“That’s beside the point. We live by our faith, not according to the ways of the world.”
Nate opened his mouth to say the ways of the world would get them killed when his gaze fell on the slope above. The mist—for now that it was closer he could see that it was a vaporous mist and not true fog—was only a few hundred yards above them, devouring everything in its path. As he looked on it swallowed a cluster of pines.
Suddenly the bay nickered and pulled at the reins. The mules started to act up, too. Some uttered loud whinnies that ended in brays. Some whimpered.
“What in the world?” Brother Calvin said, rising.
Nate hadn’t taken his eyes off the mist. It was like white beads of sand suspended in the air. He had never seen anything like it. It rose a good twenty feet into the air and formed an unbroken white wall hundreds of yards across. “Get on your wagons and get out of here.”
“What? Why? We haven’t finished burying our brothers and sisters.”
“That,” Nate said, with a nod.
Brother Calvin looked, and laughed. “That mist or whatever it is? What harm can it do? For such a big man you are awfully timid.”
One of the women anxiously wrung her hands. “I don’t like that mist, either, Brother Calvin.”
“You, too, Sister Edith?” Calvin chortled and moved toward his horse. “I’ll prove to the both of you that your fears are groundless.”
“Don’t,” Sister Edith said.
Nate echoed her. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Brother Calvin mounted and reined toward the mountain. “Watch and take heed.” He jabbed his heels and trotted up the slope. When he was close to the mist he shifted to grin down at them. Holding his arms out from his sides, he hollered, “Now you will see how silly you’ve been.”
One of the men said, “That’s Brother Calvin for you. He sure is a character, isn’t he?”
The mist swallowed more ground. Now it was almost on Calvin. They all heard his laugh as it closed over him like a shroud. For a few seconds there was silence. Then, from out of the mist, came a scream of pure bloodcurdling terror.
“My word!” a Shaker exclaimed.
“He’s playing a trick on us,” offered another.
“I’m not so sure,” Sister Edith said.
Nor was Nate. He swung onto the bay and rode up the slope. Calling out Calvin’s name, he came to a stop twenty yards from the mist. He thought he heard a soft hissing, but he wasn’t sure. The bay whinnied and shied. “Easy, fella.” Nate patted it. “Calvin?” he called out but got no answer. He reined around but didn’t ride back down just yet.
Sister Edith was hurrying toward her wagon. The others were still by the Pawnee, who was stirring.
“Brother Calvin? Can you hear me?” Now only ten yards separated Nate from the mist. He peered into its depths but saw only white.
Then out lurched young Calvin. His hands were pressed to his fear-struck face. Mouth agape, he gasped and gurgled and made sounds Nate never heard a human throat utter. Calvin saw Nate and thrust out his hands in appeal. Then he screamed and pitched forward. A second more and the mist passed over him, hiding his twitching form.
Nate felt a spike of fear. The mist was almost on him. With a slap of his legs he flew toward the Conestogas. Sister Edith was on her wagon and attempting to turn it, but the other Shakers were rooted where they stood, transfixed by the horrific spectacle. “Run!” Nate bawled. They didn’t have time to reach their wagons and rein the teams around.
The four of them broke into motion. But they didn’t do as Nate had urged. Instead, they ran for their wagons.
“Run!” Nate tried again. He came to the bottom.
Sister Edith had her Conestoga around and it was lumbering off but oh so slowly.
Nate reined toward the other woman. She was almost to her wagon. Bending, he held out his hand and shouted, “Climb on behind me!”
The woman shook her head. Grabbing hold of the seat, she pulled her herself up and frantically began to goad her team.
Down off the mountain flowed the mist, silent save for the slight hiss that was like the hiss of steam and yet wasn’t.
Nate got out of there. He galloped up to Sister Edith’s Conestoga, ready to have her ride double with him if the mist overtook them. She turned on the seat to look back and he glanced around, too.
The Pawnee had sat up and was looking every which way in confusion. He saw the mist. With a sharp cry of fear he was on his feet and running, but he tripped after only a few steps and the mist poured over him. There was another piercing scream.
“Oh, God!” Sister Edith cried, and used her whip.
The white blanket was about to enfold the other Conestogas. One of the men had halted and faced it with his head high and his arms outspread. Exactly why eluded Nate. The mist closed about him and a shriek rent the night.
Two of the Conestogas were starting to turn and the last man was climbing onto his when the mist swept over them. This time there was a wail and a screech, and the mist flowed on.
“Ride with me!” Nate yelled to Sister Edith. Her Conestoga wasn’t moving fast enough. The mist would overtake her.
She shook her head and went on urging her mules.
“You won’t make it!”
Edith cracked the whip and bawled at her team. The Conestoga rolled faster, the wheels clattering over the rock, the bed swaying with every bounce. Edith glanced back again and smiled, apparently confident she could outrun the macabre destroyer.
“Look out!” Nate roared. She was making straight for a large hot spring. She heard him and saw her peril and wrenched to turn the team before it was too late—but it already was. With a terrible screech, the Conestoga swerved so sharply that two of its wheels came off the ground. The whole wagon tilted. It was going over. Sister Edith did the only thing she could. She sprang clear of the seat. But her leg caught, upending her, and instead of tumbling to the ground she did a complete flip—and landed in the hot spring.
With a rending crash the Conestoga came down on its side and rolled.
Nate reined toward the hot spring just as Sister Edith broke the surface. She screamed. Her face was blistered, her skin already being sloughed off like the leaves of boiled cabbage. Her eyes found his and she raised a beet-red hand. Then she went under a second and final time.
Nate galloped like a madman. It was nearly half a mile to the buildings. Behind him, borne by the wind, crawled the deadly mist, the Reaper in flowing white.
The freighters had been busy turning their wagons and lining them in a row. Nate figured that the racket explained why no one heard the screams. Most of the Shakers were standing around talking and were startled half out of their wits when he rode in among them bellowing at the top of his lungs.
“Run for your lives! Now! Or you are as good as dead!”
They all looked at him either in confusion or as if they thought he must be mad.
Arthur Lexington materialized, saying, “What is this you’re yelling about, Brother King? Why have you come back? I thought you were helping the burial party.”
“They’re dead.”
“Who is?”
Bending, Nate grabbed Lexington by an arm and shook him, hard. “Listen to me. Do you see that mist?” Nate pointed. “It killed them.”
An uncertain grin split Lexington’s face. “You’re joshing me, I take it? Since when is a mist deadly?”
“This mist is.”
“I think you’re pulling my leg.”
Nate wanted to hit him. “You have maybe four or five minutes before it reaches here. Get your people out before it’s too late.” With that Nate raced to the freight wagons.
Jeremiah Blunt had heard the commotion and was at the last wagon in line, Haskell and Maklin on either side. “What’s all the fuss about? Why all the shouting?”