October skies

Julian smiled hesitantly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sensed something in the invitation, something that stepped outside of their tight professional partnership. They were both high on the excitement of the story, and several beers each was helping to leverage the mood… but he knew where this had the potential to go and that in the morning they’d both regret it.

‘Errr… I…’ he stammered.

Rose quickly looked down at her bottle and carried on peeling the label.

‘Or maybe not,’ she replied uncomfortably.

‘Maybe it’s just fine. Yeah, I’m sure it probably-’

‘Yeah, sure… it uhh… maybe… we should check it in the morning.’

‘Sure.’

They both smiled and fidgeted for a moment, before reaching for their coats.

CHAPTER 12

23 September, 1856

Ben shivered, despite being wrapped up in his thick woollen poncho. The snow was coming down lightly; a fine dusting right now, but it had been coming down like that all day. Enough of it had settled on the ground that the wheels were slipping perilously on the sloping track.

He watched as a knot of men, a mixture from both Preston’s and Keats’s parties, struggled together with the jury-rigged windlass at the top of the rugged incline. Stout rope was wound around the inner hub of the rear wheel of a large conestoga, secured firmly at the top, and several lengths ran down the short, steep track to a wagon that was midway up and double-teamed with straining oxen. The men pulled on the ropes in unison, working in concert with the oxen to ease the cumbersome vehicle up the slope.

Ben eagerly wanted to be back in amongst the scrum of men working the wheel, if only to build up a sweat again and get warm. But there were only so many men that could fit a helping hand on the spokes without getting in each other’s way. They pulled together with a synchronised grunt. With each twist of the wheel the wagon lurched upwards and the straining oxen staggered forward.

All but a few of the wagons had been manoeuvred to the top of this steep section of Keats’s trail — the shortcut. This was the route, the old man assured them all, that would get them through these wooded peaks to the pass faster than any other trail. It was a far quicker route but, he had cautioned, a much tougher one.

The process of winching the wagons up the side of the gulch had taken most of the day, slowed down by the increasing lack of purchase the wheels were having on the ground as the snow had begun to settle during the overcast and gloomy afternoon.

Mr Hussein stood beside him shivering too; his breath hung before him as he spoke. ‘Is being… uh… much coldness today, Mr Lambert. Yes?’

Ben nodded. ‘Very bloody cold. I can’t believe only two days ago I was walking on salt flats with my shirt-sleeves rolled up.’

Hussein’s face knotted with concentration for a moment as he translated and then he nodded and smiled. ‘Yes. Very sudden… is very coldness.’

The men heaved again and the wagon suddenly lurched forward, slewing alarmingly to one side of the trail.

‘Shit!’ Ben hissed quietly, as the wagon continued its uncontrolled sideways drift.

Mr Hussein held his breath as they watched.

The trail up which they were attempting to winch the wagon was narrow, flanked on one side by a steep bank strewn with boulders and small bushes and trees clutching tightly to the ground. On the other side, the trail dropped away, descending steeply to a rocky gulch through which a stream gurgled noisily below.

My God, it’s going to go over.

The oxen were losing their footing, sliding in the churned-up slick of mud and powdered snow turning to slush. Ben recognised the woman aboard the wagon as the wife of one of Preston’s council of Elders, Mrs Zimmerman. She was perched anxiously on the edge of the jockey board, coaxing the oxen forward. She let out a shrill cry of alarm as the wagon continued its slide towards the edge. The wagon finally came to a rest, the left rear wheel slotting into a worn groove on the track, carved by the previous wagons. Mr Hussein’s breath gushed out, a plume of languid vapour that hung before him in the still air.

As it creaked ominously uphill, Ben realised it was the crippled wagon.

‘Oh no, it’s the jury-rigged one.’

‘Beg pardon?’ Hussein asked.

Ben’s eyes darted to the improvised wheel, the round oak table-top, just as it was beginning to buckle and splinter under the lateral weight of the wagon. The wagon suddenly lurched at an angle, and the wheel cracked loudly.

Ben, along with several other bystanders, called out to her to jump off.

Mrs Zimmerman, perched on the jockey board, stared down at the gulch beside the wagon, and then glanced behind her through the pursed canvas opening of the cover behind her, drawn tight with a puckering string.

What’s she doing? Jump, woman. Jump!