CHAPTER 8
Saturday
MKNBC NEWS studio, Utah
‘I like to think I speak for the hard-working man on the shop floor, those regular Joes who pay taxes year in, year out, don’t ask for favours, don’t run around breaking the law… to quote Andrew Jackson, the very sinews of this nation of ours,’ he said, offering his host a polite but sincere nod.
‘I think in recent years we’ve lost sight of the quiet guy. The guy that just gets on with it, doesn’t complain about the cards he’s been handed, doesn’t try and find someone to sue if everything isn’t going quite right for him.’
Patricia Donnell offered him a calculating smile. ‘Which sounds to me, and I’m sure to our viewers, Mr Shepherd, a very noble sentiment. But what I’m trying to understand, what I’m trying to get my head around, is where you really sit in the political spectrum. You see, there will be those who look at your background; an influential family, old money in property and banking, your strong Christian views, and ask themselves whether they’re looking at another Republican candidate by a different name.’
‘Two things, Patricia. Two things you got wrong right there,’ he said, working carefully to keep his voice measured and calm and his pace deliberate and even.
‘My faith, as you well know, is Church of Latter Day Saints. I am not a Baptist, nor an Evangelical, nor Seventh Day Adventist. I am a Mormon. There’s a big difference there, Patricia. Secondly, yes… I come from a privileged background, but we’ve all worked for that. Myself, my father, my grandfather — through generations of putting our backs into it, we’ve rightly amassed our wealth. And what’s wrong with that? This is America. But, because of that,’ he said, raising a finger to stop her cutting in, ‘because I understand what work is, I truly understand the work ethic, that a man’s toil deserves to be rewarded, from the guy operating the factory-floor machine, to the guy sorting letters in the post room, to the shift supervisor. I’m not a Republican candidate.’
Patricia shrugged. ‘You’re making the right noises for the average Republican voter.’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m offering something new, something different. A new realism — common sense politics. This nation has been strangled by the shared monopoly of Democrats and Republicans. The man I’m talking directly to…’ His eyes flickered to the camera in front of them. ‘… is fed up with looking at Washington and seeing this tug of war once every four years between two groups of people who, in fact, differ very little. I mean, these guys are in the pockets of the same lobby groups; they only seem to care about prolonging their terms in office. Meanwhile, out there in the real world, there’s problems need fixing.’
Patricia nodded. ‘There are those who are saying, Mr Shepherd, that you will end up just like other independent candidates from previous elections. Like Ross Perot, like Ralph Nader, spending millions and millions of your own money and getting lost in the void between the two main parties.’
William Shepherd smiled and held out three fingers in front of him, which he proceeded to count off. ‘First, there is no void between the two big parties. They sit right on top of each other, snug as two peas in a pod, aping each other’s policies. There’s no void at all there, Miss Donnell. Second, I know this country is fed up with the both of them and begging for some new alternative. You can feel it in the air, like the static before a thunderstorm. Third,’ he said, tucking down the last finger, ‘I have the best campaign manager in the world on my side. He’s never put a foot wrong, not yet.’
She smiled quizzically. ‘And who…?’
‘Well now, it’s God, of course.’
CHAPTER 9
3 August, 1856
‘If it ain’t a wheel, then it’s a goddamned axle,’ Keats muttered irritably to Ben and Broken Wing as their ponies trotted side by side towards the growing crowd of people gathering around a wagon that had slewed to one side. He stretched up in his saddle and craned his neck to see over the milling circle of broad-brimmed hats and bonnets.
‘Someone’s goddamned wheel’s buckled, I betcha,’ he added with a hint of disgust. ‘One of them Mormon wagons. If it’s the one I’m thinkin’ of, I heard the wheel creakin’ yesterday. An’ I damned well warned them about it too.’
There were several dozen men, women and children around the wagon, which was canted over at an awkward angle, household goods spilled out across the hard-scrabble ground. The team of oxen had been released from their yokes and now grazed, oblivious to events, on tufts of dry prairie grass some yards away.
Keats dismounted and pushed his way irritably through to the front. He watched as Preston, his sleeves rolled up, helped several other men lift the wagon’s axle onto a block to level the wagon. He waited until the heaving and puffing was done, and the axle firmly secured, before saying his piece.
‘Preston!’ he called out and then nodded towards the discarded broken wheel. ‘No way you gonna fix that.’
Ben dismounted and politely pushed his way through the gathered crowd to join Keats, whilst Broken Wing remained where he was, a respectful distance back. Standing beside Keats, Ben studied the wheel. Five of the spokes had split and the metal rim had buckled and twisted as the wheel frame had collapsed in on itself. Even to his untrained eye, there was nothing at all to salvage from it.
Preston looked up at Keats, taking his wide-brimmed black felt hat off and wiping the sweat from his face on a shirt sleeve. ‘I believe you’re right, Mr Keats. The wheel is, I’m sure, quite beyond repair.’
The trail guide pursed his leathery old lips and shrugged. ‘Well, we can’t sit around here all day talkin’ about it. We got eight more miles to make today before we set down to camp.’
Preston nodded. ‘I understand. But these people, the Zimmermans, need a new wheel making. We have those skills amongst our party.’ Preston pointed to one of the men standing next to him, wearing, like his First Elder and every other man, a white linen shirt, a dark waistcoat and a black felt hat. ‘Mr Larkin is a smith and Mr-’
‘The job’s at least two days,’ cut in Keats. ‘We don’t have the time to spend it so carelessly. The whole train should be moving on.’
Preston’s bushy blond eyebrows knotted above his dark sunken eyes. He gestured towards the family, a couple with a little girl. ‘And leave these people to fend for themselves? Would two days be worth their lives?’ Preston looked at the family. Ben followed his gaze and studied them; both the parents were short and stocky, their child a girl perhaps a year or so younger than Emily Dreyton.
‘Because they will die alone out here, Keats… these good people… this precious child.’
It was the first time Ben had been up close to Preston and heard him speak. There was a powerful resonance to his voice, and a magnetic charm in his long, gaunt face.
‘These people trust me to lead them. I will not abandon them. Not over one broken wheel, which can be replaced with a new one.’
Against his initial judgement from afar, Ben found himself warming to the Mormon leader.
Keats snorted with derision. ‘Then you shouldn’t be a goddamned trail captain.’ He pointed out across the grassy plain, towards a small cairn of rocks.
‘You see those graves by the side of the trail? Those are left-behinds; unlucky folks who saw the beast and didn’t turn. Maybe their wheel broke too, or their oxen died, or they drank foul water an’ got too sick to travel. Whatever… they got left behind ’cause they was slowin’ down their party.’
Keats addressed Mr Zimmerman. ‘You should head back to Fort Kearny. Leave the wagon, load yer supplies on the oxen and turn back.’
Mr Zimmerman turned to Preston. ‘William, perhaps he’s right?’
Preston shook his head firmly. ‘I’ll not leave you behind. No one will be left behind, and that is my final word on this.’
