The Fugitive Son (25 page)

“My life isn’t worth a tinker’s damn anywhere in Deseret, so the quickest route out will be best. Think I’ll head straight east from here, then south toward New Mexico Territory. Back when I was scouting over in the Green River area, some friendly Indians gave me a crude map of the way south. Hopefully, I can make it look like I’m heading north to report to the prophet, then circle around to the east without leaving a trail.”

Andy had little appetite after the days’ horror, but Hettie insisted on giving him a bowl of fresh stew and an apple cobbler. “Take these and eat them on the way. You’d best get moving.” She hugged him tightly. “And God go with you and keep you safe,” she added, a tear rolling down her wrinkled cheek.

“If I make it out alive and get settled safely somewhere, I’ll send for you and the kids,” he promised. “I hate to think of your kids growing up in this horrible place.”

She grinned, a big gap-toothed smile. “Maybe we’ll get together again some day. Now get moving!”

Andy rode off across the valley, first making a clear trail northward for what he figured was ten miles or so. Then he rode his horse in several directions, as though he were lost. He entered the stream he and Kanosh had stopped at the previous week, cantered through it downstream, then finally exited to the east, riding quickly to make up for the time he had lost.

A nearly full moon spread its golden glow across the great expanse of the Parowan Valley as he rode into the Castle Rocks, up and over the mountains. As he journeyed deeper into the mountains, the moon played hide and seek with drifting clouds, plunging him alternately into darkness and bold spotlight.

As if in rhythm with the moon, Andy’s emotions plummeted and rose as well. When the earth was plunged into total darkness, he felt fearful, despairing for his life. When moonlight once again bathed the earth in its soft glow, his spirits lifted. He knew the area was riddled with steep cliffs, deep canyons, and sharp drop-offs, any of which would be fatal to a horse and rider who couldn’t see where they were going in the darkness.

He began taking advantage of the dark times to rest his horse, knowing if someone were following him they couldn’t see to get a good shot, and stopping just made sense instead of riding off a cliff in the darkness. Resting the horse periodically made sense, too, because they had a long, weary way to go to get safely into New Mexico Territory, and there wasn’t much hope of finding a fresh mount anywhere.

Finally the moon got clear of the dissipating clouds and he could see a flat-topped line of hills fringed with ironwood trees in the distance. A scripture from the Bible Major Crawford had given him popped across his mind:
I am the light of the world; he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.

The light of life? What was that? Other verses came to mind, verses he hadn’t realized he knew. Major Crawford had written dozens of verses in the back of the Bible under headings like “Verses for when you’re fearful; verses for when you need guidance; verses for when you’re downhearted…” It seemed he had copied scripture verses for just about every occasion. But most surprising to Andy was that somehow those verses he had pored over when he was hiding out in the Green River wilderness had stuck with him and were now flooding his mind with promise after promise.

Lo, I am with you always; I will never leave you nor forsake you; Perfect love casteth out fear.” The promises took on a personal meaning in the darkness of the night, especially the one verse that never ceased to comfort him – ”I know the plans I have for you, plans for good and not for evil.
Could it be true that God had a plan for his life? A plan that didn’t include killing innocent people or following a false prophet?

Andy halted his horse and knelt down on the alkali-coated trail. “God, I want to follow your plan for my life, not the plan of my father or Brigham Young, but yours. Please show me the way and be my guide.”

As a deep peace settled in his soul, Andy decided it was safe to hole up for the remainder of the night. The moon had softened to a pale wisp in the sky when he reached the flat grassland. The terrain grew rocky beyond the low hills of sagebrush and scrub timber, and he figured it would be better to wait until daylight before running any more risks. He pulled aside some foliage to reveal a small shelter under an outcropping of rocks. He laid out his bedroll, intending to rest just for a short time.

The low whine of the wind combined with the dry rustle of sand blowing against his sheltering rock made a curtain of sound, a pleasing musical background that lulled him to sleep.

Andy woke to the sun in his eyes, startled that he had slept so long. He washed up in the trickle of water flowing from a cluster of rocks across the ravine, then took his horse over to drink. He heard a mule snort and thought he detected movement in the solid shadows. He quickly started to mount when he heard the sound of riders appearing from the direction of the road, three of them following his tracks. They rode with rifles across their saddles.

Andy drew in his breath. Pa? Two men he recognized from Parowan, one younger and the other pot-bellied and older. A strong gust of wind parted the bushes, leaving Andy in plain view of the riders on the road. They caught sight of him before he could duck behind the bushes, and the youngest one let out a yell.

Pa jerked his horse to a stop, whipped his rifle up, and squeezed out a shot. Fortunately, he was not a good rifleman. Andy grabbed his rifle off the sorrel’s saddle, and crouching low, darted for the scant cover of the rocks and brush by the spring. Gunshots crashed and slugs whined close. Hoofs drummed. Angry voices yelled. Andy reached cover, making himself small behind a boulder. He fired a shot that missed but slowed the on-coming trio.

All three riders came on warily, grimly determined. Andy broke out in a clammy sweat. They had him boxed in. Pa began shooting again, sending slugs ripping through the bushes. The shots thudded against the rocks, ricocheting wildly. One of the riders had crossed the ravine and began shooting with his saddle gun. Andy recognized him as one of the leaders of the Parowan militia. Obviously, they were hell bent on silencing him for good – he had seen too much.

