Ben looked around to see where the shot had come from, and saw Keats still squinting down the levelled length of his rifle and a cloud of blue smoke languidly rolling away from the muzzle.
Ben rushed towards Preston, lying on the ground and clutching his side painfully, gasping short little breaths that peppered the snow with dots of blood.
He looked up at Ben and managed to rasp, ‘I’m fine, man. You tend to James first. I’ll wait.’
CHAPTER 23
Monday
Blue Valley Camp, California
Rose found her easily. She was serving in the convenience store on the camp site.
She had enjoyed the half-hour drive up the twisting mountain road from Blue Valley. It was a steep incline all the way that taxed the hire car’s modest engine so that it whined like a fly in a tin can, but also a spectacular drive with thick firs to her left and a drop to her right, revealing a sweeping and breathtaking picture-postcard vista of a broad valley and a gently winding river.
The camp site, set alongside a small man-made lake, was all but deserted this time of year. Most of the family cabanas were empty, just one or two occupied by hardy folk who obviously enjoyed hiking National Park sites all year round. She imagined that in the middle of summer with a clear blue sky, bathed in welcoming sunlight and alive with smoking barbecue pits and children charging into the crystal-clear lake water, it was the kind of camp that holiday brochures are made for. But right now, with the wan light of autumn and a bland Tupperware sky, abandoned and silent, it looked a somewhat cheerless place.
The door to the convenience store opened with a quaint small-town ding that reminded her of Mr Godsey’s corner shop on Walton’s Mountain. Grace was perched behind the counter in her National Parks Service uniform, stuck into a sudoku puzzle.
She looked up and her weatherworn face creased into a smile.
‘Hey, Rose.’
‘Hi,’ Rose replied. ‘I must have taken down your cell number wrong. I tried to call you.’
‘Problems?’
‘No.’ Rose shrugged. ‘Just getting a bit lonely, I suppose. Jules has shot back to London for a few days, and I’m taking a break from messing around with my cameras.’
Grace put down her paper. ‘How’re things going with your little film?’
‘Very well, I think. I haven’t heard much from him. He sent a text saying he’s already got some good meetings lined up.’
Grace nodded and then leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly. ‘Louise Esterfeld, the Park Manager, asked me about you guys. How the field trip went.’
‘Oh?’
‘Wanted to know if her camp’s going to end up in your film,’ she snorted, ‘whether you guys goin’ to give her an interview and such.’
‘I suppose we could do that if you think it’ll buy us a little good will.’
Grace shook her head. ‘Screw that. Silly woman just wants her face on TV. Anyways, told her you were wanting another trip up into the woods sometime soon.’
Rose smiled coyly and winked. ‘And that’s when we’ll discover a very interesting find?’
Grace nodded. ‘Can’t leave it too much longer, though.’
‘I know.’
It was Jules’s suggestion that they give her a little ‘thank you’ money. There were ways and means of doing that. Rose imagined a proud and hardy woman like Grace would find a wad of notes in a plain brown envelope distasteful - although she could probably well do with it. It had taken no more than a dozen mouse clicks on the internet for Rose to find how little the National Parks Service paid their wardens; a pittance. They seemed to rely more on the dutiful enthusiasm of their staff to keep things running than on a properly managed budget.
Grace leaned back on her stool and pulled a mug out from a shelf beneath the till. ‘Wanna coffee?’
‘Thanks. Look, Grace. I’ve got a couple of days to kill. I thought I’d fill the time with a bit of research and gather up some local flavour for our story.’
The older woman filled the mug from a Thermos flask and placed it on the counter. ‘Comes already with cream and sugar,’ she said.
‘That’s fine, thanks.’
‘What sort of research?’
She passed a steaming mug over the counter to Rose, who took a sip. It was sickeningly sweet. ‘Well, I suppose I could start with the various ghost stories we’ve heard from people in Blue Valley. There do seem to be a lot of them.’
