Alex Scarrow - October skies

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.

17 October, 1856

Preston’s wounds seem to be healing well, with only small indications of infection. There is some inflammation around one of the wounds, and a little weeping, but one would have expected far worse from the unclean claws of a wild animal. There are some signs of a mild fever — the man’s skin is hot to touch — but his greatest discomfort seems to be pain from the wound. Inside which, regarding the lacerations, the bruising must be quite considerable. I have given him more laudanum, to which he responds well. It is a potent solution, which I prefer to prescribe sparingly.

Too much can lead to a reliance upon it.

Dorothy Dreyton is with me now. As a matter of fact, she lies asleep on the floor. Her vigil is almost constant. She must be at the point of exhaustion to allow herself the luxury of an hour or two to sleep. I wonder if she has the slightest notion that her children have spent more time during the last few days at our end of the camp than they have in theirs.

Preston stirred restlessly in his sleep and muttered, his deep voice thick with cloying mucus. Ben guessed that the recently administered opiate was doing its work and had entirely banished the pain for now. But it was also weaving a darker magic. On an unconscious mind it conjured the most lurid nightmares. He had seen first-hand the poor wretches that had found themselves admitted to Banner House Asylum by way of over-using laudanum and other such soothing tonics, tormented by visions and delusions that hounded them in their sleeping and — for the less fortunate — waking hours.

Ben leaned over and stroked his forehead, feeling the warmth and dampness of his pale skin. Lying on a cot in this sorry condition, there was still something very impressive about William Preston, Ben decided; he exuded an air of authority even as he slept. A man like that, in the right place with the right message, could lead a people to do anything.

Preston’s murmuring continued. Beneath the thin parchment skin of his closed lids, his eyes jerked from one side to the other rapidly. Then with a gasp, they snapped open.

‘Mr Preston?’

He licked his lips dryly — thirsty.

Ben put away his inkpot, pen and journal and reached for a cup of water. He placed a hand behind Preston’s head, the man’s long grey-blond hair lank with sweat, and lifted him to take a drink.