last ten minutes, the desperate hand-to-hand fight and the ensuing escape. His tortured breath came in ragged gasps and wisps of steam rose from his hot body into the cold night air.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and turned round to look back the way he had come. The sky was mostly clear tonight, and in between the floating islands of dark cloud the full moon shone brightly, bathing the night with a quicksilver that made the snow’s glow almost luminescent.
A hunter’s light. A hunter’s moon.
He cursed. The tracks of dislodged powder snow in his wake were unmissable even without the aid of lamplight. The dark spatters of blood he was leaving beside them — black by the light of the moon — only served to further betray the way he had come. The gash down his forearm, caused by the vicious swinging impact of a hoe, was still bleeding, but the flow of blood had slowed from a gush to a viscous trickle. He needed to bandage the wound so that it wouldn’t get caught on something, tugged open, and the bleeding renewed.
But he also needed to keep moving.
Behind him, some way further down the hillside, he could hear someone’s laboured breathing, the cracking of branches and twigs being pushed desperately aside; someone rapidly approaching him. Further down the hill beyond, he could see the muted flicker of lamps and flaming torches moving swiftly between the trees.
The sound of panting breath and the cracking of hasty strides taken carelessly was almost upon him. Keats hadn’t time to mess with pouring powder and wadding a lead ball ready to fire. He dropped his rifle and pulled out his hunting knife. The panting quickly drew upon him, and by the pale glare of moonlight he saw a silhouette stagger out of the darkness and cross the clear, luminescent, snow-covered ground between them.
Keats sighed with relief when he recognised the outline and managed a dry and wheezy laugh.
‘Broken Wing,’ he said in Ute.
‘Ke-e-et, you live,’ the Indian replied in English.
They stared in silence for a few moments, both gasping hungrily for air.
Keats pointed downhill. ‘Others with you?’
Broken Wing nodded. ‘One Paiute brother, and the white-face with buffalo-skin squaw.’
‘No one else?’
‘They all dead.’
He heard Weyland and the others approaching now, making enough noise between them that Keats found himself grimacing and wincing with each deafening snap and rustle. They emerged into the moonlight, Weyland and a Paiute carrying between them the Negro girl, who flopped lifelessly in their arms.
Keats focused his attention again on the distant glimmer of torchlight. He counted at least a couple of dozen flickering orange auras moving amongst the trees. He watched as they halted, then a few moments later began to converge.
A meeting.
‘My little girl’s hurt badly.’ Weyland’s soft voice broke the silence as he lay down with the girl in his arms. ‘My little darling, Violet. They hurt you, but you’re going to be fine,’ he whispered, rocking her gently in his arms. ‘You’re going to be fine, my little angel. We’ll get you out of here, out of these mountains and down.. down into the land we came here for,’ he muttered, his voice thick with grief.
The young Paiute looked up at Broken Wing and shook his head slowly.
‘Buffalo skin is dead.’
Broken Wing nodded.
Keats ripped a strip off the faded polka-dot shirt beneath his deerskin jacket and tied a bandage around his arm as he studied the distant gathering of light, undulating in the darkness.
‘They will come, Ke-e-e-t,’ announced Broken Wing in English for the benefit of Weyland. Following Keats’s gaze, he continued in Ute.
‘Even blind fool can follow.’
There was some movement from down below. The gathering appeared to be splitting in two. One of the groups changed direction and began to diverge into a dozen pin-pricks of light, spreading out and covering the woods around the camp. Keats realised they were looking for any escapees who had decided to hide and not flee. The other group delayed a while longer before starting up the slope towards them.
Keats balled his fist. They’ve found our tracks.
Weyland continued making whispered assurances to his girl, promising a future that wasn’t going to happen for her.
‘We have to go,’ hissed Keats.
The Virginian ignored him, whispering promises into her ear. ‘Weyland!’
He looked up at Keats.
‘She’s gone, Weyland. She’s dead. We have to go now.’
Weyland shook his head. ‘Violet’s tired. I need to let her rest here for a while, and then-’
‘The girl’s dead!’ he snapped. ‘Ain’t no time to argue ’bout it. Look,’ he said, pointing downhill. The glow of lights was already growing brighter and more distinct. They were making better speed up the hill, with the benefit of the light from their flaming torches and oil lamps showing the way.
‘Why do white-faces still come?’ asked the Paiute in Ute.
Broken Wing glanced at the distant lights. ‘White-face spirit has taken them.’
Keats placed a hand on Weyland’s arm. ‘Say goodbye to her, Weyland, we’re movin’ along.’
Weyland nodded, kissed her still mouth and held her tightly, burying his face into her shoulder and rocking backwards and forwards.
‘We gotta go,’ Keats barked. ‘Now!’
Broken Wing uttered a clipped command to the young Paiute. He then punched Weyland roughly in the small of his back. ‘Come, or you die.’
He nodded, let her head down on the snow and got to his feet.
‘This way,’ said Keats, pointing uphill. He turned once more to look back down behind them as they filed silently past. Their pursuers were getting closer. Beyond them, he saw the muted glow of a smouldering circle, the fading embers of their hastily constructed defences. His assumption that the wood would be too damp to easily catch fire had been an error. They should have used the day to pack what they could and leave, as Preston had demanded of them, instead of digging in.
It was my mistake.
Lambert had seen sense, had seen they were doomed, and left before it was too late. The rest of them could have — should have — done the same. He realised now that there was plenty worse to be frightened of in these hills than the weather.
‘Mebbe them preacher types are right,’ he muttered to himself.
Maybe there are demons and angels… a God and a Devil.
CHAPTER 74
1 November, 1856
‘Oh, no… no, that won’t do. We can’t have them skulking around in these woods,’ Preston called out to the nearest of his people. ‘You hear me?’
The men nearby nodded.
‘Find them for me. We can’t let them slip away and then come back. Spread out and find them!’
The swinging lights of dozens of oil lamps and flickering, sputtering torches filled the space around them with dancing shadows as they beat multiple paths through the coarse undergrowth and pushed through thick boughs of fir needles.
‘And be careful!’ he cautioned, raising his voice above the murmur of other voices, the snap of branches, and the rustle and tumble of dislodged snow around him. ‘They’re evil spirits. They will jump at you and cut you if they can. Be aware,’ he said with a chilling certainty, ‘if you corner them, they will try to confuse you. Whatever you do, do not listen to them! Do not look into their eyes; do not let them into your head! They may look like people… but they’re not.’
