The Gun of Joseph Smith

by Katherine R. Chandler

  Morgan felt the seriousness of the thoughts and recalled the pangs of irritation that had accompanied Tucker's first infatuation with the guide. He managed a wry grin and responded.

  "Well, Becky, a man likes being first in his son's eyes and I can confess to a few jealous tugs, but I've managed 'em and what I told Tucker is true. Holloway knows his way and we don't. This is his country and I think it would be wise to listen when he speaks.

  "Way I see it, Grant wouldn't be much good at farming or anything that required settling. He'll probably ride these plains and mountains until he passes on. But, he'll teach Tucker things no one else can. Tucker will be stronger for it and you and I will still be here and we'll still be first in Tucker's heart like he is in ours."

  Becky's eyes misted and she said again, almost too softly for him to hear, "You are a very special man, Mark Morgan."

  Chapter 5

  Holloway had a leather strap that he looped around his rifle barrel and tied at the gun's grip. When riding he often hung the rifle across his back or used the strap to hang the gun from a lump on his saddle that he called a horn.

  When he rode a Holloway horse, Tuck Morgan did not have a saddle, but he used a broad leather band across the animal's back with a loop in each end for a stirrup. As long as he rode evenly, the rig beat bouncing around bareback.

  Holloway fired the Joseph Smith gun to work up the best powder charge and to see how it shot. With the guide's loading the rifle's crack sharpened and the butt bit into a shoulder.

  "Use enough powder, Tuck. When you shoot something you want it to stay down. Wounding isn't pleasant and in the end you use more powder finishing it off. Find your ball when you can, but plan on melting it down. Flattened balls aren't worth using."

  Seeing Holloway shoot was astonishing. The rifle was on its way up while he was still looking and it seemed to go off the instant it leveled. Then the guide reloaded automatically, as though it were part of the shot. His eyes stayed on the game or covered the horizons while his hands worked without wasted motion. Tucker did not have to ask why. An empty gun was only a club and the next shot could be needed.

  "Keep both eyes open when you shoot. They teach soldiers to squint with one eye because they don't expect them to hit anything anyway, but when you touch trigger expect something to fall. Using both eyes you see all around you. That way one bear won't come up on you while you're working on another."

  They were sitting on a ridge watching antelope and waiting for the train to close up when the guide spoke about the gun's origins.

  "I'd reckon this to be a Pennsylvania gun, Tuck. Lines look right and those gunsmiths like maple for stocks. Someone had it made special for a small person. Maybe a present for a party heading west or something like that."

  "Man named Tim Selman found it in the attic of Joseph Smith's house in Nauvoo," Tucker explained. 'Tim couldn't find anyone that knew anything about the gun and finally gave it to me."

  "That how come you call it Joseph Smith's gun?"

  "Yep, I figure it got forgotten in all the muddle over his murder."

  "Well, I'm not all that familiar with what happened at Nauvoo, but it don't seem likely they'd forget a gun, no matter how muddled they were."

  Tucker's answer came easily because he had thought a lot about it. "Well, Mr. Holloway, someone forgot it and it's more reasonable to suspect a family with bad troubles than one just living regular."

  The guide's eyes popped a little at the boy's casual destruction of his reasoning, but Tucker was watching the antelope.

  Holloway changed the subject a little. "Well, up ahead where we meet the Platte, we'll begin running onto Mormons and if you take the California road you'll pass through their Salt Lake settlement—which is where most of the Nauvoo people ended up. Maybe someone there'll know."

  "Pap still hasn't decided for California, Mr. Holloway. A lot of people say Oregon's finest."

  The guide nodded. "And they could be right; I've seen 'em both. Oregon's harder to get to, but the California desert takes its toll. Trouble with California is that it's already well settled. People everywhere, it seems like.

  "I'm takin' this train to Oregon, but some will separate when it's time and go by way of Bridger's Fort and the salt lake. They'll have a hard time in the mountains between those places, but we'll still be on the trail when they limp into the real California, which is along the ocean."

