There had been no sign of the Pawnees, Blunt told Nate. The wrangler was found dead shortly after Nate and Maklin left to scout for the Valley of Skulls. Blunt ended with “You know what that might mean, don’t you?”
A chill ran through Nate. He was on the bay and ready to ride out in minutes. “Maklin can guide you to the valley. I’ll wait there for you.”
“You’ll be riding in the dark.”
“Can’t be helped,” Nate said, and bobbed his chin at the last wagon. “I won’t be to blame for more.”
“Noble of you,” Jeremiah Blunt said, and offered his hand. “I can spare two or three men to go along.”
“I’ll travel faster alone. Besides, you might need them there.” Nate had dallied long enough. With a slap of his legs he was off. The bay had not had much rest, but he pushed, riding at a trot when he could and only allowing the bay brief rests. He was thinking of the Shakers, those helpless, defenseless Shakers, and what a Pawnee war party would do to them.
Nate wanted to kick himself. If anything happened to the Shakers, their fate fell squarely on his shoulders.
The sun sank below the western horizon in a blaze of pink and yellow and red. Nate rode in near pitchblack. There was no moon, only starlight to ride by, and in the woods and gorges most was blocked out. He had to slow or risk losing the bay to a broken leg.
Nate mused on his encounter with the Pawnees all those years ago. He had been lucky to get out of their village alive. He never expected this to happen, to have his past endanger his present. He was glad Winona wasn’t along, or her life would be in peril, too.
The night dragged. The thud of the bay’s heavy hooves punctuated the haunting howls of wolves and the high-pitched yips of coyotes. From time to time a roar or a screech broke the stillness. So, too, did the cries of prey: bleats, screams, even shrieks.
Nate remembered how it was growing up in New York, remembered visits to an uncle’s farm bordered by forest, and how the night was seldom pierced by bestial sounds. In part, he reckoned, because a lot of the game had been killed off. In part, too, because the presence of man made the animals wary. When they were hunted day in and night out, stealth and silence became their way of life.
Another roar echoed off the high peaks.
Here, life was different. Here, the animals lived much as they had before the advent of man. The wilderness was as wilderness was meant to be: wild, untamed, savage.
Woe to the unwary, to those like the Shakers who came into the wilds like babes into the world, filled with trust and peace and convinced the rest of the world was as they were. Maklin was right about them having blinders on.
It was well past midnight when Nate neared the Valley of Skulls. Twice he heard grunts that might be the same griz that killed Sister Benedine, but they were off in the brush. At the valley mouth he drew rein and tested the night with his senses.
Once around the bend Nate drew rein again. The valley was completely dark. Not one of the windows glowed with the light from a lamp or candle. He imagined—he hoped—they had doused the lights when they turned in, and there wasn’t a more sinister explanation.
An eerie feeling came over Nate as he rode amid the littered bones of bygone creatures while above reared the heights pockmarked with caves. He would like to explore those caves sometime soon. Who knew what he might find?
A bubbling sound reminded Nate of the hot springs. There was a hiss, and he flinched when hot drops spattered him. The bay nickered. Quickly, he reined away from the pool.
The Shakers were asking for misery by staying there. Somehow, Nate must convince them to go back East or else pick a more habitable spot.
The hoot of an owl from somewhere above was followed by a cry such as Nate had never heard, a wavering moan that might have come from out of one of the caves, a moan so human it made Nate think of a soul in torment. Involuntarily, he shuddered.
A gust of wind brought with it a whiff of a foul odor, sulfurous and vile. Nate almost gagged. He had not smelled anything like it when he was there earlier.
Suddenly Nate drew rein. High up at the caves a pale shape had appeared. It seemed to roil and writhe as if alive, yet it was as formless as fog. It was there and then with another gust of wind it was gone. He didn’t know what to make of it.
Presently, Nate reached the corral. He stripped the bay, draped his saddle and saddle blanket over the top rail, and put the bay in with the other horses. Rather than knock on a door and wake the Shakers, he went to the Conestogas and climbed into the first one he came to. It was empty. The bed was hard but comfortable enough and he was out of the wind and night chill.
Curling onto his side, Nate willed his body to relax. A strange sense of forboding gripped him, a sense that he shouldn’t be there, that he should flee while he could. It was silly, he told himself. Those stories about the valley had frayed his nerves.
Still, the Indians said the valley was bad medicine, and the Indians should know. It had been Nate’s experience that their legends were steeped in truth. Maybe the facts had been twisted in the many retellings, but if they said the valley was bad medicine, then by God, it was.
With that troubling thought, Nate drifted off. He slept fitfully. A loud hiss awakened him once. Another time, it was a slight shake of the wagon. The ground was quaking again. The tremor only lasted ten seconds, but it was unnerving just the same.
Dawn had not yet creased the sky with the glow of the rising sun when Nate climbed from the wagon, and stretched. He was stiff and sore and famished.
The patch of green at the valley’s heart covered about ten acres. Already the Shakers had chopped down a third or more of the trees to build their cabins and the corral. Nate gathered an armful of limbs and got a fire going near the corral. He put coffee on to perk and hunkered close to the flames for the warmth.
Leather hinges creaked, and a figure emerged from the building reserved for the men.
“You’re up early,” Nate said.
Arthur Lexington wore his beatific smile and carried a large Bible. “I am always the first up.” He gazed across the valley as a baron might over his domain. “I’m surprised to find you back so soon. I thought you were coming with the wagons.”
“There’s a complication,” Nate said, and told him about the Pawnees and the dead farmer and the dead wrangler.
“Ah. You came ahead because you feared for our safety? I thank you for your concern, but you needn’t worry about us. The Lord will watch over us and deliver us from harm.”
“Tell that to Sister Benedine.”
Lexington’s smile widened. “I assure you that her soul is in Paradise even as we speak.” He paused. “Do you like us, Brother King?”
“Like has nothing to do with it. I don’t understand you,” Nate confessed. “I don’t savvy why you chose
“Ah,” Lexington said again. “Perhaps all will be made clear if you attend our evening gathering.”
Just then the ground shook. Nate gave a start and reached for the coffeepot to steady it.
“Isn’t it glorious?” Lexington said.
“Doesn’t it worry you just a little?”
“Why should it? This valley has been here for ages, I understand. Those high walls, that stream, are unchanged from the dawn of time.” Lexington chuckled. “The tremors are nothing to be afraid of. Quite the contrary. They speak to the glory of God.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“You’ll understand this evening, I promise you,” Lexington assured him. “You and the freighters are to be our
