October skies

He studied the eyes, staring out at them, perfectly motionless until they blinked again and then vanished. He looked from side to side, beneath the low branches, trying to find them again.

And then spotted another pair of eyes.

And another… and another.

‘Others… see ’em?’ hissed Keats quietly.

Zimmerman nodded.

‘Reckon I owe you a ’pology there, Zimmerman.’

Zimmerman swallowed nervously. ‘Uhh, don’t worry.’

The eyes glided smoothly behind the fir trees a dozen yards in front of them.

‘God preserve us,’ muttered Hearst, his voice trembling, ‘what devils are these?’ His hold on his rifle tightened.

‘We’re bein’ stalked,’ Keats said quietly.

‘They’re demons,’ whispered Hearst. ‘Satan has tracked us down out here.’

Keats’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ain’t demons, Hearst. It’s worse than that.’

All of a sudden one of the low-hanging branches was yanked to one side, dislodging a cascade of powder snow from the tree. Through the momentary blizzard something emerged, crouching low, coiled with enough energy to launch forward onto them at a moment’s notice: a dark face, painted still darker around wide unblinking eyes, and grasping in one hand a tamahakan, a war-club with a vicious-looking hooked blade, in the other a short bow.

‘Far worse…’ Keats muttered.

There was movement to the left and the others turned to see several more emerge from the trees and foliage, and more to their right.

‘They’re Paiute.’

Weyland leaned forward. ‘Would they be the-?’

‘Yeah… the ones you don’t want to run into,’ Keats replied evenly and quietly, his eyes locked on them.

Some of the Paiute carried older flintlock muskets, acquired hand-me-downs from another era. Others carried bows — but all of them held in the other hand hunting knives, or war-clubs of one sort or another, ready to be used with lethal efficiency at close quarters. Keats counted six of them. Six he could see, that is.

Even if the other men with him were all loaded, ready to fire and managed each to bring down a target with their first and only shot, he suspected there’d be more who would be in amongst them within seconds, wielding the serrated edges of their tamahakan to lethal effect. It would be a bloody and brutal fight that Keats suspected would be over even before their powder smoke cleared.

‘Look at their skin,’ muttered Hearst. ‘Scorched by God… they’re demons!’

‘Shut up and be still!’ Keats hissed through clenched teeth.

Dark skin — Keats had heard the Mormons refer to that as the mark of evil.

He studied the Paiute, coiled and perfectly still. The bone piercings and the shrivelled leathery tokens that dangled from their necks served to make them look more demonic.

The Indian who had first emerged from the trees spoke. The language was sharp and guttural, but one Keats recognised as the common tongue loosely shared by the Paiute, the Shoshone, the Bannock

… he was speaking Ute.

‘Trapper, you lead these white-face here?’

Keats nodded. ‘I lead them through only-’

The Indian frowned and cocked his head curiously at Keats’s poor pronunciation.

‘White-faces bring evil spirit with them into mountains. Must leave.’

‘Snow stops us-’

‘They must leave.’

‘Snow stops us.’

The Indian studied them, his eyes drifting from Keats onto the others, slowly scanning each of them in turn, drinking in every small detail from head to foot.

‘The evil spirit will bring much bad before snow is gone.’

And then barking a command to his men, he turned round to step back through the undergrowth from which they had emerged. The others followed, backing up very slowly through the branches, keeping their eyes on the white-faces. They were all young men, very young and keen to prove their courage. Keats realised the encounter might not be over just yet.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bowen as he watched them warily withdraw through the thick veil of frosted foliage.

Keats shook his head. ‘Later… listen,’ he said, quickly turning round to face the others, ‘put your guns down right now.’

Weyland shook his head incredulously. ‘Are you mad?’

Keats placed his rifle gently on the snow. ‘Do it! Before-’

At that moment there was a shrill cry from ahead and one of the Paiute charged out into the open with a ferocious speed and agility, crossing the distance between them as a frightening blur of motion.

The Indian singled out Hearst, his eyes locked resolutely on him as he snarled a vicious war cry. The Paiute scrambled across the deep snow, his raised hand holding high his war-club.

‘Hearst! Drop your gun!’

The thickset Mormon froze, his face a static cast of panic. The Indian swooped down on him, swinging the blade of his tamahakan, missing Hearst by no more than a foot, and lightly, almost tenderly, tapping his shoulder with the handle of the club. He whistled past Hearst with a whooping cry of victory — goal achieved — and raced for the safety of the trees beyond.

Hearst spun round and shakily levelled his gun at the retreating Indian.

‘No! Don’t shoot!!’ cried Keats.

But his words were lost amidst the deafening report of the rifle.