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.’
Ben studied the intense stillness of Preston’s face, a rigid mask concealing a head full of secrets that clearly he was unprepared to share with them right now.
‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ grunted Keats, ‘reckon it ain’t them Paiute. Not less they learned ’emselves to read an’ write all of a sudden.’
Preston’s eyes turned back on Hearst’s body. He looked like a condemned man taking the last few steps up a scaffold and catching his very first sight of the hangman’s noose.
The bastard’s holding something back.
Ben was about to ask Preston again what those carved words meant, when they heard raised voices coming from outside the shelter. Keats was the first to react, leading the way as they stumbled clumsily through the cluttered interior up the two deep steps and emerged outside.
McIntyre was striding towards them. ‘We found the others!’ he shouted breathlessly. ‘Through the trees over there,’ he said, pointing past the wooden hanging frames. They made their way there, McIntyre leading them around a thicket of twisted and tangled brambles and presently they stood before a recently dug grave. Poking through last night’s light snowfall could be seen the dark peaty colour of a mound of freshly turned soil. There had apparently been no attempt at concealing it — quite the opposite. The burial mound was topped with a cross; two short lengths of branch crudely lashed together with twine. The entire party of men crowded around the grave, as Preston, Keats and Ben pushed to the front.
‘So where’s the other grave?’ asked Keats.
‘Just one grave,’ said McIntyre. ‘They’re both in it together.’
Ben looked at him. ‘Both?’
McIntyre nodded. ‘Sorry, Ben.’ He pointed to the grave where two holes had already been dug into the freshly turned soil. ‘We had to dig to be sure who was here.’
Ben stepped towards the grave and saw what he recognised as the dark pattern of Mrs Dreyton’s shawl and the pale lace bonnet. Beneath the flowery trim of her bonnet he could see that her face had been slashed, dried blood caked her cheeks and the eyes, nostrils and mouth were plugged with soil.
Another hole had been dug on the other side of the mound and already he could see Sam’s forearm, his white shirt dirty and stained, one of his strong young man’s hands curled up like an old man’s arthritic claw and discoloured a dark brown by death. Ben recognised that as the inevitable pooling of immobile blood beneath the skin.
‘Please cover them over now!’ snapped Preston.
Ben nodded. He’d seen enough too.
McIntyre, using the butt of his rifle as a spade, began pushing the dislodged soil back into the holes.
‘Gentlemen, we also discovered the body of Saul Hearst in the shelter,’ announced Preston, more for the benefit of his men than Keats’s people. ‘There is now, I’m certain, an evil at work in these woods. The misfortune of our wagon, the early snow, the attack of the bear, the dark savages nearby… these are agents of the Devil, sent here to test us, to torment us.’
There were murmurs, whispers amongst the men. Ben saw several of them bow their heads in prayer.
‘You must trust me. God has a mission for us, a destiny for us, and the Devil does not like that. He has found us, and now tries his tricks and strategies. We will return to our camp and pray for the Dreytons. Tonight I will talk with God and seek his guidance.’
Preston waved at his men to move out. They turned away from the grave and headed across the clearing towards the shallow slope.
‘What about your man, Saul?’ Ben called out. ‘Don’t you want to bury him?’
Preston turned round. ‘We’ll not return here again. This is an evil place. Do you not feel it? We’re leaving. You’re best coming too.’
‘What about Saul?’
‘Saul is in the same place as Dorothy and Sam now, Lambert — a much better place than this.’ Preston turned back round and led his men up the slope, pushing knee-deep through the snow.
‘I… I’m leaving with them,’ said McIntyre. ‘I can feel it too. This is no place to hang around.’ He set off after the others.
Broken Wing nodded and muttered to himself, looking at the thick apron of foliage around the small clearing, then followed McIntyre.
‘What did he say?’ asked Ben.
Keats shook his head. ‘Damned superstitious Indian.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he could feel the white-face spirit watching us from the trees.’
Weyland grinned nervously. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I might join them.’
Keats snorted and spat. ‘Might as well. Ain’t nothing we can do for ’em now.’ He headed off after the others, leaving Ben alone.
Ben turned to look back at the grave. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. I would have taken you with me come the spring. You, your mother and Emily.’
He turned to leave and then stopped and turned back round. ‘I’ll take care of Emily for you. She’ll come with me. I promise you that.’
CHAPTER 42
Tuesday
Claremont, Colorado
Shepherd watched the soccer match with feigned interest, smiling, clapping and cheering at all the right moments — as far as he could tell. The young boys playing on the pitch before him in no more than flimsy nylon shirts and shorts looked under-equipped and too willowy to his eye to be playing a proper sport. A strong gust of wind would carry them all away like a bundle of red and blue twigs.
He preferred a good wholesome all-American sport like football, where sheer brute willpower, strength of heart and tactical guile normally won the day, unlike this peculiar game that seemed to turn on the mere lucky bounce of a round ball.
He sighed.
A sign of the times.
It seemed just about every boy and girl wanted to play this imported game these days. No doubt because it looked like an easy sport to play and master, unlike football.
