October skies

Ben exchanged a look with Weyland and Broken Wing and then headed towards the entrance. He shot one last glance at Vander, emptying his guts onto the snow — a steaming puddle of bile that quickly sank down through the fresh powder and out of sight.

Let it not be Sam… please.

He took a final breath of crisp, cold air, suspecting the next breath he took would be tainted with the fetid odour of… something. He ducked down and pushed his way past the canvas flap.

CHAPTER 41

24 October, 1856

For a moment he stood stock still. It was too dark to make sense of his cluttered surroundings. He allowed a moment for his eyes to adjust.

‘Lambert,’ he heard Keats’s voice growl quietly, ‘over here.’

Soon he could pick out the dark shapes around him. He shuffled his foot forward, finding, to his surprise, two very steep steps taking him down.

The floor of the shelter was dug out of the ground.

Of course, that made sense. The shelter was more protected from the elements this way and that much more insulated. Ben had expected to be stooping uncomfortably as he made his way through the interior. Instead, having taken two steps down, he was standing erect. He reached a hand up and found a foot clearance above his head before his fingers brushed against branches and dried mud, crumbs of which rattled down through his fingers.

Thin beams of light speared down through slender cracks in the roof and front wall, dappling the uneven earthen floor with pin-pricks of light.

His eyes adjusted, he could make out some things he expected to see: bales of dried and compressed beaver pelts, traps hanging from hooks on the wall along with a few simple tools with which to work wood, and a bag of long iron lumber nails. On a crude workbench he saw skinning and gutting knives, a tub of salt…

He heard the shuffling of feet nearby. ‘This way, Lambert,’ Keats grunted again quietly.

He looked towards where the voice had come from and saw the shack was divided by a flimsy partitioning wall — no more than a row of stout branches standing vertically side by side from floor to ceiling, and a wattle of strips of bark woven through them. Keats stood in a gap in the middle of the partition staring impatiently at him.

‘In here,’ he said. ‘We found one of ’em.’

Ben felt his heart sink. ‘Which one?’

Keats offered him a weak smile. ‘It ain’t Sam,’ he reassured him quietly.

He made his way towards the opening, but Keats remained where he was, blocking his way. He leaned forward so that the bristles of his beard almost tickled Ben’s face. ‘You done a bunch of doctorin’… so I guess you’ll be readier than Vander was. It’s the Hearst fella.’

Ben felt a small rush of relief and then felt immediately guilty. ‘What condition is the body in?’

‘Well, it ain’t pretty,’ he whispered.

Ben nodded, took a deep breath and vowed silently that he’d remain calm and composed in front of the other two men. Keats stepped to one side and allowed him through.

This second half of the shelter was smaller. It was where the trapper once slept. There was a small gap in one wall, a deliberate hole — a window of sorts — that was almost entirely plugged by the snowdrift outside. It allowed enough diffused light in to the dark interior that he could immediately discern what he’d been called in to examine.

‘Oh my God,’ he whispered.

Nailed to the wall with several of the long lumber nails he’d seen on the workbench, was the naked body of Saul Hearst. He was pinned upside down in a parody of the crucifixion posture, his arms splayed, one nail through each wrist, and his feet crossed, a single nail through both of them. From his pelvis to his chest, a knife had been at work. He had been comprehensively gutted, and hung against the wall like a carcass of prime beef in a butcher’s shop. There was surprisingly little blood there, and no sign of the removed organs.

Keats looked at him quizzically.

Ben nodded. ‘Yes, I presume those organs would have to be his.’

For the first time he registered Preston. He was standing with his back against the partition wall and staring at the man, his deep eyes locked in a silent expression of fear. His lips moved soundlessly.

A prayer.

Over and over.

Ben took a reluctant step closer to the cadaver. And as he did so, his eyes registered something written along one of Hearst’s pale thighs. Closer still he realised the words were not written on the skin — they were carved into it… letters formed from the small, precise slashes of a sharp blade.

‘You can read it?’ asked Keats.

Ben nodded. He glanced at the left thigh. ‘For all his dirty sins.’

‘Anyone know what the hell that means?’ growled Keats.

Ben shook his head. They both turned to look at Preston. ‘You’re a preacher,’ said Keats, ‘an’ that sounds to me like God talk. Mean anythin’ to you?’

Preston’s eyes flickered off the corpse to look at them. He was about to say something, and then shook his head. ‘No, I have no idea what this could mean.’