Julian shook his head. ‘Once, perhaps. The church went through a schism after Joseph Smith was killed, something of a power struggle. I suppose it’s not unlike the Shi’a-Sunni split over who should rightfully succeed Mohammed. The Latter Day Saints splintered into several groups with different ministers claiming authority. Brigham Young was the name of the guy who wrested control of the mainstream Mormon faith. But amongst all this unrest and confusion, Preston emerged, and won over a small flock of devout followers. He must have had something — a compelling manner, a unique message — enough that the mainstream Mormons turned angrily on him, and he and his congregation had to quickly leave Iowa for the west. That’s how the poor buggers ended up in the Sierra Nevadas.’
‘Did any of these Preston people survive?’
‘Well, here’s the thing. There’s no knowledge of it. I mean, literally nothing. Nada. No one at the time noticed they’d vanished. So I can only guess they all died up there, because there were no newspaper articles, no eye- witness accounts.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t newsworthy. I’d imagine quite a few of those wagon trains came unstuck, went missing somewhere across America.’
‘Not really. I mean every group lost some people to sickness or malnutrition, but the only other group that actually went missing was the Donner Party. That event happened a few years earlier, about a hundred miles further south of where we found Preston’s party. But you see, the Donner Party made news back then, simply because there were a few survivors who could talk about it. I mean, it became a story written about in every paper of the time all over the States.’
‘Donner Party… I’ve heard of that. There was cannibalism, right?’
Julian nodded. ‘That’s probably one of the main reasons it became such a huge story. But it probably would never have been a story at all if there’d been no one who survived. Now, this Preston party… absolutely nothing, not a single thing about it. So that’s what makes me think absolutely no one walked out.’
Except that one… very odd web page, Julian reminded himself. Someone else knows about it.
Sean nodded, his pasta forgotten for now. ‘So any ideas how it all ended?’
‘I’m working on it. I’m still trying to make sense of this journal. They may have just starved, might have been attacked by Indians… I mean, there’s a mention of an encounter with Indians called Paiute. Or who knows, it might have ended up as some bizarre cult suicide thing — you know, another Jonestown.’
Sean’s eyes widened. ‘That would be quite a horrendous tale.’
Julian nodded. ‘I’m heading back out there at the end of the week. We have a small window of time to scoop what we can, then this site has to be called in. At which point, I’d imagine various American heritage agencies will boot us off.’
Sean smiled cautiously, chewing on his food in thought.
Julian reached for his wine and sipped. ‘What we have here is an interesting relationship between a charismatic cult leader and his ultimately doomed followers. It’s a strong angle to play on. The danger a religion can pose when it’s twisted, radicalised. That’s a very relevant theme to discuss these days, isn’t it?’
Sean hummed in agreement. He pulled out a pad and began scribbling some thoughts, whilst Julian finished his dinner in silence.
‘And you’ve read through all of this journal?’
‘It’s quite a thing to translate.’
‘Why, is it written in code or something?’
‘No, just a combination of things. The handwriting’s hard work and gets a little more wobbly on each successive page. The ink fades towards the end, which makes me think the author was watering it down to make it last. It gets almost illegible in places.’
‘Was the author… do you think this Lambert started losing it?’
Julian looked out of the window at the bustling foot traffic passing the bistro’s fogged window. ‘No, I don’t think so, Sean. No, I don’t think he’s losing it.’
‘Well then, let me ask you this. Do you think the author is reliable?’
Julian had considered that possibility. ‘You can never know for sure. But I’ll say this: he comes across as very level-headed. I know it sounds like an odd thing for a researcher to say, but I think I trust him.’
Sean picked up his fork and started tucking into his pasta once more.
Julian watched him in silence. ‘Anyway, have I snagged your interest?’
Sean placed his fork down and clasped his hands thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think I might be interested,’ he replied softly. ‘It might be an idea to keep it to yourself for now, though. I’ll consider putting this on a fast-track footing within our editorial group, assuming of course it’s us you want to deal with?’
‘Well, Rose and I want to deal with you, Sean. We worked well together on Uncommon People. There’s no reason to think we wouldn’t work well together again.’
Sean looked up and smiled. ‘Yes, we did, didn’t we? It was fun.’ He gazed out of the window at a passing bus. ‘Look, I’ll make some discreet calls tomorrow, and maybe we’ll meet again later in the week?’
‘Sounds good to me. I’m flying back at the weekend. So if you want to meet again before I go… well, you’ve got three more days.’
CHAPTER 37
23 October, 1856
‘Are you certain that is what the Indian said?’ Preston asked again quietly, light from the oil lamp suspended from the crossbeam making his gaunt face look like a skull draped with fine silk.
Keats shook his head. ‘Nope. But it’s the best I could make out.’
Midday was gone and the low, sleepy sun already yearning again for the horizon by the time a meeting of the quorum was convened in the church. Ben was surprised to find himself and Keats asked to attend — although not surprised that Broken Wing, whom Keats insisted come along too, was stopped at the entrance and sent away.
‘Dark skin’s a mark of evil,’ Mr Hollander had grunted, standing like a sentry beside the flap.
‘The evil spirit took them? That’s what the Indian said?’
Keats shrugged. ‘Hell, he could have said that… other hand, maybe the words could’ve meant somethin’ else. The Indian was speakin’ all kinds of crazy.’
‘What other things did he say, Mr Keats?’ the minister pressed him.
Keats shook his head. ‘Said somethin’ about an evil spirit reaching out from the trees. Wasn’t makin’ any goddamn sense to me.’
‘The Indian was in a state of shock,’ said Ben. ‘His mind and his eyes were playing tricks on him. The wounds across his front could have been from some wild animal. Ragged cuts like… like a claw, not clean like a blade. Perhaps the bear?’
Keats shook his head. ‘Ain’t no bear.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. Outside the temple they could hear the muted sound of wood being chopped and cooking fires being prepared. The routine of survival went on, despite the traumatic event earlier in the day.
Preston winced painfully as he shifted his position, holding a protective hand over the linen binding around his torso.
‘And where is Mr Hearst?’ asked Jed Stolheim, running a tired hand through his thinning auburn hair. ‘He’s not been seen since this morning.’
‘I don’t know, Jed,’ replied Preston. ‘It’s been long enough that I’m fearful for Saul.’
‘It’s them Indians out there did it,’ someone muttered from the back.
‘I’m not even sure they are Indians,’ replied Vander. ‘Me and Mr Zimmerman saw ’em up close in the woods. Dark as the Devil himself, they were.’
Keats snorted. ‘If they ain’t Indians, what the hell are they?’
‘Demons, Keats… Satan’s imps sent to torment us.’
There was a sharp intake of breath amongst the quorum.
