Alex Scarrow - October skies

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!’