by Lou Cameron
“Indeed, sir?” I remarked, not too surprised.
“Yes indeed,” the general said. “We are a beleaguered people and must take all precautions. Don’t be offended. Port didn’t bring your dispatches to me, the manager did. Those are his instructions in all matters like this. However, Port insisted that the dispatches be sent over the wire, and they were. For that Port will have to take responsibility. I’m sure it makes little difference at this stage. I must say they were fair enough in their wording.”
Down the table Hickman remained motionless, but I could feel his black eyes boring into me. I looked at Rockwell sitting with his hands folded in front of him, calm and attentive. I was about to say something when Hickman spoke for the first time; his voice was cold and rasping, as if cut from a block of ice.
“I read the dispatches too, and I didn’t like them. What business has Port giving this foreigner information about us? I don’t care if it’s good or bad—it shouldn’t be given out. Port may think what he says is his business. I don’t agree. And I don’t agree with what’s going on now.”
“Nothing’s gone on so far,” the general said sharply. “I happen to agree with Port that Mr. Forbes’s dispatches can do us more good than harm. For God’s sake, man, look at what they’re writing about us now. To the world we’re no better than a bunch of wild men in the Cannibal Islands. I was a soldier before I was a banker and know that newspapers are what cause wars. Stir up the people and the people stir up the politicians. What started the war between the States if not the newspapers in Boston and New York? That is a fact, sir. For a man who used to be a lawyer you have a very narrow view of the world.”
“I don’t care what the world thinks,” Hickman grated, still staring at me.
The general rubbed his eyes again; though robust for his age, he appeared tired. “Maybe you should think more about the world,” he said quietly.
“What I think won’t stop Connor from marching on us. While Ports friend is explaining our position to the world, the Irishman’s trash will be invading our borders, burning our farms, blowing up our mines.”
“Connor has a long way to travel,” the general said. “It will take weeks for infantry and artillery to get here. Connor knows better than to split his force and push ahead with cavalry. So there may be time to stop him.”
“How?” Hickman asked.
“Maybe by what Mr. Forbes sends to the Eastern newspapers. Let him tell our side of the story even if it does come to fighting. In the last war we fought in utter darkness, with no one to report what was happening. We won the war—at least Johnson withdrew his forces—but the truth was lost in the shuffle, sir. Instead of being shown as men fighting for their homes, we were shown to be mad dogs and cowardly ambushers.”
“We won the war, Dan,” Hickman said.
“We won that war,” the general went on. “I have no doubt that we can win this one, at the start of it, anyway. But I know something about Connor even if you don’t. He hangs on, that’s what he does. Look, Bill, even if Forbes’s dispatches come to nothing, what difference does it make?”
Hickman spoke slowly. “The difference is, we’d have a spy in our camp.”
“You mean that for me, don’t you?” Rockwell said without raising his voice. “You’re saying I’m vouching for a spy.”
Though I had suspected it, this was the first time I saw the deep enmity between the two men. Their eyes met and held, neither willing to give ground. Finally, Hickman said, “What I’m accusing you of is poor judgment, Port. What’s to prevent Forbes from sending information to the enemy? We don’t need war correspondents and we can do without spies.”
“Bull-pucky!” Rockwell shouted, completely losing his temper, his right hand close to his gun pocket. “This man stood beside me and could have been killed for it. He didn’t have to do that.”
“A good way to gain your confidence,” Hickman answered, his own hands resting on the arms of his chair.
The general slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Keep your hands away from your pistols and stop acting like drunken Texans. Both of you, do you hear me? If you don’t, then get the hell out of here. You’ll have better use for bullets if the Americans force a war on us. Now let’s get to what we are talking about. Bill, you don’t want Mr. Forbes to know what’s going on. I say yes, Port says yes—what about you, Travis?”
