Then, as he was about to leave, she called him back. He sat down again, leaning his head close so he could hear her. “Reuben, I’m proud of you. You were brave, very brave today.”
He kissed her cheek. “No, Rebecca. It is you who showed courage today. Close your eyes,” he whispered. “We will be back shortly.” Then he rose, jumped down from the wagon, closed the tailgate, and partially tied the canvas before turning to Zeb.
Zeb shook his head. “A pile of sadness in one place,” he said, “for such a short spell of time.”
Reuben looked up at his friend, noticing for the first time the thin, pink film of blood bubbling on Zeb’s lips. “Damn, Zeb, you hit, too?”
“No, just cracked some ribs. Got jumped by a Pawnee warrior up in the hills. Strong son of a bitch. Thought I was in trouble there for a moment. Broke my own ribs on the Enfield when I fell.” He chuckled. “Damn fool thing to do.”
“Have you seen Johannes?”
Zeb’s lips tightened and a pained look crept into his eyes. “Nope. Last I saw him he was carrying Inga’s body, a shovel, and his Sharps down river. I suspect he does not want to be found.”
“Let’s swing around the wagons and see exactly what the casualties and damages are. I’m sure there’s many folks who need help. Then we will report to Mac.” Reuben took a step, stopped, and straightened up. “We ought to have riders out. Maybe those Pawnee have left—maybe they haven’t.”
Zeb smiled, “Already got ’em out, Reuben. Figured you needed time alone with your woman, and Mac looked mighty peaked when he headed over to the supply wagons, so I just took things in my own hands. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Hell, no, Zeb. Thanks.” He looked up at his friend, “But she’s not my woman.”
Zeb’s eyebrows raised. “Well, whatever she might tell you, son, she thinks she’s your woman. And while we’re checking things, let’s find that bastard Jacob and get that whiskey.”
Jacob sat in his and Sarah’s wagon on top of a half-diminished bag of beans—the cries and moans of the stupefied, wounded pioneers, the occasional pain-filled whinnies of horses and grunts of wounded oxen, usually followed by a shot—filtering though the canvas.
He examined the arrow carefully, running his large stubby fingers up and down the shaft in a thoughtful caress, turning it his hands, every once in a while testing the sharpness of the point with his index finger. Thinking hard, he reached into his pocket and drew out his Frontier Army short-barreled .44 revolver, grabbed a handful of shells from the small canvas sack where he carried his ammunition, and reloaded.
Moments later, directly outside the wagon, he heard movement, and he hurriedly shoved the pistol back in his belt.
“Jacob? You in there?” It was that damn Reuben Frank. “Zeb and I want to talk with you.”
CHAPTER 38
MAY 10, 1855
THEN THERE WERE THREE
Jacob thought quickly. Given the bigger plan, what is the best way to handle this? I despise both of these men, and Reuben is on my short list of four. With the confusion after the attack, I might never have a better chance.
He looked around the interior of the wagon. Wish that redheaded bitch hadn’t moved her stuff to the queen’s wagon. I was so looking forward to rifling through it.
“Jacob are you in there?”
The impatience in the Prussian voice of the goody-two-shoes was unmistakable. Jacob took a deep breath, let it out, and, in a level voice, replied, “I…I…I’m in here. Pretty shaken up. Take me a minute or two, but I’ll be out.”
He stood, paused for what he thought would be a plausible long moment, and walked to the back of the wagon, stowing the arrow carefully under his bedroll. As he untied the canvas, the wooden tailgate was pulled open by Zeb, and it fell with a thud once he released it.
Zeb stepped two paces back.
Jacob smiled at them, careful not to be overly friendly. Has to be just right. He willed his face into a pained expression, put one hand down on the tailgate, and sprang to the ground. His eyes dropped to Reuben’s Colt and then to the hilt of Zeb’s back blade, barely visible behind the angle where the mountain man’s shoulder met his neck.
“Bloody, nasty day. Simply a horrible day. Just about outta ammunition, you know. I got me two of them buggers, but this pistol has no range to it.”
Jacob surveyed the scene around them quickly—people crying as they found their loved ones or helped wounded to the wagons. Chaos. Good. “Did anyone from the Edinburgh crew get hurt?”
