Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  The man looked forty or so, his wife considerably younger than that. His face was dark brown and leathery from a lifetime in the sun. Hers was surprisingly fair, not much darker than Maggie’s now after weeks on the trail. As Maggie looked at her, she realized that she was quite pretty, something that Brother Savage had said was typical of many of the Sioux women.

  Behind them, a crossbar made from the trunk of a young aspen tree was fixed between two tripods—also made from aspens—which had been driven into the ground. From the crossbar hung a hindquarter of buffalo, or rather what had once been a hindquarter of buffalo. Now it was nearly stripped of all its meat and was mostly bone. A young girl, six or seven, with beetle-bright black eyes, shooed away the flies from the meat with the branch of a cottonwood tree.

  On the table, there was one large chunk of meat, perhaps eight pounds or more, and several soup bones with a little fat and shreds of meat left on them. From time to time the woman moved her hand enough to drive off the flies. The bones were not very appealing, but the large piece of meat was marbled with veins of fat and looked very good. Brother James had been right. It looked like excellent-quality meat.

  “We should have come first thing,” Sarah said softly.

  Maggie nodded, wondering how much of that hindquarter had been there when their company first arrived. It had been almost an hour now since then. Behind them, several more families were waiting their turn to bargain with the Indians as well. When they finally marched out again, there wouldn’t be much the Indian would have to worry about.

  As Maggie watched the Indian turn the sweater over and feel the wool, she held her breath. This meat would be a godsend, especially with the health of their little group failing quickly now. She didn’t think they would be able to trade for the whole piece, but even with half, if they were careful they could make it last for several days. Perhaps they could purchase a little salt inside and make it last even longer than that.

  “How much?” the Indian asked, finally looking up. Olaf looked at Eric, who stepped forward and put his knife on the table. Now the man’s eyes showed definite interest. He took it out and tested the blade with the edge of his thumb. When he put it back in the sheath, Eric took it and placed it on top of the sweater. He motioned to both items, then pointed to the large chunk of meat. “This for that.”

  The man’s head immediately began moving back and forth. “More,” he said shortly. “Need more.”

  Eric held out his hands, showing there was nothing more to be offered. The man leaned across his wife and picked up the largest of the bones. He plopped it down on the table in front of Eric.

  “That’s all?” Eric cried. “This is very good knife. This”—he touched the sweater—“is very warm.”

  The Indian shoved the bone a little closer. “Good trade.”

  Blowing out his breath, Eric turned to the roast. “What if we took only part of it?” He made a sawing motion with his hand, indicating about half.

  This time the shake of the head was emphatic and the man’s face became stone. “Need more.”

  Maggie stepped forward, an idea popping into her mind. “Eric. What if we buy the whole piece and share it between our families?”

  He turned. “All right,” he finally said, but his eyes were asking, And what do you have that might make the difference?

  Not stopping to think about it, she lifted her apron and brought out the wooden music box. There was an audible gasp from both Eric and Sarah. She ignored them. She held it out for the Indian to see, then turned it upside down and quickly wound the key. Then she set it on the table and lifted the lid. The tinkling melody of “Loch Lomond” began to play softly across the field.

  The man’s eyes widened. The woman started a little, then leaned forward to stare at it. The little girl rattled off something and darted forward to see.

  “Maggie, what are you doing?”

  She glanced at Eric, then away. “Olaf can’t eat his sweater. I can’t fry a music box.”

  “But—”

  She turned, her eyes soft. “I know what you did to save that for me, Eric. And now I know why. It wasn’t so I would have music in my tent at night.”

  She turned back to the Indians, her face determined. The man had it up above his head, peering at it. He shook it gently. His daughter reached out to touch it, but he jerked it away sharply. Maggie gently took it from him and set it on the table and shut the lid. She opened and shut the lid twice more to show him how it worked. Then she placed it on top of Olaf’s folded sweater and Eric’s knife. “All of this”—she made a circle with her hands—“for this,” and she pointed to the large roast.

