Out of the Smoke

by Gerald N. Lund

“Then that is nothing that concerns us. Now, let’s go to work. Your mothers and your grandmother will have a hot supper waiting for us if we are not too late in getting down.”

  5:58 p.m.

  It was a somber group that averted their eyes as they rode past three corrals filled with the carcasses of dead animals. Their horses snorted and pranced, not liking the heavy smell of blood in the air. Mitch was in the lead and Rowland brought up the rear, leading a string of three pack mules. No one spoke. They avoided looking at each other. In a few moments, the last of them had passed the corrals and moved up the trail.

  As they approached the bend in the trail where MJ and Acel Davis had last been seen, Mitch raised a hand in the air and drew his horse to a stop.

  Noah turned and looked at Benji. “What’s he doing?’

  “Dunno!” Benji went up in his stirrups, trying to see better.

  Mitch turned in his saddle and took stock of those behind him.

  “What’s the matter, Mitch?” Rowland called from the back.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he called back. “Just thought I would remind you to keep an eye out for wildlife. They love to be out in the evening.” And with that he urged his horse forward again and disappeared around the bend.

  Benji sat back in his saddle, weariness suddenly hitting him like a brick. It was going to be a long night.

  Suddenly, he heard one of the girls cry out. Then another. Noah spun around to look at him. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Benji said, and he kicked his horse into a trot. By this time, Edna Rae and Abby, who were next in line behind Mitch, were no longer visible either. As Benji rounded the bend and saw his father and the girls, at first he saw nothing wrong. Then he let out a low cry and pulled his horse up short. Just off to the left of the trail was a man sitting on a pinto horse, with only an Indian blanket for its saddle and a rope for a bridle. The horse did not move. The man on the horse did not move. It was as if they were made of stone.

  There was no question who it was. Chief Jackson Blackhorse had a visage that was unforgettable.

  Mitch pulled his horse to a stop a few feet short of the chief. But he didn’t look at Blackhorse, and Blackhorse kept looking straight ahead too. One by one the family members came up and stopped their horses around Mitch.

  Suddenly there was movement all around them. Benji gave a low yelp and started to reach for his rifle but then quickly drew back his hand. From out of the trees on both sides of the trail, figures were appearing like magic. Men on horses. Men on foot. Grandfathers. Grandmothers. Women with papooses strapped on their backs. Small children standing beside their parents, stoically gazing at the white people on their horses. And behind them, even further back in the trees, something else moved. In the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees, Benji saw what they were. Packhorses. Dozens of them. Standing there with empty packs waiting to be filled.

  He jumped up in his stirrups. “Omigosh! They’re here for the meat.”

  The others whirled around. He ignored them. He was staring at his father. “They’re here to get the meat, aren’t they, Dad?”

  “How would I know a thing like that?” Mitch replied.

  Abby turned her horse around and came over to Benji. “That’s it. We killed the meat and left it to rot. Just as we promised Mr. Davis we would. So if they happen to accidentally come across it. . . .” A bright smile lit up her face.

  Noah was also seeing it. “Grandpa has done nothing wrong. He did exactly what Mr. Davis told him to do.”

  Rowland had come up now too. “Mitch, in this heat, that meat is going to spoil in a hurry. How are they going to preserve it?”

  “Well, I can’t speak for this group, because we are not sure why they are here. But Indians are very skilled in preserving fresh meat. They salt it, smoke it, hang it out on racks to dry in the sun.”

  Rowland was shaking his head. “But they would have had to bring all that stuff up here with them, right?”

  “Now wouldn’t that be a wonderful coincidence?” Then Mitch turned back around in his saddle. “We’d best be going.”

  Abby wheeled her horse around again and quickly went up beside her father. “Dad, you’re the best.”

