October skies

Keats fixed his dark eyes on Ben and nodded. ‘Good question, young man. We’re late in the season. The only fools who set off now from Independence, or even Fort Kearny, would be damn stupid fools. My route’s a little longer, but a whole lot safer. We want to make it to the far side of the Rockies this side of September, an’ across them Sierra Nevada mountains before October hits us.’

‘But if we don’t…?’ Mrs Bowen started to ask.

Keats’s salt and pepper eyebrows arched. ‘If we don’t make it across in time?’

She nodded, her eyes wide and anxious.

‘We will, Mrs Bowen, we will. Just as long as we push hard, and mind that you take good care of your oxen an’ grease your axles daily.’

Ben heard the scuff of several pairs of boots approaching through the darkness, and those already seated around the dwindling flames were joined by Mr McIntyre, Mr Hussein and his son, and Mr Weyland.

Keats nodded with satisfaction. ‘Seems like we got at least one person from each of our wagons here… good. I guess now’s as good a time as any other. One rule you folks should know up front. We ain’t gonna stop for nobody.’ Keats looked at each of them in turn. ‘Whatever happens — oxen die in their harness, wagon tongue snaps, sickness hits a family, any accidents… the rest of us gotta keep rollin’ whatever.’

‘What about those others?’ asked Mr McIntyre, gesturing towards the Mormon camp.

Keats looked across at the wagons of the Preston party. ‘Hell, it’s up to them. They got their own trail captain, that Preston fella. He can take my advice or leave it, up to him. But you folks hired me as your trail captain, so you follow my rules, understand? ’

‘You’re serious?’ asked Ben. ‘You’d ask us to leave someone behind? But they might die.’

‘Oh yeah.’ The old man nodded. ‘Anyone left behind will die, Lambert. And you people are gonna start seein’ the graves by the trailside pretty soon — the left-behinds. Those’re the real stupid folk who had horses pullin’ their wagons ’stead of oxen. The stupid folk who ignored a creaky axle a day too long. The stupid folk who got their head blasted off ’cos some dumb ass was ridin’ by with his rifle loaded and restin’ cross-saddle.’

There was a sombre silence punctuated only by the crackle of the fire.

‘The elephant can kill in many diff’rent ways, folks. Sweep you off the trail with one blow of his trunk. You be mindful of him. You see him…’ Keats took a long pull on his pipe and blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. ‘You see him, near or far, that’s the time to turn round.’

‘Keats, you’re scaring my missus,’ said Bowen.

‘Good. Cause we got plenty to be scared ’bout, not least of all is the weather.’

‘The weather’s been fine, Mr Keats,’ said Ben. ‘Lovely, in fact.’

Keats laughed. ‘Fine right now, Lambert, but we still yet to beat it.’ The old guide nodded westwards. ‘That’s the thing we all gotta be mindful of though, folks. We don’t beat the snow in those Sierras, then we’re in big trouble.’

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.’