  He rose and adjusted his wide-brimmed hat lower over his eyes. Tucker did the same with his battered straw. As one they rolled aboard their horses and laid their rifles across their left forearms. They scanned the horizon from right to left before turning their mounts away.

  "Buffalo should be here by now. An early spring brings 'em north. Awful dry, though, must still be hanging west of here." Holloway was almost talking to himself but Tucker hung on every word. Later the guide turned to the boy.

  "When we find buffs your gun'll be too light, 'less we get specially easy shooting. I'll give you a chance or two with my Hawken. Be good to bring buffler meat to the train; a party gets tired of antelope."

  Tucker rode with visions of coming into camp covered with blood, sweat, and dust, trailing a pack animal burdened with buffalo hump. Later he changed the imaginings to where he sat easy on a dead buffalo bull sharpening his skinning knife sort of casual while the train drew up admiringly. As much as he liked it, he had to abandon that one because he didn't have anything but a mostly worn-out pocketknife that wouldn't impress anyone.

  Most days his mother insisted he work at lessons. He had a terrible time keeping his thoughts on the reader or the numbers on his slate, but the poorer he did, the longer he had to stay, so he struggled through.

  Of course he grumbled about it to Holloway, but to his dismay the guide failed him.

  "Your pap's had his nose in a book even before we left the big river, Tucker."

  "Yup, Book of Mormon that old Tim gave him. He read it through crossing Iowa, now he's reading it again."

  "Huh. Wonder why he'd go at it a second time?"

  "I sure ain't asking! Ma did, so now he's got her reading it too."

  "You try it, Tuck?"

  "Looked at a few pages, just to make sure I wasn't missin' nothin'."

  "Maybe it's too hard reading for you?"

  Tucker bridled a bit. "Ain't that. It's a story about some people with names nobody ever heard of. Kind of like Bible reading."

  "You've read the Bible, Tuck?"

  "Only a little. Ma uses it sometimes to test me out."

  "Wish I could read some of it."

  Confused, Tucker replied, "Why, you can use our Bible, Mr. Holloway."

  The guide kept his eyes on the horizon, his jaw tight and his voice a little hard. "Trouble is, I can't read, Tucker. Never had schooling and wasted away the years thinkin' it didn't matter."

  Somehow embarrassed by the man's admission, Tucker fumbled for a reply. "Well, living out here and in the mountains it don't matter. What good would reading do, anyway?"

  Holloway rode a little thinking about it.

  "Bought a horse once. Man wrote out a fine bill of sale. Later I found out the paper said I was a stupid fool that paid too much."

  Tucker stifled his chuckle because the guide wasn't laughing.

  "Army had me lookin' over maps a year back. I could make out the mountains and rivers, but the words written on meant too little. Real embarrassing it was." He spit downwind.

  "Folks talk about things they've read. They know about places and happenings they've never seen. I got to wait till someone tells me, and if he's wrong, I got no way of finding it out.

  "Learned to scratch my name so's I wouldn't look too stupid signing, but I always have things read aloud and just hope the reader isn't skipping too much.

  "Reckon I could go on a while about it, but the fact is, a man should grub up every bit of book learning he can get. Learning gives a man an edge—like a good rifle or a strong horse does. No matter what you are or where you wander, the mo
re schooling you've got the better you'll do."

  Tucker didn't care to comment, but the words stuck and he suspected he had better pay a little more attention, seeing he had to put in the time anyway.

  Holloway wasn't finished, however. "Now, take that Book of Mormon. Your pap can read what he wants to know firsthand. Me? I've spoke with a lot of Mormons. Some say one thing and some another because they're just human beings understanding the best they can. Which one is right? Real hard for me to discover."

  Tucker eased carefully away from the reading part. "We haven't run into a lot of Mormons, Mr. Holloway, but Tim Selman was one and he was about as fine as I've met."

  Holloway was willing to talk about it. "A few years back a man never heard a good word about Mormons. Seemed as though they'd sprung from nowhere and were likely to take over the earth. Scared people, maybe; anyhow, everybody went around spreading the latest story they'd heard until nobody knew anything true about Mormons.