  Mitch smiled. “Whatever brought that on?” Not waiting for an answer, he urged his horse into a slow walk. Chief Blackhorse was just a few feet away from him now, but the statue never moved. As Mitch came up even with him, he raised his right hand in the universal sign of greeting. A moment later, Blackhorse did the same. Neither man looked at the other, and neither of them spoke. Only their hands indicated that they were aware of each other’s presence.

  When he was past the chief, Mitch urged his horse into a faster walk and lowered his hand.

  But Blackhorse kept his up in front of him. One by one the family of Mitch Westland passed by him, solemnly lifting their hands in greeting. And thus they passed in the twilight.

  Benji dropped back, letting his Uncle Rowland get ahead of him. Just before they rounded the next bend, he pulled his horse to a stop and turned around in his saddle. What he saw made him smile. A column of figures, some on horses, many on foot, were marching silently along the trail in the opposite direction of the Westlands. At their head, just disappearing around the bend, was a regal figure on a pinto horse.

  Chapter Notes

  What came to be known as the Agricultural Adjustment Act was presented to Congress just a week after Franklin D. Roosevelt’s inauguration as president of the United States in January of 1933. In his campaign, he had promised the people a “new deal” and that his government would take immediate and dramatic action to combat the “hard times,” as what we now call the Great Depression was then commonly called.

  The bill was passed by Congress in April of 1933. With mostly Easterners leading the new agency, the policies described here were implemented, and not just with livestock but also farm crops. Often this was done with a heavy hand and what was viewed as “bureaucratic arrogance.”

  In addition to the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of head of livestock, the government paid a million cotton farmers in the South to plow under ten million acres of cotton and then paid them for the crops they had just destroyed. This did help stabilize prices, but there were unforeseen negative consequences as well. In the South, where much of the cotton was grown by sharecroppers, both whites and blacks, the landowners were greatly benefitted by this policy but tens of thousands of sharecroppers were thrown off the land, making their already grim existence almost impossible. Black sharecroppers were especially hard hit (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki

  /Agricultural_Adjustment_Act and other sites on this topic).

  The slaughter of livestock did take place in Utah as well, with the government purchasing 155,000 cattle and 250,000 sheep for a total cost of two million dollars. How much of that took place in San Juan County is not known, nor does the source indicate how these animals were disposed of (see “Agricultural Hard Times & The Great Depression,” www.agclassroom.org/ut).

  The story of a San Juan County rancher giving his slaughtered stock to the Ute Indian tribe is not based on fact but is the creation of the author.

  June 7, 1933, 7:45 a.m.—EDW Ranch

  Benjamin and Reginald Westland looked up as they heard a bedroom door down the hallway open and then close again. Then came the sound of bare feet slapping softly on hardwood flooring. Reggie sniggered as he glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall and dug his elbow into his cousin’s ribs. “You owe me a dime, Benj. Told ya she wouldn’t sleep ’til eight.”

  “She darn near did!” Benji fired back in a soft whisper. Then they both turned toward the kitchen door and smiled. A moment later a figure appeared. It was Celeste, dressed in blue flannel pajamas and a pink robe that came to her knees. She was combing her fingers through her long dark hair without it having much effect on the tangle of it.
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  “Mornin’, Celeste,” Benji sang out.

  “Mornin’, Mama,” Reggie echoed.

  Celeste squinted and raised one hand to shield her eyes from the brightness. The sun was coming through the east window and the kitchen was filled with a brilliant golden glow. She mumbled something and moved forward. “What are you two boys up to? You look like cats just caught in the cream.”

  “Us?” Reggie said, feigning great innocence.

  “Just getting ready to head out to the barn,” Benji said.

  “Did you have some breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” Reggie said. “Grandma cooked pancakes for us before they left for La Sal.”

  One eye opened a little wider. “What time did they leave?”

  “’Bout 4:15,” Benji said gravely.

  As Celeste visibly started, Reggie guffawed. “Nuh-uh, Benj. It was more like 6:30.”

  His sister-in-law glared at Benji. “Don’t give me a bad time, at least not until I get a cup of coffee in me and can defend myself.”