Grace nodded. ‘Yup, and all very different.’
‘But I wonder whether it’s possible to trace their roots back to something that did actually happen.’
‘You’re thinking some of them might have something to do with that find out there?’
Rose nodded. ‘That’s usually the case, though, isn’t it? I mean, maybe some of the people who ended up stuck in those mountains made it down okay, into this town. They’d have stories to tell, possibly some quite gruesome stories . . . particularly if they ended up like that Donner party.’
‘It’s possible, I s’pose.’
‘I can imagine that over a hundred and fifty years those could eventually become the basis for the local ghost stories that Julian and I recorded people talking about last week.’ Rose sipped her coffee. ‘I mean, there was one bloke who said - you know how it goes - a friend of a friend was camping up in those woods and saw a walking skeleton . . .’
Grace laughed. ‘Oh yeah, the Rag Man story. I’ve heard about a dozen versions of that one from my boys over the years, and now my grandchildren scare each other in the play-ground with the same old thing.’
‘Ooh, let’s hear it.’
‘Not much to it, really. It’s just the name for our local boogieman. The Rag Man, a walking skeleton, sometimes in a monk’s cowl, sometimes in rags, sometimes he’s an escaped lunatic, sometimes a drug-crazed serial killer. Some stories have him hacking up lonely teenage girl campers, some stories have him wandering around in town stealing little girls.’ Grace shrugged. ‘Kids round here regurgitate all sorts of rubbish from the crappy movies they watch, and then replace Freddy Kruger with the Rag Man.’
‘Hmmm . . . what about older ghost stories? Ones that aren’t Hollywood inspired. Do you know of any?’
Grace looked up at the ceiling of the store, trawling for some long-forgotten fireside tales from her youth.
‘What about Blue Valley?’ Rose asked. ‘There’ll be some sort of local archives in the town, right?’
She shrugged. ‘I s’pose. There’s a one-sheet free local newspaper that runs only during the holiday season. You know the deal: a few local-issue stories, some local flavour for the visitors, and a bunch of adverts. An old boy runs that pretty much on his own. Blue Valley Bugle, it’s called.’
Rose sipped her coffee again. ‘Do you know who?’
‘Yeah, Aaron Pohenz. He owns one of the motels in town. Valley Lodge. Know it?’
She nodded. It was a little further down the street from hers. Looked a lot nicer, too.
‘He’s got a printing press in the basement, does it all from there. You could start with him. I’m sure if he can’t give you any more details, least he can do is point you in the right direction.’
Rose made a note of the name, and then finished up the treacle-sweet brew in her mug. ‘Thanks, Grace, you’ve been a great help,’ she said and turned to go.
‘Hey, Rose.’
Rose turned back.
‘You told him yet?’
‘Told who . . . what?’
The old woman smiled knowingly. ‘How you feel.’
Rose felt her cheeks colour. ‘I . . . you’re talking about Jules?’
Grace nodded. ‘You know, it’s pretty obvious, even to an old stick like me.’
Oh shit, am I really that obvious?
‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘There was a man I once let go without sayin’ a thing. Long time ago. Hell, he probably would’ve said no. On the other hand’ - she looked out of the store window at the wooded peaks - ‘might have said yes
.’
Rose felt her cheeks flush. ‘Oh, you’re mistaken, Grace. There’s nothing between me and Jules; we’re work-mates is all. Seriously, that’s all. He’s not my type - too old.’
Grace studied her and then shrugged. ‘Oops, I’m sorry. I thought I detected a little chemistry there.’
Rose managed a smile. ‘Nope, no chemistry.’
She bid farewell and closed the door behind her, heading back across the deserted camp site towards the road leading back into town. A fresh breeze played with her hair and sent a chill down her neck as she cast a glance around at the empty cabins and the sail dinghies lined up on trailers parked a few yards away from the lake’s edge. Their nylon halyards clattered against the masts with a rhythmic tapping.
