“It’s beautiful.”
Nathan nodded, knowing that she meant far more than what the eye was taking in. The beauty was in the promise that it held. It meant that the worst of the cold, wet weather was behind them. It meant that more forage for their stock—even the horses—would soon be plentiful. It meant that the roads would be dry and hard again. It meant making twelve or fifteen miles a day instead of two or less. “Yes, it is,” he agreed.
As they drew nearer to their wagon, a movement caught his eye, and he saw that Emily and Rachel were sitting on the tongue of Nathan’s wagon, laughing and giggling together. Lydia laughed softly. “I don’t think those two slept very much.”
“The Barker boy?” Nathan guessed.
“Of course.” The Barkers were traveling just a few wagons in back of the Steeds, and their sixteen-year-old son kept managing to lose control of the milk cow. She would invariably come forward enough—with a little encouragement from the boy, Nathan was sure—that Barker could smile shyly at the two cousins when he came to retrieve her. The last time, he had even worked up sufficient courage to say hello. For two fourteen-year-old girls, that was adventure enough to keep them breathless and giggly for several days.
As they moved the animals back toward their wagons, Nathan looked around. It was another warm day. The wind had been blowing steadily out of the south since the previous night, and it was warm and humid, probably nearing seventy once again. It felt wonderful and would help them make good time for the rest of the day. He slipped one arm around Lydia’s waist. “It does feel good to have spring finally here, doesn’t it?”
As soon as the animals were hitched up, the Saints were on their way again. The wagons fell into single file to cross the creek at the one spot where the banks gently sloped down to the water. Once across, they spread out somewhat again. When a wagon company of this size rolled along, especially when they were crossing open prairie and there were no well-established roads, they did not all stay in one long, single-file column. They would spread out, sometimes covering a front half a mile wide, each subgroup within the group picking their own route so as to avoid one another’s dust and also to avoid packing down the prairie sod so tightly that it was like driving across large cobblestones. That also helped when they nooned, since all the stock would not be competing for the same grass. Since they had come across the creek, the usual order of march had mostly disintegrated. It turned out that the Steeds became their own little group, with Solomon’s wagon in the lead and the others following close behind. While they were not farthest out in front by any means—President Young’s group was clearly in the lead—the Steeds were along the ragged front line of the march.
“Papa! Look!”
Rachel’s cry brought Nathan’s head up with a jerk. He and Solomon were out in front a few yards. They walked steadily, heads down, shovel handles poised, watching for snakes. For a moment Nathan saw nothing. He turned to look back at Rachel.
She was pointing out ahead of them but slightly to the left, toward the southwest. Then he saw it. About a half mile away, a thin line of gray smoke was rising upward from behind the next gentle rise. It was light enough in color that it was hard to see it clearly against the sky. Nathan lifted a hand and shaded his eyes.
Joshua and Derek came running up to join them. Nathan’s son Josh was only a few steps behind. “Is it . . . ?” Derek said, squinting and leaning forward.
“Yes,” Joshua said flatly. “Something’s burning.”
“What is it, Solomon?” Jessica called.
“Is it just a campfire, Uncle Joshua?” Rachel asked nervously.
Joshua and Solomon looked at each other. Solomon shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone camped out ahead of us.”
“Me neither.”
Josh shook his head. “Not camped, but I did see a couple of wagons to the south of us a few minutes ago.” He frowned. “If they were carrying coals in a bucket and it somehow spilled . . .” He didn’t finish.
Joshua grunted angrily. His first thought had been Indians. It was well known that farther west the Indians would start grass fires out ahead of the white man’s trains to drive away the buffalo and to leave the invaders’ animals no forage. But they weren’t in Indian Territory yet. There had been absolutely no word of any Indians in their vicinity, so that was highly unlikely. The sky was clear, so it was not dry lightning. But coals? Some families did not like to start a fire each night with a flint. So they would shovel the hot coals of their fire into a bucket, cover them with a layer of ashes to insulate them, then hang them on a hook on the outside of the wagon. If the wagon had been jarred sharply enough, it could have knocked the bucket off its hook.
