The Gun of Joseph Smith

by Katherine R. Chandler

  He returned to his task and Tucker figured the talk was over. Then his father looked over, his eyes smiling, and added, "I know someone else that would be mighty pleased." And Tucker thought he would say, "Old Tim Selman."

  But his father went on, "Can't you just imagine Grant Holloway looking out from under that hat brim and saying, 'Now, that just shines, boy; it really shines.' "

  Chapter 8

  They had no more than left Bridger's when rain began. Daily, unseasonal thunderstorms buffeted the small train the Morgans had joined. Thunder rumbled in the distance and storm clouds as black as soot rolled toward them in giant waves that darkened the day. Within the storms, lightning bolts streaked and flashed, and as they neared thunder crashed like a hundred great cannon. For part of an hour rain would pummel the train in windblown sheets. Lightning stabbed and the smell of brimstone turned animals frantic, requiring careful corralling and even the blindfolding of some.

  Dry streams became instant torrents from distant storms that dumped water far upstream. In places, the trail became a bog with wagons sinking deep and draft animals in mud above their fetlocks.

  The trail to the mountains was a gradual uphill struggle that exhausted men and animals. The great spine of the giants they had to cross began to crowd the horizon. For the first time most appreciated the bitter struggles that had opened even the primitive road they now traveled.

  Far ahead was Parley Pratt's new road that made the last of the mountains a bit less arduous. Any for Salt Lake would coast in from there. The California-bound still faced desert and more mountains.

  No Holloway led this small train, and Tuck Morgan continued to lonesome his way along. The rifle made him different. He carried it constantly, and it set him apart from the youths who gathered for games of war or raced among the wagons.

  Mark Morgan watched with a small concern, but Tuck did not misuse the gun or allow its presence to threaten. It had simply become as much a part of him as his tattered straw hat or often-mended trousers.

  When he was allowed, Tucker hunted and, using Holloway's teachings he was as successful as any and ahead of most. He would tramp out of camp toward a place that seemed no more likely than another and it might be long before his rifle cracked. Later the train would pull even with Tucker who waited along the trail with the best parts of a deer or an antelope. Once he had a pack of buffalo hump and tongue. He pointed out where the kill lay so that the rest could be brought in by horse.

  Mark and Rebecca measured the change a year had brought to their son. At Nauvoo he had been a hoop roller and he had often skipped in his youthful vigor.

  The rifle had begun the change and the hard drive across Iowa had firmed him. Crossing the plains with Holloway's guidance had altered him forever. Now he strode with purpose and hunted with the men. His smile was boyishly quick but there was thought behind his eyes that belied his years. He even worked through the study hours as though he had discovered for himself that book learning really was important.

  The Morgans liked the changes, and if those improvements set the boy aside, it was because he was maturing ahead of his years. That, they believed, was all to the good.

  At times Mark wondered about the rifle's influence on all of it. If it hadn't been for the gun, would Holloway have taken Tucker under his wing? Without the rifle Tuck would not have hunted or saved them from the burning wolf or Pin Larkin, that was certain. None of those things gave the rifle itself special properties, of course. Although Tucker might see it otherwise, the rifle remained just a rifle—''another useful tool," as old Tim had described it.

  The mountains were worse than the Morgans had feared. The storms ran streams full and washed out places laboriously leveled by other trains. Wagons double and triple-teamed at the hard places. Men muscled with long poles to pull free of bogs and to jack up wagons while splintered wheels were replaced. The way was lined with the jetsam of a hundred earlier passings but things left had been smashed and little appeared salvageable.

  No one hunted; everyone concentrated on fighting the mountains. The way was uphill and each drop-down brought dismay, for far ahead the Wasatch Range rose ever higher.

  In mud to their calves, the Morgan men stood by the oxen while the team blew steam and sucked strength into their wearied bodies. Mark Morgan looked ahead to where the way passed through a grim-looking canyon.

  "Hard to believe hundreds and hundreds of wagons have come through here, isn't it, Tucker?"

  The boy nodded, shaking his head at the difficulty of it. "Hope it's worthwhile, Pap. This is a mighty barren-looking country."

