October Skies (18 page)

‘Bad things?’

‘Bad things,’ he echoed with no elaboration. ‘Then it finally came to a head when a child went missing. The next morning the man was gone. Never saw him again.’

‘That’s pretty creepy,’ she whispered.

Aaron nodded. ‘The man was evil; well that’s what they thought - that he had evil in him. And just maybe he picked it up in those mountains.’

‘What do you think?’

Aaron finished his coffee with several quick gulps as he pondered an answer. ‘I’m not a churchgoer, you understand? Nor am I some dumb sap who’ll believe any old conspiracy or ghost story doing the rounds. I think Ouija boards are a load of crap. I think mediums and spiritual healers and their type are a bunch of crooks. Okay? I’m telling you this just so’s we can be clear that I’m not some sort of whacked-out small-town hokey. Are we clear?’

Rose nodded.

‘But, I think there is stuff out there that we don’t have the tools to measure and explain and quantify.’ He looked at her with grey, keen and intelligent eyes. ‘And, yes . . . I think maybe there’s something out there in those woods that can do something to a man. Change him somehow.’

‘Change him?’

He shrugged. ‘Turn a good man bad.’

She finished her coffee. ‘Tell me, Mr Pohenz, is there any record of this man’s name?’

‘Because it started as a verbal tale, no one really remembers if he did give a name. The Rag Man is the only name people remember. It’s kind of catchy,’ he said with a smile.

‘And would you know roughly what year that happened?’

He smiled. ‘I know exactly; it was the spring of 1857.’

 

‘I heard it again!’ said Zimmerman. He lowered the bundle of kindling in his arms to the ground and reached for the rifle slung across his broad shoulders.

The group stopped dead in their tracks. Keats swung his long-barrelled Kentucky rifle down, gently half-cocking the hammer and readying a percussion cap. He turned to Zimmerman.

‘Same thing?’ he muttered under his breath.

The man nodded. ‘Whispering again. I’m sure I heard whispering ahead of us.’

Keats looked to the others. ‘Anyone else hear that this time?’

Bowen and the other Mormon, Hearst, shook their heads in silence.

‘I’m certain I heard someone whispering ahead,’ said Zimmerman again with a hushed voice. ‘There’s definitely somebody here, besides us.’

They remained frozen, listening to the subtle rustling of the snow-covered forest. Echoing from the far distance, they could hear a metal cooking skillet being banged and the steady rap, rap, rap of someone’s axe on wood, noises from their camp . . . but no sounds from close by, except for the rasping, fluttering sound of their breathing.

‘I ain’t hearing nothing,’ muttered Keats uneasily.

‘I believe he’s right,’ said Weyland, nodding at Zimmerman, ‘there is most definitely something or someone out there. It’s been following us for a while.’

Ten minutes earlier, Weyland had set them on edge by claiming he thought he’d seen a pair of eyes staring out at him from low down in the undergrowth.

Now Zimmerman.

‘You sure?’ asked Keats.

The man pointed to the trees ahead of them. ‘I’m sure I heard it come from over there. Quiet talking . . . whispering.’

Keats swivelled his Kentucky towards where the man was pointing, squinting down the long barrel at the low-hanging, snow-covered branches ahead. The others fixed their attention on the same place. He looked beneath the trees, thick with ferns and bracken poking through the deep and lumpy carpet of snow. His eyes picked out nothing untoward, no movement at all.

And then he caught a flash of pale brown - the colour of cowhide; a colour out of place in this twin-hued world of white snow and dark green pine needles. He stared intently through the dark web of branches, his keen sight picking out another incongruous detail: a dark horizontal strip and two pale ovals within.

The ovals blinked.

Eyes!

‘I see it now,’ Keats whispered over his shoulder to them. ‘Nobody do nothin’,’ he hissed. ‘Remain . . . completely . . . still.’

He studied the eyes, staring out at them, perfectly motionless until they blinked again and then vanished. He looked from side to side, beneath the low branches, trying to find them again.

And then spotted another pair of eyes.

And another . . . and another.

‘Others . . . see ’em?’ hissed Keats quietly.

Zimmerman nodded.

‘Reckon I owe you a ’pology there, Zimmerman.’

Zimmerman swallowed nervously. ‘Uhh, don’t worry.’

The eyes glided smoothly behind the fir trees a dozen yards in front of them.

‘God preserve us,’ muttered Hearst, his voice trembling, ‘what devils are these?’ His hold on his rifle tightened.

‘We’re bein’ stalked,’ Keats said quietly.

‘They’re demons,’ whispered Hearst. ‘Satan has tracked us down out here.’

Keats’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ain’t demons, Hearst. It’s worse than that.’

All of a sudden one of the low-hanging branches was yanked to one side, dislodging a cascade of powder snow from the tree. Through the momentary blizzard something emerged, crouching low, coiled with enough energy to launch forward onto them at a moment’s notice: a dark face, painted still darker around wide unblinking eyes, and grasping in one hand a tamahakan, a war-club with a vicious-looking hooked blade, in the other a short bow.

‘Far worse . . .’ Keats muttered.

There was movement to the left and the others turned to see several more emerge from the trees and foliage, and more to their right.

‘They’re Paiute.’

Weyland leaned forward. ‘Would they be the—?’

‘Yeah . . . the ones you don’t want to run into,’ Keats replied evenly and quietly, his eyes locked on them.

Some of the Paiute carried older flintlock muskets, acquired hand-me-downs from another era. Others carried bows - but all of them held in the other hand hunting knives, or war-clubs of one sort or another, ready to be used with lethal efficiency at close quarters. Keats counted six of them. Six he could see, that is.

