"Think hard on what I've been saying, boy. Life moves along and a man should do each right thing in its own time."
He raised a hand to Mark and tipped his hat to Becky. His horse trotted away, pleased to be on the road, and Tuck wondered how many years would pass this time.
Holloway spoke as though San Francisco was across a ridge instead of beyond some terrible deserts and a pair of mountain ranges.
It was a mean winter with deep snows in the mountains. Spring came late and then it came with a rush. Warm air poured life into all things and the giant snowfields melted into raging torrents. For the Morgans, the floods were a new measure of nature's power and the creek overflowed to record heights. This time the home was not threatened but irrigation ditches disappeared and the cleanup was lengthy.
Tucker's eyes turned often to the fall of land where a rider from the west would appear. Likely the Sierra Nevada passes were still closed, but you never could tell about a man like Holloway. Men who knew how could get through mountains, and if Holloway so chose he might appear at any time.
On a dark night with storms rumbling, horses pulled up and saddle leather creaked a moment before knuckles rattled the Morgan door. No boots had clumped in the yard and not many tattooed a door the way Holloway did. There was no surprise when the guide shouldered in looking no more trail weary than when he had departed. To his embarrassment Rebecca hugged him before turning him over to the powerful handshakes he preferred.
They stayed up late listening to Holloway's account of his trip. He had returned by the southern route, traveling alone and moving fast. The letter writers had sailed from San Francisco long before he had arrived but their agent spoke for them and Holloway had little time to spare.
"Got myself landed gentry from England. They've sailed for New York; surely there by now. Plan to raise a party to hunt the prairie, then the mountains. Expect to take prime animals for museums in England."
He let his gaze run the room without really settling on anything. "Reckon we'll be out a full year, maybe two if the winter catches us early. Got to find goats and sheep in the high country, and they will want only the best. It'll be a time of fine guns with men that can shoot. We'll live well and it should be a year to remember." He again paused.
"Men've put their money up, and I'd take it kindly if you'd keep most of mine here. Might get lost in travelin'." He thumped a heavy hide pouch on the table.
"Two other things to do before I move on. First is, I'm planning on getting the baptizing finished right off. Thought maybe we could ride over to the Jordan River and do it there. Seems fitting somehow."
The family was nodding, pleased by the prospect, but Tucker's mind was on Holloway's hunting party. The guide had hardly talked to him directly, but polite or not, Tucker intended on asking to go. He looked aslant at his parents, imagining their immediate refusal. But, darn it, there never would be another trip like this and he could maybe earn his keep watching after the stock and siding the guide as he had when he was only a small boy. Then the thought hit him that Holloway might just say no. That would cut like a knife and he would never get over it. Holloway was continuing and Tucker gave attention.
The guide had another, smaller pouch of coins that he laid on the table. "Seems I'm also to pick a man to help on the trip. Reckon I can find an able hunter in St. Louis or Independence even.
"'Course, I'd rather have a Saint, seeing my own stick is floating that way. Man'd have to follow orders and do a lot of the miserable tasks. These are gentlemen that put store in clean living and courtesy, so no foul-mouthed, unwashed mountain rat will do. Goes without saying the pay won't be big, but the seeing ought to make up for that."
Holloway pushed his stool away and stretched till his muscles cracked. He held Tucker in his seat with a hand on his shoulder. "I'll look after my own animals. 'Spect you and your folks might talk a little." His teeth broke the dark of his face and he was gone, as always, silent as a feather.
Tucker didn't know where to begin. Words tumbled in his head and his eyes blurred with their pleading.
Mark said to Rebecca, "This is sort of sudden."
She only nodded, wringing her hands and not looking at anyone.
The father turned to his son. "You know Mr. Holloway is asking for you, don't you, Tucker?"
The guide's talk hadn't really said that, but Tucker had thought it was so. He nodded, dumb as an ox, afraid even to speak.
