Virgin River (20 page)

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Authors: Richard S. Wheeler

BOOK: Virgin River
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o one wanted to leave this Eden. All the doubts had dissolved. It was as if these people had crossed a continent to come to this very spot. The horses and mules grazed peacefully on cured grass, while the invalids soaked up the gentle breezes and warm sun. They washed their travel-worn clothing, washed blankets, and slept. The red rock cliffs formed an amphitheater open on the south that nurtured and protected them and would keep winter at bay. A laughing creek running crystal cold water succored them.
“Don't ask me how I know it, but I do,” Sterling Peacock said. “This was what my father looked for. He had an image in his mind, and he gave that image to me even though he was describing a place he'd never seen. He told me what the air would be like; warm and dry, like velvet in the lungs. I have a strange sense of recognition, sir. I've never before seen this corner of the world, and yet I knew it, I welcomed it, as soon as I saw it.”
“Then we'll find a way to stay,” Skye said.
Mary of the Shoshones, aware of things that the rest knew little of, walked quietly up a game trail and into the piñon pine forest and harvested cones, which she brought to camp and roasted until the cones opened and discharged their pine nuts. She gathered these in amazing quantities, and soon she and Victoria were taking ponies up the creek to the pine forests and loading them with piñon pinecones from above.
The big long nuts, filled with white meat, astonished everyone. This was delicious food, and nourishing too. Then Enoch Bright, armed with his fowling piece, began his own hunting and surprised a flock of wild turkeys, shot half a dozen, and returned laden with meat. The rich turkey meat seemed every bit as delicious as the meat of the domesticated turkeys these New Englanders had known.
Off a way, on the trail along the Virgin, an occasional mounted traveler passed by, but none ever paused at the isolated camp of the New Bedford Infirmary Company. Skye suspected that the company was being monitored; there was nothing in all the territory of Utah that did not escape the Saints.
He rode Jawbone high into the canyon country, looking for larger game, but the deer or elk or mountain sheep eluded him and he returned empty-handed each trip. After that, he helped his women harvest pine nuts. The piñon forests were endless, stretching as far as the eye could see, and there might be months of food for anyone who made the effort to collect the cones and roast the nuts out of them.
The ponies and mules fattened; the invalids inhaled the velvet air, and seemed less gaunt and desperate. The Jones brothers, aware that this company needed to prepare for cold, took time to build pole-frame structures and enclose them
with wagon sheets and the spare canvas. They began to collect firewood against the chilly months to come.
Enoch shot more turkeys after the first were eaten, and Skye marveled that nature here was offering her riches in her own way. Skye thought he had lived too long in the northern Rockies to grasp what might be edible here. More and more, he struck out on foot, carrying his Sharps but not expecting to use it, looking for whatever nature provided. It was a learning time for him. Different foods, different meat.
But the sweetest pleasure of all was simply the change in mood among these desperate young people. Where there had been pinched faces, now he saw smiles; where there had been fever and fear, now he saw peace and quietness taking hold in their bosoms. They were not entirely quiet. Often they would rest an hour or two, then do some simple task such as washing their clothes, and return to their blankets.
The nights were chill, but the canvas-walled housing was protection enough for the time being. This was September; by November, their needs would be different. Skye began to survey the surrounding country for firewood. There was not a lot of deadwood close by, but plenty upslope, and he would need to drag a lot of it down to the meadow. The mesas and slopes above were loaded with dead pine. The sweet scent of piñon smoke was remarkable, almost like the healing sweetgrass smoke some tribes used as a form of catharsis. And the pinecones that had yielded their nuts would make a good fuel too.
He allowed himself to believe that these people could manage here after all, in spite of his dour instinct that nature was too niggardly to yield food and heat and shelter in this place. There was more to all this than he had ever dreamed.
Mickey the Pick was the only restless soul. He often wandered down to the Virgin River and scanned it, as if looking
for a passing traveler—or danger. He took it upon himself to become the eyes and ears of the company, sometimes patrolling up and down the river, keeping an eye out for trouble.
One night, at Skye's campfire, he spilled his worries.
“You may think it's all jist fine, bloke, but I think we're in blawdy trouble, and the Saints, they'll put a stake through our'earts.”
