When the watch was mentioned, Tucker allowed that he could be useful and should be added to the roster. His mother said boys should be in bed at night and all the men betrayed him by saying nothing.
Chapter 6
Near North Platte, the Holloway train met the river and joined the Oregon Trail as it pointed straight for Scotts Bluff and Fort Laramie. Earlier trains had thinned out the handiest forage but Holloway knew other camps and the animals stayed as strong as wild grass could make them.
Riding often with the guide, Tucker was privy to discoveries others missed. Occasionally Holloway pointed out planted fields of potatoes or grain that stood alone as though abandoned.
"Mormons planted them for others coming this way. Their first pioneers started it and they've more or less kept it up. Some gets taken by people that'll grab anything not guarded, but a lot of Mormons have been fed off these plantings and more will be."
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, "Mormons come through here with no more'n what's on their backs, but they take time to think about them that will come later. Makes a man ponder what this world'd be like if all folks looked ahead and gave a hang about one another." He rode awhile before adding, "And that includes us that just hurried across without a thought of what was behind."
Somehow they missed the giant buffalo herds that all had expected, but buffalo did appear and men traded duties to down an animal and share it throughout the train. Holloway was adamant in overseeing all such hunting. Though protests were loud, he held his ground.
"Times past I've known hunters to stampede buffalo right through the wagons. Terrible mess! Had a hunter gored and trampled another time and I've had to locate men that got turned around and couldn't find the camp.
"Anyone who hunts alone, travels alone—no exceptions! That's my ruling as captain of this train and it stands!"
Tuck Morgan got his chance early. Holloway said the camp needed a tender young cow and allowed it was time for Tucker to learn how it was done.
"Now, we could ride in like Piegans on a war trail and shoot on the run, or we might choose hiding behind our horses. We could take old hides and ease up, making out we was buffler ourselves. Another way is for me to ride by and make 'em walk away to where you'd be waiting. Lots of ways to hunt buffalo.
"Fact is, buffalo're like old men; they don't see much. If we keep downwind and move careful we can pick a stand and set up real shooting. Sometimes a hunter can take half a herd from one spot 'cause buffler are dumb and they're apt to just stand around looking. Seeing we only want one, we'll just take our time and pick careful. Well use only one shot on this, Tucker."
They found a small herd and slipped through the grass until they sat dead downwind and a little above the grazing animals. Holloway had taught him how to whisper by keeping the sound high in his mouth and never using throat sounds. Now the guide spoke softly in his ear.
"They're working right down on us, so let 'em come. See that cow off a little there? That's the one you'll take."
He considered a minute. "Range'll be short so use that Joseph Smith gun and hit right. Remember the heart's low behind the front shoulder. Put your ball in there and sit still after. Chances are the rest won't even notice."
Tuck waited, rechecking his position, his rifle still on half cock. The target looked giant and Holloway had warned that a buffalo could walk away with a bag full of rifle bullets in him, so the ball had to be placed right.
Holloway's grunt told him it was time. He eared back the hammer and laid his sight hard on his spot. The rifle's recoil surprised him and smoke hid the bullet's strike. Holloway's hand stopped his instinctive start to reload and with hammering heart and suddenly dry mouth he waited for the acrid powder smoke to blow past.
Little had changed. The cow had jumped and seemed to be snuffling at her ribs. A few shaggy heads had raised and an old bull stood frozen as though remembering the sound.
He knew he hadn't missed but it was stupefying to watch the great animals return to grazing as though the shot had been only thunder. Perhaps that was all it seemed to them, but even as he wondered the cow's front legs folded and she dug her nose into the sod. Her hindquarters fell over, and Tucker figured she was finished.
The guide leaned back and chose a straw to chew on. "You dead centered her, boy. Rest of 'em still don't know anything happened.
"Go ahead and reload. I'll bring up the horses." When he rose, buffalo snorted and sheared away in a rapid trot. They traveled only a long rifle shot before settling down again. Tuck figured that with care they could take as many as they wished. His respect for buffalo hunting cooled measurably.
