Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  His words distracted Walks with Moon, and the pressure from her fingertips lightened.

  “Harder, wife.”

  She dug her fingers into him, working his muscle tissue. “Tell me about those people,” she said, her heart pounding.

  “They are…,” he paused again, “hairy-faced-ones.”

  Walks with Moon had a vision of the wild fire in Talks with Shadows’ eyes.

  “The woman’s name is Ray-bec-ka. She reminds me much of you, and her man is called Roo-bin. They remind me of us—very much in love.”

  Talks with Shadow had, for once, been right, thought Walks with Moon. She spoke of this woman. But what of her other words? The future of The People is not bright.

  Walks with Moon knew her husband could not see her wide eyes and open mouth, nor was he aware that she had dropped one hand, placing it protectively against the heat of her ever-rounding belly. But they both heard the call of a burrowing owl outside the tipi, soft and mellow. Co-hoo. Co-hoo. In the distance, the sharp yelps and howls of coyotes, feasting and fighting over the tatanka carcasses, echoed in the dark, melancholy energy of the night.

  Walks with Moon remembered the owl outside the tipi at the winter camp on the Powder and the hawks as the village had trailed east. And the orange glow in Talks with Shadows eyes. What was the message? What did it all mean? For The People. For she and her husband? For….your son… Those had been Talks with Shadow’s words.

  She leaned forward, her lips lingering in a pensive, troubled kiss on the smooth skin of her husband’s back, but Eagle Talon was asleep.

  CHAPTER 48

  MAY 27, 1855

  INDECISION

  Sarah snuggled into her shawl and wiggled her seat into the blanket she had laid over the rough ground of a small rise until she was comfortable. Fifty feet east of her was the circle of wagons. The customary small, cautious evening cook fires had been replaced by several large fires, thigh-high flames licking the cool clear air, excited pioneers clustered around each, trading stories, sharing plans, reviewing goals, and saying goodbyes.

  She hadn’t wanted to be part of the jubilant crowd. She had had little time to herself since leaving Liverpool, and she had much to think about. Below her stretched the broad basin of the South Platte, low-lying folds of lands that seemed to stretch and roll forever. The fires and occasional oil lamps of the residents of Cherry Creek shone far away, lonely flickers of light in a land of creeping shadows, their luminescence, like the faintest stars, daring the approaching night.

  To the west, the sun hung suspended behind dark, mountain silhouettes, the thin layers of softly glowing clouds laced with silver and bold strokes of fiery orange-red. Underlying them, a deepening purple sifted down from the highest peaks, curled around the foothills, and spread like a fog of color across the rolling plains. Transfixed by the sheer power of the scene, Sarah felt tiny and insignificant, yet empowered at the same time. So many choices.

  Her attention was diverted by three ground squirrels, a mother and two babies, thirty feet in front of her. Sarah cocked her head to the side and smiled. “Cute,” she said out loud. The mother watched her two young kits, wiggling her nose with an apparent air of bored detachment.

  As Sarah watched, she felt a sharp twinge in her belly. She held her hand to her stomach, trying to soothe the pain as the two young squirrels wrestled playfully. Suddenly, one turned and aggressively knocked the other one over, biting it. The injured sibling squealed and the mother chattered angrily. The three of them ran down the rise disappearing in the grass, the smaller of the two kits limping where the other had bitten it.

  As she watched the animals disappear, Rebecca’s voice came from behind her, “Sarah, may I join you?” she asked, smiling.

  Sarah realized Rebecca had been standing, watching the antics of the squirrels. She patted the blanket beside her and Rebecca gathered up her riding dress and sat down heavily, slightly off balance, almost rolling backwards.

  “That was graceful, Milady Marx.”

  Rebecca laughed, “Wasn’t it.”

  The two friends sat silently side-by-side, watching the shadows lengthen as the high peaks seemed to devour the sun, one bright yellow bit at a time. “It truly is magnificent,” Rebecca said, an unmistakable note of wonder in her voice. Sarah said nothing. The moment spoke for itself. She drew the shawl up over her shoulders, the temperature dropping as fast as the descending sun. The painful twinge in her stomach seemed to be gone.

