Alex Scarrow - October skies

Ben wondered how much of his bottle of laudanum was left.

Standing behind Preston, he noticed a small group of the Mormon men, amongst them Vander, Zimmerman and Hollander, had brought guns and held them ready, undoubtedly loaded and primed to fire.

This isn’t good.

Just a nod or a word from Preston and he suspected every one of them would open fire on the Paiute, perhaps on them, without a second thought. Of that he had no doubt. And that’s what Preston’s considering right now, isn’t it?

The exchange in Ute between Keats and the Indian continued, both of them, it seemed, oblivious to the growing current of tension and whatever conclusion Preston was silently and very rapidly approaching. Zimmerman cocked the hammer on his rifle; the click sounded deafening even through the deadening wisps of mist that were swirling about them.

‘Keats!’ Ben shouted out, automatically swinging his own gun up from the ground. Hussein, standing beside him, also armed for guard duty, did likewise. Weyland stepped forward, pulling a Colt revolver from beneath his long winter coat.

The guide stopped, turned and saw the hesitant stand-off, guns readied on both sides, raised, but not quite aimed… not yet. The threat of an immediate exchange of gunfire was implicit; it remained just a few badly chosen words away. He laughed — a wheezing convivial campfire cackle that instantly made the frozen tableau look ridiculous.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, grinning and shaking his head. ‘Well, this ain’t a smart way to go now, is it? Goddamn stupid, if you ask me.’ He looked at the half-dozen rifles held ready amongst the men standing behind Preston. ‘See… reckon it would be you and me, Preston, who’ll be the first to get a lead shot, eh? Don’t make no sense, that.’

Preston said nothing, grinding his jaw in silence.

‘How ’bout we all lower our guns an’ we put this down as a little misunderstandin’?’

The men standing behind Preston looked to him for a sign, a word of command.

‘See, we all need each other. Biggest thing we need to be considerin’ now ain’t no demons or monsters, but this winter and makin’ do ’til spring.’ Keats turned to look out at the faint outline of the trees. ‘An’ whatever’s out there in them woods, the more eyes we have’ — he nodded towards the Paiute — ‘keepin’ a watch out, the better for everyone, right?’

Ben noticed some murmurs of agreement amongst their people, but a stony silence from Preston and the gathered crowd behind him.

Keats slowly stepped forward, stretching out a hand. ‘Preston? You know I’m talkin’ sense here. Them Paiute can stay with us, on our side. An’ we’ll keep it like it is… ain’t none of my people, nor these Indians, goin’ to step beyond them oxen. How’s that sound?’

Ben was close enough to Preston to see he was trembling; subtle repeated tics on his face and hands that shook gave him the air of a badly stacked lumber pile ready to tumble.

Preston shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘A storm is coming, Keats.’

He turned away from them towards his people and spread his hands. He spoke quietly to the armed men standing next to him and gently ushered them away. The crowd, men, women and children, drew away into the mist, heading back towards their side of the camp. The rumpling sound of boots on compacted snow slowly diminished as they faded into the grey.

Ben thought he saw Preston’s tall frame lingering on in the mist as his people trooped back, and thought he heard whispered words, perhaps intended for his ears, perhaps not.

He will come for you all, and soon.

Thursday

Palo Cedro, California

‘Can I top your coffee up?’

‘Yes, please,’ she answered, eyes still locked on the laptop’s screen and the lengthy email she was tapping out.

‘Real good brew,’ the waiter added. ‘Ground the beans myself, just for you.’

Irritated at her train of thought being broken, she looked up.. and caught her breath.

‘Here you go.’ He poured a rich dark blend into the dregs of her cup.

She figured he was three or four years younger; at a guess, still at college. Gorgeous didn’t do justice to his sculpted cheeks and warm Travolta eyes beneath a floppy fringe of dark brown hair.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

His eyes narrowed curiously. ‘You British?’

‘Yeah, well… uh… English, actually.’

He grinned. ‘God, I love that.’

Rose’s cheeks burned, caught off guard by such intimacy. ‘What? What do you…?’

‘The way you guys say that: act-u-all-y. That’s just s-o-o-o British.’