  "When Brigham Young led the first of 'em out to the salt basin they traveled north of the Platte, just like we're doing, only they did it to avoid trouble with other parties along the usual trail.

  "Now they're building a fine city, right where Bridger and others claimed nothing would grow, and nearly everybody going to California passes through to give 'em business. Instead of dying out, the way some figured they would, they're flourishing. Those that run across 'em are discovering that they're good people—set in their ways, maybe, but generous and hardworking, with a lot of cooperation among 'em."

  It was a lengthy speech for Holloway and after it he quit talking and they rode for a time in silence with hawks circling high and only insect hum intruding. Not until they were returning to the train did Tucker break the quiet.

  "I could teach you reading, Mr. Holloway. We could do it out here where no one would know. Bet it wouldn't take long at all."

  The guide was slow to answer. Then he stopped his horse and they watched the line of wagons with walkers all around them barely moving on the vast, grassy plain.

  "Appreciate the offer, Tuck, but if I mind to learn reading I'll likely do it some winter when I'll hole up in a town instead of a cabin. Reckon it won't be easy, though. I'm gettin' to be an old coon and pickin' up new things could come harder."

  Far to the west, low clouds lay on a broad line across the horizon and Holloway turned his horse to study them.

  They were just clouds, so until the guide drew his folding telescope from a saddlebag, Tucker ignored them. Holloway did not look long. He snapped his telescope closed and kneed his horse into motion so quickly that Tucker had to scramble to catch up. Then he broke into a gallop straight for the train and urged Tucker up alongside.

  The guide's face was grim and his words, shouted above the pound of horse hooves, were frightening.

  "Grass fire and coming fast on the wind. We haven't got much time so don't waste any. I'll get the wagons turning and people to start helping. You ride hard past the last wagon and start a fire. Spread it as wide as you can and keep at it till I get there." He kicked his horse into wild flight and, waving his hat, headed for the lead wagon.

  His mind a turmoil, Tucker Morgan angled down the long slope toward the tail of the train. They'd spoken often of the terrible fires that could sweep the plains faster than a horse could run. In the winter, Indians burned off huge areas so that spring grass would grow richer and draw in the great buffalo herds, but high summer grass could burn so fiercely that it devoured all in its path. Now such a fire swept down on them, and if Grant Holloway was roused about it, they'd better all be.

  Holloway wanted fire downwind of them and he wanted it fast. The guide's scheme was plain enough. They'd burn off a place and then move the train into the safety of the burn.

  There really wasn't anything else to try. Here the grass grew belly high to a horse and it was dry like grain ready to harvest. The strong wind leaned it to the east and Tucker could imagine the wall of fire sweeping at them with great fireballs torn loose and leaping ahead on the relentless winds.

  At full gallop he slung his rifle and shook out his hair rope. He passed the last wagon where people watched him openmouthed, but he wasted no time explaining.

  He looped the rope around a stand of bunch grass and used the horse to jerk it loose. A quick glance showed black smoke clouds already visible and he was awed by the speed of the fire. Wagons were turning and he became aware of shouts and running.

  He dumped powder onto the grass and held his rifle close to it. The gun fired and the loose powder whooshed violently, singeing his hand and starting the grass clump burning. He climbed onto the horse and walked it slowly across the wind so that the captured grass started the prairie burning.

  When his fire clump burned itself loose he roped another and lit it from the burning prairie. He had more than a hundred yards of fire going while men stomped and beat at flames trying to work upwind.

  Already his first fire was sweeping away, creating a raging inferno with flames higher than a rider's head. The heat burst and sucked in air which fed the flames and consumed the tall grass in almost instant destruction. He kept the horse moving and used up a third clump before turning back.

  The scene was nightmarish. Great clouds towered, darkening the sky while men cavorted like mad dancers beating down flames so that the ground could cool and the wagons could escape onto newly scorched earth. Women struggled with teams made frantic by the flames and the excited rushing about. Others rounded up stock, driving them close and tying those they could to wagon beds.