He reloaded, his hands almost as automatic as the guide's. That was the trouble with Holloway. He made everything so smooth and easy that it got hard to raise excitement about things. In a few words he had explained a lot about buffs, and in one shot he let most of the fun disappear.
Tucker grinned, running his hands fondly along his gun barrel. Foolish to complain about having it so 'specially good: his own rifle, friends with a real frontiersman, a horse to ride most of the time, and just ahead lay Chimney Rock, Scotts Bluff, and Fort Laramie—the halfway point. He stood over his first buffalo just about as content as a boy could be.
Most evenings, Mark Morgan read aloud from the Book of Mormon. Rebecca listened closely, but if they didn't watch him, Tucker would slip away or concentrate way too hard on rope braiding or cleaning his rifle.
To the annoyance of more important wagoners, Grant Holloway began stopping by to listen to Mark's readings. Some nights he did not appear and subsequently asked to be brought up to date before the reading began.
Holloway's presence probably stilled some objections to the book's being read at all. If the train's captain was listening it weakened arguments that the book might be the devil's work. And unless a goodly body of complainers appeared, Holloway clearly wasn't going to find fault with the reading.
Morgan was bemused by the book and serious in his consideration. He asked hard-to-answer questions and all Holloway could suggest was that he dig out some Mormons.
Once he asked Holloway, "How could Joseph Smith, a farm boy, write this book unless he had God's help?” There seemed no reasonable answer, and that most basic question often reappeared in the guide's thoughts.
At the Chimney Rock camp, Holloway halted early and did not bother to circle his wagons. Another train lay nearby and visiting began between them. Holloway and a pair of leather-clad men rode off together and an unusual aura of relaxation spread among the wagons.
In early evening a small group of men with a single wagon camped nearby and word quickly spread that they were Mormons fresh from the Salt Lake Valley. The party was hurrying east on church business and expected to be gone at first light.
Becky was chatting with women and Tuck had disappeared among the river breaks. Finished with chores, Mark thought he might intrude as gentlemanly as possible on the Mormons' privacy and perhaps ask a few of the questions that harassed his readings.
With some trepidation he approached the fire of the Saints and politely waited to be asked closer. They were twelve in number with nothing special to mark them. There had been talk as he neared but it died into silence, and the eyes that watched him were reserved. Their leader appeared to be an older man with gray speckling his beard, and it was he who addressed their visitor.
"Welcome, friend, come in and join our circle."
As one the men rose and each spoke his name as he offered a firm grip and steady eye. The names slipped away as quickly as they were spoken, leaving Mark with an impression of careful reserve, as though antagonism had touched them and tempered the easy acceptance often encountered among travelers.
The customary explanations of goings and comings proved that they were an appointed party. Some were called to guide others and a pair was bound as missionaries to the English. Their acceptance of such demanding tasks awed Morgan more than a little and he wished time and circumstances allowed investigat
ion of a people who placed personal convenience so far behind their church's calling.
Elder Ezra Bowton led the party and seemed an educated and traveled man. His presence pleased Mark Morgan, for such a man might have answers where another, unschooled, might not. As soon as courtesy permitted Mark produced his well-worn Book of Mormon and prepared to ask his questions.
The response was extraordinary. Warmth rose almost visibly among them. Men ceased their half-interested slouching and turned attentive. Small smiles creased stem mouths and Mark felt the reservation melt as wordlessly as it had appeared.
Elder Bowton reached for the book and riffled the pages before he examined the flyleaf.
"Ah, Brother Tim Selman of Nauvoo. Is he well, Mr. Morgan?"
"He was well when we left, Mr. Bowton. Through my son we became friends and he asked that I read this book if the mood struck." He shook his head in mock despair and added, "Since Council Bluffs the Book of Mormon has drawn me like a fly to a sugar cone." The words brought nods of understanding and speculation to the wiser eyes of Elder Bowton.