His father rose to pace a little and Tucker thrilled that at least it was being considered. He felt his mother's eyes on him and he looked over, managing only a feeble, "Ma?"
Chapter 11
They talked it out. A year or more away, to learn and to see. To earn his way in a man's world.
To miss his schooling, to face the trail's dangers, to risk the tribes, and to mingle with the violent, the drunken, and the ruthless.
And then? He would return—to blacksmith or to farm? Would Holloway settle among them or would he lure Tucker into another adventure?
Holloway wanted a Saint to accompany him. Was Tucker to join so that he could go? Was that a reason for becoming a Mormon? Tucker mentally cursed his pointless dallying. He took down his Joseph Smith rifle and held it across his forearm, praying that if it had ever given him fortune or guidance, it would do it just this once more.
He saw himself riding high at Holloway's shoulder, past Bridger's and Fort Laramie, across the short-grassed spring prairie to the great rivers and the still-forming wagon train. Then again west, choosing the mightiest buffalo bulls, the greatest of the bears, the wildest of wolves.
He was almost lost in his dreams when his father struck the table with his palm and decided how it would be.
"Rebecca, Tucker, we've not been able to decide because we have not answered the real questions.
"Grant Holloway desires two things. He needs a reliable man and he prefers a Saint. Our first question is, do you, Tucker, fit either?"
Tucker felt his face flame. His father had said Grant Holloway wanted him. Didn't that mean something?
The Mormon part was hardest. He had failed to join. He had meant to, he guessed, but now? Was his wish to go with Holloway reason enough? Tucker's spirits sagged, for he knew it was not.
Mark Morgan's eyes were kindly when he went on.
"You are our only son, Tucker. Perhaps we will always see you as a youth, not quite ready to make his own way. That's a weakness of parents who love their children. But, Tucker, the truth is, only you should decide. You know Grant Holloway as none of us can. Are you the man he needs? Let your answer be as honest and as true as you can make it.
"You are not a Mormon, but I believe I know your heart, Tucker. Perhaps this is the moment you've waited for. This can be a testing, but it has to come through your soul, Tucker, no cleverness, no secret reservations. Is it right for you? Ask the Lord. Ask with all your heart and all your being. Answers will come. And, Tuck, this time you will be listening."
Tucker Morgan left their home and stood alone in the clear cold of the night. The storm had blown itself out and the stars seemed almost within touching. It had become a night of exceptional calm and sounds carried far. He had brought the Joseph Smith gun with him and he clutched its chill form, wracked by a terrible need to know—to really know.
His thoughts churned, mixing wishes with uncertainties. He had heard a thousand times that all a man had to do was get down on his knees and ask the Lord straight out.
But what if he received no answer? Tucker trembled. Was that his reason for delaying? Was he afraid he would not be answered?
Or was he fearful that he might be heard and then be forever bound to demanding and often inconvenient callings?
Either reason was base and shallow and he hated himself for even considering them.
Tucker made his way to the bam, almost reluctantly, almost fearfully, seeking a private place. Passing the animals, he was comforted by their soft snufflings and warm presence. He climbed to the loft and propped open a loadin
g door so the starlight could shine in.
He struggled to face himself openly. He fought away a tide of embarrassment that threatened to engulf him, and squelched his fears. Tucker focused his thoughts on his God who was listening and patiently waiting.
Finally ready, Tucker Morgan dropped to his knees and laid his Joseph Smith gun aside. Then he asked. With all the strength of his being Tucker asked his single burning question.
"Is the Book of Mormon truly the word of God?"
How few the words were. Yet, the simple asking eased his turmoil. Even the night seemed stilled and the animals below stood silent, as though they too waited.
It began almost unnoticed from somewhere within, a tingle of nerve ends that became a warm, filling glow comforting the very roots of his soul. With an unexpected and startling clarity, Tucker realized that he was being answered. A rush of well-being suffused him and he knew; he knew with a perception never again to be questioned, that it was true. The Book of Mormon was the Lord's gift to his people.
