Maps of Fate Read online

  “Fine children,” Reuben said, straightening in the saddle.

  Their mother smiled. “That’s Becky and Eleanor. I am Margaret Johnson, and this is my husband, Harris.” Becky and Eleanor chewed contentedly on the jerky. “Perhaps you would join us for dinner one night, Mr...?”

  “Frank. Reuben Frank. And, yes, that would be my pleasure. You can tell me more of the flag story.”

  Reuben turned in his saddle, raised himself high in the stirrups, felt the comforting press of the holstered Squareback Navy Colt against his right hip as he straightened his leg, and waved his hat in the air. Far to the front of the line of wagons, he heard Mac roar, “Move ’em out!”

  CHAPTER 3

  MARCH 18, 1855

  FOREBODING

  Ice clung stubbornly to the banks of the South Fork of the Powder River as it flowed clear and cold in the half-light past the small Sioux encampment a thousand miles west of the Mississippi.

  Eagle Talon was awakened by her fingers tracing feather-like down the ridged muscles of his abdomen. His eyes opened and he lay still, enjoying the touch of her small, somewhat calloused hands. The gentle gurgle of the river, muted by the thick skins wrapping the lodge poles, was soothing in the dim light of dawn as it seeped through the tipi’s smoke hole. The chill of departing winter mixed with the last glow of warmth from the dying embers several feet from the thick buffalo robes of their bed. Her hands were more insistent now. She snuggled closer, pushing small, full breasts into the contoured muscles of his back. The slightly rounded belly in the fertile valley of her hips nestled into his buttocks, and her lips began to play softly at the base of his neck.

  He reached back his hand and molded it to the barely noticeable bulge in her center where their child grew. She sighed. He turned slowly over to his wife and pulled the buffalo robe from her shapely brown body. The soft red-orange hue of the fire-glow accentuated the delicate, translucent nature of her eyelids, the angular bronze structure of her cheekbones and the fullness of her slightly parted lips over which she ran her tongue seductively. His lips first found the pulse of her neck and then her tan, distended nipples.

  His hand gently rubbed the swell in her stomach. “Haven’t I already done my work, woman?” he teased, smiling.

  She started to push him away but her protest was smothered by his lips. “I want our child to have your eyes,” Eagle Talon whispered, “and your wisdom and strength. A child to comfort us when we grow old and grey. But you? Even old, you will be beautiful.”

  Walks with Moon looked intensely into her husband’s eyes in the half-light. Sharp, steady, dark brown—they were the eyes she had seen in the dreams of her youth. She savored the warmth of his whispers. She had been awake that morning since the night’s coals had faded, listening to her man’s deep breathing, studying his sleeping, almost regal features in the subtle glimmer of smoldering fire.

  She was the only daughter of Tracks on Rock, the tribe’s medicine man. Eagle Talon was the sole son of the war chief, Two Bears of the Northern People. As small children, they had noticed each other during infrequent gatherings of the widely separated clans, often exchanging shy smiles when their parents were not looking.

  Walks with Moon smiled into the warmth of their sleeping robes. She had never told her husband, but she had chosen him when they had known only five winters. And in the end she always achieved, in her own quiet way, whatever she wanted. Eagle Talon had finally succumbed. He had arrived leading a long string of horses toward the end of season of color, soon after her tribe had set up its camp the winter before last. Walks with Moon’s heart had leapt. Without a glance in her direction, he had gone directly to the lodge of Tracks on Rock and requested permission to court her.

  Her smile deepened as she remembered. Perhaps their parents had not been as blind as they pretended. The courtship lasted only four suns. Then, in typical brash Eagle Talon fashion, to the surprise of the village and delight of the gossipy older women, the handsome warrior rashly appeared outside the lodge of Tracks on Rock requesting Walks with Moon be his wife. He offered the staggering dowry of ten ponies, a finely crafted, polished antler tine breastplate, and a superb war lance. Her father had stood quietly, giving thought to what else he could ask for. That is, until her besieging stare caught his eye. He turned back immediately to Eagle Talon, grasped his shoulder and nodded his head once.