Even as they watched, the column of smoke doubled in size and turned darker. The wind gusted. It was blowing straight into their faces and Nathan got his first whiff of smoke. In what seemed like only another moment, the column of smoke became a wall of dirty gray, flattening out as it moved toward them in the wind. Suddenly a man appeared on the top of the rise ahead of them, frantically waving his arms. “Fire! Fire!” came the faint cry.
That did it. Nathan leaped into action. “Josh! Derek! Get the wagons together. Wet blankets and quilts and sacks.” They turned and ran to the wagons. Nathan lifted his shovel. Joshua stuck his head inside his wagon and brought out a gunnysack. Then he darted around to the water barrel and shoved the sack into it.
Solomon raced to his wagon and grabbed a blanket. As he shoved it into his water barrel, he shouted to his wife. “Jessica! Have everyone get rags and wet them. Tie them across their faces.”
Joshua stopped only for a minute to touch Caroline’s arm. “Get the younger children into the wagons.” He swung away. “Josh! Derek! Pull the wagons into a tight circle.” All up and down the line now they could hear shouts and see people running. He jerked his head around and groaned. The smoke was a massive wall now.
Nathan, Joshua, and Solomon came together near Solomon’s wagon. They stopped, gaping. Still about a half mile away, the first flames had crested the rise, and they could see the bright yellow-orange ribbon weaving and dancing and leaping and spitting great clouds of smoke. The sight of it changed Nathan’s mind.
“There’s no sense going out to help those other wagons now,” he cried. “It’s either blown past them, or—” He shrugged that off, not wanting to think about it. “I think we’d better make our stand here.”
“Agreed,” Joshua said. “We can start cutting a fire line. Get the wagons behind it.”
Nathan shook his head, not in disagreement but in discouragement. “We’ll have to work fast. With the wind, the sparks will be flying.”
“I know,” Solomon replied. “But we can—”
“Nathan! Joshua!”
They turned. A man on horseback was coming at a hard run toward them, waving his hat. It was Albert Rockwood, their captain of fifty. He pulled up sharply, the horse’s hooves sliding on the thick prairie grass. “Brigham wants us to pull in closer. Fight it together.”
“Can we get back across the creek?” Derek called. He and Josh were already pulling the wagons in closer together.
“No! There’s already a solid line of wagons trying to get across the ford. Everywhere else the banks are too steep to cross. We’ve got to fight it here.”
“What about a counter fire?” Nathan said suddenly.
Rockwood whipped around. “A counter fire?”
“Yes. What if we start a fire of our own? Put a circle of men around it. Do a controlled burn so it doesn’t threaten those behind us. Then we could pull the wagons back into the burned area.”
“Yes!” Joshua said, grabbing at Nathan’s arm. “That would give us a real firebreak. It’s moving mostly north. If we can let it go around us, it will miss the rest of the company and go on.”
Rockwood gave a curt nod and grabbed the reins. “Good idea! I’ll tell Brigham!” He wheeled the horse around and pounded away.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Joshua shouted at t
he family, pointing north. “Get those wagons up to join with Brigham’s group. Mark! Luke! Get the saddle horse and the milk cow. Tie them to one of the wagons.”
Nathan ran back to his wagon. He looked up at Lydia and his mother, who sat side by side on the wagon seat, their faces pale, their eyes frightened. “We’ll be all right. Just hang on.” Josh was waiting by the head of the oxen. Nathan looked at him. “I’ve got to get the flint and tow from the wagon. Then go, Josh. But don’t let the animals panic. The fire will spook ’em.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Nathan darted around to the back of his wagon, pawed through a box there, and came up with the flint, the steel, and a wad of tow. “Go!” he shouted at his son. Then he raced away.
He saw Joshua at the back of his wagon and swerved to join him. Joshua straightened and Nathan saw that he had his fire-starting kit as well. Without a word, they broke into a run, heading for the wall of fire that was bearing down toward them.