For long moments the intensity held. Then it slowly faded and Tucker again felt the world around him. Despite the night cold his body was warm and he remained kneeling, offering grateful thanks for an answer so powerfully beyond expectation.
When Tucker returned, Holloway had gone to bed but his parents waited, seated at their table about as he had left them. He placed his rifle on its pegs, taking his time, searching for words that could begin to describe what he had experienced.
There were no words. A thousand speeches could not have explained. Later he might try to share if ... if somehow he could find a way that could do justice.
Did others suffer inabilities to describe experiences for which no language had been created? How the Prophet Joseph Smith must have struggled to open to the people of the world the wondrous gift of seeing and speaking with the angel Moroni. How . . .? Tucker realized he still stood, his hands against his rifle, while his mother and father silently waited.
Tucker turned to them, still wordless. They did not hurry him.
Finally he cleared his throat huskily, allowing him to speak. He said, "I'm the one Mister Holloway needs. I'll speak to him in the morning."
Then Tucker added, "The Book of Mormon is truly the Lord's work, and I will never question it again." He sighed as though a great burden had been lifted.
"When Mister Holloway is ready to be baptized I'll go along." Tucker looked at his parents for understanding and said, "This is the right time for me."
Chapter 12
The Jordan River lay only a couple of miles to the west. It flowed from the freshwater Utah Lake into the Great Salt Lake, which had no outlet. The river's name was derived from the biblical River Jordan which flowed from the Sea of Galilee to the Dead Sea. Most knew that, and Grant Holloway's wish to be baptized in the Jordan was not unusual.
Because of Holloway's hurry the baptismal party would undoubtedly be small, but the guide had made friends and some would attend.
One new friend was the bishop. A jovial man, loved for his good humor, the bishop's enthusiasm raised the occasion to a joyous outing. When he claimed the right to rinse a few pounds of sins from Holloway's carcass, another family or two decided to come as well.
The best spot was where a rocky ridge sloped underwater. With spring runoff under way the river was deep enough, although so cold looking the bishop expected it would chill a beaver.
A roaring fire was built for the participants to warm themselves and a wagon was positioned for them to change wet clothes behind.
Mothers and daughters had prepared a suitable meal and as another group appeared, Tucker feared the small affair was growing all out of proportion. As one of the participants he began feeling a little nervous. He hid it by standing relaxed and looking interested, the way Holloway did.
There was a song, a prayer, and inspirational words. When the bishop, Holloway, and Tucker stepped to the water's edge the people turned silent and more solemn. A sense of closeness enveloped the assembly and Tucker experienced again a special warmth of acceptance, as though . . . perhaps as though a spiritual love deep with abiding affection enfolded them.
The bishop's soft groan as his body met the frigid water added smiles and if anything the empathy heightened.
Holloway went first, a bit deeper than his waist. Without his hat, the guide's hair showed some gray. Tucker admired the lean strength of his friend and the dignity with which he surrendered himself to a power great beyond measuring.
Holloway went under with witnesses watching closely to see that he was entirely immersed. Then he was striding out, wet as a drowned rat, but with his eyes ashine with satisfaction.
Tucker stepped in to meet the bishop's outstretched hand and immediately ached from the cold. He moved quicker, wondering how the bishop was standing it. He turned toward the bank, gripping the bishop's forearm with his left hand and feeling strong fingers close about his right wrist.
His parents stood close and his mother raised a hand to her mouth. Tucker could feel his father's pride and pleasure. Holloway too watched from the water's edge, still draining water, but with his hat back on. Despite the bite of snowmelt water, Tucker Morgan was warmed and comforted.
Tucker heard the bishop's words but for the moment his mind seemed blank. He grasped his nose as the bishop's right hand touched his back. Then he was under and down deep, it felt like. The cold laced him but he was already coming up, trying not to gasp or shake water all over the bishop, who still had a dry spot or two.
