October skies

Keats pointed to the one who’d done the talking. ‘They’re afraid of the demon. He’s askin’ if we’ll let ’em in.’

Preston’s gaze fell on the Paiute. ‘To stay amongst us?’

A ripple of unrest stirred the crowd.

Keats nodded. ‘They’re scared of what’s out there.’

The Indian gestured with his hands. The message was clear enough that Ben had the gist of it before Keats began translating. ‘He says they fear what is out there more than they distrust us.’

‘They can’t stay in this clearing,’ said Preston firmly. ‘That is out of the question.’

Keats didn’t bother to translate that for the Indian. Instead he turned to Preston, speaking quietly.

‘Look, we need ’em more’n they need us. They know how to survive in these mountains better ’n we do. And,’ he said, nodding towards the dwindling pile of oxen carcasses, ‘what we got there ain’t gonna last us much longer.’

Preston glared at Keats. His eyes widened, a damp sheen of sweat on his pale face.

‘You don’t understand, Keats. Those…’ He looked over Keats’s shoulder at the nearest Indian. There was a manic undercurrent to the way he spoke, an edgy fidgeting in the way he moved. ‘Those creatures cannot stay with us.’

‘Damned lick-fingered fool, they’re not a danger. They’re more scared than we are!’

Preston shook his head. ‘They cannot stay. Not here! Not in this camp!’

Keats hawked, spat and turned away from him. ‘Fuck it! They’re staying with us.’

Preston cast a glance towards Ben, and then to Mr Hussein and one or two other faces in the crowd that were not of his party, and shook his head.

‘We foolishly allowed ourselves to mix freely with you, to share food and comfort with you. And this after God came directly to me!’ he said, thumping his chest with an open palm, ‘To me! And told me I must lead my people away from the contamination of outsiders. Look at us now,’ he said, sweeping them all with his dark eyes.

‘My people are living cheek by jowl with papists,’ he said, directing his gaze at McIntyre, and then down at Ben. ‘Atheists’ — he looked at Hussein — ‘and infidels.’

He then turned to study the six Indians, their dark, tattooed skin, their heads shaven like Mohawks, the shrivelled and dried totems of a long-ago raid dangling from leather thongs making them appear grotesque.

‘And now we are to add Satan’s gargoyles to the list.’ Preston’s voice drew quiet and ragged, for the benefit of Keats only. ‘It’s not a demon out there, fool. It’s something far more frightening.’ He smiled. ‘For you, that is.’

‘What’re you talkin’ ’bout, Preston?’

‘A force you can’t begin to imagine: God’s rage. It’s out there now, in those trees, looking down upon us all. Your people will all die badly, Keats! Mark this warning! A force you can’t begin to imagine will come for these demons, and rip to shreds anyone it finds with them.’

‘They’re not demons!’ Keats snapped. ‘Goddamn Indian savages maybe, but they ain’t no demons or gargoyles or nothing!’

Ben glanced at the Paiute standing silently, bewildered as they watched the heated exchange.

‘You welcome evil into your home and you become evil. Do you understand that?’

Both men remained silent for a moment, their eyes locked on each other.

The guide turned his back on Preston and took several steps towards the eldest Indian. He spoke in Ute and gestured and the Indian replied, but Ben’s attention remained on Preston, who looked on in silence, taut muscles working beneath his gaunt cheeks as he bit down on his anger.

Ben wondered how much of his bottle of laudanum was left.

Standing behind Preston, he noticed a small group of the Mormon men, amongst them Vander, Zimmerman and Hollander, had brought guns and held them ready, undoubtedly loaded and primed to fire.

This isn’t good.

Just a nod or a word from Preston and he suspected every one of them would open fire on the Paiute, perhaps on them, without a second thought. Of that he had no doubt. And that’s what Preston’s considering right now, isn’t it?

The exchange in Ute between Keats and the Indian continued, both of them, it seemed, oblivious to the growing current of tension and whatever conclusion Preston was silently and very rapidly approaching. Zimmerman cocked the hammer on his rifle; the click sounded deafening even through the deadening wisps of mist that were swirling about them.

‘Keats!’ Ben shouted out, automatically swinging his own gun up from the ground. Hussein, standing beside him, also armed for guard duty, did likewise. Weyland stepped forward, pulling a Colt revolver from beneath his long winter coat.

The guide stopped, turned and saw the hesitant stand-off, guns readied on both sides, raised, but not quite aimed… not yet. The threat of an immediate exchange of gunfire was implicit; it remained just a few badly chosen words away. He laughed — a wheezing convivial campfire cackle that instantly made the frozen tableau look ridiculous.