  Riding his own mount, Tucker reloaded without conscious thought. He dumped powder, guessing at the loading, and dropped in a ball. He took time to ram a patch on top to keep it in. He replaced the percussion cap and reslung the rifle. The vital task was to get the wagons onto safe ground, and judging by the march of smoke from the west they had little time to do it.

  The upwind edge of his fire was beaten out, but beyond that the earth was hot and countless sod clumps glowed with vicious heat. The men and boys kicked them apart and stomped them fireless.

  The first of the wagons were edged onto the blackened earth even as the wild fire burst across the ridge where they had been when they first discovered it. Warning shouts were raised and reluctant teams were forced onto the still-hot burn.

  Holloway rode among the wagons directing and encouraging, and men rushed to twist nose rings or drop blindfolds over stubborn animals.

  In a surge the wagons crossed to safety and a hundred yards within drew into a loose circle inside which the stock could be corralled. In a single herd, the train's stock was guided to the circle's relative safety, with arm-waving helpers forming a long funnel to the wagons.

  Immediately men began roping the wagons tongue to tail, closing the circle into an effective corral; feeling heat, Tucker turned to see the holocaust sweeping onto them.

  It was a wall of fire, with flames roaring forward at a speed unbelievable. From its very face animals sped in frantic flight, and as though unseeing, an antelope band crashed headlong into the wagons.

  In a single gulping spasm the fire swept to the blackened edge of their safety line. There the fire surged even higher, as if frustrated by its failure to reach the wagons and their people. Driven back by the heat, Tucker shielded his eyes and watched the end of it.

  But it was not over and from the depth of the flames something appeared. Running on all fours, itself a ball of fire, a creature already dead but unknowing tore across the black earth in a blind run directly for the wagon circle and enclosed stock.

  Tucker Morgan recognized it as a wolf. Its fur flaming like pitch, the maddened creature fled as mindlessly as the fire that consumed it. Directly for their circle it rushed and its arrival could create havoc among the animals. Like an explosion panicked stock could burst away. Wagons would topple and people could be trampled.

  In a smooth sweep the rifle came to his shoulder and his thumb eared the hammer to full cock. The blazing wolf crossed, an
d he swung the brass sight blade a little beyond as his finger stroked the trigger.

  Recoil jolted Tucker, and with a corner of his mind he knew his hasty loading had been heavy, but struck dead, the wolf folded in midstride and sprawled limply, tumbling rabbit-like end over end. It flopped only a single time and with lost motion the flames died and it lay smoldering, a threat no longer.

  Tucker's hands shook a little in reloading and he hoped no one noticed. The great fire was already dying in front of them and around their burned-out swath it swept away to flicker in final defeat in a dry wash a mile beyond.

  Men made much of his quick fire and those that saw his shot retold it with enough exaggeration to embarrass him. It was powerfully pleasing, but his father's hearty backslap and Holloway's silent nod meant the most.

  As exciting as it had been, the fire left a serious problem and Holloway was quick to attack it. Ahead lay only blackened earth, without feed for the animals. How far the fire had come they could not tell, but probably many miles. Neither side could be seen, and the burn could extend from the Platte to the Loupe—although Holloway doubted it. Without waiting, the guide got them strung out and again en route. Ash rose in choking clouds and blew downwind from dead ahead. The guide supposed it would be better the next day, but they couldn't count on it.

  Late on the second day the blackened and weary train passed beyond the fire's trail. By then the excitement was long forgotten and only the misery remained clear.

  Their camp lay along a stream and Tucker took the rifle apart. With heated water and soap he slushed the barrel as clean as new. Others might forget the wolf and his shot, but he would remember forever how the gun had come up as though it were part of him and how the wolf had collapsed as dead as it ever would be. That was one ball he hadn't tried recovering.

  Holloway didn't forget either, and called him Wolf Killer in the Cree language. Some thought Indians had started the fire but the guide said it was lightning. They wondered how they would have made out if it had happened at night and Holloway reminded them that it could occur again anytime—and that was one reason that a night watch was kept.