Reuben and Zeb exchanged glances, their jaws tight, and a noticeable pain in their eyes. Good, Jacob pondered, maybe it was that tall, blond son of a bitch who likes to pretend he’s not a soldier boywhat got hurt. He concentrated on keeping a touch of concern in his voice. “Who?”
“Inga.”
Jacob looked down at the ground, shaking his head slowly. One sweet thing I will never taste, but there are others. He raised his head with his best poker eyes and said, “I’m sorry to hear that. I stepped out of bounds in the wagon the night of the storm. I meant to apologize.” He swung his arm around the disorganized camp. “Never expected something like this. I’m sorry.”
The eyes of the other two men bore into him, trying to gauge his authenticity, he guessed. He blinked rapidly and ran the back of his forefinger across one eye, as if arresting a tear. “I know we were none too friendly, but this is terrible. Except for that poor woman, we were all shipmates from Europe. That counts for something.”
Zeb and Reuben exchanged glances, and Jacob picked up the slightest relaxation in their postures. Good.
“We need some of your whiskey, Jacob,” said Zeb gruffly. “Several wounded need some doctoring.”
Perfect. He nodded his head up and down energetically “Of course. Of course. How much do you need?” He turned to the wagon, stretched himself over the tailgate, fumbled under some supplies, and pulled two earthenware gallon jugs toward him, sliding them over the surface of the tailgate. “This ’ere one’s about three-quarters full, and the other ain’t even been touched. Was saving it until we got to Cherry Creek. You’re welcome to it all.” Better not be going overboard. “Let me just fill my flask, and if there’s one left, I’d sure appreciate you bringing it back.”
Reuben looked surprised. “Thank you, Jacob. That means a lot.” Zeb’s eyes were narrowed. A furrow of suspicion lurked in his eyebrows. Reuben turned. “Zeb, the Patricks down there need help. Looks like the Kirbys do too.”
Jacob followed their gaze. Figures were huddled over several prostrate forms on the ground. At a further wagon three men carried someone— he couldn’t tell man or woman—back toward one of the wagons.
“Jacob, if you wouldn’t mind, just put those right inside the tailgate. We’ll pick them up when we come back.”
“Aye, whatever works. Let me…let me get myself organized, and I will come down and help you.”
Zeb and Reuben exchanged glances again. “We appreciate that. I’m sure the others will, too.” The two men turned and jogged toward the wagons further down the line, Zeb holding his side and gingerly jumping over the body of a dead Pawnee.
Jacob watched them go. Not my best performance, but it worked. There was some blood on coonskin’s lips. I should find out more about that. Could be useful. He looked around the camp, and his eyes fixed on the two supply wagons. He jumped back onto the tailgate and closed it, taking care that no one from a distant point was peeking inside through the open canvas. He reached under the bedroll, picked up the arrow and broke it in half over his knee, hiding the two broken shafts in his shirt under his arm. Too warm for a jacket— would make folks wonder.
He lowered the tailgate, jumped down, reached back and pulled the two whiskey jugs just to the edge of the wagon bed—visible for someone who knew to look for them. With a glance in all directions, he stepped outside the circle of wagons and began walking toward the supply rigs, stopping at the end of each wagon and team to take a quick peek through the gap where he m
ight be seen. But everyone was engrossed in dealing with the aftermath of the attack. As I thought. He reached the supply wagons and stood for moment, quietly looking at each. There was a creak in one, some heavy moving. Only silence from the other.
Jacob took care to stay hidden from the interior of the camp’s semi-circle. He looked behind him to the west. Not a soul to be seen. He cast a furtive look around and called out, “Mac, wagon master, it’s Jacob O’Shanahan. I—we need your help, or leastways your advice.” He reached into his shirt, felt carefully, and withdrew the half-arrow with the sharp stone broadhead. He held it behind him, tight to his leg and buttocks.
The wagon creaked as Mac came to the open tailgate and peered around the edge of the canvas.
Mac’s voice had an annoyed tone. “What do you want? Be quick about it. They’re good people that need my help, and I was just getting ready to go. Soon as I wrap a bandage round this arm.”