  Reggie spoke up. “I put a pot on the stove earlier. It should be hot now.”

  “Good boy. I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  Benji got to his feet. “Sorry to hear that,” he said, feeling a little guilty for teasing her. Celeste was definitely not a morning person. And being pregnant only emphasized that.

  It had not been a big surprise to the family when in April, Frank and Celeste had announced that Reggie would be coming out to Utah to spend some time at the ranch again. That was almost a given now. But it was a surprise when Celeste said that she would bring him out and stay a full month with the family. Frank would come for the last week of that month, and then they would all travel back East together.

  But the real shocker was when Celeste had shyly announced why she was coming. She was three months pregnant. And with her mother living in France, she wanted to come out and be with the Westland women to share in the joy and pepper them with questions about her pregnancy and being a mother. That had been a moment of great celebration in Monticello, Utah. The family had rejoiced the previous summer when Celeste and Frank announced that they had made a commitment to each other to make their marriage work. And they had done it. Even though Frank lived in Washington, D.C., and Celeste and Reggie in New York, they were together most weekends. By Christmastime, Frank had worked it out with the government agency he worked for that he could work from home about half of the time. So he had moved to New York and commuted down by train two or three times a month.

  Now Celeste was five months pregnant and showing it. Deciding that he had to stop giving her a bad time, Benji got to his feet. “Here, I’ll get it. You come and sit down, Celeste.”

  “No!”

  The sharpness in her voice brought him back around, and he gave her a puzzled look. She came into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat down heavily on it. “When your parents were kind enough to let me have coffee in the house, knowing that I might very likely die without it, I promised them I would never ask anyone in the family to prepare it for me or serve it to me. I know that coffee and tea are against your beliefs, and I want to respect that.”

  “I ain’t gonna drink it,” Benji growled. “Just pour it for you.” Which he did.

  He set the steaming cup before her. “Mom and Dad and MJ and June and their kids will be up at Rena’s until late tonight. So no one else is around, Celeste. If you want to go back to bed, feel free. We’ll be cleaning out the barn.”

  “And the chicken coop,” Reggie chortled. “Grandpa said that Benji has to clean it out all by himself because he didn’t get in until almost midnight last night.”

  Celeste tried not to smile. “Hot date?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “with two of my buddies. We actually had a good excuse, but Dad didn’t buy it.”

  Celeste laughed in spite of herself. “Benji, you are a bit of what, in French, we call a chiot effronté—an impudent pup.”

  “Love it. I say if the name fits, wear it.” Then he raised a hand as if in farewell. “The barn and the chicken coop await. If you need us, just holler.”

  9:44 a.m.—Barn, EDW Ranch

  “Hey, Benj,” Reggie said, pointing to a wooden box filled with pieces of iron, bolts, and an assortment of nuts and washers. “Where does this go?”

  “Out in the shed next to the blacksmith’s shop.”

  He nodded, picked it up, and went out.

  Benji watched him until he was out of the barn and then went back to cleaning out the stall. Three or four minutes later, he heard Reggie’s voice. “Benji?”

  “I’m here in the stall.”

  “Uh . . . can you come out here for a minute?”

  “I’m almost done. Give me a sec.”

  “Uh . . . I think now would be better.”

  Puzzled, Benji stuck the pitchfork in the pile of straw and horse manure and stepped out into the main corridor of the barn. To his surprise, there were two silhouettes standing in the main doorway. He stopped dead, a spurt of adrenalin shooting through him. Standing beside Reggie was the figure of a tall, lanky man wearing some kind of a floppy hat on his head. To his further surprise, Reggie broke away from the figure and half ran to Benji. Only then did he stop and turn around, edging in behind Benji. “It’s a Negro,” he whispered.

  “What?” Benji had heard him all right, but the word caught him totally off guard.

  “A Negro,” Reggie said again, stepping closer and hissing it into his ear.

