October Skies (49 page)

He wondered if some of them might start drifting back towards the camp, perhaps to pray. He decided there was no more time to waste on caution and pushed his way through the canvas flap.

Inside he heard a gasp, and by the weak light of a candle saw the wide-eyed, tear-stained face of Mrs Zimmerman, beside Emily. Her lips trembled with grief as much as surprise at his sudden intrusion.

She looked at him, panting heavily, the red rims of her eyes sore with grief.

‘Preston . . . he . . . he’s turned us all into m-murderers,’ she whispered between sobs.

Ben shook his head. He spoke softly ‘No, not all of you, Mrs Zimmerman.’

She sniffed and wiped her nose. ‘This place has . . . has become evil. I can feel the Devil out there.’

‘It has.’ Ben looked down at Emily. ‘I’ve come to take her away.’

She nodded. ‘Yes . . . yes, she must go with you. She can’t stay here.’

He squeezed up inside the shelter and gathered the girl in his arms. Emily murmured something drowsily and her eyes darted anxiously around for a moment before lapsing back into a vacant, torpid stare. Mrs Zimmerman reached out and stroked the girl once more.

‘Please, promise me you’ll keep her safe,’ she cried, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘She’s all I live for now. I have no one . . . family . . .’

‘Then come with me,’ said Ben. ‘Help me with her.’

She stared at him uncertainly. ‘Where will you take her?’

‘I have no idea. All I know is we have to get away from here. You should come. Emily needs you.’

They could hear wailing outside, tormented grief and rage . . . tinged with madness. Her eyes met his uncertainly.

‘I’ve seen depictions of hell,’ said Ben, ‘painted by asylum inmates and great painters alike, and they are what I’ve seen outside.’

A distant piercing scream echoed from the woods.

‘If you stay here, Mrs Zimmerman, Preston’s madness will kill you and all the others. One way or another you will all die. He’s lost his mind.’ He placed a hand on her arm. ‘And I’ll need your help with her.’ Ben’s eyes met hers. ‘There’s nothing for you here, not any more.’

She looked around, still uncertain, biting her lip, agonising for the briefest moment. Then she nodded. ‘I’ll come.’

‘We must go now.’

Ben shuffled clumsily on his knees with the girl in his arms towards the entrance. He pushed the flap aside with his head and peered out. The fire in the middle was now beginning to dwindle and the circular barricade had collapsed in on itself, leaving a ring of glowing, sparking embers and languid flames. He could see silhouettes of people moving amongst the bodies. He hoped it was comfort being offered to those wounded or dying, but he suspected raw grief and rage was driving some to exact a cruel revenge on those not yet dead.

No one had drifted back towards the camp, just yet.

He scrambled to his feet with difficulty, encumbered by the dead weight of Emily, and loped across the space between shelters directly towards the nearest trees. Mrs Zimmerman followed, anxiously looking behind her at people she no longer recognised. She caught up with Ben kneeling down on the edge of the clearing, waiting for her.

‘We will freeze outside tonight,’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘We’ll keep moving tonight. That will save us from freezing. By daylight tomorrow we should be far enough away to consider our other needs and make a shelter.’

He wondered which way to head, having no idea where they were in the mountains or how far away, and in which direction, the nearest humble outpost of civilisation lay.

There might be other trappers out in these woods.

But he realised that coming across one was unlikely. They were going to have to find their own means of survival.

Mrs Zimmerman placed a hand on his arm. ‘Head west, Mr Lambert . . . we should head west.’

She was right. He looked up at the clear night sky and made a rough calculation on where he recalled noticing the pale, milky sun rise and set these last few weeks.

‘West is that way, I think,’ he said, pointing across the clearing. ‘We’ll need to move quietly round the edge of the camp. Are you ready?’

She nodded.

‘Come on then,’ he whispered, scooping up Emily in his arms.

 

Keats struggled against the gradient of the gentle upward slope, winded and exhausted by the exertion of the last ten minutes, the desperate hand-to-hand fight and the ensuing escape. His tortured breath came in ragged gasps and wisps of steam rose from his hot body into the cold night air.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and turned round to look back the way he had come. The sky was mostly clear tonight, and in between the floating islands of dark cloud the full moon shone brightly, bathing the night with a quicksilver that made the snow’s glow almost luminescent.

A hunter’s light. A hunter’s moon.

He cursed. The tracks of dislodged powder snow in his wake were unmissable even without the aid of lamplight. The dark spatters of blood he was leaving beside them - black by the light of the moon - only served to further betray the way he had come. The gash down his forearm, caused by the vicious swinging impact of a hoe, was still bleeding, but the flow of blood had slowed from a gush to a viscous trickle. He needed to bandage the wound so that it wouldn’t get caught on something, tugged open, and the bleeding renewed.

But he also needed to keep moving.

Behind him, some way further down the hillside, he could hear someone’s laboured breathing, the cracking of branches and twigs being pushed desperately aside; someone rapidly approaching him. Further down the hill beyond, he could see the muted flicker of lamps and flaming torches moving swiftly between the trees.

The sound of panting breath and the cracking of hasty strides taken carelessly was almost upon him. Keats hadn’t time to mess with pouring powder and wadding a lead ball ready to fire. He dropped his rifle and pulled out his hunting knife. The panting quickly drew upon him, and by the pale glare of moonlight he saw a silhouette stagger out of the darkness and cross the clear, luminescent, snow-covered ground between them.

Keats sighed with relief when he recognised the outline and managed a dry and wheezy laugh.

‘Broken Wing,’ he said in Ute.

‘Ke-e-et, you live,’ the Indian replied in English.

They stared in silence for a few moments, both gasping hungrily for air.

