October Skies (39 page)

‘For Christ’s sake, someone cut him down!’ Keats shouted angrily at the muttering, praying crowd.

Mr Zimmerman emerged and climbed up into the tree, his boots slipping perilously on the frosted branch that stretched a couple of dozen feet over the clearing from the forest’s edge.

Ben watched the man hunker down halfway along the branch and produce a knife. He swiped a couple of times at the rope cinched around the branch. With a crack of twine snapping, the branch lurched upwards several inches, freed of the dead weight as Vander’s body tumbled down. There were cries and whimpers at the appalling sight of his stiff body buckling on impact with the ground and lolling over at an awkward angle, a rigid arm pointing to the sky, one leg snapped and twisted like brittle firewood by the fall.

The crowd drew back from it instinctively.

Ben moved forward into the cleared space, Keats quickly beside him as he knelt down beside the body. Vander’s eyes stared lifelessly back at Ben, wide and terrified and milky from death. He leaned forward, studying them closely.

‘What’re you doin’, Lambert?’ Keats muttered.

‘The eyes. I believe sometimes they can capture an image, like a photograph, of the last thing a victim sees.’

‘Really?’ Keats sounded impressed.

Ben nodded, leaning closer still. ‘Something I read before I came out. Scotland Yard police routinely photograph the eyes of the dead.’

He studied them intently but could see nothing in the clouded iris. The expression on Vander’s face told him more.

‘What’s that stickin’ out of his mouth?’ asked Keats.

‘See if you can guess.’

The guide’s eyebrows locked in thought for a moment, then he looked down at the jagged wounds around Vander’s groin, and nodded.

His own genitals in his mouth?

Ben was wondering what the hell that meant - it had to signify something, surely - when he heard a commotion coming from the back of the crowd. He heard a woman’s voice, shrill and sobbing. It drew closer. The crowd parted and he saw Preston leading through a woman, his arm around her narrow shoulders. He saw the body, and calmly turned her around so that her back was facing the ghastly sight.

‘Sophia . . . again, tell these people here what you told me,’ he said gently.

She nodded. ‘I . . . I . . . saw . . . the angel,’ she muttered between sobs, ‘last night . . . I saw it.’

Ben saw eyes widen and lips move amongst the gathered faces.

‘I . . . I . . . was out . . . to relieve myself. I saw it.’ Her small voice crumpled into a mewling whimper.

Preston rubbed her back encouragingly. ‘Go on, Mrs Rutherford. Tell them.’

She nodded again, and took a breath. ‘It . . . it . . . was . . . made of bones.’ She shook her head, trembling as she struggled to recall what she’d seen. ‘I th-thought I was having a nightmare. Tall . . . tall, it was . . . m-moving through our camp.’ She looked up at Preston and shook her head. ‘Please . . . please, don’t let it come for my ch-children,’ she pleaded with her hoarse, broken voice.

Preston nodded, whispered an encouragement, then held her tightly for a moment before letting her step back through the crowd towards her husband.

The minister turned and took in the sight of Vander’s crumpled body: contorted, twisted and brittle. For the briefest moment there was no reaction on his face - a dull, lifeless response that seemed at odds with the tender reassurance he had offered the woman a moment earlier. Then his face darkened and he turned to address his people.

‘Another judgement on us! A second judgement! This is His warning!’ Preston spun round to look at Ben and Keats. ‘And it is you He is warning us of!’

An uneasy murmur stirred through the gathered people like an autumn draft through dry leaves.

‘The outsiders are poisoning this place like bad water,’ he spat angrily. ‘And here they are, bringing those evil demons right into the heart of our camp’ - he pointed to his shelter - ‘within just a few yards of our sacred place!’ He took a step forward. ‘You’ve walked the Devil’s servants, his eyes and ears, his scouts, right up to our door. Don’t you see what you’ve done?’ He pointed at Broken Wing. ‘Don’t you see the face of the Devil in his eyes?

Broken Wing defiantly returned Preston’s glare.