The wagon master’s eyes were cold. His face was pale behind the bushy red eyebrows and beard. He clutched a piece of bloody cloth high on his arm. Every once in a while there was a flicker in his blue eyes. Must be a little pain in that shoulder. Too bad for you, you bastard.
“I’m sorry to bother you. There’s something very strange going on out there,” Jacob pointed behind him to the west. Mac raised his head and squinted. “I don’t see nothing.”
“No, come down here so you can follow my point. I don’t know if it’s more Indians or what. But I thought you ought to know. We may not like each other much, but you do what needs to be done.” Jacob inwardly winced as he said the words. Hope I ain’t overplayed my hand.
Mac eased himself down on his rump on the open tailgate, then pushed himself off gingerly with his good hand. Jacob tightened his grip on the shaft of the arrow, the arrowhead pressing against his leg. He moved slightly so he stood almost at the center of the wagon, the most concealed position from the other pioneers. “Over here, Mac, figure you best see from here.” He pretended to point, his left hand extended and forefinger straight off into the distance, as if at something ominous. The wagon master stopped. “Let me get my telescope.”
“No, you don’t need it. Take a look first.”
Mac had turned back to the tailgate, but instead took the final few steps to Jacob and cocked his head so his eye could follow the direction of Jacob’s extended arm.
Jacob’s grip closed even more tightly on the shaft of the arrow. With a sudden violent sideways swing of his right arm underneath his outstretched left, he plunged the arrow into Mac’s chest. Mac staggered back against the wagon, one hand closed around the shaft of the arrow, the other reaching for Jacob’s face, his bushy eyebrows contorted, a terrible look of shock and rage on his face. With the wagon master’s back against the wagon, Jacob had leverage. He drove the arrow in further. There was a groan, and Mac’s hand, which had slipped to his throat, slid weakly down his chest. Jacob pushed again. He felt the point pierce something firm inside the stocky man’s chest. Blood came from both corners of his mouth, and he began to sag, his back slowly sliding down the canvas and the wooden side of the wagon.
Jacob stood up and looked around quickly. One down, three to go. He took the other, fletched half of the broken shaft from his shirt, and laid it on Mac’s chest, still quivering with death spasms. He grabbed the big man’s hands and soaked their palms in the bloody shirt, closing one hand around the half-shaft of the imbedded arrow, and one around its broken brother. He stood and surveyed the scene. “Guess you snapped it off when you tried to pull it out of you.” You pompous ass. Thought you could push me around since all the way back in the livery in St. Louis, eh? You won’t be using that bullwhip ever again, either.
Jacob looked down at his own bloody hands. One sleeve was wet and stained. He scrubbed out his boot tracks and snuck down the line of wagons to the creek to wash his hands. He ripped the stained sleeve off, wadding it up, and letting it drift away in the current. He stood and walked swiftly back up the outside edge of the wagons, taking extra precautions to make sure no one noticed. Or, if they did, would recognize him only as another figure in the anguished confusion.
He made it back to his wagon, climbing in through the front, and examined his clothes carefully. He made sure to change them and his boots. He checked the inside pocket of his jacket, his stubby fingers closing on the textured parchment of the gold map. He smiled. He folded it and carefully hid it under the last of the flour and beans.
“Jacob.” He started, his hand jerking away. It was the Prussian farmer. Timing couldn’t be better. “We’re taking one of the whisky jugs and we could use your help.”
Jacob walked the few steps to tailgate. “I think I am settled down enough now. What do you need me to do?”
“We have some bodies we need to move,” answered Reuben grimly.
Reuben was focused on the grisly task at hand. Where the hell is Mac? He, Zeb, and Jacob went first to those wagons and groups most obviously needing assistance. They moved four wounded to their rigs. None of them appeared seriously injured. “They ain’t going to die,” was the way Zeb put it.
More difficult was moving the bodies of six pioneers, four men, a woman, and one child, the youngest of four children of a couple from Ohio. He and Zeb usually had the help of Jacob and several other pioneers as they moved the corpses. Zeb was quiet. Jacob seemed detached, untouched. One of the other pioneers was usually a friend or a relative of the dead. They were all emotional. Reuben simply felt numb.