Travis Widger spread his hands palms up on the table. “I don’t know what to think, Dan. Maybe Bill is right about the danger of this. But we’re just spitting into the wind, isn’t that right? Brigham is the one who’ll make the decision. Let me ask you, does Brigham even know what we’re discussing here?”
The general looked at Rockwell. “Brigham knows because Port told him. So did I, and what he said to me was, Talk to Mr. Forbes and then give me your impression of him.’ Only then will Brigham decide, and when he does that will be the end of it, no matter what anyone says. What you’re forgetting is that Mr. Forbes hasn’t been asked what he wants to do.”
They all looked at me. “I’m all for it,” I answered. “I’ll report what I see and that’s all. Let me say I hope there won’t be a war, but if it does come, I will report the truth. You will read my dispatches—naturally—but if you alter them so that the truth is distorted, I’ll quit.”
“And if you alter the truth, we’ll kill you,” Hickman said. “I’ll kill you myself.”
I looked directly at the dark-faced killer. “Agreed,” I said. Then I turned back to the general and asked, “How soon will I know, sir?”
“Hard to say, Mr. Forbes. It may be that Brigham will have to talk to you. If the talk—his decision—goes against you, you may be allowed to remain in Salt Lake or you may be expelled from the territory. What will you do if you are expelled? Join Connor wherever you can?”
“That’s what I’ll do, sir. I’m a newspaperman and reporting wars is what I’m paid to do. But I’d like to remain on this side of the lines if I can.”
General Wells said that was fair enough and shook my hand again. I stood up knowing that my part of the meeting was over.
“I’ll walk out with you, William,” Abby said, smiling at the general and Rockwell, ignoring the others. Out past the guards, walking along the tree-shaded street, she let out her breath in an angry hiss. “That Hickman is a dirty rotten bastard,” she said, taking me off-guard with her strong language. “One of these days Port is going to blow his head off, if I don’t do it myself. He has ten wives and he wants one more—me. I think if it wasn’t for Port, he’d try to take me by force. He did that to some of his other wives, but nothing was ever done about it. Brigham’s decision went against them and since then they’ve been bearing a child every ten months.”
In a sudden protective gesture, she put her hand on my arm. “Be careful with Hickman, please be careful. He’s the worst man ever created and he’ll kill you if he starts to dwell on it. If he comes around and says he was wrong and wants to be friendly, kill him the minute he turns his back. Port will back you, so will I.”
I looked at the pleasant street, the well-watered gardens. It was hard to believe that murder was so close. If I hadn’t seen Hickman myself, I might have doubted her. Now I didn’t. I could well believe the man to be a homicidal maniac, a killer in love with killing; a man without redeeming features of any kind; a man who should have been killed in his cradle, as they say. I wanted to ask Abby more about him, but she was so angry and frightened that I held my tongue. In the end all I said was, ‘Why don’t you get away from here? Port says there is no one forcing you to stay.”
She stooped to pick up some flowers a rough child had thrown from a garden. “Hickman would follow me,” she said, shivering in the sunlight. “Even if I went to California he’d find me and I don’t know what he’d do. One woman ran away from him. He followed her for weeks but came back without her. It’s said he strangled her in some town a thousand miles from here. I’m safe here because Port protects me. That’s why he hates Port. Th
ere are other reasons I don’t know about. Port would kill Hickman if not for Brigham, who says he needs him to police the northern half of the territory.”
“Maybe Brigham keeps Hickman to balance Port,” I suggested, hoping I could trust her not to repeat what I had said.
For a moment she looked startled. “Don’t say things like that, William. You shouldn’t even say them to me. Gentile drunks can say them in their own saloons, but you’re different. No one listens to drunks, but you’re right in the middle of this now.”
There it was again, that great fear of the Prophet which pervaded the very air in Salt Lake in those days, and more than anything I wanted to meet this man so seldom seen except by his intimates. He lived in his great house, surrounded like a sultan by all his wives, his swarms of children, his palace guard of gunmen. I wondered if he had a food-taster, someone to protect him from treachery. That a former carpenter, glazier, and handyman could create such an empire was astonishing to me; in the world of 1862, with its railroads and steamships, the telegraph and photography, he was a creature from another age.