“I figure we got less than ten minutes,” Joshua said, between breaths.
“It’ll be enough,” Nathan answered. “The wind will work for us too.” Now the smell of smoke was heavy in the air, and they could see light ash blowing in the wind. He shook his head, hoping that his time estimate was right.
They ran hard for maybe five or six hundred yards. All along, wagons were swinging around. Men and boys were racing to herd in loose stock. Women were running alongside, dousing sacks and blankets in the water barrels. Children were tying wet rags across their faces.
“Here come’s Brigham,” Nathan shouted, pointing. The President and more than a dozen men were running toward them. Nathan stopped and dropped to one knee. He placed the wad of tow on the ground and began striking the flint against the steel with short, hard strokes.
Joshua did the same, calling out the plan to Brigham and the others even as they ran up to join them. Brigham started barking out orders like a general on the line of battle. “You and you. Get clumps of grass. Make torches. We’ll fire the grass all along this line.” He waved his arms. “You brethren, you move right along with it. Don’t let it go south. The wind will take it away from us, so it should be no problem.”
“How far should we let it go?” someone called out.
Brigham considered that for a moment, peering east. He grabbed one man by the shoulder. “You head back across the creek. Have them put a line of men along the east bank to watch for sparks. If we don’t let it get out of hand, the creek will stop it from going farther that way.” The man turned and raced away.
Tow is made up of the short, soft fibers that are pulled off during the hackling of flax. It is dry and highly flammable. On his fourth strike, Nathan’s flint sent a bright yellow spark off the steel and into the tow. He instantly dropped to all fours and blew on it softly. A tiny wisp of smoke curled upward. He blew again. There was a soft puff and the tow burst into flame. “Got it!” he cried. He grabbed a handful of dried grass and laid it gently on top. It caught and started to crackle.
“Mine’s going!” Joshua yelled beside him.
“All right!” Brigham shouted. “I want half a dozen men. Use the grass as torches. Make a line of fire all the way to the creek. The rest fall in behind. The wind will take it north, and that’s what we want. As soon as the fire has moved away from you, follow it in. Stamp out the hot spots.”
He swung around to where women and children watched from about thirty or forty yards away. “As soon as we signal,” he called, “bring those oxen and wagons into the burned area. Anyone not driving a wagon or herding cattle, get a blanket or a sack and come help beat down the fire. And you women! Watch your skirts. Don’t get too close to the flames.”
Nathan was taking the makeshift torches from the men and shoving them into the fire. “All we need is a space big enough to pull all the wagons into it.”
One by one the men lit their torches and raced away. Nathan grabbed a handful of grass, jerked it loose, and made his own torch. In a moment, he was off and running, stopping every few feet to stick the burning clump down into bunches of grass until they caught.
It was a remarkable sight. Lydia stood up on the seat of their wagon, watching anxiously. One moment it was a clot of men gathered around the kneeling figures of Nathan and Joshua. In the next it looked like a band of warriors racing outward, smoke streaming from their hands, on their way to torch the enemy camp. In moments a second fire was burning along a hundred-yard front. The wind whipped it quickly into a crackling, roaring inferno, pushing it north away from them. Dozens of men and women moved in behind those with the torches, beating and slapping at the fire with shovels and brooms or with dripping sacks, rugs, blankets, or aprons.
She turned. The main fire was coming just as quickly along a half-mile front now that stretched from southeast to northwest. It was no more than a quarter of a mile away now. She wanted to cry out. They were standing on an island of brown that was quickly being consumed on either side of them.
Lydia stiffened, staring at the line where the men were starting the second fire. Among the racing, darting figures was a smaller person in a dress. She stared. What was a girl doing there? Then through the swirl of smoke she saw the flash of red hair. She couldn’t believe it for a moment. Then she cupped her hands and started screaming. “Nathan! Nathan!”