The child’s mother, Virginia, was beside herself with grief and guilt. Her husband and Reuben tried to console her, but to no avail. “I did everything I could,” she said in a broken voice. “The flour sacks and beans and the kegs against the wagon wall. I had the little ones lie down and I spread myself on top of them.” She clung to Reuben’s hand when they tried to lift the little body. “I told them to get up, it was over, and they all got up, but she was gone. My little Lizabeth. I don’t know how she got out of the wagon or why. Then I looked out and there she lay. I ran to her, shook her, but,” her voice dropped and cracked, “she didn’t move.” Her head sank to her chest and she whispered, “I shook her, but she didn’t move.”
Reuben looked up at her husband, “You might want to get Virginia back to the wagon—let her get some rest.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the two brothers and sister of the dead little girl. Oldest can’t be eight or nine. They were staring wide-eyed at their sister’s small, twisted form lying motionless on the ground.
The man nodded, helped his wife rise, and, with an arm around her hunched-over figure, began walking back to their Conestoga. Reuben watched them, thinking of the deep jagged gash in Rebecca’s lip. Not too important, everything is relative.
With the help of other pioneers, they resumed the sad job of lifting and moving bodies, laying them in a peaceful row in the middle of the semi-circle of wagons and covering them with wool blankets, the corners held down by rocks. Four men followed the creek and found the bodies of the two brothers who had died defending their wagon, stranded in the current.
Once the last corpse had been moved, Reuben straightened up and turned to Jacob. “That help was appreciated, Jacob. Let’s see if we can’t keep things smooth from here to Cherry Creek. We don’t have all that much longer to go.”
The stocky Irishman flashed an enigmatic grin. “Was no problem on my part, I assure you.” He shook his head. “Tragic.” They watched him as he walked back to his wagon. Reuben turned to Zeb, “Guess there’s a little good in everybody, Zeb.”
The mountain man’s eyes fixed on Reuben’s. “A scorpion doesn’t lose its sting. Just bides its time, is all.”
They went around to various wagons, checking stock, helping remove dead animals from harnesses, and reassuring the shaken pioneers. Reuben looked around, “We’ve been out here a spell. I’m surprised we haven’t seen Mac yet. I wonder if he’s okay?”
“Let’s get back and stitch up that woman of yours before that wound binds up too
much. Then we will go get Mac.”
Reuben looked up, set to speak, but Zeb cut him off with a smile, “I know. I know, son. She ain’t your woman.”
They detoured by Jacob’s wagon to the get a second jug of whiskey. The Irishman called out to them, “Should you be needing me again, you know where to find me.” As they walked quickly to the prairie schooner and knocked on the tailgate, Sarah’s voice came from inside the canvas, “Zeb, is that you? Reuben?”
The low, soft tone in the mountain man’s voice when he answered made Reuben look over his shoulder at his friend. “It’s me, Sarah,” Zeb said, “and Reuben.”
Reuben turned to hide his smile. They clambered into the wagon. Rebecca still lay curled in the fetal position, blankets pulled up over her. Sarah sat upright, a wool blanket wrapped around her, covering all but her bare shoulders. Obviously, she had not yet donned any clothes.
Zeb straightened up, looked at her, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Sarah, to disturb your privacy, but you were so distraught and…”
Sarah lifted a finger to the soft smile that played on her lips. Some of the color had returned to her face, but her eyes were still raw and swollen. “It’s quite okay, Zebarriah Taylor. I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen before…” she blushed and looked down, then raised her eyes and smiled. “This place strips you of modesty—the false pretenses people think are proper back in the cities. They don’t exist here. There’s just land, our spirit, and each moment. I simply had to have those clothes off me.” She looked directly into Zeb’s eyes with an unflinching stare, “I understand you better now, Zeb. Your quiet ways.”
Reuben cleared his throat and turned to Rebecca.
She was no longer crying, but her eyes were wide and red, her pupils dilated. A corner of the blanket she had gathered under her head as a pillow was stained with spots of blood from her torn lip. She still wore the chemise, which hugged her body, almost transparent. Reuben pulled the blankets carefully back to just below her shoulder and looked anxiously at Zeb. “What do you think?”
Maps of Fate Page 36