  The warrior looked at her for several long seconds, his eyes hooded. His eyes moved a little as he looked past her; then he slowly shook his head. There was a brief burst of words aimed at his wife. She picked up the large piece of meat and set it in front of him. Emulating Eric’s motions, she pretended to saw off one-third. Then she pointed to what would have been the larger two-thirds.

  “No,” Maggie shot back at the man, knowing he was the one she had to deal with. “We get it all.”

  His eyes hardened as he sat back, obviously torn. His wife stared straight ahead, her eyes still as unreadable as before. Then again the man’s eyes moved to look past Maggie. Curious, she turned. John Richard was standing at the door of the trading post, watching what was happening. As near as she could determine, he made no sign of any kind, but the Indian turned back to Maggie. Again he “sawed off” one-third and pointed to the larger piece. “Good trade,” he barked. “Very good trade.”

  Maggie swung around to face John Richard. “My father paid three pounds for that music box in Scotland. That’s more than ten American dollars.”

  “Aye, lass,” he said. His smile was sympathetic. “And if we were in Scotland, I’d probably offer you four or five pounds for it.” He shook his head. “Here, beautiful things come much cheaper.”

  She wanted to cry or shout at him that it wasn’t fair. But she knew it was. He was precisely correct. Out here, priorities got quickly reordered.

  “All right,” she said, turning back.

  “Wait!” Eric was fishing in his pocket.

  Olaf leaped forward. “No, Eric.”

  He pushed him aside, finally finding what he was after. In his fingers he held up a silver ring. He too spoke to Richard. “I’ll add this and we take the whole piece.”

  “What is it?” Emma asked Olaf.

  “It’s a wedding ring,” he answered, his voice stricken.

  Maggie whirled. Eric didn’t meet her eyes. He just held the ring out as John Richard came over and took it from his hand.

  “He traded his sweater for it back at Fort Laramie,” Olaf whispered, looking at Maggie, who was thunderstruck. She wasn’t the only one. Sarah’s eyes were wide. Emma looked a little bewildered.

  The black-haired and dark-eyed Richard examined the ring closely, holding it up so it caught the sun. Maggie wanted to leap at him, snatch it from his hands, hold it close so she could at least look at it. But she could only stare at Eric, who finally now turned to her. The pain in his eyes was more than she could bear and she had to look away again.

  Richard took a step forward and set the ring down beside the knife, the sweater, and the music box. He gave a quick nod to the Indian, then spun around and went back inside the trading post without another word. The Indian picked up the full chunk of meat and handed it across the table to Eric. When he spoke there was just a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “You make good trade.”

  •••

  Over the vigorous protests of Mary McKensie and William and Jane James, Eric cut the buffalo meat in two slightly unequal pieces, and then took the smaller piece. There were eleven of them, with seven who were adults, if you counted Reuben and Emma, he argued. Even with the Nielsons, there were only four adults and two young children to feed off Eric’s and Olaf’s portion. When Maggie tried to counter that with the idea that the music box she had co
ntributed was not equal in value to the sweater, knife, and ring that Eric and Olaf had given, it fell on deaf ears.

  On the way back from the trading post, Maggie had hung back, hoping Eric would do the same and she would have a chance to question him about the ring. It hadn’t happened. If anything, he kept well out in front of them. Now she kept trying to catch his eye, but each time she did he would flush slightly and look away. Finally she just stopped trying.

  The children gathered around, eagerly watching, as the meat was cut into two parts. The adults watched with only slightly less interest. Martha, who was ten, looked up at her father with large, pleading eyes. “Can we cook it now, Papa?”

  He smiled kindly. “No, dear. We’ve got to march on and get across the river now. There’s no time to build a fire.”

  “But Papa!” young George said. He was seven. “Can’t we have just a piece of it now?”

  “It’s not cooked, George.”

  “I don’t care. It looks so good, and just looking at it makes my tummy hurt, Papa.”

