October skies

Keats pursed his lips. ‘Make better sense to kill ’em all now. Longer they live, the thinner they’ll get.’

Preston glanced towards the assembled herd of beasts — well over a hundred of them. For the moment, there was meat and muscle under their tan hides.

‘I’d like to keep them alive a little longer, just in case this early snow is a passing thing.’

‘It ain’t passing.’

‘Nonetheless, for now, I’d prefer to keep them alive.’

Keats shrugged. ‘The cold’ll get ’em before they starve, anyways.’

‘We shall have to be sensible and fair with how we ration out the food,’ Preston uttered thoughtfully. ‘You say we’re likely to be stuck here until spring?’

‘Yup.’

‘Hmm.’

Keats bent down and picked up his deerskin jacket. Now they were just standing, the cold was beginning to bite. ‘Reckon we need to be careful with the food from now on,’ he said, fastening the toggles. ‘Start as we mean to go on.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Preston nodded. ‘One of my people, Mr Stolz, is a butcher by trade. He might be best qualified to deal with each carcass as it becomes available.’

‘I think Mr Bowen is as well,’ cut in Ben.

‘Then, I reckon, they can both be in charge of the ox meat. That good for you, Preston?’

Preston nodded, even managed a faint smile. ‘That seems fair.’

‘Also gonna need regular firewood comin’ in.’

‘Yes, I suppose we can arrange some kind of rota. Start a firewood pile in the centre and make sure that it’s kept topped up each day.’

Keats grunted agreement. ‘An’ we need to ’rrange a night watch. Never know what’s out there in these woods, even in the winter.’

Preston looked surprised. ‘Is there likely to be anything out there, Mr Keats?’

Keats glanced towards Broken Wing, and they exchanged a few words in his language.

‘Broken Wing says it’s possible some Paiute huntin’ party might be aroun’.’ Keats looked up at the trees. ‘Hell, might still have a bear or two out there lookin’ to fatten up, yet. Be worth havin’ someone awake with a loaded gun.’

‘Yes, I agree with you.’

Keats managed a laugh.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Keats?’

Keats looked at him and shook his head with bemusement. ‘Seems like we foun’ ourselves agreein’ on a whole buncha things. Hell… never would’ve expected that.’

‘Perhaps it’s God’s will, Mr Keats, that we are marooned here together,’ Preston said, offering a genial smile, ‘that we can learn a little from each other.’

Keats’s expression froze for a moment. Ben half expected a caustic reply, but instead his craggy face split into a grin, his laugh a loose rattle. ‘Well, you can put in a good word for me if you like, Preston.’

Preston nodded politely. ‘We shall include you and your people in our prayers this evening.’ He turned to observe the men in his group working vigorously with their axes on the thick branches they had hacked from the trees. ‘And I will call a meeting amongst my people directly. As you suggested, we shall arrange things like the firewood and the allocation of meat from the oxen.’

‘Good.’ Keats nodded. ‘An’ mine’ll do likewise.’

Preston turned to go and then stopped, his eyes turning on Ben. ‘Mr Lambert?’

‘Yes?’

‘Would your knowledge of medicine be available to all of our… small community?’

‘Good grief, yes… yes, of course,’ Ben replied.

‘We would of course pay for any medicines we consume, and your services-’

Ben shook his head. ‘That’ll not be necessary, Mr Preston. I believe we’re all together in this now. I have a good supply of medicines in my chest, and I’ll certainly have enough time on my hands to practise doctoring.’

Preston’s long and normally severe face cracked with a good-natured smile. ‘That’s generous of you. My thanks.’ He nodded politely at Keats and then turned away, pushing through the deep snow towards the nearest of his men.

Keats looked up at the darkening grey sky. ‘Shit. Gonna start snowin’ again,’ he muttered.

CHAPTER 20

Sunday

Blue Valley, California

Rose watched the upload bar slowly creep forward.

‘There you go, Jules,’ she said, stretching tiredly in her chair. He was going to love it, she was sure. She’d edited together a three minute ‘sizzle’ — a montage of footage from the site, the surrounding woods, a couple of quick establishing shots of the Sierra Nevadas taken from a professional online image and video library, and some sepia portraits of emigrants ready to set out from Independence. Over this she had laid some of Julian’s commentary, and some of Grace’s comments — that earthy Midwest ‘Marlboro’ voice of hers played beautifully against the images.

In the background she had laid down a fantastically haunting and chilling piece of music she’d found on the net; a piece of traditional folksy Americana played on a guitar and a violin.

Having completed the editing and composited a final build, she had sat back and watched the short piece at least a dozen times. Every time, the hair on the nape of her neck began to tingle and rise.

He’s gonna love it.

Rose checked her watch and realised it was three in the morning.