"And it is the book that brings you to us now, Mr. Morgan." His words were a statement and in them Mark found the right to continue. Without further hesitation he began.
"The great question to me is, how can I believe it? How can I accept that during my lifetime our all-powerful creator chose an ordinary youth and made him a prophet and bearer of such a history? How can I believe, when hardly anyone in the entire world has ever heard of Joseph Smith and most of those who have heard reject him and his teachings?"
Those listening shifted about and Mark could sense their hunger to answer, but they deferred to Elder Bowton.
When he spoke, no fanatic's gleam entered his eyes, nor did his voice rise or his fingers wave in preaching, but his words rang with sincerity and his points shone in their simplicity. It was plain to Mark Morgan that Elder Bowton had stridden this path before and knew it well.
"Understand, Mr. Morgan, that we of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints do not struggle to justify our beliefs to those who choose only hostility. There are multitudes with open minds, willing to reason and consider. It is to those many that we direct our teachings.
"Yet we gladly accept the challenge of serious discussion, for we know the Book of Mormon to be true, and we know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Our certainty has given us strengths to accomplish vast treks and mighty constructions. Our faith can be measured by our suffering and our deeds.
"Our numbers increase, for we are bearers of truth, and we will flourish, for the hand of the Lord guides us."
Mormon heads nodded agreement and Mark Morgan appreciated the confident assertion of faith, but Elder Bowton had not yet addressed his questions.
As though sensing his thoughts, Bowton continued, "You ask, how you can believe? I would first answer, how can you not?
"The Book of Mormon stands beside the Holy Bible, true and irrefutable. It is both history and prophecy. If it contains a single error, it is a false book, for God cannot be in error." The elder smiled slightly. "You will find no fallacy, Mr. Morgan.
"You spoke of the ordinariness of the prophet, Joseph Smith, but has that not often been God's way? America is but a frontier, as was Judea in the times of Rome. Jesus himself rose among people of commonest means. He too spoke to multitudes that ignored his teachings and he too began in an obscure corner of the known world.
"The parallels are many, Mr. Morgan, and we could make countless comparisons. Are the angel Moroni's golden plates less believable than Moses' commandments burned into stone? Might our exodus from tyranny at Nauvoo to the safety of the Great Salt Basin be similar to the Jews' flight from Egypt to their harsh land—one that became a place of milk and honey?
"As the Bible is the stick of Judah, so the Book of Mormon is the stick of Joseph. As the Bible must be accepted as divinely inspired, so must the Book of Mormon.
"It is often asked how an uneducated and untraveled youth could produce a book without error, so detailed that scholars marvel. The obvious fact is that he could not, without assistance—an assistance beyond the skills and knowledge of even our finest minds. If you require a miracle to believe, Mr. Morgan, there it lies, for only with divine guidance could such a work be created."
When Tucker returned from the river his mother had directions for him to report to his father at the Mormon encampment. He went quickly, wondering if he had done something awful but equally fearful that work had been organized that might limit his freedom to ride with Grant Holloway.
The Mormons watched him coming and Mark Morgan tried to see his son through their eyes. His story of the rifle had intrigued them, and although none had known Joseph Smith personally his vision loomed in their lives. That the rifle might have been the Prophet's was more than enough to enthuse them.
Tucker trotted most of the way, the rifle swinging easily in one hand, carried so regularly that it seemed almost a part of him. His small pouch and powder horn lay snugly on a hip and despite his ragged clothing he looked competent and ready for almost anything.
Near the camp he laid the gun across his forearm and dropped into a walk. His light-footed stride was a match for Grant Holloway's and Mark thought it looked good on the boy.
The Mormons handled the gun with a certain reverence—it just might be. Tucker experienced a secret relief that they knew less than he did. If someone knew for certain, the gun would surely go to an heir. The thought of it made his hackles rise and he expected he'd go and live with the Blackfeet before he let his rifle get away.
The oldest of the Saints held the gun last. Sliding his hands gently over the stock he allowed his eyes to close. After a while he opened them and said, "Care well for your rifle, young Morgan, for it is destined to save your life."