  Jane James looked with sorrow on her younger ones. “Children, Sister McKensie and I will cook it tonight so it will not spoil. But even then, we can’t eat it all at once. We have to make it last as long as possible.”

  “We’ll cut off a small piece for everyone tonight,” Mary McKensie promised. “But now each of you need to thank Maggie and Eric and Olaf for getting this for us. This is a great blessing.”

  Even Reuben and Emma and the adults turned in compliance to that suggestion. The two brothers tried to put them off and give Maggie the credit, but she said that it was really them who had gotten the whole piece. Through it all, Eric still refused to look at Maggie, and so it came as no surprise that at the first possible moment Eric said they had to go. As he and Olaf walked swiftly away, Maggie’s mother turned to her.

  “What happened, Maggie?”

  She flinched a little. “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s going on. Eric’s twitching like a drop of water on a hot frying pan. What happened over there?”

  “I . . . I don’t want to talk about it right now, Mama. Perhaps later.” And she turned and walked away, moving in the opposite direction from Eric and Olaf.

  Sarah almost started after her, then shook her head slightly. This was not the time. Mary saw her and asked, “What is it, Sarah? What happened?”

  She blew out her breath. “I think Maggie should be the one to tell you.”

  •••

  Maggie walked down to the river, not far from the great bridge that spanned the North Platte. She passed the structure, barely giving it a second glance, and walked into the trees. She went just far enough so that she wasn’t open to view, but close enough to watch for the signal when it was time to move out again. She sat down heavily and closed her eyes, trying to let the tumble of emotions begin to settle a little.

  She sat there for fifteen minutes, no more certain of things at the end of that time than she was when she came. Then, as she was considering returning to her family, she saw Olaf. He went to her family, who pointed in her direction. He turned and headed straight towards her.

  In a way, she was greatly relieved. She had been afraid that Eric might come and try to stammer his way through an explanation. She didn’t know if she was ready to talk with him yet. On the other hand, she was also faintly irritated. Why didn’t he come? It wasn’t Olaf’s place to try and straighten this out.

  As he entered the trees and saw her, he slowed his step, clearly quite concerned about how she was going to take this. “Maggie?”

  She straightened, deciding to just be calm. “Yes, Olaf.”

  “May I speak with you?”

  “Of course.” Where is Eric? She almost spoke it aloud, but didn’t.

  “I . . . Eric does not know I am coming to find you.”

  “Oh?” She relaxed a little. Good. At least he hadn’t sent Olaf to work it out for him.

  Olaf sighed, sounding more like he was sixty than sixteen. “He is feeling badly most terrible.”

  Good. I’m feeling pretty confused myself, actually. But she didn’t say anything aloud, only watched him steadily. When he began to squirm a little she spoke. “Was that ring for me, Olaf?”

  His eyes widened perceptibly. “But of course. What did you think?”

  “Why didn’t he tell me before?”

  Olaf sighed again. “When he trade for ring at Laramie Fort, it was not planned. He saw the ring and said that then he knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  He gave her a pleading look as if to say, This is hard enough, don’t make it more so.

  She softened a little. “So why didn’t he just tell me that?” she asked again.

  “Eric is . . . He is afraid.”

  “Afraid? of me?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then what?”

  “That you will not want to marry him. I tell him he is wrong. I tell him you like him very much. But he is afraid. If you say no . . .” He shook his head. “That would be very hard for him.”

  It was what she had hoped for, and one part of her wanted to shout. But the part of her that was feeling a little frustrated wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. She gave him a searching look. “And how long before Eric was going to get up enough courage to tell me all of this?”

  Now a slow smile stole across Olaf’s face. “Not longer than two years, I think.”

  “Two years?” And then he laughed and she saw that he was teasing her. She laughed with him.

  “I keep saying, Eric do it now, but he won’t. He says, ‘Not yet. Not yet. I am only courting her for one week.’ This is why he feel so bad now. Now you know about the ring and there is no chance for him to ask you first how you feel.”