“I won’t talk about the Prophet if you don’t want me to,” I assured her.
Abby said, “The trouble is for you, not for me. And don’t forget that Brigham has Gentile spies as well as Mormon. Men who say they hate him may work for him. Say as little as you can.”
I attempted a laugh. “I won’t get much to write about that way.”
“Maybe it’s you who should leave Salt Lake, William. There must be so many places you can go. Why are you not afraid of being killed?”
“Why aren’t you? You could be killed in this war you want.”
“It would be different to die in a war. To die bravely for my own country. What I’m afraid of here is creeping danger, a man like Hickman thinking about me in the dark at night.”
We were close to the hotel now and we stopped so as not to be overheard. “I’m not afraid,” I said. “Maybe I’m apprehensive, but not terrified. You see the difference?”
“Then we will go to bed together,” Abby said.
Chapter Nine
There I was on a principal street of Salt Lake City sacred city of Mormonism, with a young Mormon girl suggesting that we go to bed. It certainly wasn’t that I had no inclination to do so, for I was no virgin at twenty-three. Hardly that: at school in New Jersey, I paid the usual Saturday night visit to a bordello for collegians run by a lady with an excellent selection of girls, and all reasonably priced. There had been no ladies of any kind in my life since I had been wounded. Doctor’s orders; besides, I hadn’t felt like it—until now.
“Won’t that make trouble?” I inquired reasonably, standing in the sun with a pretty girl and feeling like some sort of idiot. But the glowering image of Hickman had remained in my mind; therefore, my momentary hesitation was not without some cause.
“We’re in trouble now,” Abby said. “Hickman hates you for his own crazy reasons and I think he’s going to kill me some day if he can. Look, I live on the same floor as you do”—she smiled—“except the room is much smaller.”
I smiled back at her. “Why not?” I said.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, William.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You’re a nice girl, a smart girl, a pretty girl and I’d like to go to bed with you. How is that?”
“A lot better. See, you can be gallant if you want to be.”
For the sake of propriety, she went up first; I walked around for five minutes and found her waiting for me in my room. I have nothing against making love by daylight, but Abby had pulled the shades and was lying naked in what had been my lonely bed. Her Army Colt lay on my writing table and I put my much smaller pocket pistol beside it.
Looking at the pistols, she giggled. “Poppa Bear and Momma Bear. You have anything to drink, William?”
“Brandy. You’re lucky Port Rockwell didn’t drink it up when he was here. You sure you want some? Not only are you in a strange man’s bed, now you want intoxicating liquors.”
“You’re not so strange,” she said, laughing but keeping it low. “More people drink in Salt Lake than you think.”
I got the bottle of brandy Rockwell had spared during his wild outburst and poured drinks for both of us. “Steady,” I said when she took hold of my hand and tilted the bottle a second time.
We drank and lay back and made love. I was glad to realize she wasn’t a virgin. Many men prefer virgins; personally, I find them tiresome if they have remained virgins too long. But there was nothing shy about Abby; in fact, there was a sort of childish lewdness which amused me, though I took care not to joke with her about it. It was odd how the events of the day had changed her. The American invaders had brought out the wildness in her which had always been there.
It wasn’t until I began to make love to her that I realized how much I needed it—and her. The womanless months had caused a sexual tension in me that had gone unnoticed in my anxiety to regain my health and to return to work. I groaned with pleasure as she writhed beneath me, helping my exertions with her own. We came to mutual gratification with no trouble at all, and after we experienced immediate relief, we lay side by side in the spotless Mormon hotel bed, pleased with what we had accomplished, waiting for the ardor of physical love to take us again.