Keats pointed downhill. ‘Others with you?’

Broken Wing nodded. ‘One Paiute brother, and the white-face with buffalo-skin squaw.’

‘No one else?’

‘They all dead.’

He heard Weyland and the others approaching now, making enough noise between them that Keats found himself grimacing and wincing with each deafening snap and rustle. They emerged into the moonlight, Weyland and a Paiute carrying between them the Negro girl, who flopped lifelessly in their arms.

Keats focused his attention again on the distant glimmer of torchlight. He counted at least a couple of dozen flickering orange auras moving amongst the trees. He watched as they halted, then a few moments later began to converge.

A meeting.

‘My little girl’s hurt badly.’ Weyland’s soft voice broke the silence as he lay down with the girl in his arms. ‘My little darling, Violet. They hurt you, but you’re going to be fine,’ he whispered, rocking her gently in his arms. ‘You’re going to be fine, my little angel. We’ll get you out of here, out of these mountains and down . . . down into the land we came here for,’ he muttered, his voice thick with grief.

The young Paiute looked up at Broken Wing and shook his head slowly.

‘Buffalo skin is dead.’

Broken Wing nodded.

Keats ripped a strip off the faded polka-dot shirt beneath his deerskin jacket and tied a bandage around his arm as he studied the distant gathering of light, undulating in the darkness.

‘They will come, Ke-e-e-t,’ announced Broken Wing in English for the benefit of Weyland. Following Keats’s gaze, he continued in Ute.

‘Even blind fool can follow.’

There was some movement from down below. The gathering appeared to be splitting in two. One of the groups changed direction and began to diverge into a dozen pin-pricks of light, spreading out and covering the woods around the camp. Keats realised they were looking for any escapees who had decided to hide and not flee. The other group delayed a while longer before starting up the slope towards them.

Keats balled his fist. They’ve found our tracks.

Weyland continued making whispered assurances to his girl, promising a future that wasn’t going to happen for her.

‘We have to go,’ hissed Keats.

The Virginian ignored him, whispering promises into her ear. ‘Weyland!’

He looked up at Keats.

‘She’s gone, Weyland. She’s dead. We have to go now.’

Weyland shook his head. ‘Violet’s tired. I need to let her rest here for a while, and then—’

‘The girl’s dead!’ he snapped. ‘Ain’t no time to argue ’bout it. Look,’ he said, pointing downhill. The glow of lights was already growing brighter and more distinct. They were making better speed up the hill, with the benefit of the light from their flaming torches and oil lamps showing the way.

‘Why do white-faces still come?’ asked the Paiute in Ute.

Broken Wing glanced at the distant lights. ‘White-face spirit has taken them.’

Keats placed a hand on Weyland’s arm. ‘Say goodbye to her, Weyland, we’re movin’ along.’

Weyland nodded, kissed her still mouth and held her tightly, burying his face into her shoulder and rocking backwards and forwards.

‘We gotta go,’ Keats barked. ‘Now!’

Broken Wing uttered a clipped command to the young Paiute. He then punched Weyland roughly in the small of his back. ‘Come, or you die.’

He nodded, let her head down on the snow and got to his feet.

‘This way,’ said Keats, pointing uphill. He turned once more to look back down behind them as they filed silently past. Their pursuers were getting closer. Beyond them, he saw the muted glow of a smouldering circle, the fading embers of their hastily constructed defences. His assumption that the wood would be too damp to easily catch fire had been an error. They should have used the day to pack what they could and leave, as Preston had demanded of them, instead of digging in.

It was my mistake.

Lambert had seen sense, had seen they were doomed, and left before it was too late. The rest of them could have - should have - done the same. He realised now that there was plenty worse to be frightened of in these hills than the weather.

‘Mebbe them preacher types are right,’ he muttered to himself.

Maybe there are demons and angels . . . a God and a Devil.

 

‘Oh, no . . . no, that won’t do. We can’t have them skulking around in these woods,’ Preston called out to the nearest of his people. ‘You hear me?’

The men nearby nodded.

‘Find them for me. We can’t let them slip away and then come back. Spread out and find them!’

The swinging lights of dozens of oil lamps and flickering, sputtering torches filled the space around them with dancing shadows as they beat multiple paths through the coarse undergrowth and pushed through thick boughs of fir needles.

‘And be careful!’ he cautioned, raising his voice above the murmur of other voices, the snap of branches, and the rustle and tumble of dislodged snow around him. ‘They’re evil spirits. They will jump at you and cut you if they can. Be aware,’ he said with a chilling certainty, ‘if you corner them, they will try to confuse you. Whatever you do, do not listen to them! Do not look into their eyes; do not let them into your head! They may look like people . . . but they’re not.’

Preston pushed forward with renewed determination, frantically scouring the ground in front of him, looking for signs of a recent footfall.

We cannot let any escape. This place must be purged.

The noises of movement from either side diminished as the men around him began to fan out, making their own way through the thickening woods. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw the familiar faces of two men following too closely in his wake.

‘Pieter, Jacob . . . you must spread out some more. We must—’ Turning forward again, the light from his lamp suddenly picked out a trail of kicked-up snow crossing directly in front of him. ‘Look! There! More tracks.’

Several people by the looks of it, running together.

A drift of snow was disturbed and flattened to one side of the tracks.

Someone weakened and fell, perhaps stumbled.

‘We have them!’ He smiled.

The three of them veered to their right, following the recently made tracks, taking them up the gradually increasing gradient. Their breathing grew more laboured as they pushed onwards, and after a while the noises of the other men out combing through the trees were all but lost, except for the occasional distant voice calling out a find, calling to each other.