  They had married soon afterward. As tradition demanded, her clan became his. She felt the pulse of pride at how quickly her man had proven his courage and skill in hunting and war party sorties that occasionally raided or retaliated against the competing Crow and Pawnee.

  His prowess was not solely of the bow and lance. He had proven himself a statesman, too. Eagle Talon had single-handedly avoided bloodshed when Pawnee had night-raided the ponies of a tribe of Arapaho in the Valley of the Laramie, leaving signs to suggest her Oglala tribe was responsible. Bravely, he had negotiated a peace that had been approved unanimously by the elders of the Council.

  The tingle of her husband’s lips on her breasts brought her back. She felt her pout ease and moved ever closer in his embrace.

  “What you say is true, husband,” she breathed in his ear. Her fingers moved up his thighs and tightened gently around him.

  Eagle Talon turned over and raised himself up on one elbow. He felt his chiseled face crease with a smile. He was sorely tempted. But there was much to do with the new sun, which was already making its presence known. He did not like to rush lovemaking with his beautiful wife. “I must rise, Walks with Moon. The Council meets today.” He kept his tone soft, but firm.

  “You mentioned the women are gathering to wash…” he laughed, “…and share stories, at the river today?”

  “Yes, husband.”

  “Perhaps we can resume that part of this discussion, which requires no words, when the sun sets?” Eagle Talon let his finger drift over the curve of her hips, his lips pressed against her ear.

  “I will look forward to that, husband.”

  He felt that primordial sense of man, family and love course through his being. His hands slipped up to her chin. Gently, he turned her face back over her shoulder toward his and kissed her lightly. “The first of many sons I am sure, Walks with Moon. I have much to do today. I must not linger.”

  He gently disengaged, kicked the last of the buffalo robes from their legs and stood. He pulled on the soft but heavy elk skin shirt that Walks with Moon had lovingly stitched for him during the winter. “You are strong, good and beautiful, my wife…” he grinned, “… and you sew well.” He pulled the buffalo skins back over her, reached for his lance and war shield and moved to the tipi flap.

  “It pleases me that you like your shirt, husband.”

  Eagle Talon paused, glanced back at her and nodded, then untied the leather thongs that held the flaps in place and stepped out into the morning. He could hear the activity inside the other tipis. Thin, grey wisps from dwindling night fires curled in slow tendrils from the smoke holes, dissipating in the chilled air. Uneven lines of snow had drifted into the hollows of ridges around the camp and the steeper banks along the river. The rim of the sun, rising over the sandstone ledges to the east, cast a dawn glow on the thick brush along the riverbanks. The leafless cottonwoods reached their uppermost branches into the first rays of the morning. The season when life comes. Eagle Talon sighed contentedly among the stirring village and the awakening earth, and the memory of Walks with Moon’s touch on his loins. Yes, the season when life comes. May it be so, he whispered to the sky.

  The flap of a tipi near him pushed open and an Indian with long grey hair, still broad-shouldered, but having lost the sculptured muscle of youth, stepped from his lodge. With some effort, Flying Arrow gradually straightened. One bony hand held a headdress with the feathers of many eagles, the other a long, thick staff with a heavy wooden burl at its head. Eagle Talon knew that staff had counted many coups.

  The older Indian raised his arms to the now quickly emerging sun, the ext
ended staff blending with the backdrop of leafless tree limbs behind him. He turned and slowly surveyed the camp until his eyes met that of Eagle Talon. He nodded a greeting, which Eagle Talon respectfully returned. Today was the Council of Chiefs. They would make plans for the coming season, promoting ideas as their own, never publicly admitting the heavy influence of advice from their wives, which carried considerable private weight in the matriarchal society of The People. Eagle Talon smiled, thinking of Walks with Moon.

  It was time to make many decisions. Scouts would be designated to keep an eye on other bands of The People and competing villages of Pawnee and Crow. Other braves would begin the season’s search for tatanka, and Walks with Moon’s father, Tracks on Rock, would set a day a number of suns from this morning when the village would begin the ancient ritual of following the herds of buffalo located by the scouts.