Having spoken, the elder appeared surprised by his own words and one of the Saints whispered in Tucker's ear, "Brother Bowton sometimes foresees happenings. It would be wise to heed his words."
Tucker did not need the encouragement. The Joseph Smith gun was his most cherished possession. Care for it? Better than he cared for himself.
After the resting, Holloway drove his train hard through Scotts Bluff and onto the plain before Fort Laramie. There they regrouped for the second and more difficult part of the journey.
Fort Laramie was a deciding point for many choosing the California route. Here they might leave an Oregon train and join one aiming for California.
For some, the gold fields beckoned more strongly than the land promise of Oregon. Mark Morgan remained undecided, but along either route, land was his choice. His wagon would trail with Holloway at least along the Sweetwater.
Alone with the guide, Tucker Morgan brought up the subject. "Don't know why Pap's finding it hard to decide, Mr. Holloway. I'm for Oregon and them mountains you've been telling about."
"Maybe it'd be your wagon that went into a gorge with everything you've got gone forever. How would that feel then?"
Tucker could face a "maybe" without fear. "Well, we'd just keep on walking, Mr. Holloway, 'cause my pap don't quit. Anyhow, you said there'd be hard traveling going the California trail."
"True enough, but going to California there's settlements and people coming and going both ways. Along the Snake River all we'll find'll be a few fish-eating Indians."
He rode a little before continuing. "None of that is what's turning your pap's thoughts, boy. It's the Mormon book and what those people are doing around Salt Lake that's getting him."
"Well, I like what Mormons I've met so far, though that Elder Bowton was kind of startling when he said this rifle would save my life. Thing is, I don't see anything special in what they're doing. Just a bunch of folks making farms on poor ground is what I hear."
It was grown-up talk and Holloway made it a point to measure up. "Old men like that Ezra Bowton see a lot during their lives. Their guessing gets good because they've learned things they might not even know they know. Take his prediction on your rifle
, now.
"A rifle gets used a lot out here. Thinking that it might save your life isn't real startling, is it? Could keep a wounded animal off you, signal if you got hurt, feed you if you got snowed in, even keep Injuns kind of friendly and less likely to lift your hair.
"I figure I'd be willing to make the same statement to a man with a lot of traveling ahead of him."
Holloway used a different way of describing the Salt Valley settlements.
"Came across old Tom Wadson in water clear up to his neck. There he was holding his rifle and possibles bag up out of the river, rolling his eyes like an owl, but not moving an inch.
"'Howdy, Tom,' sez I.
"'Howdy, Grant,' he answers.
"What're you doin' out there, Tom?'
"'Quicksand,' he says.
"'Well, it ain't into your nose yet, why don't you walk out?'
"'Cause I'm standing on my horse!' he says."
When Tucker quit chuckling, Holloway went on. "Point is, there's often more to a thing than meets the eye.
"About any fool could loll around the Garden of Eden, but he'd get lazy and soft. The Mormons are working their guts out making that high country bloom. They can measure each inch they gain and they're drawing tighter together through the effort. They'll grow tough and determined and they'll get proud of what they've done. Whatever they make of it will be all theirs with no one to claim they had it handed to 'em.
"I reckon those things make their ways worth thinking about—like your pap's doing."
Tucker had nothing to say and after a little Holloway added a last thought that stayed with the boy.
“I haven't thought much about building and having a place in things 'cause owning so little hasn't been all that bad—at least so far." Holloway turned to sniff the breeze and glare suspiciously at distant dust.
"A critter like me'll get by with time to ride loose and see mountains. There's always been meat to shoot or somebody needing guiding somewhere. When weather's bad, hole up till it clears. Get lonesome? Drift into a settlement and swap tall stories for comfort. Wear leather clothes that fit right and wear long. Own a good gun and a pair of horses, maybe a robe to wrap up in. Don't need much else to feel happy."
The Gun of Joseph Smith Page 5