“Why do you say that?” Skye asked.
“Because this is Zion. You know what Zion is? Sanctuary. We're in the middle of their bloomin' sanctuary. We're camping on the altar.”
“But there aren't many Saints anywhere near here, Mister Pick.”
“Mister Pick, Mister Pick! When'll youse get over your bad'abits, eh? The Saints are'ere, and you'll see them soon enough and you won't enjoy it when they come.”
“Are they at war?”
“I picked up a bit of news, I did, talkin' to a rider jist today. That federal column, it's knocking at the gates. Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, that's what they say. He's not far from that post up there, Bridger′s Fort, zat the name? The Saints, they're going to burn it down before the federals get there. That's the talk, anyway.”
“Yes, that's the name I heard. We passed through there. The Saints had squeezed the owners out. That's where we first ran into trouble.”
“Well, the blawdy feds, they're going to snatch it if it's not arsh first. That Yank colonel, he's in no hurry, just plodding along like he knows all the quail's going to scatter once he marches into Great Salt Lake. But the Saints, they've got twenty-five hundred armed men, just waiting, and a mess of Indians too.”
“Who told you this, Mister Pick?”
“You got bad habits, matey. Mister Pick! I stop the horsemen, tell'em I'm a Saint and I want the news, and they sure give it to me.”
“A lot of horsemen?”
“Blawdy parade of'em down the river a piece. Something big's stirring, that's for sure.”
“Where are they coming from? Where are they going?”
“It's coming out of Cedar City. The'orsemen, they go back and forth from there.”
“Do they know we're here?”
“Saints know every yard of the whole country, they do. If it's not us being bothered, it's because they got bigger fish to fry. A big wagon company rolled through Cedar City few days ago, Pukes, it's said. Them from Missouri or Illinois that persecuted the Saints. That's what's stirring up the'ornets.”
“Maybe they'll leave us alone, then.”
“Saints don't leave nobody who's Gentile alone, let me tell youse.”
“What would they do to us?”
“Right now, everyone all'eated up, matey, they'd do whatever they damned please.”
“We're entirely at their mercy.”
“You can count on it.”
Mickey ate a bowl of oat gruel mixed with pine nuts, pronounced himself well fed, and drifted off into the purple twilight. Skye tried to process what he knew. This was their Zion. Settling here would be, in their eyes, taking land from them. War brought extreme feelings and extreme measures.
He didn't like it a bit. He knew how to deal with wilderness, with wild animals, with surviving, but this time of passion, of mobs, of militia, was something he knew little about.
“Some time, some night, these damned Saints, they'll come and kill us all,” Victoria said, out of the blue.
Mary stared somberly. Skye looked at her, at their son, lying on a robe, his brown eyes focused on his mother. He felt Victoria's love and her worries. Maybe, somehow, they could slip away from here, hide in the canyon lands while this war lasted and then quietly return. The federal army would keep the peace.
It was a good thought, and he wondered what sort of hidden valley lay straight up this creek. He knew now that the land could support them, at least awhile. From high points he had seen vast piñon forests stretching in all directions across the high country, forests laden with pine nuts.
“No damned hiding from them people,” she said. “They got the big eye.”
He knew she was right. These Saints were gifted, tenacious, courageous people, and they had swiftly become masters of a sprawling desert empire. He could not hide a dozen sick people from them for long. Their only safety lay in friendship.
Skye thought about it and came to a reluctant conclusion.
“I'll ride up there to Cedar City and talk with those people a bit. I want to talk to the leaders, not the ones who take orders. The ones who make the decisions. The elders. The bishop. I think maybe I can make some headway, even if they're all primed for a war.”
“What did they do to Jim Bridger, eh?” she asked.
He and Victoria already knew the answer. They had trumped up some charges about selling weapons to Indians, gotten a warrant, and came after him with a posse. Skye didn't doubt they could do the same to him. He was simply another minor obstacle in their path.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Talk! Ha! They ain't talking.”
She rose softly, settled beside him, and touched his face. It was an old, old gesture whose meaning was well known to both of them. She was saying that if he rode alone up there, tried to persuade them to do something they wouldn't consider, she would send her love along with him, whatever his fate.