  “Sarah,” Rebecca was looking at her with earnest, wide eyes, “can you remember England?”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult,” she admitted. “I have flashes at times. The inside of our sewing shop, the jostle of shoulders when I walked to the market, but it wasn’t long after we left St. Louis that I could not even remember the smell.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “And the sound. You know, Rebecca, that constant noise which you only notice when you don’t hear it?”

  “There was a night on the wagons,” said Rebecca, with an unseeing stare at the last remnants of sun, “that I sat on the banks of the Missouri and realized I couldn’t really recall what had happened only months ago, yet somehow it seemed like forever. London is like a book I read long, long ago. Not the place where I used to live.”

  “I know, Rebecca, I know. My anticipation of America was the hustle, bustle and throngs of New York, working in my Aunt Stella’s shop, saving money to open my own. I really had no idea…”

  “That this,” Rebecca swept her arm expansively, “could exist.”

  Sarah turned to her friend, surprised at how effortlessly Rebecca had described her own feelings. She put her arm around the brunette’s shoulders. Rebecca did the same and they leaned their heads together.

  “It changes you somehow,” whispered Rebecca.

  Sarah nodded, feeling Rebecca’s hair brush her cheek as she moved her head. “Perhaps more than change, it alters you—as if you’ve stepped into a bright sunny room with no walls and you can’t go back.” She paused for a moment. “Have you decided, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca sighed. “There is so much to consider. For some reason I expected Cherry Creek to be more than it is…”

  Sarah started to laugh, pointing at the sparse cluster of lights all but swallowed in the massive descending blackness, sweeping her arm with exaggerated grandeur, “Imagine a great city!”

  Rebecca chortled. “Reuben let me look through Mac’s telescope this afternoon when he and I rode. I couldn’t hold it very still, but I got the impression that there are two dusty streets, less than a block long. I’m not even sure there is a solicitor there. I’ve no idea how I am going to conduct business or get this land sold…if that’s my ultimate decision.” She added after several seconds of silence, “It seems I have come a great distance, yet not arrived.”

  “I know. I shared your anticipation of Cherry Creek, but there seems to be but a few buildings. It’s more an Indian village,” Sarah sighed. “I had no idea. I’m not even sure there’s a place to set up a sewing shop—or that there would be any customers. Maybe they are all like Zeb and they do their own sewing.”

  That thought made them both laugh. “I’m sure there are still plenty like me down there who wouldn’t know,” Rebecca said, “and who don’t want to learn which end of the needle to use.”

  Sarah’s head jerked with a thought. The maps. Jacob’s map was now in the secret compartment at the bottom of her carry bag, along with her money. “Rebecca, did you get the opportunity to ask Reuben about the map?”

  “No, he’s been too preoccupied with the excitement of getting to Cherry Creek. And he has said some odd things. I think he knows good and well that we killed Jacob.”

  Sarah was startled. “Well, first, you did not kill Jacob. I did. But you certainly were a fine accomplice. Reuben’s very much in love with you. You know that, Rebecca, don’t you?”

  Rebecca shook her head, “It does not matter. I know he cares for me. I’m not sure that it is love, though.
In the end, Sarah, we all have our own paths.”

  Sarah fell silent, thinking about Rebecca’s words. The chatter from the large campfires drifted in the breeze. Below the small hill where they sat, the dim form of a horse and rider moved across the land.

  “It’s Zeb,” Sarah smiled. The mountain man dismounted where the ground squirrels had been, and walked up the shallow rise, Buck close behind him.

  “Hello,

  Zeb,” said Rebecca. “Rebecca. Sarah. Purty night.”

  “I’m surprised to see you back, Zeb. For some reason I thought you’d stay in town, perhaps with Mac’s brother, Randy.” Sarah could see Zeb’s head shake against the light of the first stars. His hands moved in the darkness, just thin flickers of skin when the fires behind the women occasionally brightened, their greedy flames feeding on yet unburned buffalo chips. Sarah realized he was rolling a cigarette.

