Bosses

Eleazar collected the reigns into his gloved right fist. With his left he formed a visor, shielding his eyes against the glare. The vast white valley below lay silent, almost serene. The snow had tapered, though the wind was rising and the temperature plummeting. A black figure on a horse - a smudge against the white - struggled upwards and out of the valley, leaving its compadres huddled at the bottom.

Eleazar prepared for the confrontation.

The figure was a Union soldier with a ridiculously large handlebar moustache and tan leather gloves with a long pointing finger that levelled itself at Eleazar.

“Who is in charge here?” it said.

“We’re a wagon train bound for Oregon … 50 souls … give or take.”

The soldiers lips formed a thin purple line. The cold changed things, but so did frustration.

“You’re group isn’t anywhere in my orders … Sir!”
The pause was for effect. It cleared it’s throat and continued.

“I suggest you turn around. Go back and spend the winter … safely. We’ve word the passes are blocked. Your horses won’t be scratching feed anywhere hereabouts.”

“God will provide,” Eleazar stated flatly. Then he cleared his throat, for effect.

“My troop’ll sweep through this valley and finish up our orders. Then we’ll be off to the fort for the winter. I can’t put you up there for more than a few days. Some of us plan ahead … and throw up stores …”

His words hung on the wind which rose like it too, was maneuvering for effect. Both men turned their faces away.

“The Army won’t be responsible,” the soldier growled.

“We'll be picking through your bodies and your stuff come spring. I’ll file a report and by the time it gets East, it’ll be too late!”

“God will provide,” Eleazar stated flatly.