The Fugitive Son (22 page)

“Sounds like they had a real set-to in the priesthood meeting,” Andy said quietly.

“Worse than a set-to! Captain Pearce called a secret council and tried to get Hawley sentenced to blood atonement for not obeying, but others pleaded his case. He was let go the next day and told to be more guarded and to quit opposing authority.”

Pa turned toward his son, a pleading look in his eye. “So you see, son, it’s too dangerous to try to stop this. Let’s just do what the prophet told us to do. We’ll go along with whatever they’re doing down there, and then do our best to keep any shame from coming to the Saints.”

Another volley of rifle fire rang across the once peaceful meadow. Andy heard women and children screaming. A return volley shattered the air. Overwhelmed with fear for the immigrants, despair for Pa, and helplessness to stop the massacre, Andy once more turned his horse back toward Parowan. September 8, 1857, he calculated. Two days into the siege. How much longer could the immigrants hold out without water? And how long would their ammunition last?

Santa Fe Trail

Captain Reed called Elsie, Trip, and the heads of each family unit together immediately after breakfast the next morning. “I have a change of plans,” he announced. “Originally, we were going to follow the Cimarron for a few more days to just outside Santa Fe where the trail connects with the Pecos River. Then we were going to follow the Pecos south to our land grants.”

He stooped to spread a new map on the ground. “Here’s the latest map that shows a newer trail.” He looked up at the men who had crouched around him. “Actually, it’s not a new trail, but a new map! The trail has been in use for years, but no one put it on a map before.”

As the group studied the map, Captain Reed continued, “Since Trip came along to escort Miss Elsie to Santa Fe, we no longer have to go that far west. If we pick up the Comanche Trail just a few hours’ drive from here, we can head south right away and probably cut a few days off our trip.”

“How about water and grazing?” Abe Morton asked.

Another pointed to the map. “Looks like there’s springs here… and here.”

“And the mapmaker drew in some forests here and there, so there must be grass for the cattle,” someone chimed in.

The men reviewed the map at length and agreed it looked like a good idea to change their route. Captain Reed stood up to address the group. “Well then, it looks like we’re in agreement. We should reach the Comanche cutoff in about five hours. We’ll noon there and then head south to Big Spring before tacking southwest over to the Pecos. Any objections or questions?”

He turned toward Elsie and Trip. “So we’ll be saying goodbye to you around noon. If you need anything extra for the remainder of your trip into Santa Fe, feel free to take whatever you need.”

Elsie thanked him profusely for letting her accompany the train and for providing protection. Inwardly, the thought of being a burden to the train once again rankled her. While she was grateful for Captain Reed’s concern and willingness to go out of his way for her, the independent woman inside her resented having to be dependent on anyone. “Just because I’m a female, everyone thinks I’m helpless,” she fumed silently, remembering the many times her father and brothers had insisted on looking out for her.

She could have made it on her own. She wasn’t some blathering, giggly female who had to have a man to take care of her. Giving action to her thoughts, she followed the men to the supply wagon and grabbed a jar of thick, black grease. Like a woman on a mission, she tied down any loose objects that were not secure, attacked the job of greasing all the wheel hubs and axles, and thoroughly checked the wagon floor for wood rot.

As she came out from under the wagon, her hair dangling across her dirty face, she heard applause. Trip stood nearby, clapping his hands in approval. “Good job! You’ve crossed the line!”

“Line? What line?”

“This journey across the country has changed you from a Southern belle into a bona fide pioneer!” Trip laughed, a look of approval on his face.

Elsie pondered his comment. It was true. She was a pioneer. Trip’s statement sunk deep into her heart. Ever since the beginning of this journey, she had experienced a sense of adventure, of being on the edge of something big. But now, for the first time, she had a strong realization of that role and what it actually meant. It gave her a sense of pride and dignity, along with a far greater sense of purpose.

She brushed the loose curls from her face and headed for a wash basin to scrub the grease off her hands. “I may be a pioneer,” she tossed over her shoulder, “but I still have my Kentucky manners and clean habits!”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness and all that folderol?” Trip teased.

Elsie went to find her driver and helped guide her wagon for the last time into the wagon train. “If you don’t need me, I think I’ll walk alongside with Cindy and Sara for a final gab session,” she told the driver.

As usual, the girls’ conversation immediately turned to men and the lack thereof. “That new fella who came in last night – Trip? I think he’s sweet on you,” Sara confided to Elsie. “Why else would he have tried so hard to catch up with us?”

Elsie blushed and shook her head. “He’s just a nice man, another one of those guys who think it’s his duty to look after a damsel in distress. Besides, he’s not my type.”

“Not your type?” Cindy fairly squealed. “Tall, dark, handsome, cowboy, charming? Whatever else could you want?”

“Don’t forget thoughtful, considerate, and did you say handsome?” Sara added.

“But don’t you think he might be too old for me?” Elsie asked. “He must be at least thirty.”

