They’ll burn to death in there, or die if they try to come out. ‘God help them,’ he whispered. ‘This is madness.’
The barricade was almost entirely alight now, a bright ring of flame whose heat he could feel on his face where he crouched. In the middle, the heat surely had to be unbearable, scorching. He could see a couple of the women - Mrs Bowen and Mrs McIntyre - shielding their young ones as best they could from the searing heat, scraping hard-packed snow from the ground with their hands onto the exposed, blistering skin of their children.
Then, inevitably, it happened: a section of the barricade collapsed amidst a shower of sparks. A few seconds passed, during which he heard the distinct bark of Keats’s voice shouting a string of commands from somewhere amongst the flames.
Then, through the burning gap, they emerged; a vanguard of the Paiute led by Broken Wing, their hand-me-down muskets from another era abandoned in favour of their tamahakan, now raised with savage readiness as they hurtled out towards the nearest, startled members of Preston’s party.
Keats, and several of the other men - he recognised Weyland, McIntyre, Hussein - fired a volley of shots past the Indians, a couple of which found a target, one knocking a woman to the ground, the other clipping the side of a young man.
The Paiute were almost amongst Preston’s people before the first crack of returning gunfire threw one of them off his feet and onto his back. Scrambling through the gap in the flames, the rest of the party tumbled out, some of the youngsters wrapped in smouldering blankets.
Keats and the menfolk emerged last, reloading rifles as they ran in the wake of their families, towards the ferocious melee being spearheaded by the Paiute.
Preston was quick to respond. ‘Over there! Stop them breaking out!’ he heard the man bellow. The Mormons, spread thin around the flaming redoubt, began to abandon the idea of surrounding it and instead converged on where the fight was happening.
Ben suddenly realised he was sobbing with grief, his cheeks stinging from the salt of his tears rolling down his winter-raw skin.
The screams of agony and the snarling of anger intensified.
He saw one of the Mormon women on her knees rocking back and forth, holding the still body of a teenage boy in her arms. He watched as one of the McIntyre children, Anne-Marie, the girl who had given Emily her doll, ran tearfully amidst the heaving bodies, calling out for her parents. She was suddenly caught by the vicious back-swing of one of the Indians. His tamahakan caught her neck as it swung, ripping a bloody chunk free before continuing its savage sweep and lodging itself in the face of a man he recognised as Mr Holbein, one of Preston’s quorum. Anne-Marie dropped to her knees clutching at her throat. Holbein spasmed, firing his musket at point-blank range, ripping a jagged hole out of the back of the young Paiute.
Ben saw Keats push through to join the other Paiute, forcing their way forward. Their ferocious struggle had opened a gap in the loose tangle of people, standing warily back from their flickering blades. He called out for the others to follow him, but his voice was lost amidst the cacophony.
Bowen, McIntyre and their families had coalesced into one tight pack, fighting tooth and nail, back to back, doing their best to fend off the lashing blows of a taunting, goading circle of men and women and some of the older children.
Ben spotted Hussein and his extended family in an identical predicament, a few dozen yards away. He watched as Stolheim, one of the elders, aimed a pistol and knocked Hussein’s eldest son, Omar, down with a point-blank shot in the chest. Hussein screamed with grief and swung the butt of his musket, catching the old man squarely on the chin. As he dropped to his knees, dazed, Hussein’s meek and shy wife stepped forward and stove his head in with a mallet.
More of Preston’s folk joined the churning mass of people. The swirling limbs, the dancing flames, the sporadic flicker of muzzle flash made the scene look like some bizarre occult square dance.
And Preston amidst it all, screaming encouragement, goading his people on. But no disguise. Not that it mattered. Perhaps Preston realised it was no longer necessary to play the avenging angel; his people were ready to do whatever he asked of them now.
They’re all going to die.
Then a thought occurred to Ben - a promise that he felt like he’d made a lifetime ago; a promise to Sam. He looked away from the fighting, towards the far end of the clearing, and there he picked out the mound of the Dreytons’ shelter.
Emily.
This is God’s will?
He felt the angel stir in a quiet corner of his mind as he watched from the edge of the clearing. Bloodied women wrenched out the hair of other bloodied women; children punctured each other over and over with sharpened sticks, the snow darkening with sodden patches of freshly spilled blood.
No. It is Preston’s will.
The fight was beginning to wane now. There were as many people squirming in pain on the ground as left standing and locked in the ugly struggle. Cries of anger, grief, pain and fear filled the night.
They kill in God’s name, like trained dogs.
He ignored the angel for the moment, scanning the bodies, the squirming wounded, those still standing, recognising the faces, but no longer knowing them.
Curious . . . what people will do in His name.
He nodded, holding on firmly to the tree branch and looking down at the scene.
Yes.
A child squatted on the chest of a dead man, screaming and slashing repeatedly at the face with a hunting knife, leaving just a bloody chaotic pattern of fleshy ribbons.
There is hate in them all.
Yes.
Not like you. I see only good in you.
I hope so.
These could never have been the chosen people.
Why?
They are sick with a sin. It is a poison in them. It is in everything they do.
He was unsure what the angel meant.
You know the name of the sin. You have had to live amongst it, breathe it all of your life.
He nodded silently, beginning to understand.
It is this sin that defines these people.
Is it pride?
He sensed the angel approving his answer.
For believing themselves chosen . . . they are guilty of pride.
He nodded. Nephi was right.
You were always different from them.
I was?
That’s why I let you take me away from him.
Preston.
His mind jumped to a certain matter, pending.
Preston! You promised me him.
Yes. This you deserve.
His eyes picked the man out, loading a rifle as he urged his people onwards. Three of the savages remained alive along with the guide, Keats. They now decided the fight was up, turned, and fled for the trees. They passed right below the branch he was crouched upon; any one of them would have seen him if they’d chanced to look up.
Preston called out to several of his people nearby. ‘Don’t let them escape! They must all be purged from here!’ he screamed, leading the pursuit into the trees, followed by half a dozen men.
He is yours to do with as you wish.
Thank you.
CHAPTER 73
1 November, 1856
Ben stepped lightly between the shelters, afraid that Preston might have thought to station one or two of his people as guards. But it seemed no one had been left behind, and he wondered whether he would find Emily left unsupervised, lost in her trance, unaware of the slaughter going on outside.
He made his way to the snow-buried hump of the Dreytons’ shelter, and squatted beside the low entrance, listening for the sound of anyone else inside. It was difficult to tell against the appalling sounds coming across the clearing. The hysterical cries of fighting had gone and now he could hear voices dotted around, voices that were starting to wail mournfully in the growing stillness.
He suspected the fervour Preston had whipped up prior to the fighting was at the point of being exha
usted now. It occurred to him that Preston may well have induced such mania amongst them with the help of the medicine. Watered down and shared in a broth, Ben suspected its effect might have been enough to excite a certain tingling sense of euphoria amongst them. Preston’s powerful exhortation would have done the rest.
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.
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‘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.’