October skies

He hastily typed a response. Mr Zuckerman I’m due to fly out to the States tomorrow. Whilst I’m researching this story, my base of operations is a small town called Blue Valley, north end of California. It’s a quiet place where people go for camping and hiking holidays these days. It’s the nearest settlement to the site I mentioned in my previous mail — a day’s hike from it. I’ll be honest with you: I won’t reveal the exact location of the site, as it’s a site of historical importance and it would be inappropriate for me to share that information willy-nilly. However, I’d be willing to share with you the story of what happened out there. We have recovered a detailed account of the events, a journal written by one of the party, almost perfectly preserved and for the most part legible. I will be in Blue Valley for three or four days if you wish to arrange a meeting. Julian Cooke (Documentary Maker)

CHAPTER 58

31 October, 1856

It has been snowing constantly for three or four days now. Several feet of it has covered the old trampled snow. The gutted ribcages of the oxen now lie mercifully beneath a thick carpet. The remaining untouched carcasses were hauled away by Preston’s people at some point during the last few days. As we shivered in our shelters listening to the buffeting wind, they must have all been out there working in conspiratorial silence to drag them to their end of the clearing.

There were those in our group who suggested we march across, en masse, to reclaim a fair share of the meat. But Keats was not amongst them. He advised caution.

I must say I agree. They number more than a hundred; thirty or more of them, men able to wield a weapon of some sort. We, however, including our new guests, the Paiute, number less than a dozen who could fight. We still have packing oats to eat, and the Indians have managed to bring in small amounts of foraged food: hares, a few birds, some root bulbs that are barely palatable after being boiled interminably. It is hardly enough. Without the meat, I believe we will eventually starve.

Ben looked at the ominous words he had just scribbled on the page. The diluted ink was a pale blue and hard to read against the page by the flickering light of the small fire inside. Broken Wing placed another small branch thick with fir needles on, and almost immediately the fire crackled and roared to life, the smoke sucked effectively up through the hole at the top by the wind gusting outside.

Three Hawks shared the warmth with them, there being just enough squat room for the four of them.

Keats worked his knife on the inside of his pipe’s bowl, scraping away a residue that was building up and blocking the stem. Ben could tell he was doing his best to catch one word in ten as Broken Wing and Three Hawks talked fluently in Ute, but by the frustrated frown on his face, was failing miserably.

‘Grey hair trapper called Keeet,’ answered Broken Wing.

‘You travel with him?’

‘Yes. Two seasons.’

‘Why?’

‘White-faces pay dollars.’

Three Hawks nodded. He knew dollars were much better to trade with than beaver pelts. ‘Grey hair is friend?’

Broken Wing regarded Keats silently for a while. ‘Yes.’

Three Hawks studied the old man, his eyes drawn to his bushy salt and pepper beard, and then to Ben, his chin framed by a dark blonde fuzz of hair.

‘Why do white-faces grow tails on their mouths?’

Broken Wing shrugged. ‘The Great Chief gave them only to white men.’

‘Ah, I think I know why.’ Three Hawks raised his finger. ‘So they can tickle their bossy wives.’

Broken Wing looked at him, confused, then Three Hawks stuck his tongue out and waggled it. Both Indians dissolved with laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Ben, roused from his writing by their snorting.

Keats shook his head. ‘Some dumb-ass Indian joke,’ he muttered grumpily.

He watched them both rocking on their haunches, their dark faces split with carefree schoolyard grins. There was an assurance about them he envied, a cool fatalism in the way they squared up to face death that he wished he could emulate.

They don’t fear it.

That was something Keats had told him — that they didn’t have a concept of death. To them it was a journey, just a transition to another place. In their minds, it was a much better place. Ben supposed that kind of belief could make any man brave.

‘I’ve not seen a single one of the others for a while now,’ said Ben. Snow had been coming down heavily since the Paiute had arrived, a heavy blizzard that had reduced visibility through the thick, silent curtains of flakes, to a distance of yards.

Keats nodded. ‘I can see their fires at night. They’re still there, all right.’

‘It’s been three days since we’ve had any kind of contact with them.’

The guide nodded solemnly. ‘That ain’t so good.’

‘What do you think is going on over there?’

‘Hell if I know.’

‘Maybe Preston’s writing his new faith, his new bible?’

‘Sonofabitch is as mad as a mongoose.’

Ben nodded. That much was for sure.

‘That kinda crazy ain’t what you need out in the wilds.’

‘Keats?’