“That just means he’s mature and settled,” Cindy said. “Owns his own business and is probably well-situated.”

“I don’t know anything about him. He may be married with a passel of kids, for all I know,” Elsie mused.

“You have a point,” Sara said, a thoughtful frown on her face. “Or maybe he’s one of those Mormons we keep hearing about, looking for another pretty girl to add to his harem.”

The conversation headed downhill from there, with the trio laughing and joking about what life would be like as a plural wife to a Mormon man. They shared some of the stories they had read in the newspapers and ladies’ magazines.

“Just before we left Arkansas, it was in all our papers about that Mormon ‘apostle’ – What was his name? Pratt? – that got himself killed over by the Crawford County jail. Seems he was preaching in California, where he converted a woman, who then left her husband and became his twelfth wife.” Cindy and Sara took turns telling the sad story.

“Yeah, then when the two of them kidnapped her kids from their grandparents in New Orleans and were heading back to Utah Territory, the police arrested Pratt along the Arkansas-Oklahoma border. They eventually let him off. But when he was leaving the jail, his new wife’s first husband chased him to Alma, Arkansas, and stabbed him to death. Guess he didn’t take too well to his wife and kids being hauled off to Mormon country.”

The girls shook their heads in disbelief. “How could a woman leave her husband to join such a group?” Elsie wondered. “Imagine sharing your husband with eleven other women.”

“It might make sense if you grew up being taught that way,” Sara said. “But for a grown woman to leave everything and deliberately join that lifestyle…”

“She’d have to be batty!” Cindy finished Sara’s sentence.

“Or deceived,” Elsie said quietly.

The morning passed much too swiftly. Almost before she realized the sun had climbed high into the sky, Elsie heard Captain Reed calling a halt. While the women scurried around preparing the nooning, the captain sent out water and wood details to stock up for the rest of the journey. Off the trail to the north was a beautiful wooded area that provided welcome shade for the hot, weary travelers. Some of the hunting detail carried lunch with them as they entered the deep woods to search out small game.

Elsie noticed the trail ruts heading west, obviously the main route to Santa Fe. A much fainter set of wagon tracks headed south toward towering buttes, cutting a swath through the tall grasses and cactus plants. Captain Reed indicated that she should pull her wagon out of the train to head west.

Elsie looked around for her driver before it dawned on her that from this point on, she was the driver. Trip would be busy with his freight wagon, so it would be up to her to drive her wagon and look after her stock. She grimaced. Maybe it would be nice to have a man along!

After the midday rest, she said her tearful farewells to Cindy and Sara and the rest of her friends, checked her reins and hitches, and swallowed hard. This was it. Like it or not, she was now a real pioneer.

Mountain Meadows
Utah Territory

T
HE NIGHT
had not been kind to Andy. He felt like he’d been tarred and feathered, then dragged behind a wild stallion. He had fought with his bed of animal skins all night, restless and unable to sleep, thinking of what lay ahead for the immigrants. He considered one scenario after another, trying to figure out a way to get them safely out of Deseret with the provisions they needed to survive the last leg of their journey.

Surely the worst fate would be for them to be robbed of their possessions and left to struggle on to California with no cattle, horses, or supplies. Could he somehow manage to provide enough supplies for their travel across the desert?

Andy glanced over to where his father lay peacefully sleeping, snoring like a buzz saw, no worries keeping him awake. Anger stirred deep within his soul. How could Pa look so innocent, not a care in the world, with total unconcern for people who were being persecuted simply because they happened to come from Arkansas? Andy remembered some of the terror and hardships his people had suffered when they were driven out of Missouri and Nauvoo. Having experienced that as a little boy, how could he inflict the same terror on other small children? And why didn’t the other Saints feel the same compassion that he did?

Pa snarfled, then rolled over and let out a huge, noisy breath. Sitting up, he said, “Looks like it’s getting light outside. At the meeting last night, the brethren said the situation would be resolved today. We’d best get on down there and see what’s happening.”

Approaching the meadow with great trepidation, Andy took in the surreal scene. The lush, grassy meadow nestled in the foothills of the Iron Mountains, just east of the Mojave, provided the ideal place for a large wagon train to rest and build up stamina for the long trek across the desert. Peaceful and quiet, it looked like a pastoral painting, with cattle grazing on the hillside, the wagons circled up for safety.

Jarring counterpoints to the peaceful setting were the Legion troops and Indian warriors lined up on the hillsides on either side of the meadow, the carcasses of cattle and horses that had been killed in the melee, and the absence of any movement within the camp. Unlike the first time Andy had witnessed the encampment five days ago, there were no children playing outside, no women bustling about the breakfast fires, no men tending the stock.

As if in answer to Andy’s unasked question, Pa told him, “Last night, three wagons of well-armed men arrived from the southern settlements under the command of Major Higbee. They have orders from the prophet on how to take care of this problem, so we’d best ride on down and help them.”