  The light breeze shifted from the east. Eagle Talon felt his brow furrow in concert with the uneasy stir in the morning air currents. There would also be talk of the strangers with white skins. There had been few of them up until now, but their sightings were becoming more frequent.

  Eagle Talon had seen his first hairy-faced-one when just a boy, twenty winters ago. Dressed in pelts and fringed leather leggings, the white man had bravely come into the village leading his horse and the two pack mules laden with beaver pelts and other skins. In the crook of his arm he carried a long wooden and blue metal object. He had moved with one hand raised, palm out, through the silent gathering group of The People.

  As a boy, he remembered pulling on his father’s loincloth asking, “What is he carrying, father? What is that?” He would never forget his father looking down at him, many feathers flowing from the sheen of his full black hair, their tips brushing his shoulder, the grip on his lance tightening, a somber darkness in his eyes.

  “That is called a holy iron, son. It is the weapon of the hairy-faced-ones.”

  The memory dissipated, and the promise of the spring dawn and later lovemaking were carried away by the east breeze; only to be replaced by a feeling of foreboding deep in Eagle Talon’s spirit.

  CHAPTER 4

  MARCH 18, 1855

  STRAINING AGAINST THE TRACES

  Johannes could feel the warm and slender shape of Inga’s long thigh beneath his fingers, though his hand was separated from her flesh by her blue wool traveling dress and three horsehair petticoats. Inga looked at him coyly, a flush rising in her cheeks.

  “Rebecca will see us, Johannes!” She glanced furtively to the side of the wagon, behind her, and then quickly toward the two wagons ahead of them.

  He merely grinned then continued to gently slide his hand toward the “V” of her legs. “I think it will be a while before Mac gets things organized. Rebecca is no doubt behind the wagon, cursing the horses, and checking her trunks to see which of her gowns are still packed after Reuben ransacked them. Maybe we should wrap a blanket around us and see what happens.”

  “Johannes!” Her blush turned crimson, the deep pink of her high cheekbones offsetting startling blue eyes and bright blond hair. The hue crept up her throat, rising from the curve of her breasts and the tapered top of her laced bodice. Even through three layers of clothing Johannes noticed the swell of her nipples and knew that, despite her embarrassed protests, his idea held some intrigue. He leaned over, kissed her cheek and then moved his lips to her ear. “What color blanket should we use?”

  Inga, her face now scarlet, her legs doing an involuntary dance, carefully smoothed the cloth of the dress over the tops of her knees, but she made no move to remove his hand, which was still slowly moving up her inner thigh.

  Johannes’ smile widened. He admired the beauty of her distinctly Scandinavian profile, like his, and the thin perfectly proportioned contours of her tall frame. He realized again that he reveled in the pleasure of simply sitting next to her. He was as surprised now at how he welcomed her warm, comforting energy, as he had been when their eyes first met on the train from New York to St. Louis just weeks before.

  Above the sound of blood rushing in his own ears, he heard the hub-bub of noises around them. Mac, the fiery-tempered Irish wagon master, was fully audible, but somewhere out of sight ahead of the two forward wagons. Reuben had galloped by on Lahn toward the rear of the long line of wagons only seconds before, and the receding drum of the palomino’s hooves could still be heard. The air reverberated with activity. To the rear, excited chatter echoed from every rig, their tongues and teams pointed with hope to the west, away from the rising sun and St. Louis, now on the other side of the slow swirl of the currents of the Mississippi.

  “And what exactly is this?”

  Inga jerked straight up, suddenly tense. The drift of Johannes’ lips toward her bare neck froze. Standing to Inga’s side, feet spread firmly on the ground, hands on perfectly curved hips, was Inga’s mistress, Rebecca Marx. Her wide brown eyes were narrowed, and her normally full evocative lips pursed in a thin, tight line. The angry color in her cheeks accentuated waves of hair so dark as to be almost black.