  “Really?” Benji turned and looked in the man’s direction. “Can I help you?”

  A long, lanky arm came up and swept off the hat, and the man took a step closer. But with the bright sunlight at his back, Benji still couldn’t discern much of his appearance. He realized that his heart was beating a little faster too. The stranger’s sudden appearance had startled him.

  “Yes, sir,” said a mellow voice, rich with a deep South accent. “My name’s Moses Quincy, but most folk they just call me Mose. I’m lookin’ for work. If you have anythin’ for me to do, sir, I would be much obliged.”

  Benji relaxed, understanding now. The newspapers and the radio were filled with news of the tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of men on the move across America, and Benji had been fascinated by their stories. Unemployment in the United States was now into the millions. Thousands upon thousands of families had lost their homes and farms as banks repossessed them. He had seen pictures in the newspapers of lines of men stretching for several city blocks waiting to get something to eat in soup kitchens. In the papers, it said that even Salt Lake City was seeing hundreds of transients coming in each week. Police were rounding them up and running them out of town.

  “Sir?”

  Benji was jerked out of his thoughts. He hesitated only a moment before moving forward and sticking out his hand. “How do you do, Mose? My name in Benjamin Westland, but everyone calls me Benji or Benj.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mister Benjamin. Would you have any work for me, sir? I’m a good worker, I promise you that.”

  Benji looked the man up and down. His clothes were worn and faded, ragged at the knees, but they were clean. Some of the transients that occasionally passed through town looked like they hadn’t seen soap and water for months. Up close, Benji was surprised to see that this was an older man, probably in his late forties or early fifties. He was at least six feet tall, thin as a rail fence, and had a narrow face, a broad nose, and a prominent mouth. His eyes were almost as black as what little hair he still had, and his teeth were somewhat crooked when he smiled. His demeanor was pleasant, and his manner respectful and polite. Benji found himself relaxing.

  He nodded. “We might have some work for you,” Benji said. “How did you happen to come up here to our place? We’re off the beaten track. Has someone marked us up?” That was something else he had learned. The tran
sients had their own communication system. They’d mark homes and fences with various chalk marks using their own cryptic signs and shorthand to enlighten those who would follow. One mark could mean, “Don’t stop here. They will call the cops.” Others indicated where more generous families lived or who would give them food or money and whether or not they required work for it. Even away from the towns, one could find marks along the railroad tracks warning of railroad constables in the area or particularly hard-nosed police departments in the town ahead.

  A slow grin stole across Mose’s face. “Yes, sir, there are markings on the fence down by the main road.” His grin widened and he chuckled, a rich, pleasant sound. “They say there’s one mighty fine fam’ly livin’ in the log house with the big barn. Wife a good cook. Husband who says, ‘If y’all want supper, y’all work for it.’”

  “And does that bother you?” Benji asked.

  “No, Mister Benji. I’m a proud man. I’m used to workin’ hard. Don’t like beggin’. I believe a man should work for his supper or go hungry. Yes, sir, that’s the Lord’s good truth.”

  Benji stuck out his hand yet again. Mose’s huge hand swallowed his up like a giant clamshell. “Well, Mose, I am happy to say that me and Reggie here are just getting started on cleaning out the barn. If that interests you, then you’ll be sitting at our supper table tonight. Agreed?”

  Mose replaced his hat, beaming broadly. “That suits me just fine, Mister Benji. Just fine indeed.”

  “Good. And where do you come from, Mose?”

  “From Georgia. Little town ’bout forty, maybe fifty miles north of Macon called Barnesville. I was a sharecropper on a small farm near there.”

  “That’s a long way away, isn’t it?” Reggie asked.

  “A long, long way,” he said sadly. “Too far for my likin’.” Then he looked at Benji. “Well, Benji, sir, just show me what needs doin’.”

  Benji chuckled. “Mose, just Benji is fine.”

  “Yes, sir, Benji, sir,” Mose said in a slow drawl as he winked. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”