wayside traipsing north-west on foot.
She wondered if he had been one of the names she’d picked out of the journal: Keats, Preston, Weyland, Vander, Hussein… or perhaps even the author himself, Lambert? There was no telling. This survivor might have been one of them, or one of the other Mormon men.
Or nothing at all to do with the Preston party?
She indulged the thought for a moment and then dismissed it. The Rag Man had wandered out of the very same mountains in the spring of the following year. Given the remote location off the beaten track, it was unlikely the two events weren’t linked.
She sighed, frustrated. ‘Which one of them were you?’
Searching randomly with tag words was getting her nowhere. She noticed once a week there was a regular column in the paper entitled ‘What the Wind Blows In’. It was penned by the same author each time, one Theodore Feillebois, the paper’s editor. It was a gossipy column that catalogued the more interesting arrivals of the week. Rose decided to focus her attention on those.
She was into May editions when she finally hit upon something that stirred the fair hair on her forearms.
… came into town on the dawn like a ghostly phantom. This intrepid reporter, always the keen hunting dog for the exciting tales that can be told by these courageous citizens who have braved the elephant’s tail and the deadly Indian savage, I approached the man.
He was, I found, the most curious of passers-through that I have encountered in the service of this paper of ours. A tall, gaunt, silent man, with eyes that appeared to have seen things that this reporter would be unable to commit to paper for fear of frightening the fair ladies of this town.
A pilgrim crossing this untamed continent of ours alone is either very brave or very foolish, and I have no doubt that he must have experienced much that would blanch the faces of even the brave troops who garrison our fort and protect our souls day and night.
When I asked him for the story of his crossing, the man’s response was a silence and an intense stare that I can only describe as haunted. I persisted in encouraging this man — whom I shall refer to hereon in as The Pilgrim, as I have no name for him, unwilling as he was to provide me with one — to tell me something of his adventurous crossing. But alas he declined.
He was dressed in ill-fitting clothes that appeared borrowed from another, better-nourished man, and with not a single possession in his hands. The Pilgrim, whoever he was, is a face this scribe will never forget.
When I asked this mysterious traveller where he was headed, his reply, dear reader, was one enigmatic word. A word that perhaps sums up the single-minded, dogged spirit and willpower of these brave, hardy folk.
He said to me, ‘Oregon.’
He then shuffled away from me, little more than a crow-scare in tattered clothes and not a single thing to call his own. I soon lost sight of him amongst the busy throng of traders and overlanders that fill our main thoroughfare on any given day of the week…
‘Oh my God,’ Rose whispered. ‘I think I’ve found him.’
CHAPTER 44
24 October, 1856
Preston turned to Vander. ‘You saw it?’
He nodded. ‘Yes I did, William.’
‘For all his dirty sins,’ he said, lowering his voice. Outside, Preston could hear the muted voices of his people. They were gathered around the men that had returned, hearing various versions of what had been discovered. Uneasy rumours would be spreading amongst them, the men scaring their wives, their wives terrifying their children.
He was relieved that only he and Eric from their party had gone inside and seen poor Saul’s body. To some degree, it was better that the awful things done to him were not common knowledge. As only he and Eric had seen, he could control what his people were allowed to know.
Preston clamped his lips tightly and swallowed. ‘Someone knows.’
Eric nodded, ashen faced. ‘My God! What if it’s not one of our people?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if we’re being punished?’ Eric’s voice trembled. ‘What if He’s angry with us, William?’
‘What we did was His will. It was all wrong, his Church, all wrong. Our founder took something sacred and made a mockery of it. Joseph Smith should never have been led to it. It was right that he was killed. That, Eric, that was God’s anger right there.’
‘But we took them. They were not given to us!’
‘No… if the Lord hadn’t wished for me to take them, I would not have them with me now.’ Preston turned and nodded at the metal chest. ‘They’re here with me because He wishes that to be so. And Joseph Smith is dead, beaten to death by a mob, his church split amongst greedy rivals. Again, that would not be so unless the Lord wished it.’
Vander looked unconvinced.
‘We are the light, Eric. The good. Be certain of that. If this was not what God wanted, we would have known about it a long time ago.’
‘Then who killed Saul?’
‘Someone who knows.’
‘But who, other than Dorothy?’
Preston sat down heavily, wincing from the sharp tug on his bound wounds. He cast his mind back to the night before last.
Dorothy comes to me, enraged and heartbroken.
‘You took me in when I had no one,’ she cries. ‘I abandoned my faith for you.’
‘Dorothy, listen to me-’
‘I gave you my heart, my soul… my body. I gave you my children.’
‘Please, listen to-’
‘We trusted you. We trusted your message from God. You told lies, William. You told us lies! You led us away from God. You’ve led us here to this forsaken place… me, my children, and all the others.’
‘Why are you saying these things to me, Dorothy?’
‘Because in your sleep, it came out. The truth. One night after the next, fever made you tell the truth. Fever pushed the truth out of you, as it pushed sour liquid from your wounds. You and Saul and Eric, the three of you… are evil!’
‘Whatever I must have said was feverish nonsense.’
Dorothy shakes her head. ‘No, I… I’ve suspected some of these things before. Even punished myself for letting the Devil put doubts in my head. But you… you are doing what you claim our founder did — taking the words of God and making them your own!’
‘Dorothy!’
‘Your words… not God’s!’
‘William?’
Preston looked up at Eric. ‘Yes?’
‘If she knew, because of what she heard you say in your sleep.. then who else might she have told?’
Preston shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps the important question should be who else might have heard me.’
‘Only Saul, Dorothy and myself sat with you.’ Vander turned to look at him. ‘And that doctor, Lambert.’
Preston took a deep breath and nodded slowly. ‘Yes… yes, he was with me a few times.’
Vander’s eyes widened. ‘Do you think he might have done this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But he would not know of your work. Our Book.’
Preston considered that for a moment. He had seen Lambert become close to Dorothy’s children over the last