Nathan watched the thick grass catch the flame from his torch and eagerly begin to spread. Through the melee he suddenly heard Lydia’s voice and straightened. She was pointing frantically at a spot beyond him. “What?” he shouted.
“Savannah!”
He spun around, not sure what she meant. Then he saw. Savannah had a torch of her own and was moving steadily along with the men, thrusting it down into the clumps of prairie grass. “Savannah?” It came out as an astonished question. He whirled. “Joshua!”
His brother looked up, three or four men down the line from him. Nathan jabbed his finger in Savannah’s direction. “It’s Savannah!”
There was a startled oath, then Joshua dropped his torch and started to run. When he reached her she was bent over, pulling off clumps of grass to form a new torch, since hers had burned down too close to her hand.
“Savannah!” he cried. “What in the world are you doing here? Get back to the wagons.”
“I want to help, Papa.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. Only then did he see that in bending down she had swept the skirts of her dress around and into the licking flames. The cloth was smouldering and showing black spots.
He jerked her away from it, then stomped on it until he was sure it was out. She watched, half-horrified, half-fascinated.
“This is no place for you,” he snapped. “You get back to your mother and help her there.”
“But Papa!”
“You heard me,” he roared. “Now, go!”
Meekly she nodded and started back to where the wagons were waiting.
Watching it all, Lydia sank back down to the wagon seat, greatly relieved. Thankfully, Caroline was at the back of her wagon and had seen none of it.
Brigham’s figure suddenly stepped out of the smoke. He was waving at them with quick, frantic motions. “Bring the wagons forward,” he shouted.
“Let’s go, Josh,” Lydia said to her son. She turned. Emily and Rachel, as well as Mark and Luke Griffith, were with their loose stock. “Stay close!” she called.
All around, everyone leaped into action. The older boys and some women turned the wagons and started toward the new fire line, fighting to keep the bellowing and lowing oxen from breaking away from them. Women and children ran after loose stock and herded it in toward the wagons. Small children were running back and forth with wet strips of cloth for those on the line to tie across their faces. Women doused towels, rugs, blankets, quilts, and sacks in the water barrels, then passed them up to the waiting men and women on the fire line. There was no bucket brigade. Each wagon carried a small barrel of water for drinking, but there was not water anywhere near s
ufficient to fight the fire directly. Three or four buckets per wagon and the barrels would be empty. The smoke from the main fire was rolling in heavily now, burning the eyes and searing the throat.
Behind them about two hundred yards, the last of the wagons which were near the creek were frantically going back across. Those still east of the creek were drawn up in a line of defense, with shovels and blankets ready in case the fire jumped the stream.
Nathan worked between Albert Rockwood and Joseph A. Young, Brigham’s oldest son, who was almost twelve now. Derek and Joshua were just beyond that. Brigham Young and others of the party were on the other side of them. Brigham ran back and forth along the edge of the blackened, smoking prairie, stomping and slapping at flare-ups or spots that still smoked too heavily. He bellowed out commands, directed traffic, shouted encouragement.
“Watch out!”
Nathan wasn’t sure who yelled, or whom they were yelling at, but he spun around anyway. He was not quick enough. There was a momentary rattle, a gray blur, and then something struck his boot hard just above the ankle.
“Snake! Snake!” Rockwood gave Nathan a hard shove and began pounding furiously at the ground with his shovel.
Nathan’s blood went instantly cold. He dropped to one knee, clawing at his pant leg. Instantly Joshua and their captain were at his side. “Did he get you?” Joshua cried. “Are you bit?”
Nathan, half-dazed, pulled the trouser leg up, then stared at the two parallel marks where the leather boot had been scored by the fangs. “No,” he breathed. He lowered his pant leg, trying to stop the trembling in his hand. “Thank heavens for strong leather.”
“Rattler! Rattler!” Somewhere down the line a man was shouting.
Brigham was to them now too. He looked grim. “The fire’s driving them out.” He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Watch for snakes. You men with shovels. Keep an eye out. Throw them back into the fire.”
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