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habitually shaved his head down to the wood and looked every bit the East End brawler, put an arm around his wife’s narrow shoulders.
    ‘Don’ worry, Molly, luv,’ he said, nodding politely at Keats, ‘I reckon we’ll be just fine with Mr Keats ’ere lookin’ out for us, won’t we?’
    Keats nodded. ‘S’right, Bowen. I aim to lead you folks up a route I took last year. Takes us north of most other well-worn trails, more into Shoshone country than Ute as we cross.’
    ‘But will that take us longer?’ asked Ben.
    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