a quick sideways glance at Sarah, a look that she would remember on her deathbed.

  He knelt down next to Inga and reached for her hand, delicately taking her other hand from her abdomen. He spoke to her and she answered weakly in Norwegian. Tears trickled from her eyes. He let go of her hands and lifted his own. They hovered around the shaft of the arrow, as if unsure whether to extract it. One of Inga’s hands clutched desperately at his sleeve. She tried to raise her head, but he eased her gently back down, leaning over to whisper to her.

  Sarah tore her eyes from the couple and began sobbing uncontrollably. Several shots rang out and a strange type of whooping, different than what their attackers had surprised them with, filled the dusty mist. The Indians still around the wagons were suddenly talking excitedly, shouting back and forth at one another. They wheeled their horses and galloped out. Another shot. Then another. More cries echoed from out there in the opaque space. So strange. What was happening? Through her blurred vision, she saw Rebecca roll to her knees sixty feet outside the circle of wagons, her head on the ground. She ran to her. “Rebecca, Rebecca, are you all right?”

  Rebecca shook her head slowly, obviously dazed, blood steadily dripping from her lip where the shi
eld had caught her. Still crying, Sarah frantically helped Rebecca stagger to her feet and back toward the cover of the prairie schooner. I have to go help Johannes with Inga.

  Grabbing one of Rebecca’s arms, she put it over her shoulders, and half walked, half dragged the brunette the last twenty-five feet to the wagon. She helped her stuporous friend get under the driving seat, propping her up against the inside of the front wheel. “I’ll be right back, Rebecca.” Rebecca stared vacantly at her and nodded her head, indicating some degree of comprehension. Sarah tried to jump the wagon tongue but her dress caught and she fell, skinning both hands. She pushed herself up, skidded around the corner of the wagon, and then leaned back against the side, her hand involuntarily covering her mouth. Oh no, oh no. Please no.

  Reuben stood with his hand on the small of Johannes’ back. The tall blonde man was on his knees, hunched over, his face buried in Inga’s neck, holding one of her bloody hands. Inga’s eyes stared skyward to the side of Johannes’ buried face, unseeing.

  Reuben looked up at Sarah, his face contorted with pain, and wagged his head slowly side to side. He mouthed the question, “Rebecca?” Sarah gestured behind her. He patted Johannes one more time, straightened up, and ran around the corner of the wagon. He knelt by Rebecca, and with his kerchief tenderly wiped the blood from her mouth and chin.

  CHAPTER 36

  MAY 10, 1855

  THE BOND