October skies

‘Mr Keats, you can’t just say that and then leave us ’angin’ about,’ Mrs Bowen persisted and looked at the others gathered nearby, ‘can ’e now?’

He shrugged. ‘If it weren’t for it being mixed company, ma’am.. ’

Ben cleared his throat. ‘I think I’d like to know what we stand to face along the way, Mr Keats. Will it be friendly Indians or not?’

Keats’s hand cupped his bristly chin. ‘Well now, see that’s why you got me showin’ you the way through to the other side. Ain’t it? We’ll be passin’ through lands of maybe a dozen different tribes; Pawnee, Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Ute, Shoshone, Paiute, to name just a few.’ Keats looked at Ben. ‘Six, seven years ago, most Indians was friendly, back when the rush began. But they kinda learned a whole lot since then. They know it ain’t so smart riding in to greet wagon trains like ours. Too many bored settlers carryin’ guns and lookin’ for something to shoot at,’ he said, settling back against his saddle. ‘Ain’t that right?’ he asked Broken Wing.

The Indian nodded silently, puffing on his clay pipe and gazing distractedly at the flames dancing in front of him.

‘I remember, heard a story from a few years back,’ Keats continued, pulling out his own pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘There was this family… mother and father with more kids ’n they could be bothered to count. They stopped and made camp one evenin’. And then, like we do, they was up early the next morning whilst it’s still dark an’ off they set again. Only, it weren’t until they gone some miles before they realised they was down one child.’

Both Mrs Bowen and Mrs McIntyre gasped.

‘A group of men from the party was organised and they doubled back to try and find it. Led by the father, they headed back to where they was camped and then searched some trees nearby.’ Keats paused as he packed his pipe and then produced a match.

‘Now see, they found that little child,’ he said, then struck the match, held it to the bowl of his pipe and sucked. He took his time puffing, until the tobacco was well alight.

‘Well?’ asked Mrs McIntyre. ‘You were saying… the child?’

‘They found the child all right,’ Keats continued, ‘safe and well, being fed and played with by a group of young Pawnee warriors, would ya believe? Some say they was a raidin’ party looking to steal horses from the neighbouring Lakota. All tough young warriors these… but playin’ with the child. Them Indians had made camp right there where they found the child.’

Mrs Bowen smiled. ‘Them Indians don’t sound so bad after all, then.’

Keats puffed on his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke. ‘Camped right there over night, just so’s they could mind the child until the parents came back to get her. Well, that’s what some people say. But we’ll never really know.’

‘Why’s that, Mr Keats?’ asked Mrs McIntyre.

‘The father fired upon them. The others joined in. Killed most of them right there.’

There was a wary silence around the fire that popped and crackled, feeding hungrily on the buffalo chips.

‘I told you the story so’s you get the idea what them Indians have seen of us. An’ none of it is good,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Thing is, they had about enough of us folk comin’ through, shootin’ their buffalo and lettin’ ’em rot, tossing aside our shit and spoils, burning their firewood, spoilin’ their creeks and pools… shootin’ at them for no other reason than they were within range.’ He shook his head. ‘They was real slow on the uptake at first. But they got the measure of us folk now.’

‘It sounds like you’re on their side, Mr Keats,’ said Mrs McIntyre, shooting a glance at Broken Wing, ‘not ours.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, m’dear,’ he replied, ‘I’ll shoot a Indian if I have to. Or a white man, for that matter.’ He turned to the others around the fire. ‘I’m just tellin’ you what you oughta know. These last few years, Indians started turnin’. Which is why you gotta be lookin’ at wagon trains of twenty and over now, if you want to make it across alive. Which is why you need the likes of me and Broken Wing to lead you folks safely across the way.’

‘So,’ ventured Ben, ‘the question still stands: what type of Indians are we likely to come across? Friendly ones? Or-’

Broken Wing snorted a muted laugh.

Keats chuckled. ‘Well, there ain’t no friendly Indians no longer, Lambert. Just real cautious ones, or real pissed ones. And you want to hope to God, young man, that we only run into the first kind.’

Mr Bowen, a broad-shouldered man who habitually shaved his head down to the wood and looked every bit the East End brawler, put an arm around his wife’s narrow shoulders.

‘Don’ worry, Molly, luv,’ he said, nodding politely at Keats, ‘I reckon we’ll be just fine with Mr Keats ’ere lookin’ out for us, won’t we?’

Keats nodded. ‘S’right, Bowen. I aim to lead you folks up a route I took last year. Takes us north of most other well-worn trails, more into Shoshone country than Ute as we cross.’

‘But will that take us longer?’ asked Ben.