  “Oh, almost forgot,” Zeb said, reaching into his fringed jacket, his hand fumbling underneath the leather. He drew out three envelopes. “Seems to be mail for you Rebecca, and Reuben. Got some for a few of the others, too. I’ll go over and pass ‘em out. There’s one for Thelma and the Doc,” he said in a low tone, “don’t know whether to open it, or burn it.”

  He handed Rebecca two envelopes. “And this one,” he flapped it back and forth, “is for Reuben. I can give it to him or you can, makes no never mind to me.”

  “How did these letters get here before us, Zeb?”

  “Stages been running between Laramie and Independence since 1850. Occasionally, the Army drops down this way from Laramie, and when they do, they bring whatever’s up there that belongs to fellas down in Cherry Creek.”

  He started to lift the cigarette to his mouth, then added, sensing Sarah’s disappointment, “Sorry, Sarah that’s all there was. I’m gonna go hand out these others. Would you walk with me?”

  “How could any woman refuse such a gallant, well-mannered request?” Sarah answered in a teasing voice. “I would be delighted to Zeb.”

  He stretched out his hand. Sarah took it, and he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll be excited to hear what’s in your letters, Rebecca,” she said as they turned to go. “I hope it’s good news from home.”

  Zeb and Sarah walked side-by-side towards the bonfires. Zeb stepped over the wagon tongue and held out his hand. Such a nice man. Sarah took it and he patiently helped her over.

  The letters were quickly distributed, Zeb calling out “Mail!” and then the addressees’ names, struggling with the occasional foreign pronunciation. The lucky pioneer generally ran to him, grabbed the envelope from his outstretched hand, turning immediately away, fumbling to open it with a muttered, “Thanks, Zeb.”

  Several of the people around one fire tried to engage him in conversation, but he would have none of it. “Got things I got to take care of. We’ll talk in the morning before you pull out.”

  The chore dispatched, they walked toward the far side of the circled wagons. Sarah caught a glimpse of Rebecca, blanket tucked under her arm, about to climb in their wagon. Then she saw Johannes, striding rapidly toward them leading Bente. “Sarah! Zeb! I’m headed out, over the east ridge we crossed this afternoon. Got a night guard out in every direction, although we will rotate twice, instead of once tonight. Tomorrow’s a big day and the men need time to get organized. He smiled. “All are excited, as well they should be. I don’t want to keep anybody from their families too long tonight.”

  “What about you? Want me to spell ya later?” Zeb asked.

  “No. I appreciate the offer, Zeb.” Johannes looked up at the sky to the east. “I will enjoy the night out there. Would you tell Reuben where I am, and about the guard rotation for the night?”

  “Sure thing,” Zeb answered.

  Johannes’ eyes drifted down to Sarah. “I went through Inga’s things,” he said to her, pausing to take a deep breath. She noted a tremor in his voice as he spoke again. “Rebecca helped, but it was mostly me.” He took another deep breath. “She doesn’t think any of Inga’s clothes will fit either of you.”

  Sarah could tell this was difficult for Johannes. He dropped his head, a catch in his breath. “But I know you and she were particularly close. There is one thing I found that I am sure she would like you to have.” He raised his eyes to her, turned, walked around the horse, and fumbled with the saddlebag. He reached in and pulled out something. Leaning on his horse, she heard him clear his throat. A few moments passed before Johannes walked back to them.

  In his outstretched hand, Inga’s silver brush shone and reflected in the firelight. Sarah took it slowly, reaching out one hand and putting it on his arm. “Johannes…I….”

  He didn’t let her finish. “That was the only thing she had from the old country. She said it reminded her of her parents and the fjord where she grew up. I’m sure she’d want those happy memories to flow through to you.”

  Before Sarah could say anything, Johannes nodded to Zeb. “Tell Reuben, would you?” Then he abruptly turned, leading Bente away from the wagons and toward the east, Zeb and Sarah watching them both disappear from the firelight.

  Sarah looked down at the brush and turned it in her hands, remembering. “Oh…” she said softly.

