October skies

‘… killing Momma… Sam… he’s killing Momma!’

Her voice faded into a sleepy nonsensical drone, and then she was silent.

‘She’s coming back to us,’ Mrs Zimmerman said, a tear trickling down a crimson-blotched cheek. ‘Thank the Lord,’ she cried quietly. ‘She’s finding her way home.’

‘I’ll thank the Lord, Mrs Zimmerman, when we make it down from these mountains and find our way home.’

‘We will, won’t we?’ she asked.

He managed a confident nod. ‘Of course we will.’

Later on, the sky broke up into a mixed chequerboard of heavy clouds and fleeting strips of blue sky that mercifully permitted the respite of the sun’s warming rays through every now and then. They made some faltering progress westward and through a treacherous rocky pass that led down into a much broader valley. Ben wondered if this was the pass Keats had been taking them towards, the pass he’d assured them was his self-discovered shortcut through the peaks — the shortcut he hoped would one day bear his name.

Keats Pass.

The snow-covered hillside sloped gently down through a continuing canopy of firs towards the distant glinting ribbon of a river that snaked gracefully along the valley floor.

Ben felt his heart lift at the sight of it. The river pointed their way out of the mountains, flowing downhill and westward, hopefully leading them towards somebody else; a trapper’s cabin, the winter stop-over of an Indian tribe, the moored resting place of a river-raft, piled high with beaver pelts… perhaps even the crudely constructed homestead of a hardy family of settlers. The river was going to lead them eventually to someone.

By midday they had shambled their way down to a flat shingle bank overlooking the surging flow of fresh water, and Ben, confident they had travelled further than they were likely to be pursued, dug away a space in the snow and set about building a fire around which the three of them now gratefully huddled.

Emily stared wide-eyed at the flickering flames dancing around the crackling wood, the thick smoke of pine needles and moist bark slowly catching. She was humming a tune to herself, a hymn.

‘Little by little, she’s coming back to us.’ Mrs Zimmerman smiled.

Ben nodded. For now, though, his mind was on the gnawing tightness in his belly. There was food to be had amongst the trees, he was sure, if only he knew how to find it, catch it and kill it.

‘I have to eat,’ he said, rocking gently to take his mind off the discomfort. ‘Preston denied our people any of the oxen after we took in those Indians. We’ve been living off packing oats and whatever they could forage for us.’

Mrs Zimmerman shook her head, ashamed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘He was trying to make us leave.’ He looked at her. ‘We should have.’

The kindness of a fleeting blue sky had deserted them once more as a seamless grey blanket of cloud rolled over. They had the fire though, and enough firewood.

‘At least we won’t freeze tonight, eh?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’ll be better than last night was for us.’

Mrs Zimmerman was about to reply when they heard the rustle of movement amongst the trees. Their eyes met.

‘You hear that?’

She nodded and Ben jumped to his feet. They heard it again. It was not the gentle rustle and dart of a startled animal they’d heard, but the steadily approaching noise of careless feet.

‘Oh please, no,’ he muttered under his breath.

There was no hiding out here on this snow-dusted frozen bank of shingle and silt. They were trapped. He looked down at the fire, and up at the twisting column of smoke, curling languidly up into the sky.

Stupid. We led Preston right to us.

Mrs Zimmerman came to the same conclusion. ‘Please!’ she called out, ‘William Preston, it’s Ellie Zimmerman here! Please don’t hurt us!’

The noise was increasing, picking up pace.

‘Mr Lambert’s been very kind, caring for us!’ she called out again. ‘He’s been very kind. Please, don’t hurt him!’

They heard the crack of a branch snapping, and briar roughly trampled beneath hasty feet — almost certainly the sound of more than one person moving through the trees towards them.

Ben pulled a branch from the fire, one end smouldering and smoking, and held it before him. Then he caught sight of some movement; a man… two men… weaving their way through coarse undergrowth in the darkness beneath the trees, stooping beneath the low, heavy branches of a squat fir tree, emerging, blinking, into the daylight.

‘Oh God…’ Ben whispered.

CHAPTER 79

Sunday

Sierra Nevada Mountains, California

Shepherd reached into the metal chest and placed his hand gently on the faded cotton sack, feeling the hard metal plates through the perished material. The dents and grooves on their surface reminded him of braille. His fingers tingled as he felt the subtle contours of ornate curls.

This is the language of angels.

He puffed out a cloud of air and felt momentarily dizzy from the exhilaration of it all.

‘You okay, Mr Shepherd?’

Shepherd looked up to see the sturdy outline of Carl squatting beside the shallow ditch.

‘I’m fine, Carl.’

‘This is what you came for?’