few months, particularly Samuel. The lad might have shared with Lambert what their mission was. He might have explained the Book of New Instruction. He might even have shown him a copy. It was possible that Dorothy went to Lambert and told him everything she suspected. But he couldn’t imagine the man killing with such ferocity and anger. He couldn’t imagine Lambert carving those letters into Hearst’s skin with the tip of a knife.
Preston looked up at Vander. ‘I sent Saul to reason with Dorothy not to upset the others with her doubts.’
Vander nodded. ‘Maybe Saul went too far?’
Preston shook his head gravely. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Dorothy could have undone everything with her doubts and suspicions. He must have decided he had no choice.’
Preston sighed. ‘Might be that is so.’
‘Is it possible, William, that Lambert came upon them dead and found Saul there… ready to deal with Emily.’
‘And killed him in anger?’
Preston nodded. It was a possible scenario, but one he could only imagine if some greater presence was at work.
‘Eric,’ he said after a few moments, ‘it is quite possible that the Devil is acting through this man to get to us. To stop our work.’
Vander trembled with fear, or rage, or both. ‘The Devil is all around us, isn’t he? He’s in Lambert, the others in that group, the savages out there…’
‘Yes, that’s what I sense. We have in that chest what the Devil fears the most: God’s true message waiting to be heard for the first time. And we will make His words known, one way or another.’
‘We should kill Lambert.’
‘No. I’ll not have any more blood shed. I would never have sent Saul if I had known he was going to take a knife to them.’
‘Maybe that was God’s will?’
Preston sighed. ‘I don’t know. I need to rest, and pray. God will talk to me tonight. We shall discuss this further in the morning. ’
Vander nodded. ‘All right.’ He turned to go. ‘Will you take some broth, William? Mrs Lester is cooking some on the campfire. ’
‘I’m not hungry. I just need some rest for now.’
‘As you wish.’
Vander pushed aside the drape and stepped out, letting in the flickering glow of the nearby campfire. The cloth flapped back down, shutting out the light and leaving Preston in the gloom of a single guttering oil lamp.
He settled back on his cot and reached for the ceramic flask tucked behind it. He pulled the stopper out and sighed with relief. He could feel the onset of trembling, a cold sweat and light-headedness, but he knew these unfortunate symptoms would be washed away with this last dose of Lambert’s medicine.
He drank the bitter tonic.
I must ask Lambert for some more tomorrow.
‘She’s unchanged?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Mrs Zimmerman, ‘she’s as she was. Not spoken a word, nor moved at all.’
Ben knelt down beside her. She was curled into a foetal ball, her knees pulled up, her hands clasped together between them and her chin, her blue eyes lost, some place far away. There were still dark spots and smudges of dried blood in the creases of her skin that had resisted being sponged away. He wondered how many of those dark flakes of blood had come from her mother and Sam.
Her long blonde hair was still clotted and tangled, although the dress she had worn yesterday, stained appallingly with the Indian’s blood, had been replaced with another. Mrs Zimmerman had done her best to wash the dark spatters from her face, leaving it clean but ghostly white.
‘My husband told me you found the others?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at her, wondering how much her husband had told her — probably she knew of the graves, but nothing about Mr Hearst. Clearly Preston didn’t want the awful scene to be relayed to the others. It would spread a dangerous panic amongst them, and more than likely distrust and enmity would be misdirected at Broken Wing.
‘They were all dead,’ he replied.
‘Was it the savages, do you think?’
No, of course it wasn’t. Indians don’t bury the dead. Nor are they likely to read and write.
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. But that left him considering two very unsettling alternatives. Either it was something he couldn’t accept… something beyond science, something that belonged to a time of darkness and ignorance — something supernatural.
Or?
Or it was somebody from the camp.
He recalled the words inscribed into Hearst’s pale flesh.
‘Mrs Zimmerman?’
She looked up at him; her hand stopped stroking Emily’s hair.
‘Will you be with her tonight?’
‘Yes. I’ll stay with Emily as long as she needs me,’ she replied. ‘My husband and I have no children to care for now… not any more.’
The trace of bitterness in her voice was almost fully concealed, but still detectable and unmistakable. He could hardly imagine the pain of losing an only child — something far beyond any other kind of loss. He wondered whether, beneath her carefully contained, tight-lipped grief, she silently blamed someone for losing her little girl.
Her husband? Preston? Perhaps even God?
‘I’ll bid you goodnight. I shall come back in the morning to look in on her.’
Mrs Zimmerman nodded.
Ben reached out and stroked Emily’s face. Her eyes stared blankly ahead of her.
‘Goodnight, Emily,’ he said quietly.
CHAPTER 45
24 October, 1856
From up here, I can see them all.
The camp is quiet. The sky has opened up and unleashed a silent flurry of heavy snowflakes that cascade and land without a noise. Down below, the communal campfires have been left to burn out, and all of them are tucked into their shelters, except four of them in two huddled pairs.
The night watch.
I see you, though. I see you, William Preston, in your shelter. What are you thinking now? Are you afraid yet? You should be.
Long before the snow melts, they will all know about you, William Preston. They will know that you are a pretender, a false prophet, a charlatan, a liar, a thief… and a murderer. And when they discover this, they will turn on you… for leading them to this. They will turn on you, and burn you like a witch.
An idea suddenly occurs. An ingenious way to torment Preston before this happens.
‘I’m coming down there tonight.’ The voice is nothing but a whisper.
‘I’m coming to take something from you.’
CHAPTER 46
