made it through. But I reckon winter’s here now. So . . . best we can do, Preston, is think about turnin’ this space in the woods into a winterin’ camp. That means you gotta turn those wagons of yours into shelters.’
There was a ripple of consternation amongst the men nearby.
‘Yeah, that’s right. You’re gonna break ’em up for lumber that you can use to build—’
‘I can’t do that!’ called out one of the Mormon men. ‘My wagon cost me the best part of fifty dollars!’
Other voices murmured in agreement.
‘Should we not just wait for this snow to clear?’ asked another.
Keats shook his head. ‘Like I already said, this ain’t clearing till March.’
‘Would the wagons not be shelter enough?’
Keats looked at Broken Wing and repeated something in an Indian tongue. The Indian snorted with dry amusement.
‘Gonna get a lot colder than last night. You gonna have to build yourselves proper winter-overs.’
Several more voices amongst the gathered men - now numbering about forty - were raised in concern. Ben noticed none of them, neither Preston’s men nor Keats’s party, were happy with the idea of admitting defeat so readily.
‘Quiet there!’ barked Preston.
There was silence.
‘Mr Keats knows better than anyone here what winter in these mountains will bring.’ Preston looked around at the men. ‘We shall take his very good advice, and be thankful to God that he sent this man along with us.’
Preston turned back to Keats. ‘Not a one of us has had to build a winter shelter in haste from a wagon. How do you suggest we proceed?’
‘You gotta build yourself a sturdy frame from the lumber, to start,’ Keats replied without a beat. ‘Gotta be a good goddamn frame too; there’s plenty of snow gonna drift up, and that weighs some.’ He pointed to the nearest conestoga. ‘Good solid planks there along the length of the trap will do fine. The canvas goes over the frame, then you gotta cut yourself as much pine as you can for warmth - pile it on top of the canvas, thick as you can. The snow that’ll gather on top of that will keep you warmer still.’
Preston nodded.
‘Frame’s gotta be strong, though,’ said Keats. ‘Gonna be your home for near on six months, I’d say.’
CHAPTER 19
30 September, 1856
Ben stood back, exhausted by the morning’s work and sweating profusely, despite having stripped down to his shirt and rolled both sleeves up. Faint vapours of steam rose from his damp, exposed forearms, and out through the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.
He watched Broken Wing working with several spruce saplings, bending their pliable length to form an onion-shaped dome, the tapering ends at the top bound tightly together, the thick bottoms wedged deep into the ground. Meanwhile Keats returned with another armful of pine branches and dropped them on a substantial pile beside the frame to their shelter.
‘You helpin’, Lambert? Or just gonna sit on your ass and watch?’ he growled.
‘Sorry.’ Ben jumped.
Broken Wing finished securing the frame of their shelter and spoke in his tongue to Keats.
‘He’s asking for your canvas sheet.’
‘Oh, right. I’ll fetch it.’
Ben hurried over to where his two ponies were huddled together, and pulled out his tarpaulin from a saddle pack. He returned and handed it to the Indian. Broken Wing turned it over in his hands, studying it, and then looked up at Ben, flashing him a quick grin and a nod.
‘Isss good,’ he uttered in a chopped, guttural manner. It was the first time, Ben realised, that he’d heard the Indian speak in English.
‘C’mon, Lambert, help me get some more of this. We gonna need to pile it high on top of the canvas.’
Ben followed Keats to the edge of the clearing, looking around him as he stepped through the snow. The clearing was alive with activity and noise. The hacking of axes and zipping of saws through lumber bounced and echoed around their little world, framed on all sides by tall
There was a ripple of consternation amongst the men nearby.
‘Yeah, that’s right. You’re gonna break ’em up for lumber that you can use to build—’
‘I can’t do that!’ called out one of the Mormon men. ‘My wagon cost me the best part of fifty dollars!’
Other voices murmured in agreement.
‘Should we not just wait for this snow to clear?’ asked another.
Keats shook his head. ‘Like I already said, this ain’t clearing till March.’
‘Would the wagons not be shelter enough?’
Keats looked at Broken Wing and repeated something in an Indian tongue. The Indian snorted with dry amusement.
‘Gonna get a lot colder than last night. You gonna have to build yourselves proper winter-overs.’
Several more voices amongst the gathered men - now numbering about forty - were raised in concern. Ben noticed none of them, neither Preston’s men nor Keats’s party, were happy with the idea of admitting defeat so readily.
‘Quiet there!’ barked Preston.
There was silence.
‘Mr Keats knows better than anyone here what winter in these mountains will bring.’ Preston looked around at the men. ‘We shall take his very good advice, and be thankful to God that he sent this man along with us.’
Preston turned back to Keats. ‘Not a one of us has had to build a winter shelter in haste from a wagon. How do you suggest we proceed?’
‘You gotta build yourself a sturdy frame from the lumber, to start,’ Keats replied without a beat. ‘Gotta be a good goddamn frame too; there’s plenty of snow gonna drift up, and that weighs some.’ He pointed to the nearest conestoga. ‘Good solid planks there along the length of the trap will do fine. The canvas goes over the frame, then you gotta cut yourself as much pine as you can for warmth - pile it on top of the canvas, thick as you can. The snow that’ll gather on top of that will keep you warmer still.’
Preston nodded.
‘Frame’s gotta be strong, though,’ said Keats. ‘Gonna be your home for near on six months, I’d say.’
CHAPTER 19
30 September, 1856
Ben stood back, exhausted by the morning’s work and sweating profusely, despite having stripped down to his shirt and rolled both sleeves up. Faint vapours of steam rose from his damp, exposed forearms, and out through the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.
He watched Broken Wing working with several spruce saplings, bending their pliable length to form an onion-shaped dome, the tapering ends at the top bound tightly together, the thick bottoms wedged deep into the ground. Meanwhile Keats returned with another armful of pine branches and dropped them on a substantial pile beside the frame to their shelter.
‘You helpin’, Lambert? Or just gonna sit on your ass and watch?’ he growled.
‘Sorry.’ Ben jumped.
Broken Wing finished securing the frame of their shelter and spoke in his tongue to Keats.
‘He’s asking for your canvas sheet.’
‘Oh, right. I’ll fetch it.’
Ben hurried over to where his two ponies were huddled together, and pulled out his tarpaulin from a saddle pack. He returned and handed it to the Indian. Broken Wing turned it over in his hands, studying it, and then looked up at Ben, flashing him a quick grin and a nod.
‘Isss good,’ he uttered in a chopped, guttural manner. It was the first time, Ben realised, that he’d heard the Indian speak in English.
‘C’mon, Lambert, help me get some more of this. We gonna need to pile it high on top of the canvas.’
Ben followed Keats to the edge of the clearing, looking around him as he stepped through the snow. The clearing was alive with activity and noise. The hacking of axes and zipping of saws through lumber bounced and echoed around their little world, framed on all sides by tall
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