Even if the other men with him were all loaded, ready to fire and managed each to bring down a target with their first and only shot, he suspected there’d be more who would be in amongst them within seconds, wielding the serrated edges of their tamahakan to lethal effect. It would be a bloody and brutal fight that Keats suspected would be over even before their powder smoke cleared.

‘Look at their skin,’ muttered Hearst. ‘Scorched by God . . . they’re demons!’

‘Shut up and be still!’ Keats hissed through clenched teeth.

Dark skin - Keats had heard the Mormons refer to that as the mark of evil.

He studied the Paiute, coiled and perfectly still. The bone piercings and the shrivelled leathery tokens that dangled from their necks served to make them look more demonic.

The Indian who had first emerged from the trees spoke. The language was sharp and guttural, but one Keats recognised as the common tongue loosely shared by the Paiute, the Shoshone, the Bannock . . . he was speaking Ute.

‘Trapper, you lead these white-face here?’

Keats nodded. ‘I lead them through only—’

The Indian frowned and cocked his head curiously at Keats’s poor pronunciation.

‘White-faces bring evil spirit with them into mountains. Must leave.’

‘Snow stops us—’

‘They must leave.’

‘Snow stops us.’

The Indian studied them, his eyes drifting from Keats onto the others, slowly scanning each of them in turn, drinking in every small detail from head to foot.

‘The evil spirit will bring much bad before snow is gone.’

And then barking a command to his men, he turned round to step back through the undergrowth from which they had emerged. The others followed, backing up very slowly through the branches, keeping their eyes on the white-faces. They were all young men, very young and keen to prove their courage. Keats realised the encounter might not be over just yet.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bowen as he watched them warily withdraw through the thick veil of frosted foliage.

Keats shook his head. ‘Later . . . listen,’ he said, quickly turning round to face the others, ‘put your guns down right now.’

Weyland shook his head incredulously. ‘Are you mad?’

Keats placed his rifle gently on the snow. ‘Do it! Before—’

At that moment there was a shrill cry from ahead and one of the Paiute charged out into the open with a ferocious speed and agility, crossing the distance between them as a frightening blur of motion.

The Indian singled out Hearst, his eyes locked resolutely on him as he snarled a vicious war cry. The Paiute scrambled across the deep snow, his raised hand holding high his war-club.

‘Hearst! Drop your gun!’

The thickset Mormon froze, his face a static cast of panic. The Indian swooped down on him, swinging the blade of his tamahakan, missing Hearst by no more than a foot, and lightly, almost tenderly, tapping his shoulder with the handle of the club. He whistled past Hearst with a whooping cry of victory - goal achieved - and raced for the safety of the trees beyond.

Hearst spun round and shakily levelled his gun at the retreating Indian.

‘No! Don’t shoot!!’ cried Keats.

But his words were lost amidst the deafening report of the rifle.

In the silence, they heard the crack of gunfire rattle around the forest and the startled flutter of feathered wings in the trees above them. Keats quickly scooped up his rifle again.

‘Damn! You’ve fuckin’ done it now,’ he spat at the man, dropping to one knee and shouldering his weapon ready to fire. ‘I told you to drop your gun.’

‘He . . . I thought . . .’

‘He was countin’ coup, you fool! That’s all!’ Keats looked around at them. ‘Close up and ready your guns.’

The others adopted Keats’s stance, dropping to one knee and shouldering their rifles. Hearst was unready, fumbling to pour a measure of powder into his gun with shaking hands, then dropping his lead shot in the snow.

‘Hurry, Hearst,’ said Keats. ‘Hurry, you fool!’

The faint peel of gunfire was still echoing around the woods as the man finished ramming the shot home with a rod, readied a percussion cap and shouldered his weapon.

Then it was quiet.

The silence stretched out for half a minute, all five of them waiting, holding their breath trying to keep the long, heavy barrels steady with hands that were trembling and arms that were tiring.

‘Where are they?’ Weyland whispered.

There was no answer. They were gone.

‘Anyone see any of them?’ muttered Keats.

‘No.’

‘Check to the sides, an’ behind,’ said Keats. ‘The bastards may try and surround us.’

Weyland obeyed the guide and turned to face towards their rear, taking a few cautious steps back until he nudged up against one of the others.

‘Keats, what the hell are we supposed to do now?’ he asked.

‘We sit tight an’ wait is what we’ll do.’

Several minutes passed, with all of them straining to detect the slightest rustle of movement amongst the trees. Keats glanced down to his left and saw the body of the Indian lying on its side. A single small hole was drilled into the back of the young man’s head. His face, by contrast, was spread out over the snow. One of the young Indian’s hands moved involuntarily, slowly balling into a fist, then opening, then closing, then opening again.

Keats turned and hissed angrily at Hearst. ‘That’s why I told you to drop your fucking gun!’

‘I thought his axe had struck me!’ complained Hearst. ‘I thought—’

‘It’s done now.’ The old guide shook his head. ‘Some young men amongst them, I knew one of ’em would try an’ count coup.’

Bowen looked up from the twitching hand. ‘Count coup?’

‘A test of manhood, courage. He touched him on the shoulder is all. Nothing more.’

Several tense minutes passed before Weyland whispered. ‘Mr Keats, what did the Indian say to you? You know, before he turned to go?’

Keats shrugged. ‘Hell if I know . . . strangest goddamned version of Ute I ever heard.’

‘You must have an idea.’

Keats wondered how much to share with the others. The Paiute hadn’t directly threatened them; in fact his words had carried the cadence of a warning, more than a threat. Although, Keats reflected, that might change now that Hearst had killed one of theirs.

‘We ain’t welcome here, was the best I can make of it,’ replied Keats. Not exactly the truth, but close enough.