‘It’s Preston, isn’t it?’ Ben blurted.
‘What?’
‘It’s Preston who killed them. He did it to convince you all that-’
Vander reached out and grabbed him angrily. ‘God’s rage will be visited on you next,’ he spat, ‘if you say that again. And if not God’s, then mine.’
He pushed Ben away. ‘Back to your side… and keep your sick poison over there. You have Indian boys to befriend now.’
‘Vander, listen to me. This will end in all of us dying, unless Emily talks to us and tells us what she saw. I think Preston has gone insane.’
The man reached out with frightening speed, grabbed the gathered layers of clothing around Ben’s neck and pulled him forward. He could feel the tip of Vander’s knife pressed into one ear.
‘I could push this in and kill you, just like that.’
Ben felt his bladder loosen. A warm trickle that quickly cooled.
‘I could cut the tongue from your mouth, Lambert. But…’ He smiled. ‘I’d much rather watch you starve with the others.’
He pushed Ben away.
‘The storm is coming and it’ll wash you away like so much shit.’
Ben took a step back.
‘Go!’ Vander hissed.
Ben turned and headed back to his side of the camp, wondering if Vander would run along and tell Preston of this incursion. He could imagine Preston marching over in the morning, accompanied by an armed guard, to make some punitive example of him. There would undoubtedly be a stand-off once more. He wondered if it would go beyond that and turn into a bloody massacre.
He cursed his bad luck at being discovered by Vander, and wondered if he’d made things worse by attempting to sneak across under the cover of night and the gusting wind.
There’ll be consequences tomorrow.
Ben decided he was going to sleep with his gun loaded and right beside him tonight, if he slept at all.
Vander waited outside the shelter until he was sure the Englishman had gone. Then he stooped down, pushed the fluttering canvas flap aside and entered the muted warmth of Emily’s shelter.
Mrs Zimmerman stirred. ‘What was that? I heard whispers outside.’
‘It was nothing,’ he said, pulling the flap down and weighting the bottom of it with a log. He knelt down beside the huddled form of the girl. ‘You can go now. I’ll mind her.’
She looked at him. ‘Emily has not eaten again today. I keep trying her with broth.’
Vander shook his head. ‘She is already dead. Her body just hasn’t learned of that yet.’ He shuffled to one side to allow Mrs Zimmerman to squeeze past. ‘Go on and be with your husband tonight. I’ll watch over her.’
She nodded obediently and manoeuvred passed him. Then she stopped, an expression of concern on her face. ‘You’re not planning to-?’
‘Planning to what?’
Mrs Zimmerman swallowed nervously. ‘She’ll be all right come morning? Won’t she?’
‘That’s up to the Lord now, isn’t it?’
She studied him uncertainly.
‘Go now,’ he said, ‘she will be fine.’
She nodded and then, after affectionately stroking Emily’s still face one last time, she left the shelter, securing the flap behind her.
Vander sat perfectly still for a while, listening to the sound of the moaning wind, waiting to be sure Mrs Zimmerman had gone. He looked at the sleeping girl. Awake, her small oval face was just as expressionless, those eyes of hers locked into an unmoving gaze that never broke or wandered.
‘Well, Emily? What did those eyes of yours see? Hmm? Enough that tongues may start wagging.’
Her breathing remained regular and quiet.
There’s no longer a human soul there, he decided, looking down at her pallid skin and along the length of her huddled form, covered by several thick blankets.
You’re just an empty shell now, aren’t you, Emily? Something that looks like a little girl, but no longer is.
A guilty, tickling urge stirred inside him, an urge he had promised himself not to allow out again. A promise he had also made to Preston, some years back — not to play with the children in that way any more.
He lay down beside her so that his face was only inches away from hers. He could feel her short breath on his cheeks at regular intervals.
‘Emily Dreyton?’ he whispered.
Her sleep remained deep and undisturbed.
‘Uncle Eric is here,’ he said softly.
There’s no harm in this. Just once more, before I smother her.
Preston knew about the particular… interest… he had in the children; both Eric and the late Saul Hearst shared different preferences of that same interest. Preston knew what went on, on rare occasions, and disapproved. It wasn’t spoken of, provided they both kept their playing with the children discreet and out of his sight.
He looked down at her and knew she was going to be dead very soon. Preston would be none the wiser if he took his pleasure with her first.
He reached out and grasped the edge of the thick blankets, slowly pulling them down to reveal her pale woollen dress.
There’s no harm. I’m just playing, is all.
He pushed the blankets down to her booted feet, and then his trembling, excited hand wandered back up to the top-most button of her dress, just beneath her chin, and was working it open when he felt a chilled draught that sent the oil lamp beside her head guttering and spitting.
It went out.
‘Who is that?’ Vander snarled angrily, quickly withdrawing his hand.
There was no answer. It was probably Mrs Zimmerman, he decided, having forgotten something. He reached for the box of matches beside the glowing wick of the lamp and shuddered from the chill as he fumbled for a match.
‘You’ve let too much cold in,’ he snapped irritably as he struck the match. It flared brightly for a second, throwing the snug shelter into sharp relief. He turned to scowl towards Mrs Zimmerman, only to find himself staring at two dark holes for eyes.
The match flickered out.
CHAPTER 59
1 November, 1856
Ben heard the very first scream from the other camp only a short while after he’d noticed the grey light of dawn stealing into the womb-like shelter. The scream was shrill and feminine and followed shortly after by the cry of several children.
He grabbed his gun, already carefully loaded and ready to fire — something he’d done quietly last night whilst the other two slept. His head throbbed from weariness, not certain whether he’d actually managed any sleep last night or not, since climbing back inside after his encounter with Vander.
Another piercing scream shook away the last of the fatigue. He wrapped his poncho around his head and shoulders and struggled to push the snow away from his opening, like some small rodent emerging from its burrow.
Clambering to his feet outside, he noticed the wrapped-up heads of several others emerging, pushing aside drifts of fresh snow as the screaming continued. The six Paiute had already climbed out of the shelter they had made, their blades drawn. Keats squeezed out of the shelter and joined them.