But he had to go. These invalids might be camping in paradise, but at any moment heaven could turn into hell.
S
kye was reluctant to leave the peaceful camp on the meadow, but knew he must. In any case, nothing he could do would make the camp any safer. Whether or not he was present, the encampment would be vulnerable. The thing to do was settle the matter with the Saints and that meant a long trip to Cedar City.
Mickey the Pick joined him, riding the Morgan horse. Maybe they'd listen to a pair of Londoners. Skye headed up the creek toward the high country, aware that he could trap himself in box canyons and mesas, but he thought he could get through to Cedar City. Little did he realize that Mickey could scarcely ride, and bounced along helplessly behind Skye. It was too late to worry about that. The little East End pickpocket would learn how to ride before the end of the trip or live with a bruised butt and chapped legs for weeks.
They saw no one. This land was so vast it could swallow armies. There was only sun and wind, silences, red rock and yellow rock, cedar and pine. The usual route, Skye knew, involved a dogleg west and then north up Ash Creek, valley
travel all the way; but he was cutting the corner to save time, and working through high country that looked as if no man had ever ridden through.
It took an entire hard day of travel before they reached Cedar City, which was set in a desert bowl. It was not yet dusk. The city rested somnolently, its work done for the day. Here were civilized sights. Mercantiles, whitewashed frame houses with lilac bushes and roses. Picket fences. Wide avenues. The soft and sleepy air of the desert. Sometimes there were three or four identical dwellings in a row, but each had been rendered unique with curtains or plantings. This was a dusty place, and the town looked parched.
And song. Skye heard it clearly, and Mickey did too.
On a rise stood the whitewashed temple, its windows open, the evening breezes carrying song upon them through the small town. Skye steered Jawbone up a gentle grade toward the church, and in its ample yard he and Mickey paused, listening.
Up, awake, ye defenders of Zion,
The foe's at the door of your homes.
Let each heart be the heart of a lion
Unyielding and proud as he roams,
Remember the wrongs of Missouri
Forget not the fate of Nauvoo
When the God-hating foe is before you
Stand firm and be faithful and true.
That proved to be the closing anthem of this evensong. Skye dismounted and waited. He hadn't the faintest idea whom to contact, or what to say, or whether it would be best to wait for the morrow.
“They're serious, mate,” Mickey said.
“They've been persecuted.”
“Don't give the blokes an excuse. They're'ell-bent to fight. Matey, they're itching for a fight. They'll damned well pick one.”
“You know them; I don't,” Skye said. “Who'll I ask for?”
“The bishop.”
“Not the marshal?”
Mickey glared. “Ye'aven't got it yet, eh? This is a church war.”
Skye wasn't chastened. “Claiming land is not church business. This is territorial business.”
“Ye damned Englishman, go home then.”
There was a final blessing echoing from the open windows, and then the doors swung open and a few people, mostly women in gray or brown dresses, eddied into the softening light of evening.
More tumbled out, white-haired men, a crippled man on crutches, and still more women. Skye thought the congregation must be almost entirely women.
“The militia took the young men,” Mickey said.
That answered Skye's question. The able-bodied men were off to war. That in itself was worrisome.
The crowd eyed Skye and Mickey speculatively but no one approached, and some of the women drifted down the slope to the town, along with children.
Then men appeared at the church doors, a slender gray-haired one, his hair brushed straight back, wearing a white collarless shirt and a shirtwaist. To either side of him stood burly younger men. These were the only young men Skye could see, and both looked to be bodyguards. But who could say?
This contingent started straight for Skye and Pick, who waited beside their horses. As the gray-haired man approached, Skye discovered muscle and determination in the man's gait; an imperial force propelling the man toward Skye. The man's flinty stare seemed the drilling probe of a Cyclops.
Then the three reached Skye. Skye lifted his top hat in polite salute and settled it.
“I'm Barnaby Skye, sir, and this is Mister Pick. To whom do I speak?”
The question went unanswered. “We know who you are, Englishman,” the man said. “What are you doing here?”
“Hoping for some friendship. I'm guiding a company of invalids that plans to settle nearby, and we are seeing how it might be done.”
