October skies

There was a silence amongst them. They watched their trail captain weighing things up. He narrowed his eyes, scratched his chin and cast a glance towards the peaks on the horizon, then turned to Broken Wing.

The Indian shrugged casually.

Keats sighed. ‘You folks all of the same, stupid, get-yourself-killed opinion?’

Heads nodded silently.

‘What if we were to start a half an hour earlier each morning, as Preston suggested, and take a little less resting time at noon — can we not make up for the slower pace?’ offered Ben.

Keats stroked his bristled chin as he considered the suggestion.

To Ben’s surprise the old man finally nodded.

‘Fine,’ he said, looking back at them. ‘But when — and mark my words, folks — when that stupid make-do wheel or the axle holdin’ it breaks, we won’t be discussin’ it like some goddamned town council meeting. We leave them behind. Understand? ’

They nodded in unison.

CHAPTER 10

5 September, 1856

It has been hard work in recent days. I have not written a word in here for a while!

We left the plains in the last few days of July and entered the Rockies. The trail through those spectacular mountains was not as hard as I had anticipated. Our trail captain, Keats, put the fear of God in us, ensuring we hasten on at every moment despite being slowed down by the crippled Mormon wagon.

We crossed South Pass on the last day of July, gently descending from the mountains on to land so bare and arid that I can barely imagine anyone could survive here. But Keats assures us they do; Ute, Shoshone, Bannock… they all manage after a fashion.

We have started to see graves more frequently by the trailside. Sometimes in ones or twos, sometimes, it seems, whole parties. There are those that have died because their horses have failed them and those that have died from sickness. Some of the graves were opened and the bodies unearthed. Keats said Ute most likely did this, scavenging for items, clothes. Indians, he says, do not bury their dead; once the spirit is gone, they consider what’s left as mere carrion.

He said the same fate awaits the Zimmermans when their wheel finally collapses, or their stressed axle breaks. Out here in this salty plain, he says, they will die quickly and be scavenged first by Indians, then by vultures…

‘Mr Lambert?’

Ben stirred.

‘Mr Lambert… Benjamin?’ a voice whispered out of the darkness. He put down his pen and screwed the lid tightly on his precious inkpot.

He recognised the voice coming out of the night nearby. The lad had sneaked out under cover of dark several times before.

‘Samuel?’

Into the small pool of flickering light from his writing lamp, the lad emerged, hand in hand with Emily, a grin of mischievous excitement stretched across her small bonnet-framed face.

‘Emily too?’ He looked at Sam. ‘Will she not be in trouble, being out this late?’

‘Momma’s at an Elders’ meeting with Preston.’

‘Momma won’t find out,’ said Emily. ‘They pray and talk late.’

Ben smiled. ‘All right then. But I’d hate for you two to get in trouble.’

Both of them shrugged.

‘Come on the pair of you,’ said Ben. He nodded towards the campfire, around which the children from the Bowen, McIntyre and Hussein families sat and played together. ‘Why don’t we join the others?’

He led them over to the communal fire. There was a moment of awkwardness as the children sized each other up, aware that Emily and Sam were from the other camp. Five minutes later, names had been politely exchanged and Emily was chatting with one of the McIntyre children, Anne-Marie, a girl a year older than Emily, who was eagerly showing and sharing her small collection of dolls.

Sam stayed close by Ben’s side, fascinated by the dark skins of Mr Hussein and his family and Weyland’s Negro girl, and the quiet studied form of Broken Wing. On the other hand, the young lad was wary of Keats, spitting, cursing and swapping dirty stories with Mr Bowen and Mr Weyland.

Ben noticed Sam also discreetly watching over Emily across the flames, smiling at her giggles of pleasure, clearly proud of his little sister and how her ever-cheerful demeanour instantly charmed the other children and Mrs Bowen and Mrs McIntyre.

He cares for her more like a father than a brother.

It made sense. There was no father and Sam was now of an age where he was becoming the man of their small family. But there was a wonderful tenderness he had noticed between them over the last few weeks. They were certainly much closer to each other than they were to that cold, hard-faced mother of theirs.

‘Sam, would you like a little coffee?’

He nodded. Ben poured and passed him a mug that he held tightly in both hands, savouring both the warmth and the aroma.

‘Do you have any other family, Sam? Uncles, aunts, grand-parents, left back east?’

‘The community is our family,’ he replied. ‘We aren’t allowed any family beyond that.’

‘Aren’t allowed?’