  She was nodding slowly. “I understand.” She decided that there was one thing she had to know for sure, without any misunderstandings. “Is Eric planning to ask me to marry him?”

  Again he seemed surprised that she would ask. “Yah, but of course.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  He searched her face now in return. “And what will Maggie McKensie say if he does?” he asked very quietly.

  “Don’t you know?” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “Doesn’t he know?”

  Olaf smiled again, greatly pleased. “Good. This is very good.”

  Just then there was a shout and they both turned toward the column. Captain Willie was on his horse waving his hat. The people were getting up and moving towards their carts. It was time to move on. Olaf looked suddenly worried. “I must go. If he knows I am talking at you, he will be not happy.”

  “I won’t tell him, Olaf. And promise me you won’t tell him either. I want to think about all of this for a while.”

  He looked greatly relieved. “I say nothing. Thank you, Maggie.”

  “No, thank you, Olaf.” She waved as he turned and trotted away, staying along the river before he turned and cut back toward the column. When he was gone Maggie finally stood and started back as well. To her surprise, she was not tired anymore, and for now her hunger was forgotten. Was that ring for me? The answer had been instantaneous. But of course. She hugged herself as she walked, her step light now. Is Eric planning to ask me to marry him? She wanted to tip her head back and shout out the answer. Yah, but of course!

  Chapter Notes

  “A Word to the Saints Who Are Gathering” was a poem written by Eliza R. Snow and set to music by John Tullidge. It came to be known as “Think Not, When You Gather to Zion.” It was printed in the Millennial Star in March of 1856 (see Hafen and Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, p. 271). As the Hafens note, the song served as “a bit of warning for over-enthusiastic converts.”

  Think not, when you gather to Zion,

  Your troubles and trials are through—

  That nothing but comfort and pleasure

  Are waiting in Zion for you.

  No, no; ’tis design’d as a furnace,

  All substanc
e, all textures to try—

  To consume all the “wood, hay, and stubble,”

  And the gold from the dross purify.

  Think not, when you gather to Zion,

  That all will be holy and pure—

  That deception and falsehood are banish’d,

  And confidence wholly secure.

  No, no; for the Lord our Redeemer

  Has said that the tares with the wheat

  Must grow, till the great day of burning

  Shall render the harvest complete.

  Think not, when you gather to Zion,

  The Saints here have nothing to do

  But attend to your personal welfare,

  And always be comforting you.

  No; the Saints who are faithful are doing

  What their hands find to do, with their might;

  To accomplish the gath’ring of Israel,

  They are toiling by day and by night.

  Think not, when you gather to Zion,

  The prize and the victory won—

  Think not that the warfare is ended,

  Or the work of salvation is done.

  No, no; for the great Prince of Darkness

  A tenfold exertion will make,

  When he sees you approaching the fountain

  Where Truth you may freely partake.

  For all of the handcart companies, hunger was an ever-present factor in their journey across the plains. They simply could not carry sufficient supplies to provide all the food a person wanted. Mary Ann Stucki Hafen, whose family was from Switzerland, came to Utah in 1860 when she was six years old as part of the tenth and last handcart company. She reports that one day they shot two buffalo and distributed the meat to the company.

  When we got that chunk of buffalo meat father put it in the handcart. My brother John [who was nine] remembered that it was the fore part of the week and that father said we would save it for Sunday dinner. John said, “I was so very hungry and the meat smelled so good to me while pushing at the handcart that I could not resist. I had a little pocket knife and with it I cut off a piece or two each half day. Although I expected a severe whipping when father found it out, I cut off little pieces each day. I would chew them so long that they got white and perfectly tasteless. When father came to get the meat he asked me if I had been cutting off some of it. I said, ‘Yes, I was so hungry I could not let it alone.’ Instead of giving me a scolding or whipping, father turned away and wiped tears from his eyes.” (Recollections of a Handcart Pioneer, pp. 25–26)