CHAPTER 24
13 October, 1856
James Lock lived for three days. I was surprised he lasted that long - the wounding to his head was so severe. The bite crushed the right-hand side of his face and skull, destroying an eye in the process. It would have been merciful for him and his family if the bear had bitten down that much harder and finished the poor man then and there.
Preston, however, appears more promising. There were a series of deep lacerations around his waist, requiring that I sew them closed. My fear is that fever will set in. I cleansed the wounds as best I could with alcohol, and checked that the claws had not proceeded any deeper than opening his skin and had not damaged his organs. It does appear that he was lucky not to have suffered a greater injury. Nonetheless, only time will tell whether the wounds were properly cleaned.
I have been tending to Preston within their church. It is perhaps a tribute to how much I am trusted, or more likely, how much they value him, that I’m allowed in there. These people of Preston’s seem completely lost without him, unable to make the simplest decisions. He seems to be their compass in many ways. Without him they are directionless and frightened. Each time I approach their temple there is always a gathering of people outside the entrance eagerly enquiring as to his condition.
Despite my earlier reservations about the man, I have to admit to admiring his strength and courage standing between his people and the bear armed with nothing more than a stick, whilst I recall myself trembling with fear and rooted to the ground. I envy a man who can stand firm in the face of terror and not yield.
Sitting in their church, I feel I have a clearer understanding about how the affairs of these people are run. Preston has a council, a Quorum of Elders, amongst whom decisions are made. Senior amongst them are two men: Eric Vander and Saul Hearst. It seems whilst Preston remains incapacitated, these two have assumed responsibility for running things on their side of the camp.
Neither man, however, seems to command the same kind of respect and reverence that is freely given to Preston.
Ben leaned over and felt his forehead.
‘Fever?’ asked Dorothy Dreyton.
‘A slight one,’ he replied. Preston’s face felt hot and damp with sweat. He was in a restless sleep, stirring and murmuring.
‘Will he live, Mr Lambert?’
‘He’s strong, I’ll say that for him. A very strong and fit man.’
‘But?’
Ben offered her a tired smile. ‘But, there is infection in his wounds. His body will fight it as best it can.’
Mrs Dreyton’s face crumpled with poorly contained grief. ‘We would be lost without him. I . . . would be lost without him.’
She stroked one of his hands affectionately. ‘He’s our saviour, in so many ways.’
Ben studied her genuine fondness for him. Absolute devotion. He suspected she would happily surrender her life in a heartbeat, if it would guarantee saving his. And by the look of concern etched on the faces of those gathered outside in a night and day vigil, so would any number of them.
‘How has he saved you?’
She looked at him with an expression halfway between hostility and bemusement. ‘How? From following the wrong path, a path that would have led us to darkness and desolation. Like so many others of our church.’
‘Mormons?’
She nodded. ‘We departed from that faith, as we departed Council Bluffs. The message from God was corrupted by greedy men, who even now are fighting for control of the Mormon faith.’ She looked at Preston, lying still and breathing deeply. ‘William warned us that the faith was all wrong. That it would eventually turn on itself. God told him directly.’
He looked at her.
‘Oh, yes. William talks with God. He does so . . . through Nephi.’
‘Nephi? Who’s that?’
Dorothy closed her mouth. But her eyes momentarily darted to a metal chest lying beyond Preston’s cot.
‘He talks with God directly,’ she said again. ‘There are no other holy men who can honestly say that.’
‘But doesn’t every preacher say that?’
‘Only William does for real,’ she replied with a whisper. ‘Actually hears His voice. I would surrender everything just to hear what he hears.’ She stroked his face. ‘He’s so special.’
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the mournful gusting wind play with the flap of material over the entrance.
‘Why has Preston led you out west?’
She sighed. ‘We couldn’t stay in Council Bluffs. We had to leave everything behind. A storm is coming.’
‘A storm?’