  Mark nodded agreement before speaking softly. "Might be sort of special being part of making it grow, wouldn't it, son?"

  Tucker knew what he was driving at, but his own vote wasn't for staying at Salt Lake, no matter how wonderfully the Saints were doing. He chose to ignore the bait.

  "One way to make this canyon easier, Pap."

  "How's that, Tucker?"

  "Just put small wheels on the wagon's high side and change 'em if we cross over."

  Mark nodded before grinning. "Fine idea. You hold the wagon up and I'll change the wheels."

  They laughed at their silliness and prodded the team forward.

  On a day when the sun broke through overcast to harden the trail and allow drying, Tucker headed for a convenient lookout from which he might find hunting. Any meat would be welcome. The high country had been barren of even lowly game and the men were too busy to search adjoining hollows.

  A bit too close, another mountain of thunderheads was thick with rainfall and lightning jagged within it. Tucker studied its approach with disgust, judging he'd have only enough time for a quick look after all.

  The ridge peaked amid a jumble of waist-high boulders and he sat on one getting his wind back and gazing at the train a good quarter of a mile below. From his height the wagons looked lonely and forlorn. Their once-new canvas was bleached white by sun and their bright brass work was long dulled by the lash of sun and sand. Yet he knew the train to be stronger now than it would have been even a month before. Gone were the weak, and the hardy who remained were experienced and determined. He figured that, given decent odds, they could cope with just about anything handed them.

  Along the back trail another train's canvas caught the sun and Tucker hoped they might catch up. From the ridge they looked close, but he figured them at least a full day behind. The miles traveled during each light were few. Although a rider might easily overtake a train, wagons struggled along at about the same rate.

  Already the mountain storm was closing in and Tucker resigned himself to getting wet. It wouldn't do to be on the ridge with lightning flying around, though. He resolved to have just a quick look over the other side. If he saw game he would use the rain to cover his approach. If there was nothing he would just leg it back to the train as fast as he could.

  Crossing the boulders he touched his pouch to be sure he had the square of greased hide he wrapped around the gunlock to keep off the worst of the rain. He had used it a lot since the storms had arrived. Without it, the percussion cap would probably drown out. Removing the cap in an effort to save it just made things worse, as water entered the nipple and soaked the powder charge. Trick was to cover the lock and keep the muzzle low. Then, most likely the rifle would fire.

  The back of the ridge looked about as uninviting as the front. Short grass and small brush ran to a narrow streambed lined with tree bunches. He saw no animals and was about to turn away when movement caught his eye.

  The sky was already darkening as he strained to see and a scattering of raindrops swept by on a heavy wind. He supposed the train was already getting it and he fumbled for his greased lock cover as he studied the trees where he had seen something.

  He waited impatiently as the slash of rain sped down the slope and accompanying wind swept the small tree copse into flailing turmoil. His eye had been true, for standing within the trees, their rumps to the wind, were a pair of horses. Saddl
ed or blanketed he could not tell, but the horses' owners were not in sight. Hidden horses were sufficient to rouse suspicions and Tuck's thumb touched his rifle hammer as he swept the basin for signs of life.

  Thunder rumbled almost above and banged suddenly with a report that jarred his concentration. He heard the steady rain coming and braced himself for its cold impact.

  Instead, his head half exploded as a blow harder than anything he could recall buckled his knees and scaled his hat away with the wind.

  For a confused instant he wondered if he had been struck by lightning. He felt his knees on the ground and smelled something familiar just before he was struck again.

  He landed face down, the wet earth jamming into his mouth, his eyes unfocused and his mind dazed. Somehow he saw a moccasined foot plant itself on the Joseph Smith rifle and something horrible gripped his hair and jerked him half upright.

  A deluge of chill rain drenched him and cleared some of the haze from his mind. The pain in his scalp helped, and as his eyes focused he looked past a skinning knife as long as Holloway's into the smirking features of the half-forgotten Pin Larkin. Astonishment mixed with the raw fear that rushed over him, and he would happily have swapped Larkin for the wildest Indian ever known.