‘Oh, God, that’s embarrassing,’ she muttered self-consciously. ‘I’ll remember not to use that word again.’

‘No way, I love it,’ he said. ‘You staying in town?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m just passing, really.’

‘Where you going?’

‘Where I’m going you probably haven’t heard of, but I’ve just been up to Portland.’

‘Cool,’ he said, ‘that’s where I go to college. Linguistics and media.’

Rose smiled and nodded, wondering what to say to that.

‘So… are you, like, on holiday?’

‘Um, no, not really, it’s work. I’m doing some research.’

‘Yeah? Cool,’ he said. He glanced over his shoulder quickly. ‘Look, uh, my shift manager would kick my ass if he heard me, but are you, like, in town tonight?’

She felt the colour drain from her face as she looked up at him — a lean young man with the chiselled contours of a Calvin Kline model.

What? Is he actually hitting on me?

‘Umm, I’m…’ She looked out at the mid-afternoon sky. It was still several hours’ drive back to Blue Valley, and whether she grabbed a motel room here, or booked back into the room she had been occupying for the last fortnight, it was still thirty-nine bucks out of the dwindling slush fund.

‘Only, I know a nice bar nearby,’ the waiter continued. ‘Nice food, nice place. Just a drink and a burger. I’m buying.’

‘I, uh, I really, I’m… I wasn’t…’ she stammered awkwardly.

Dammit, Rose, get a grip. You sound like a retard.

The young man shrugged apologetically, realising he’d caught her on the hop. ‘Sorry, there’s me diving in like that,’ he said quietly. ‘I just fell in love with that accent when you asked for a table earlier,’ he added, taking a step back with the coffee pot in his hand. ‘I finish up here at six, if you wanna go get something?’

Rose managed a composed smile. ‘I’ll think about it.’

She watched him head back to the counter, irritated with herself for being caught off balance and coming across as a gibbering idiot.

She slurped a mouthful of her coffee and sneaked a discreet glance at him.

Gorgeous though, isn’t he?

He was. But she reminded herself that she was just a frumpy plain Jane, and that after he got over the novelty accent and got his cookies, he’d be off just like every other bloke.

Back to work, girl.

There was an email that needed writing and sending ASAP. What she’d uncovered this morning was rich pickings, very rich pickings indeed. Julian, I’ve just driven back from Portland, Oregon. I got a hit on Benjamin Lambert. You won’t believe what I found. Okay, let me do this in order so it makes sense. My thinking was that if it was Lambert who survived, he’d turn up at some point in their press. He’s English, a posh guy, an aspiring writer — let’s not forget, a writer with one hell of a story. At the back of my mind, I was thinking that maybe, at some point, he might have taken his story to the penny press. Now, you said you researched UK records up to the point he set sail for the Americas, right? And then that’s it. According to you he vanished. I’m guessing you let the trail go there because you’ve been too busy to take it any further, what with shmoozing with the suits for money, but here’s the thing, Jules… Lambert’s story continues. Oh boy does it continue. Let me give it to you as best I can make it out from the paper archives I’ve been rummaging through. It most definitely was Lambert who got out alive. There may have been others, but I’m almost certain that Lambert was the ‘Rag Man’. Apparently, he made it all the way to Portland, and stayed there for a long while. A very long while. It seems like he managed to recover from his traumatic experience in the mountains. He settled there and made a life in Portland. He found God, by the way, which is interesting given how much of an atheist he sounds in the journal. Mind you, perhaps it’s also understandable, given what he went through? Anyway, local archives show he became a lay preacher. He also became something of a successful local businessman, making money from property. He also wrote articles from time to time in the papers, some preachy stuff, and become a local civic leader, a councillor. He married, had kids, and made more money. The Lambert family exists today as a very wealthy family. They own a lot of property around Portland, and have a lot of money in various big companies — but it’s all very discreet, like the Barclay brothers — there just isn’t much out there on the family. You might do better than me. Point is, Ben survived. And if we approach it right, we might get a chance to interview some reclusive billionaire and hand over the journal to him, filming his reaction, of course.