‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ he muttered irritably.
‘Coming from their side,’ replied Ben.
Ben took a step up a drift of snow, gaining just a few inches’ height as it squeaked and compacted beneath him. He craned his neck to look towards where the screaming was coming from. There was plenty of activity on the other side; a milling crowd of men, woman and children, agitated, pacing, praying.
‘Something’s happened over there,’ uttered Ben.
Keats called out to Broken Wing. The Shoshone nodded. He turned around to look for the others — McIntyre, Weyland, Hussein, Bowen. ‘All of you, come with me and bring your guns,’ Keats barked loudly.
They converged as they rounded the smooth nodules of white that marked the oxen boneyard below, then spread out warily as they drew closer, guns cocked and ready, but, under Keats’s instruction, barrels aimed downward.
Ben could hear no more screaming as they drew nearer. Instead there was a keening moan from several women, rocking back and forth on their knees, and amongst the others the frantic, whispered rattle of prayer. Above them, he had noticed from the far side of the clearing, was what he presumed was a shank of meat, suspended from a tree to keep it from scavenging animals.
Keats led them forward, stepping through them. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ he barked out loud. None of them seemed to notice Keats or the others, their attention directed towards the carcass dangling above them.
As they drew closer, Ben’s eyes made sense of the gently swinging object.
‘Oh my God,’ he whispered.
He recognised the man, despite some disfiguration of the face and dried blood caked around his mouth — it was Eric Vander. His naked body suspended from a noose strung up to the overhanging bare branch of a large dogwood tree. The body swung with the creak of the rope, twenty feet off the ground. A blade had worked on his bowels and, beneath the tangled string of intestinal cord that dangled down from his gut, almost to the ground, lay a small pool of blood and offal, frozen solid during the night.
‘Oh, God, help us,’ muttered McIntyre, his voice muffled through the woollen scarf wrapped around his head.
Ben could see a blade had also been at work on the man’s groin. His genitals had been removed. Looking up at Vander’s face, he realised where they’d been placed.
‘For Christ’s sake, someone cut him down!’ Keats shouted angrily at the muttering, praying crowd.
Mr Zimmerman emerged and climbed up into the tree, his boots slipping perilously on the frosted branch that stretched a couple of dozen feet over the clearing from the forest’s edge.
Ben watched the man hunker down halfway along the branch and produce a knife. He swiped a couple of times at the rope cinched around the branch. With a crack of twine snapping, the branch lurched upwards several inches, freed of the dead weight as Vander’s body tumbled down. There were cries and whimpers at the appalling sight of his stiff body buckling on impact with the ground and lolling over at an awkward angle, a rigid arm pointing to the sky, one leg snapped and twisted like brittle firewood by the fall.
The crowd drew back from it instinctively.
Ben moved forward into the cleared space, Keats quickly beside him as he knelt down beside the body. Vander’s eyes stared lifelessly back at Ben, wide and terrified and milky from death. He leaned forward, studying them closely.
‘What’re you doin’, Lambert?’ Keats muttered.
‘The eyes. I believe sometimes they can capture an image, like a photograph, of the last thing a victim sees.’
‘Really?’ Keats sounded impressed.
Ben nodded, leaning closer still. ‘Something I read before I came out. Scotland Yard police routinely photograph the eyes of the dead.’
He studied them intently but could see nothing in the clouded iris. The expression on Vander’s face told him more.
‘What’s that stickin’ out of his mouth?’ asked Keats.
‘See if you can guess.’
The guide’s eyebrows locked in thought for a moment, then he looked down at the jagged wounds around Vander’s groin, and nodded.
His own genitals in his mouth?
Ben was wondering what the hell that meant — it had to signify something, surely — when he heard a commotion coming from the back of the crowd. He heard a woman’s voice, shrill and sobbing. It drew closer. The crowd parted and he saw Preston leading through a woman, his arm around her narrow shoulders. He saw the body, and calmly turned her around so that her back was facing the ghastly sight.
‘Sophia… again, tell these people here what you told me,’ he said gently.
She nodded. ‘I… I… saw… the angel,’ she muttered between sobs, ‘last night… I saw it.’
Ben saw eyes widen and lips move amongst the gathered faces.
‘I… I… was out… to relieve myself. I saw it.’ Her small voice crumpled into a mewling whimper.
Preston rubbed her back encouragingly. ‘Go on, Mrs Rutherford. Tell them.’
She nodded again, and took a breath. ‘It… it… was… made of bones.’ She shook her head, trembling as she struggled to recall what she’d seen. ‘I th-thought I was having a nightmare. Tall.. tall, it was… m-moving through our camp.’ She looked up at Preston and shook her head. ‘Please… please, don’t let it come for my ch-children,’ she pleaded with her hoarse, broken voice.
Preston nodded, whispered an encouragement, then held her tightly for a moment before letting her step back through the crowd towards her husband.
The minister turned and took in the sight of Vander’s crumpled body: contorted, twisted and brittle. For the briefest moment there was no reaction on his face — a dull, lifeless response that seemed at odds with the tender reassurance he had offered the woman a moment earlier. Then his face darkened and he turned to address his people.
‘Another judgement on us! A second judgement! This is His warning!’ Preston spun round to look at Ben and Keats. ‘And it is you He is warning us of!’
An uneasy murmur stirred through the gathered people like an autumn draft through dry leaves.
‘The outsiders are poisoning this place like bad water,’ he spat angrily. ‘And here they are, bringing those evil demons right into the heart of our camp’ — he pointed to his shelter — ‘within just a few yards of our sacred place!’ He took a step forward. ‘You’ve walked the Devil’s servants, his eyes and ears, his scouts, right up to our door. Don’t you see what you’ve done?’ He pointed at Broken Wing. ‘Don’t you see the face of the Devil in his eyes?
Broken Wing defiantly returned Preston’s glare.
‘Don’t you see him looking out at us, mocking us, enjoying the spectacle?’
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Keats.
‘You’ve tainted us with those devilish creatures,’ he said, thrusting a finger towards the Paiute, standing back from the crowd, ‘that you’ve foolishly embraced into our camp.’ Preston gestured towards the crumpled cadaver in the snow. ‘That, I fear, will be the last of our warnings! All the outsiders must leave this place today!’
Keats stood up. ‘Don’t be a fool, Preston!’
‘You must leave before night!’
‘No one’s leavin’ here. We’d die without shelter and food.’
Preston strode forward until his face was only inches from Keats’s.
‘Don’t you see, Keats?’ Preston muttered quietly so that only Keats could hear. Ben could see that his eyes were intense, bloodshot and dilated with fear, anger or excitement — it was impossible to tell. Flecks of spittle dotted his dark beard. ‘My God, don’t you see? I’m doing what I can to save you.’
‘Save us?’
‘If you and your people stay another night, you’ll test the Lord’s patience too far. He’ll come like a storm. His angel will descend and rip you, perhaps even us, into bloody coils of flesh!’
‘What goddamned angel?’
Preston ignored him. ‘My people have a mission that cannot be started with you here. You have to leave!’ For a fleeting moment, his face softened and he spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry, but that is how it is.’ He shook his head with regret. ‘I have been foolish and far more tolerant than I should have been. Your people are not welcome here any