When they were dried and warmed by the fire, they were confirmed as church members, Holloway by the bishop and other friends.
For Tucker, Mark Morgan placed his hands on his son's unruly thatch. The bishop's strong fingers clamped solidly above Mark's before a neighbor joined in.
When his father spoke in his solid and calm way and added his personal blessing, Tucker experienced a fullness of commitment and felt the power of a greater spirit blossom among them. He rose from his knees a little wobbly but his pap's bear hug hid his emotions and he doubted anyone noticed.
When feasting started, solemnity gave way. The men got to joshing Grant Holloway. One stood with his hand resting lightly on Tucker's shoulder and for the first time Tucker Morgan felt truly included.
A man said, "Bishop, I surely hope you didn't catch anything from Brother Holloway. Enough ran off him to stain the river for a mile downstream."
Holloway said, "That wasn't off me; that was off the bishop."
Amid their laughter the bishop put in, "Well, in a way this occasion was a first for me."
At questioning looks he added, "Didn't any of you notice that Green River knife sticking out of Brother Holloway's boot? That's why I let him up so fast. Can't tell about a man who carries a blade to a baptizing."
The usually sober Holloway grinned amid the chuckles. "You'd already taken my Hawken, my leather shirt, and even my hat, bishop. 'Bout all I had left was my drawers and knife. So, unless you asked for 'em, I wasn't giving up either."
It was rich and warm with good feeling. If they weren't headed east on a great adventure . . . well, it just left Tucker wondering why he had waited the last three years or so.
They rode out with Tucker waving even after it was too far.
Tucker rode Pin, Holloway his gelding, and they each trailed a packhorse. Holloway rode ahead and set their pace. Just following along gave Tucker dreaming time and he used it.
By nightfall they would be high in the mountains. Up there the stars would be right on top of them. Their camp would be sheltered and warmed by a deadwood fire. He would read aloud a little from the Book of Mormon and they'd likely talk some about it. It was their book now and there was a lot to learn.
A light wagon passed them, moving fast, and sparkling blue eyes beneath a poke bonnet caught his attention. He recognized the wagon he had seen almost a year earlier, the day Holloway had arrived. Meeting it seemed a special omen and he turned in his saddle to watch. After a moment the bonnet lo
oked back and he raised his rifle in salute before the girl turned quickly away. When they got back he thought maybe he'd find that wagon and pay a call or two.
Ahead the mighty Wasatch Mountains wore snow cover, but Holloway would know the ways. Next year, he too would know, and he could already imagine the two of them coming home—riding easy but sort of gathered, as though comfortably tired after all they had accomplished.
Beyond the mountains the plains waited, and he, Tucker Morgan, would again know their endless roll. And this time they would find the tribes, the buffalo, and the bears until they were as familiar as the horse he rode.
The excitement of it muffled the ache of departure, and without being aware, he tugged his hat brim when Holloway did and settled the Joseph Smith gun comfortably across a forearm.
The End
About the Authors
Roy F. Chandler retired following a twenty year U.S. Army career. Mr. Chandler then taught secondary school for seven years before becoming a full time author of more than sixty books and countless magazine articles. Since1969 he has written thirty-one published novels and as many nonfiction books on topics such as hunting, architecture, and antiques.
Katherine R. Chandler is a Professor of English at St. Mary's College of Maryland, and she has edited many of her husband's books. Kate's B.A. in English Literature is from New College in Florida and her M.A. and Ph.D. are from Penn State University.
Books by Roy Chandler
Gun of Joseph Smith Trilogy (Young Adult)
Gun of Joseph Smith, The (With Katherine R. Chandler), 1987
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (Vol. 2) (With Katherine R. Chandler), 1991
Morgan's Park (Vol. 3) (With Katherine R. Chandler), 1997
Reading order of fiction books in the Perry County Series
Friend Seeker
The Warrior
Arrowmaker
The Gun of Joseph Smith Page 9