  Lightning flashed within the encroaching storm, silhouetting Pin Larkin's gross figure, making it loom giant-like above him. Larkin's voice hoarse with triumph turned Tucker Morgan cold.

  "Been huntin' you, boy. Been followin' and followin'. Sat out many a time just like this but you didn't come quite close enough. Knew you would, though. Now old Pin's going to get repaid for them guns you people stole."

  "We didn't steal your guns!" With the pain in his scalp Tucker's voice was shrill and weak. He knew Larkin wasn't caring but he had to do something.

  The denial infuriated the monster, and he flung Tucker violently into a corner of rocks where he hit hard and sprawled in pain.

  "Don't tell me what you didn't do, boy. You don't have a lot of words left so you'd best use 'em prayin'."

  Tears of fear, anger, and pain threatened to engulf him, but Tucker fought them off his mind searching wildly for a way to save himself. His rifle lay just behind Larkin, but the man and his skinning knife put it far beyond reach. If he could get even a tiny start he could trust his legs to dart him to safety—but the knife!

  "My pap'll be coming over the ridge any instant and he'll fix you for bothering me."

  Larkin's sneer broadened. "Your pap ain't left the wagon, boy, and if he came up here I'd take that little gun of yours and put a hole right under his chest bones." He grinned evilly. "It hurts extra, right there."

  As if to punctuate Larkin's words the wind whipped in added fury and lightning struck somewhere close by. Rain poured as though the heavens were emptying, and Tucker could hardly see the vicious features beneath Larkin's dripping hat brim.

  "What I'm going to do, boy, is I'm going to slice off your ears for wearin' around my neck." Tucker's obvious horror caused Larkin to rock with laughter, and Tucker moved. Like a trapped animal he darted one way in a feint and instantly eeled away in the other.

  It was snake-quick but Larkin handled it with almost contemptuous ease. He kicked a thick leg between Tucker and freedom and again slammed him with an open palm.

  The blow splatted along Tucker's face, knocking him back into the rocks, again dizzy and unable to move. Larkin examined him as he might a trapped beaver, as though deciding just how he would finish him off, and Tucker could only lie there trying to get strength back. The storm crashed around them in unbridled fury but neither took notice. Tucker had little feeling working and Larkin was intent on his vengeance.

  Reaching back a little, Larkin stuck the long knife upright in the ground and felt around until he found the Joseph Smith gun. He straightened then, hefting the rifle in both hands.

  "Reckon I could shoot you, boy. Sound wouldn't carry over this storm, but your powder's likely wet and it wouldn't pleasure me enough anyhow.

  "Nope, what I'm goin' to do is break your bones, boy. Oh, you're going to rue the day you pulled down on old Pin Larkin."

  With helpless horror, Tuck watched Larkin raise the rifle, step even closer, and aim the gun butt at him the way he would smash at a rabbit's head. The hulking body pinned him within the rocks and he had no way to duck or to kick or grab. He heard Larkin's breath suck in as he drew the gun high and the monster's features contorted with effort both evil and exultant.

  Thin as a hair rope, too quick to comprehend, brighter than a sun, lightning struck. From the storm-black sky, straighter than straight it spat its terrible energy to the perfect attraction of the rain-soaked figure holding high the iron rifle barrel.

  A thunderclap almost beyond hearing came with the lightning bolt and it alone drove Tucker Morgan even deeper into the rocks. His eyes saw, but his reason was numbed by the tremendous jolt that swept through the ground and was instantly gone.

  Clearly he saw the lightning jet to the rifle's muzzle and Pin Larkin jerked as though jabbed by a million nails. The gun fired itself, its small report lost in the storm's rage, and Larkin's body swelled as though about to burst. His hat flew into the air and disappeared, and despite the rain, his hair began to smolder and his eyes bulged from his head.

  Paralyzed by the electric shock, Tucker saw the light fail in Larkin's eyes, yet the man still stood, leaned into the wind, before a stronger gust blew him over backward, feet unmoving, rifle still clutched on high.