‘Don’t you see him looking out at us, mocking us, enjoying the spectacle?’

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Keats.

‘You’ve tainted us with those devilish creatures,’ he said, thrusting a finger towards the Paiute, standing back from the crowd, ‘that you’ve foolishly embraced into our camp.’ Preston gestured towards the crumpled cadaver in the snow. ‘That, I fear, will be the last of our warnings! All the outsiders must leave this place today!’

Keats stood up. ‘Don’t be a fool, Preston!’

‘You must leave before night!’

‘No one’s leavin’ here. We’d die without shelter and food.’

Preston strode forward until his face was only inches from Keats’s.

‘Don’t you see, Keats?’ Preston muttered quietly so that only Keats could hear. Ben could see that his eyes were intense, bloodshot and dilated with fear, anger or excitement - it was impossible to tell. Flecks of spittle dotted his dark beard. ‘My God, don’t you see? I’m doing what I can to save you.’

‘Save us?’

‘If you and your people stay another night, you’ll test the Lord’s patience too far. He’ll come like a storm. His angel will descend and rip you, perhaps even us, into bloody coils of flesh!’

‘What goddamned angel?’

Preston ignored him. ‘My people have a mission that cannot be started with you here. You have to leave!’ For a fleeting moment, his face softened and he spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry, but that is how it is.’ He shook his head with regret. ‘I have been foolish and far more tolerant than I should have been. Your people are not welcome here any longer.’

Keats’s face darkened angrily. ‘My folks have every right to winter here. You can’t make us leave.’

‘You have to.’

‘We try an’ make our way outta these mountains whilst winter’s on us, we’ll die out there.’

Preston took several steps back from them and raised his voice. ‘They must leave our side of the camp now!’ he commanded, then, pointing towards the Indians, he added, ‘Take those dark creatures with you. I can no longer ask my people to tolerate them near this place.’

Mutterings of agreement rippled across the crowd and one of Preston’s men pushed his way to the front, shouldered his rifle and aimed it squarely at Keats’s head.

‘I’ll not let you bring God’s anger to my family’s door!’

‘Mr Stolz!’ called out Preston. ‘Hold your fire! We need no more blood spilled this morning!’

Another couple of men stepped forward, each holding a rifle, and from the stern expression on their faces, they were prepared to use them.

‘You must return to your side and prepare to leave, before God decides to make an example of you right here and now!’

Ben stood up. ‘Come on, Keats,’ he spoke quietly. ‘We should go.’

The guide nodded. They both backed away from Vander’s body and began to pick their way through the gathered crowd. Ben could sense the cold, steely gaze of their eyes on them as they made their way through to join the rest of their group, waiting in a small huddle, their weapons held ready.

My God, thought Ben, this is a hair-trigger away from being a massacre.

As they drew up beside the others, the silence was broken by one of the younger Paiute who suddenly began shouting. Ben turned to see what was going on. The young man was pointing towards the gathered Mormons and hurling a stream of Ute at them.

‘What’s he saying?’

Keats shook his head. ‘I ain’t getting’ it all . . . too fast.’

The Indian took several threatening steps forward, his tamahakan raised threateningly, and pointed once again.

Ben followed the direction of the young man’s glare and saw that it was Zimmerman he was addressing with another screamed release of anger.

‘I sssee you.’ Broken Wing hastily translated the Paiute’s words out of the side of his mouth. ‘Killer of Lazy Wolf.’

Keats shook his head and muttered to Ben. ‘It was Hearst shot the Indian, not Zimmerman. The boy’s mistaken.’

The Paiute took a dozen intimidating steps forward, and then tossed his weapon into the ground, the handle sticking up out of the snow. He screamed in Ute again.

‘Lazy Wolf hold no weapon.’

He took another couple of steps forward until he stood opposite the man. Mr Zimmerman aimed his gun. ‘Stay where you are!’ he yelled.

The Indian understood and stopped in his tracks. Then, he spoke loudly. The gestures that came with it weren’t hard to decipher. But then the Indian finished, turned round and headed back towards his tamahakan. Zimmerman called out. ‘What the hell did the thing say?’

