‘Very funny, smart-arse. No, on the off chance he might be rescued by some other settlers or trappers and need something to corroborate his tale.’
Julian made a face. ‘Possibly.’
‘Come on, don’t you think it’s odd that Lambert chose to write it all up in so much detail? Surely he would have invested more of his effort in surviving, rather than writing? Unless, of course, he had something to hide.’
‘He was a writer, Rose, remember; that’s what he wanted to do.’ He squinted out of the passenger-side window at the flickering sunlight. ‘In some ways, just like an embedded journalist in Afghanistan. You don’t stop documenting what you’re seeing, hearing, feeling when the bullets start flying… that’s when you really start.’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
They drove on in silence for a while, both of them drinking in the splendour of the mountainside and the wooded valley below — scenery that demanded their attention with every twist and turn of the road. Ten minutes later the car rounded a corner and the tarmac gave way to a potholed, gravel track that the bouncy Japanese suspension began to struggle with. A roadside sign announced the National Parks campsite was not much further.
‘But what if…?’ She abandoned the thought unfinished and unformed.
‘What if, what?’
The track curved to the right and a moment later a wooden board above them welcomed them to Blue Valley Camp. Beyond they saw the parking lot, two cars parked apart from each other. One of them Rose recognised as Grace’s, and sitting in the front, she spotted her reading a paper, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the warmth of her car heater. The sound of tyres on gravel caught her attention and she perked up, offering Rose a smile as she parked their car snugly beside hers.
‘The unsinkable Molly Brown,’ Julian muttered under his breath, waving at her as he unplugged his seat belt.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. It’s just a line from a movie.’
Rose snorted. ‘Geek,’ she replied, looking over her shoulder at the other car. ‘Is that…?’
Julian followed her gaze. It was a cream-coloured Lincoln Navigator with shaded windows. ‘It looks like the kind of car a President-in-waiting might drive. Hmm?’
They let themselves out and joined Grace on the gravel as she opened the boot of her battered Jeep.
‘Morning, Grace,’ said Rose, savouring the crisp, cool mountain air and exhaling a plume of steam.
Grace squinted up at the deep blue sky. It was patched with a smattering of combed-out clouds painted a dazzling vanilla by the rising sun. ‘Lovely mornin’ it is too.’ She sucked in the air and blew it out. ‘Snow should’a come before the end of the month. I reckon it’s more than due. That’s definitely a sky readying for the winter.’
‘Hey, Grace.’ Julian waved at her.
‘Hey, Mr Cooke,’ the old woman replied with a cordial nod and a wave, then shot a quick, questioning glance at Rose. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Grace shrugged.
‘So, we set off now, we’ll be there mid-afternoon,’ she announced, pulling her backpack out of the boot of her Jeep. ‘You two tourists good to go?’
Julian pointed towards the Lincoln. ‘We’ve got someone coming along with us.’
Grace turned to look as the driver and passenger doors opened and a couple of men climbed out, both hauling back-packs of camping equipment out after them.
‘I thought it was going to be just Shepherd,’ Rose muttered.
Julian pulled a face. ‘As a matter of fact, so did I.’
Their feet crunched across the gravel towards them.
‘Mr Cooke,’ Shepherd called out, ‘I should have mentioned that I’d have company with me.’ He closed the gap between them. ‘This is Agent Barns. I recently qualified for a free Fed of my own. Apparently, when you hit a certain poll rating, you automatically trigger FBI protection.’ He grimaced at the man. ‘Barns has been my shadow for the last week.’
Agent Barns nodded politely to Julian, Rose and Grace and automatically produced his ID for them. ‘You can call me Agent Barns or Carl. I’m easy with either. I’ll try and keep out of your way — just keeping an eye out for Mr Shepherd, is all,’ he explained matter-of-factly.
Grace studied Shepherd with suspicion. ‘Anyone tell you, you look a lot like that guy from Utah running for…’ Her words trailed away quickly as her eyes widened with growing recognition.
‘Yup.’ Julian nodded. ‘He’s exactly who you think he is.’
Shepherd extended his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’
Her jaw fell open.
‘Mr Shepherd, Mr Barns,’ said Julian, ‘this is Grace Simms, the National Parks ranger who’s going to take us out, and this is Rose Whitely, my business partner and cameraman.’
A brief exchange of clumsy handshakes filled the silence, and then Julian turned to Grace, still thrown by their guest.
‘Shall we make a move then, Grace?’
She stirred. ‘Okay, yes… you folks all ready to go?’
They nodded.
‘Mr Shepherd?’
He smiled warmly. ‘Ready when you are, Grace.’
‘Right then,’ she said, her voice finding its back-to-business gruffness, ‘it’s about a six- to eight-hour hike up into the peaks from here. We’ll stop halfway for a brief rest, and then press on. That should get us to where we want to go by about three in the afternoon. That gives us a couple of hours of daylight to set up camp.’ She turned around and pointed to a worn footpath that led through the deserted camp site and up into the lowest apron of trees running down to the edge of the camping area.
‘We’re heading this-a-way,’ she barked, turning round and setting off along the path at a brisk pace.
Julian looked up. It was a solid carpet of woodland as far as the eye could see, topped by the purple and jagged, slate-grey crowns of the nearest peaks. They looked deceptively close, towering over them like a gathering of curious giants.
Shepherd broke into a brisk walk, swiftly catching up with Grace. A few moments later he had her laughing loudly, the bray of her coarse voice bouncing merrily off the hillside. The Fed followed behind them, dutifully keeping close to Shepherd, but not crowding him.
‘Rose, what was that little thing between you and Grace?’
‘Uh? What?’
‘When we were getting out of the car. She gave you a look.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied.
‘Oh, there was definitely a look.’
‘You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Jules.’
Julian shook his head. ‘Pffft.’
CHAPTER 72
1 November, 1856
Ben emerged from the trees and stumbled into the clearing illuminated by the flickering amber glow of flames. In several places around the barricade erected that afternoon, flames licked up from inside the tangle of branches and cannibalised lumber. He saw small faggots of kindling and flaming torches being hurled onto Keats’s defences by Preston’s people.
‘Stop! Stop it!’ he shouted. But his voice was lost amidst the sporadic crack of gunfire, the chanting coming from one side and the screams of fear from the other. Above all of that he heard the loud roar of Preston’s raging voice.
‘Burn them out! Burn out the servants of Satan, the evil imps, the evil ones in our midst!’