“It won't be done.”
“They have come a long way seeking healing, and have found a desert place that suits them. We've come to notify your county officials and register their claim.”
“You have, in your dubious wisdom, come to the right person, and you are too late.”
“I didn't catch your name, sir.”
“That is because I chose not to supply it. To my flock I am Bishop Simon Wellborn. To you, who I am makes not the slightest difference.”
“Mister Wellborn, the people I represent have a right under the laws of your country to take up land. They are doing it. They will exercise their right. I'll add that they pose no threat to you.”
“Londoners, both of you, I have it.” He turned to Mickey. “And one in bad grace with us.”
″You ′ave it, mate.”
Wellborn's voice escalated, almost into fevered pitch. “The
word from our elders is clear,” he began, his words crackling in the hushed evening. “The Apocalypse is upon us. Zion must be purged of every Gentile, every enemy. Zion is ours. Even now, while you waste my time, a militia is enforcing the edict. You are too late. Good afternoon. It is only because you are Englishmen that you are free to go. It is a mistake; you are accomplices. But I am bound by the council.”
“Who are these gentlemen?” Skye asked.
“They are deputy marshals.”
“Where are the territorial officials? Where may I plead the case?”
“You have already pleaded, and I have already dismissed you. This is
Zion.
”
“What may they do to appeal this, sir?”
“You seem to be slow, Skye. Have you no wits about you? What is set in motion I cannot stop, and will never stop, because I favor and bless its every act.” He paused. “Flee for your safety. If you linger here, I won't care what country you come from. You will be subject to whatever fate I choose for you.”
Sky nodded and boarded Jawbone. Mickey climbed onto the Morgan mare.
“They'll claim that land. And I'll defend them,” Skye said.
The bishop smiled.
Skye was tired of being smiled at.
“Thanks for the warning,” he said. He doffed his topper and smiled back. He kept on smiling until the bishop looked away.
They slipped out of town, each wrapped in deep quiet.
There could be no more attempts at reconciliation.
Skye chose the dogleg valley route back to the camp, fearful of getting caught in a box canyon or trapped on a mesa at
night. It had been a feckless journey. All of southern Utah seemed to be caught in a hellish cauldron of bitterness. It was something new to him. In all his years in London and then the Royal Navy, he had never seen or felt such seething passion. Among the mountain men, there might be private hatreds, but not this obsessive madness that gripped so many people.
“I'd be better off lifting a man's purse in East End, I would,” Mickey said. “I don't like this thing'ere. They're sending out skull-and-bones men, is what they're doing, regular murders all whipped up. There was nawt a thing like it in London.”
They could not fight, so they must hide. Skye knew he must speed back to camp, waken them, hasten them out of their tents, urge them to pack up and leave that place. He would take them up that creek, cover their tracks, dip into a canyon, find a hidden valley or a remote canyon, and hide them all from that murderous militia roaming like a hydrophobic wolf across the empty lands. Someday, this would be over and they could return to their meadow on the creek.
The September night was chill and peaceful, and the trail easy to follow by the pale emanation of a quarter moon. The valley was flanked by a single brooding cliff to the east, and that only made passage easier by orienting them at all times.
They were alone. No Saint horsemen clattered through the night, no couriers trotted by, carrying commands from the elders in Great Salt Lake, or intelligence from the outlying provinces, including all this area.
They rounded a bend, and found themselves in the valley of the Virgin, and now they hastened toward the meadow where his friends and family slumbered in soft silence.
Even in the dim light, the valley could be limned, and
Skye turned Jawbone up the side creek. The horse snorted softly and laid its ears back, so Skye slid his Sharps from its sheath, fearing trouble.
“Where's the camp, eh?” Mickey asked.
A good question. There was no camp. No wagon, no mules, no burros, no ponies, no cart, no lodge, no tents.
“The light's playing tricks. The camp must be up higher,” Skye said, not really believing his own words.
But there was no camp anywhere. There was an extinguished fire. A ring of stones where Skye's lodge had stood. Disturbed grasses where the tents had stood. Wagon tracks leading down toward the trail by the Virgin River.
There was nothing at all but the sad breezes eddying over empty fields and the whisper of ghosts.

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