voice echoed back off the trees a moment later. ‘There’ll be no going anywhere now!’ He stamped snow off his boots and deerskin britches. ‘Damn it!’
Ben put away his writing things.
‘C’mon! Everyone up! We’ve got work to do!’ Keats was barking out orders to everyone, his people and Preston’s, to get up, to get to work.
‘That’s it! C’mon! Everybody up! Your wagons ain’t wagons no more. They gotta be turned into winter shelters!’
Ben thanked Mr and Mrs McIntyre for taking him in last night. Considering how deep the snow was, he realised he would have had to dig himself out - if he hadn’t frozen to death in his sleep. McIntyre was already sorting through his tools. Mrs McIntyre flashed him a smile. ‘Well now, we’re all in this together, Mr Lambert, aren’t we?’
‘Everyone up! C’mon! There’s work to do! Plenty of it!’ Keats’s voice echoed around the clearing. ‘Get up and grab your tools!’
Ben disentangled himself from the splayed limbs of the still-sleeping children and climbed out through the canvas opening, shuddering as a blast of freezing air enveloped him - a contrast to the warm fug of body heat built up in the McIntyres’ wagon overnight.
He dropped off the trap, knee-deep into the snow, and found himself wincing at the bright, upward-reflected glare all around him. Looking around, he hadn’t realised how big the clearing was. Last night, the wagons had limped into this place after dark, with snow reducing visibility to just a few dozen yards. There had appeared to be space enough to spread out off the track and corral the oxen together, and so they had, expecting that with first light, they would hitch up again and be moving on.
Ben watched as men obediently stirred from every wagon - Preston’s people as well as Keats’s - each brandishing a saw or an axe. They waded through the snow towards Keats. He saw the tall, slender frame of Preston amongst them, almost a head taller than most of the stocky men of his church.
‘Gentlemen, join us here in the centre!’ Preston’s voice boomed across the clearing. ‘With your tools, if you please!’
Ben made his way towards Keats. Broken Wing stood silently beside him, his head covered with a red woollen cap.
‘Good morning,’ said Ben.
‘What’s good about it?’ spat Keats angrily.
Men gathered about him. Preston pushed his way through them. ‘Mr Keats, it appears then that the weather has let us down.’
‘You could say that,’ the old guide replied dryly.
‘Will this lot melt, do you think?’
Keats shook his head. ‘Nope. This ain’t a warning of winter . . . this is it for real. It just arrived last night, and ain’t goin’ nowhere till spring.’
‘Could we not at least try for your pass?’ asked Preston.
‘Too goddamn steep. You want the ground clear, dry an’ hard. An’ sure as hell it ain’t any of those right now.’
‘So you’re saying we’re stuck here?’
‘Unless we leave here on foot.’
Preston shook his head. ‘No . . . no, that would be impossible. These wagons contain all my people have. Everything. ’
Keats nodded. ‘They’d lose it all, that’s for sure. Anyway, you’d be a fool tryin’ to make it out on foot through the winter. Not even Indians an’ trappers’ll do that if they can help.’ Keats nodded to the people emerging from their wagons. ‘An’ you got women and little ’uns to worry ’bout.’
Preston nodded contritely. Ben sensed there was an unspoken apology in the subtle tip of his head. ‘You are a man I presume who has experienced a winter in the wilderness.’
Keats snorted sarcastically. ‘Reckon a few.’
‘Then I shall bow to your greater experience. What are we to do?’
The old man sucked a lungful of chilled air in through his bulbous, pockmarked nose. Ben suspected that deep down, the guide was probably savouring a moment of schadenfreude at Preston’s expense.
‘Well, if we’d left that lame wagon, we’d have
Ben put away his writing things.
‘C’mon! Everyone up! We’ve got work to do!’ Keats was barking out orders to everyone, his people and Preston’s, to get up, to get to work.
‘That’s it! C’mon! Everybody up! Your wagons ain’t wagons no more. They gotta be turned into winter shelters!’
Ben thanked Mr and Mrs McIntyre for taking him in last night. Considering how deep the snow was, he realised he would have had to dig himself out - if he hadn’t frozen to death in his sleep. McIntyre was already sorting through his tools. Mrs McIntyre flashed him a smile. ‘Well now, we’re all in this together, Mr Lambert, aren’t we?’
‘Everyone up! C’mon! There’s work to do! Plenty of it!’ Keats’s voice echoed around the clearing. ‘Get up and grab your tools!’
Ben disentangled himself from the splayed limbs of the still-sleeping children and climbed out through the canvas opening, shuddering as a blast of freezing air enveloped him - a contrast to the warm fug of body heat built up in the McIntyres’ wagon overnight.
He dropped off the trap, knee-deep into the snow, and found himself wincing at the bright, upward-reflected glare all around him. Looking around, he hadn’t realised how big the clearing was. Last night, the wagons had limped into this place after dark, with snow reducing visibility to just a few dozen yards. There had appeared to be space enough to spread out off the track and corral the oxen together, and so they had, expecting that with first light, they would hitch up again and be moving on.
Ben watched as men obediently stirred from every wagon - Preston’s people as well as Keats’s - each brandishing a saw or an axe. They waded through the snow towards Keats. He saw the tall, slender frame of Preston amongst them, almost a head taller than most of the stocky men of his church.
‘Gentlemen, join us here in the centre!’ Preston’s voice boomed across the clearing. ‘With your tools, if you please!’
Ben made his way towards Keats. Broken Wing stood silently beside him, his head covered with a red woollen cap.
‘Good morning,’ said Ben.
‘What’s good about it?’ spat Keats angrily.
Men gathered about him. Preston pushed his way through them. ‘Mr Keats, it appears then that the weather has let us down.’
‘You could say that,’ the old guide replied dryly.
‘Will this lot melt, do you think?’
Keats shook his head. ‘Nope. This ain’t a warning of winter . . . this is it for real. It just arrived last night, and ain’t goin’ nowhere till spring.’
‘Could we not at least try for your pass?’ asked Preston.
‘Too goddamn steep. You want the ground clear, dry an’ hard. An’ sure as hell it ain’t any of those right now.’
‘So you’re saying we’re stuck here?’
‘Unless we leave here on foot.’
Preston shook his head. ‘No . . . no, that would be impossible. These wagons contain all my people have. Everything. ’
Keats nodded. ‘They’d lose it all, that’s for sure. Anyway, you’d be a fool tryin’ to make it out on foot through the winter. Not even Indians an’ trappers’ll do that if they can help.’ Keats nodded to the people emerging from their wagons. ‘An’ you got women and little ’uns to worry ’bout.’
Preston nodded contritely. Ben sensed there was an unspoken apology in the subtle tip of his head. ‘You are a man I presume who has experienced a winter in the wilderness.’
Keats snorted sarcastically. ‘Reckon a few.’
‘Then I shall bow to your greater experience. What are we to do?’
The old man sucked a lungful of chilled air in through his bulbous, pockmarked nose. Ben suspected that deep down, the guide was probably savouring a moment of schadenfreude at Preston’s expense.
‘Well, if we’d left that lame wagon, we’d have
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