We drank more brandy and she ran her fingers over the puckered scar on my chest. There was nothing to tell her, really. In fact, I had been standing to one side of an artillery-shattered tree when some Johnny Reb I’ll never know fixed his sights on me.
“Does it hurt?” she asked gently.
“Not anymore,” I answered, playing the hero a little. Actually, the Salt Lake air was doing wonders for the damned thing and, for all the dangers I faced, I thanked the Rebel sharpshooter for bringing me to this bed, this woman.
There wasn’t much to tell her about myself: I was from New Jersey and had lived there for most of my life before setting out to conquer the New York newspaper world. Her own story was much more exciting; after her parents were killed by Indians, she had been raised “some of the time,” as she expressed it, by her mother’s first cousin, the redoubtable General Dan Wells.
“But his two daughters didn’t like me and his six sons liked me too much,” Abby said. “I don’t mind men liking me, but I have to like them, too. So I’ve stayed with a lot of cousins over the years, but we have good schools here and I didn’t grow up ignorant. Now I can do as I please.”
I patted her face. “Don’t do it too much,” I said. “The world can be a hard place for women—for everyone.”
“But more for women, that’s what you mean?”
“Would Hickman still bother you if you married some nice young man?”
She stiffened for a moment, but it was more irritation than real anger. “What are you trying to say, Father Time?”
“What I’ve said. Would Hickman keep after you, et cetera?”
“It wouldn’t be as easy for him. On the other hand, any nice young man who married me—any man, young or old—could end up murdered from ambush. I might marry you if you asked me. But you won’t, will you?”
“Not this minute. Why hasn’t Hickman tried to kill Port Rockwell from ambush or some other way?” It wasn’t a very romantic turn to take; still, I wanted to know—and perhaps our lives depended on it.
Abby said, “Hickman thinks he’s afraid of no man, but I know he’s afraid of Port. I’m not afraid of Port because he’s always been good to me, chased away the boys I didn’t want trailing after me. So I have no reason. Hickman has plenty. It’s been like that for years. Port was here from the first day, but Hickman didn’t come along till a few years later. Hickman wants to be a bigger man than Port. But he doesn’t know how to do it, short of killing him, that is. When Hickman got here, Port was marshal of all of Utah. Think of that. All of it. Then Hickman schemed and schemed till Brigham changed things and gave him the whole northern half. That’s never been enough for him. He wants everything, and maybe
wants to be more than just a marshal.”
“Has Hickman got friends?”
“He’s got cronies, men as bad as himself or near enough to make no difference.”
Abby leaned over to kiss me. “I don’t want to talk about Hickman. I want you to make love to me again. Are you able so soon?”
“Able and more than willing,” was my answer, and that’s what we did, but without so much urgency as the first time. It was better the second time, for now we were beginning to know each other’s bodies, what could be done with them to give the greatest amount of pleasure. There were no knocks on the door, just occasional footsteps in the corridor; nothing to disturb our unmarried bliss, which may be the only real bliss, come to think of it.
I was content to lie with her all day, yet after several hours I felt compelled to ask if she might have to make an appearance in the dining room.
“The war hasn’t started yet,” I reminded her.
“Oh, I’m never going back to that,” she said in a lofty voice made lazy by love-making and brandy. “I have money saved up, enough to last me for months. Weeks, anyway, and by then the war will be on. If I’m killed in the war, will you come to my funeral?”
“Will you come to mine?” I asked lightly, but knowing that in battle there are no formal funerals. When shot and shell start falling, sometimes there isn’t enough left of a body to fill a bucket.
“Of course I’ll come to your funeral,” Abby promised, snuggling close to me, running her fingers through the hair on my chest.
“Then it’s a deal,” I said, thinking there was more to fear from Hickman than from Connor.
Suddenly, she was frightened, her dream of glory shattered by the intrusion of reality. “We’re not going to get killed, are we, William? I don’t mind so much if I get killed—it would be for my country—but I’ll cry if you get killed.”
“I don’t want to get killed for any country.”