Andy crouched lower behind the rock, waiting until the flurry of shots let up. Then he fired in the direction of the latest round of bullets, intentionally aiming high, shooting badly to make certain he didn’t kill his attackers. He just wanted to scare them off, not wanting to kill anyone, especially his own father.

Pa dropped flat in a shallow gully and was patiently waiting, his gun focused on Andy’s hiding spot. Andy sensed the other two men coming on the rock wall, working their way along the base of the slope.

Two fast shots rang out. Andy flattened himself to the ground. He couldn’t afford to waste any more shots. He had little ammunition left. And even less hope! Pa was intent on redeeming his wayward soul before he could escape Deseret and be damned forever. In his own warped way, Pa loved him and would do anything to keep him from apostatizing.
I guess I should take comfort in that,
Andy reasoned to himself.

He turned suddenly when he heard a boot scuff on rock just beyond the spring. The young assailant stood in plain view not fifty feet from him. Andy aimed and wrapped his finger around the trigger, then lowered the gun. He couldn’t do it. Even in self-defense, he couldn’t shoot a man in cold blood. Was he a yellow-bellied coward like Pa thought?

In the tense silence, Andy heard an arrow whiz across the ravine, followed by the young man’s startled yelp. Then he saw the man fall face first into the brush.

“Good God!” Pa swore loudly. “There’s Indians up there in that timber! We’ve got to get out of here!” The words were barely out of his mouth when a volley of flaming arrows whistling through the air. Pa swore again as he and the other man began to run toward their horses.

As he scurried back to the road, Pa called out, “Just leave him to the Redskins. They’re the battle axe of the Lord, so they can finish him off. But you can’t say I didn’t try to save him from apostasy. I gave it my best!”

Andy looked after his retreating assailants, then glanced in the direction the arrows had come from. He tossed out his gun in surrender.

Chief Kanosh, grinning widely, emerged from the timber, accompanied by several of the warriors who had escorted Andy to Salt Lake City just twelve days earlier.

“Good thing Miss Hettie tell us to watch you,” Kanosh said, another huge grin splitting his face. “You almost become vulture food!”

Santa Fe Trail
New Mexico Territory

“All set?” Trip asked. “Got your gloves on?”

Elsie held up her glove-covered fingers and wiggled them at him. “Yes, I’m all ready to go. My hands feel much better this morning, thanks to you.”

“After another full day of reining in those mules, your hands will be another sorry mess, so go easy on ‘em,” he cautioned.

He really was a caring gentleman, despite his rugged look. Elsie only wished he weren’t so reticent, that she could learn more about who he was. “Do you live in Santa Fe?” she asked.

“Close by.”

Clearly a man of few words, she decided. “My brothers have been there for several years now. Surely you’ve met them? They’re running a ranch, raising horses for the government.”

Trip busied himself hitching up the animals, checking the reins, and tightening up his load. “May have heard of them,” he mumbled.

Elsie persisted. “The Condit brothers. Santa Fe isn’t that large, is it? Can’t imagine that you haven’t run into them.”

“I travel a lot, so I don’t socialize much.” He quickly changed the subject to their plans for the day. “You’ll be able to see clearly when we get close to Fort Union. I’ll signal when I’m ready to turn off.”

The morning’s trip was a duplicate of the day before. Boring and dusty, very little to look at except cacti, scrub sage, and bare rock outcroppings in the distance. Elsie spent her time reflecting on her new friends, the Fanchers, Cynthia Tackitt, Sally Poteet. How much more pleasant the journey had been in their company. She prayed they were having a pleasant, safe trip. She smiled warmly, thinking of Eliza Fancher’s little ones. Would she ever have a close-knit family like that, with well-behaved children and a loving, God-fearing husband?

She giggled to herself as her thoughts once again turned toward men. Yes, she wanted to be independent and have a successful mercantile. But at the same time, she hoped to have a home and family. Was that such a contradiction? And would marriage even be possible for her in Santa Fe?

Elsie considered Trip’s words, that most the men in Santa Fe were rough ranch hands or ruffians. Sounded like, as Sara had often said, “the pickings were very slim.” Of course, there was Trip. He was caring, nice looking, dependable. But was he eligible? Or was he even interested in marriage and family? Something about his reticence to share his story cautioned her. Mentally, she crossed him off the “possible” list. He was a kind friend, but she didn’t feel any spark of romance between them.

The trail passed by the foot of the Wagon Mound, giving her something interesting to observe for a few miles. As it disappeared behind her, she began searching the horizon for signs of Fort Union. It came into view, growing larger and larger as the miles passed beneath the wagon wheels. Adobe walls stood gallantly on a small rise, commanding an unobstructed view of the surrounding prairie.

When Trip waved his arm, signaling he was turning off the trail, Elsie followed his wagon along an alkali and sand-packed path up the rise and into the fort. Hundreds of soldiers milled around, some in full uniform, others looking like they had just arrived from a dusty ride across the desert. She watched as Trip pulled up to what looked like a dining hall, preparing to unload the supplies he had brought from Kansas City. He nodded his head toward the sutler’s. “This will take awhile. You might want to go look around the store and see if there’s anything you need.”

Elsie’s supplies were running low, but she didn’t really want to stock up here, preferring to wait until they arrived in Santa Fe. She wanted to check out her own freight wagons, which surely would be there by now. Her brothers may have found her a building and set up the store for her already. She carefully pulled off her gloves, looking in dismay at her tortured hands. The one thing she definitely needed was something to help her hands heal.