Keats bit his lip.

‘I said . . .’ Zimmerman swung the long barrel of his musket towards Keats. ‘What the hell did it say?’

‘The Indian said . . . when the fighting starts, he will find you, and cut your heart out.’

Without hesitation, the musket in Zimmerman’s hands swung back towards the Paiute, and then a plume of blue smoke erupted with a deafening boom.

A large star-shaped exit wound erupted from the top of the Indian’s torso, hurling out on to the snow tatters of deer hide, skin and blood. The Indian staggered a foot forward, reaching out for the handle of his war-club, sticking up out of the snow, then collapsed.

A second deafening boom erupted from behind Ben. He turned and saw Three Hawks with his ancient flintlock raised and a ring of gunsmoke rolling away from the tip of its four-foot-long barrel.

Zimmerman fell backwards amidst a puff of crimson.

Another shot rang out from amongst Preston’s men and a lead shot hummed between the Paiute and the others like a hornet.

‘Stop!’ Keats bellowed angrily.

Bowen and Weyland both discharged their weapons, one shot failing to find a target, the other clipping the arm of a woman. She dropped to her knees and screamed.

In the momentary lull before another shot could be fired Preston strode forward in front of his people. ‘Stop this!’

Keats echoed that by turning round and knocking McIntyre’s barrel up in the air. The gun boomed noisily and another pale blue cloud of smoke erupted to dissipate amidst a thinning strata of powdersmoke hanging above them.

As the peal of gunfire faded, a stillness descended over both groups. The woman was moaning in agony on the ground, her two children whimpering pitifully by her side.

‘Go! Now!’ barked Preston. ‘Before it’s too late,’ he shouted, enraged.

Ben stared down at the white snow, criss-crossed with fresh and dark splatter marks.

‘Now!’ shouted Preston.

Keats turned to face the others. ‘Let’s go.’ Broken Wing nodded, echoing the command to Three Hawks and the other Paiute. They began a slow retreat across the clearing, Hussein and Ben keeping their loaded guns ready, Bowen, McIntyre and Weyland attempting to clumsily pour powder from their horns as they walked backwards, spilling it in dark trails.

‘Save it, you idiots,’ muttered Keats, ‘you’re wastin’ yer powder.’

We’re going to need it, thought Ben.

Ben kept his eyes on Preston and his men. There were more of them mustering, spreading out in a long line, muskets being loaded - the metallic clattering of ramrods and rolling lead shot filling the air.

Shit, they’re going to fire a volley at us.

Ben counted about two dozen of them, spreading out either side of their leader in a scruffy, irregular line that looked chillingly like a firing squad. Ramrods being tucked away, several of the muskets were levelled out ready to fire once more.

‘My God, they’re going to fire!’ Ben cried.

‘Goddamn it, keep moving!’ Keats shouted, turning and breaking from a steady plodding retreat into a jog. ‘Keep moving!’

Most of Preston’s men had levelled their muskets by now and patiently awaited his say so to fire. Instead Preston raised his hands and cupped them around his mouth.

‘Be gone from this place!’ His words echoed off the tree line around them.

As they retreated around the lumpy carpet of snow-covered bones in the middle of the clearing, Keats slowed down, satisfied they were far enough away that most shots would fall wide.

‘We ain’t leaving, folks.’

Ben turned to him. ‘But we have to.’

Keats ignored that. ‘We have work to do - every man, woman an’ child.’

 

Dr Griffith turned the hot water off and settled back in the bath, enjoying the tickle of bubbles against his skin and the soothing sound of water gently sloshed by his movements, echoing back off the expensive granite tiles.

His home was modest; a nondescript terraced house in a quiet mews in a village-like enclave a minute’s walk from Notting Hill High Street. He had considered moving to something more prestigious, but he’d made the place comfortable over the years, particularly his bathroom, on which he’d spent at least fifteen thousand pounds getting it exactly how he wanted it.