  The storm's roar drowned his crashing fall, but in an instant all Tucker could see were the blackened soles of Larkin's feet where his moccasins had somehow burned away.

  Tucker fought to move, and although awkward and without feeling, his limbs changed position. He felt as though all of his parts had gone to sleep, the way a leg might if sat on too long, and he had to look to see if his arms and legs were going where he wanted them to.

  Reason told him Larkin was dead, but Tucker took no chances. He scrabbled across the earth until he closed a half-numbed hand around the grip of the big skinning knife and jerked it free.

  Then he sat, as winded as a run-out horse, watching Larkin's still form, and ready to act if it so much as twitched.

  The worst of the storm swept by as quickly as it had come. By the time Tucker believed he could stand, the sky was lighter and only a sodden drizzle continued.

  He was a little unsteady on his feet but moving helped. He thought that if his ears would quit ringing he might be all right.

  Larkin lay on his back, sightless eyes staring and some sort of steam still coming from his mouth and ears. The man's pointy head appeared to have drawn some of the lightning because his hair was gone and his scalp looked like burned hide.

  The rifle had fallen free and Tuck grabbed it in passing. The barrel was warm, as though it had lain in the sun, but he didn't pause to look it over. He wanted to be as far away from Larkin as he could get and he half ran and half fell down the back ridge toward the tied-up horses.

  Partway down he passed Larkin's beaver hat, and he snatched it without slowing. The hat fit pretty well and he caught himself giggling aloud that Pinhead Larkin's hat fit him. He got that under control, and with only a few looks back slowed to an easy walk so as not to scare the horses.

  Uneasy from the storm, the animals were pleased to see him. Although he had tied them well, Larkin had not eased either pack or saddle girth. Tuck curled a lip at a man who would mistreat horses that way. Then it occurred to him that Larkin was probably accustomed to quick getaways. That made it at least understandable.

  He mounted awkwardly with the stirrups dangling way too long, and took the packhorse in tow. He headed around the ridge to where he could cross at a low spot a good way from Larkin's half-cooked carcass.

  The ride gave his senses time to heal and also gave him an opportunity to think about what had happened.

  The sun was hitting the ridge now, making it all sort of hard to believe. He had been a goner before that lightning had s
truck his Joseph Smith gun—no question about that. He held the reins in his teeth and gave the rifle a good looking over. The percussion cap was gone but the hammer was still on half cock. The gun had fired, so the lightning had set it off. Otherwise everything looked all right. He had half expected to find a few inches blown off the barrel or maybe Larkin's handprints burned into the wood, but nothing showed.

  He was almost afraid to think about why that lightning had arrived at just the right moment, or how it aimed itself right down the rifle barrel to destroy Pin Larkin and yet leave him and the rifle unscathed. Well, almost unscathed. His tongue still felt thick and his hands and feet were full of needles.

  Having the old Mormon elder predict that the gun would save his life was one thing; having it happen right out of the heavens was another. He decided to do a lot of thanking in his prayers.

  He stroked the rifle's smooth length, wishing it had a hugging shape. He made himself a vow to find out a lot more about Joseph Smith, who, he guessed, really had owned this special rifle.

  Tucker rode in still too shaken to feel more than relief. Men came running and his father hauled him from the saddle with concern in his eyes. He tried to explain but his tongue was thick—from the lightning, he supposed. As soon as he got his story out men rode for the ridge.

  His mother made him change into dry clothing and then wrap in a blanket although the sun was back out and it was already sweating hot.

  Some men came back quickly and it was decided they would make a short day of it; then others went to look at and to bury what was left of Pin Larkin.

  Mark Morgan rode Larkin's horse and spent considerable time matching Tucker's words to the place where the body lay. He tried to imagine the terror that had gripped his son and the seeming miracle that had spared him.

  Rationalizations were easy and men were explaining how lightning went to the highest thing and how the rifle barrel acted as a lightning rod. All true, but the timing was, to say the least, fortuitous. That Tucker, lying almost at Larkin's feet, was unhurt was not as easily explainable. That the rifle was undamaged gained little attention, but Mark Morgan thought about it.