She looked at him and gently smiled. ‘Perhaps being with us, there’ll be mercy for you. You’ll be safe.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘A judgement is coming. A judgement on this wicked world. William says it will soon be upon us, and the earth will be swept clean so that God might start over.’
‘God will destroy everything?’
‘Only the people. His creatures need no cleansing.’
‘Everyone?’
She nodded sadly. ‘I grieve for the many people with good hearts who will die. But it’s necessary. William was told this, and that we must make ready for it. There is work for him to do,’ Dorothy whispered, glancing once more at the metal chest. ‘Please, Mr Lambert . . . be sure to do all you can to help him.’
He nodded. ‘Of course I will.’
She placed her hand on his and squeezed it affectionately. ‘We are so grateful to you. You’re a good man, Mr Lambert. Maybe I am at fault for not seeing that sooner.’
Ben shrugged. ‘I have a doctor’s training. It’d be a waste for me not to use it.’
Preston stirred, his deep, commanding voice a pitiful whimper.
Dorothy winced in sympathy. ‘He’s in pain.’
‘Those wounds will be extremely painful as they heal.’ Ben opened his medicine bag and pulled out a bottle. ‘I have some laudanum for the pain.’ He pulled out the stopper and poured a small cupful. ‘I’ll leave this with you to administer to him. A couple of sips now to settle him, Mrs Dreyton. No more than that. This is a strong medicine.’
She nodded.
‘If, later on tonight, the pain stirs him again, you may try another dose. Will you be sitting with him tonight?’
‘Yes. Mr Hearst or Mr Vander may relieve me come midnight. ’
‘Good, then advise them about the medication. It is not to be over-dosed. I’ll expect for some to be still in the cup when I return in the morning.’
‘I understand.’
He closed up his medicine bag.
‘I think he’ll be fine in due course, Mrs Dreyton. He’s a fighter.’
CHAPTER 25
13 October, 1856
The campfire, placed centrally amidst the small circle of shelters at the Keats end of the clearing, burned noisily, crackling and hissing as it feasted eagerly on the needles and pines that had been tossed onto it.
‘Never been so bleedin’ scared in all me life,’ exclaimed Mrs Bowen. ‘Such a big thing it looked like. I could see it from all the way over ’ere.’
Ben nodded.
You should have seen it up close.
r /> ‘Do you think it’ll be back again, Mr Keats? My little ’uns are terrified to sleep.’
Keats wrinkled his nose and snorted. ‘Unlikely. Scared it off good, an’ I reckon the wound will kill it eventually.’ He spat into the fire.
Weyland tossed a small branch on. ‘Am I mistaken then in thinking that bears should be hibernating this time of year?’
Keats shrugged. ‘The snow’s come early. Maybe it caught the bear out. Maybe the bear ain’t fattened himself up enough to go sleep yet.’
Broken Wing muttered something in his language and Keats laughed.
‘What did your Indian say?’ asked Bowen.
‘He said the woods sent the bear to frighten us white-faces away.’
‘The woods?’
‘The Shoshoni - Broken Wing’s people - believe the wood has a spirit. Like everythin’ else . . . rivers, mountains . . . all got their own.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Mrs McIntyre.
‘Ain’t no more ridiculous than believin’ there’s devils beneath the earth waitin’ to prod us with their little pitchforks.’
Mrs McIntyre shook her head sombrely. ‘God help us . . . you’ll bring trouble on us all talking like that, so you will.’
Keats smiled.
‘So your man, Mr Keats, believes the woods would like us to be gone?’ said Weyland.
Broken Wing spoke up. ‘Thisss’ - he gestured to the dark hem of trees beyond the pale moonlit snow on the ground, beyond the warm glow of the fire - ‘not for white-face. Thisss Paiute, Shoshone land.’
‘Indians reckon we belong in our dirty cities, livin’ on top of each other an’ turnin’ the sky grey with our smoke. Not out here in the wilderness.’
Broken Wing cocked his head listening to Keats, then nodded a moment later. ‘Yah.’