October skies

She looked at him and gently smiled. ‘Perhaps being with us, there’ll be mercy for you. You’ll be safe.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘A judgement is coming. A judgement on this wicked world. William says it will soon be upon us, and the earth will be swept clean so that God might start over.’

‘God will destroy everything?’

‘Only the people. His creatures need no cleansing.’

‘Everyone?’

She nodded sadly. ‘I grieve for the many people with good hearts who will die. But it’s necessary. William was told this, and that we must make ready for it. There is work for him to do,’ Dorothy whispered, glancing once more at the metal chest. ‘Please, Mr Lambert

… be sure to do all you can to help him.’

He nodded. ‘Of course I will.’

She placed her hand on his and squeezed it affectionately. ‘We are so grateful to you. You’re a good man, Mr Lambert. Maybe I am at fault for not seeing that sooner.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I have a doctor’s training. It’d be a waste for me not to use it.’

Preston stirred, his deep, commanding voice a pitiful whimper.

Dorothy winced in sympathy. ‘He’s in pain.’

‘Those wounds will be extremely painful as they heal.’ Ben opened his medicine bag and pulled out a bottle. ‘I have some laudanum for the pain.’ He pulled out the stopper and poured a small cupful. ‘I’ll leave this with you to administer to him. A couple of sips now to settle him, Mrs Dreyton. No more than that. This is a strong medicine.’

She nodded.

‘If, later on tonight, the pain stirs him again, you may try another dose. Will you be sitting with him tonight?’

‘Yes. Mr Hearst or Mr Vander may relieve me come midnight. ’

‘Good, then advise them about the medication. It is not to be over-dosed. I’ll expect for some to be still in the cup when I return in the morning.’

‘I understand.’

He closed up his medicine bag.

‘I think he’ll be fine in due course, Mrs Dreyton. He’s a fighter.’

CHAPTER 25

13 October, 1856

The campfire, placed centrally amidst the small circle of shelters at the Keats end of the clearing, burned noisily, crackling and hissing as it feasted eagerly on the needles and pines that had been tossed onto it.

‘Never been so bleedin’ scared in all me life,’ exclaimed Mrs Bowen. ‘Such a big thing it looked like. I could see it from all the way over ’ere.’

Ben nodded.

You should have seen it up close.

‘Do you think it’ll be back again, Mr Keats? My little ’uns are terrified to sleep.’

Keats wrinkled his nose and snorted. ‘Unlikely. Scared it off good, an’ I reckon the wound will kill it eventually.’ He spat into the fire.

Weyland tossed a small branch on. ‘Am I mistaken then in thinking that bears should be hibernating this time of year?’

Keats shrugged. ‘The snow’s come early. Maybe it caught the bear out. Maybe the bear ain’t fattened himself up enough to go sleep yet.’

Broken Wing muttered something in his language and Keats laughed.

‘What did your Indian say?’ asked Bowen.

‘He said the woods sent the bear to frighten us white-faces away.’

‘The woods?’

‘The Shoshoni — Broken Wing’s people — believe the wood has a spirit. Like everythin’ else… rivers, mountains… all got their own.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Mrs McIntyre.

‘Ain’t no more ridiculous than believin’ there’s devils beneath the earth waitin’ to prod us with their little pitchforks.’

Mrs McIntyre shook her head sombrely. ‘God help us… you’ll bring trouble on us all talking like that, so you will.’

Keats smiled.

‘So your man, Mr Keats, believes the woods would like us to be gone?’ said Weyland.

Broken Wing spoke up. ‘Thisss’ — he gestured to the dark hem of trees beyond the pale moonlit snow on the ground, beyond the warm glow of the fire — ‘not for white-face. Thisss Paiute, Shoshone land.’

‘Indians reckon we belong in our dirty cities, livin’ on top of each other an’ turnin’ the sky grey with our smoke. Not out here in the wilderness.’

Broken Wing cocked his head listening to Keats, then nodded a moment later. ‘Yah.’

‘Hmm,’ growled Keats, ‘reckon the bear came down ’cause he could smell food cookin’.’

The group sat in silence for a while, listening to the light wind teasing the trees. All of Keats’s party were huddled around the fire; Bowen and his family, McIntyre, Hussein and their families, Weyland and his Negro girl, Keats, Broken Wing and Ben — eighteen people, hugging woollen blankets around themselves and gazing into the comforting, flickering light of the fire.

‘Hey, Benjamin,’ muttered McIntyre, nodding, ‘looks like your wayward friends have come to join us again.’

Ben turned round to see Sam leading Emily by the hand towards them. They approached furtively, Sam looking back over his shoulder, past the huddled oxen towards the distant campfire glow coming from the other end.

‘Benjamin,’ Sam whispered hoarsely. ‘Can we sit with your group awhile?’

Ben waved them over. ‘Here, squeeze in.’ He smiled.

Emily shuffled in close beside Ben. Sam found some space on his other side. They held their hands up to the warmth of the fire, savouring it.