  Zeb put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, leading her away. They stepped outside the curved line of rigs, the frontiersman’s right hand holding the Sharps, his left arm hanging loosely in the darkness next to her. In a few paces, he stopped and turned. “We can walk around the wagons, or we can walk out to that little rise yonder,” he pointed south to a raised portion of the shelf slightly more than one hundred yards from where they camped. “Your druthers, Sarah.”

  “Let’s go up there, Zeb. I just have to make sure I don’t trip and fall in the dark with this dress.”

  To her surprise, he took her hand. “I won’t let you fall, Sarah,” he said, shortening his steps. Her hand seemed lost in his warm, protective grip. She liked the rough and gentle feel of his touch. They reached the elevated area and stood silently, a vast blanket of stars over their heads twinkling with hope and promise. The mountain man did not take his hand from hers, and she realized she was glad.

  “Always was partial to the sky,” said Zeb quietly, looking up. “Tells you there’s more.”

  She squeezed his hand, her fingers barely wrapping around the edges of his palm. “Me, too, Zeb. On both those thoughts.”

  Far in the distance she heard a long, lonely howl, shortly afterward answered by another from a different position, but close to the first. “Several people on the train said they don’t like the sound of those coyotes, but I do.”

  She felt him look down at her from the darkness. “Ain’t coyotes,” he said. “Wolves. Not many this far south, though there’s a fair amount when you get up north, or in the back country of those mountains.”

  “Wolves?” Sarah could hear the anxiety in her question. Apparently, so could Zeb.

  He chuckled softly. “They won’t bother us, Sarah. It’s just the male and the female talking to one another,” he paused, looked up at the sky and then down to her. “They mate for life, ya know.”

  She squeezed his hand again, and looked up at the dark rugged form outlined by stars. He turned toward her slowly, then seemed to hesitate. She took her hand from his, and wrapped her fingers into the folds of soft leather below the rawhide ties at his throat.

  “Thank you, Zebarriah Taylor. You have been so very kind to me. Looking out for me. And, with Jacob…” She could feel his eyes on her face even through the darkness. He wrapped his arm around her back, below her shoulders, and bent down slowly, his kiss tentative as he drew her to him, his embrace firm yet not insistent.

  Her surprise at the kiss quickly evolved—from questioning, to responsive as she felt the pressure of his lips on hers. She tightened her grip on his leather shirt. His mustache pleasantly tickling her, his lips warm, respectful, and gentle—particularly gentle.

  He lifted his face from hers slowly and
straightened up. Sarah dropped her arms, wrapped them around his waist and hugged him, and felt him wince, his ribs still sore. “Sorry,” she whispered, the side of her face pressed against the bottom of his chest. Neither said a word. In the distance, the wolves sang their calls to one another under the faint glow of the silver moon.

  Zeb cleared his throat. With her hands still pressed to his shirt, Sarah could feel the rumble in his chest. “I’d never let you fall, Sarah, in the darkness, or otherwise. The kid neither.” Her eyes fluttered open, she jerked and began to pull away, but he held her to him, his grip tender but strong.

  “Yep, I know. You bein’ sick, and all. Knew for sure that day in the wagon, back there on Twin Otters Creek when…when I helped you with your clothes.”

  Sarah relaxed into him and began to quietly cry.

  “No need to answer now, Sarah. We’ll be here a week or two while Johannes and Reuben go fetch those longhorns. There’s time to ponder, but know this, Sarah Bonney from over yonder, whatever your answer, I’m here for ya, and for the young-un too.

  Rebecca stood at the edge of the wagon, two letters clutched in one hand, the blanket tucked under one arm, her other hand lowering the ladder. She paused for a moment, watching the petite redhead in a traveling dress and the tall lanky mountain man, his fringed leather etched by the brightness of the fire as he stood passing out the letters. “That would be perfect,” she murmured to herself.

  She turned away, climbed the ladder swiftly, lit the second oil lamp, and found a comfortable perch on her bedroll. One envelope had the return address of their solicitors in London. It was addressed to her in formal, stilted letters:

  To: Lady Rebecca Marx

  Care of General Delivery, Cherry Creek Post Office Kansas Territory

  United States of America

  Below that, “Hold for recipient.”