  “We are beginning a long, dangerous and dirty journey of one thousand miles. Reuben has totally disorganized my trunks, which are surrounded by dusty sacks of grain, we will have to contend with wretched wilderness, dangers, uncivilized behavior and horrible conditions for months. I doubt I shall even see my tea set until we get to Cherry Creek.” Her voice took on a biting tone. “And you, Johannes, you have only one thing on your mind, always. There’s no hope for you, but Inga, I’m surprised. Show some self-control. Your actions reflect on me.”

  Inga bit her lip and nodded, embarrassed as she surreptitiously removed Johannes’ hand from where it had stopped in its travels up her leg. “Yes, Milady. Johannes and I were just talking…” her voice trailed off.

  Johannes straightened up. Although Inga was very tall, almost six feet, Johannes towered a head above her. He was careful to keep the smile on his face. After all, Reuben was his best friend and for whatever reasons only the Lord knew, seemed to hold some type of attraction for this pretentious brunette.

  “I was just leaning over to show Inga how to use the brakes on these prairie schooners, Rebecca.” He caught her momentary grimace and felt some satisfaction. She hated it when anyone, particularly himself, addressed her as “Rebecca,” rather than “Milady Marx.” However, he noticed her reaction was far less hostile when Reuben called her by her first name.

  “The grain is for the horses. This grass won’t green for another month or more. No grain, weak horses. Weak horses, we walk. In that case your attire would likely be in tatters, Rebecca.”

  He let his eyes slide down the full length of her figure. She was resplendently swathed in a finely tailored black wool skirt and bodice, which clung to her petite body. Johannes presumed she wore at least four petticoats to achieve the explosive flair of the heavy material of the skirt. Her supple form needed no corset and though the bodice rose modestly to the base of her throat, the stretch of wool over her breasts concealed little of their perfect shape. The skirt’s billows sported thin, dull red pleats that played off perfectly with the red bone buttons ascending the bodice from waist to neck in a double vertical line that centered narrowly in her cleavage. Long, thin black leather gloves disappeared into the swells of heavy silk false sleeves of muted red and black. The jaunty angle of her black wool hat, with its tapered front sun brim and fluttery red dyed ostrich plume, emphasized her almond eyes, high cheekbones and lips so well formed they were inviting even when pursed in a petulant line.

  Johannes could literally feel the twinkle in his own pale blue eyes. “We probably won’t be stopping for lunch or tea anytime soon. The Rocky Mountains are far away.” He thought he had kept the sarcasm from his tone. The wince he felt in Inga said otherwise, as did Rebecca’s darkening scowl.

  She stamped her foot. “This is going to be an exceedingly long journey, Mr. Svenson. Inga, move over to the center, I am climbing up.”

  Johannes stretched out a long arm to
offer her assistance, but she ignored it, pulling herself up to the wooden planks of the bench seat. Carefully arranging her dress under her she sat stiffly, back arched, nose slightly elevated, and stared straight ahead.

  “As you wish, Milady,” said Johannes with a chuckle and a slight pull on the front of his broad brim hat. He leaned over the side of the seat and looked far down the line of the thirty-eight wagons that stretched almost one-third mile behind them toward the river. He could make out Reuben standing in the stirrups next to the very last Conestoga, waving his hat in the air.

  Mac appeared at a trot from behind the first wagon. His shoulders were far wider than the chest of the thickly muscled, red-sorrel quarter horse that pranced animatedly beneath him. His very full, light red beard was clearly visible against the faded grey wool of his trail coat and his hat was held high in one hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He rose in the stirrups peering intently back toward the tail of the wagon train.

  Evidently, he caught Reuben’s signal. He squashed the stained, well-worn hat over his mop of darker red hair and waved an outstretched arm, “Move ’em out!” he barked in a roar that startled the horses.

  There was a buzz of exclamations and shouts up and down the line of wagons. The sounds of whips being cracked from the wagons pulled by oxen and leather lines slapping the backs of horses and mules reverberated in the morning air. Creaks of protest groaned from wood and metal. Puffs of dust erupted from the hooves of the horses straining against the traces of the forward wagons. As the beasts overcame the inertia of the heavy loads, their gaits evened with the first westward steps toward the new, and the unknown.