“But,” Reed protested, “how could we make a profit if only women can use it?”
“Charge five dollars a bath,” Kathryn said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Five dollars a bath!” Peter cried. “Who would pay that kind of money?”
“Only every woman who ever passed by here,” Kathryn said sweetly. “That’s all.”
Chapter Notes
In June of 1846, James Frazier Reed wrote a letter to his brother-in-law James W. Keyes that was later published in a Springfield, Illinois, newspaper (see Overland in 1846,pp. 274–77). In that letter he described a buffalo hunt he had been on. Many of this chapter’s details—including the use of the phrase “perfect stars,” the idea of the “sucker hunters,” and the killing of one old bull—come from that letter. Other details of the nature of the buffalo and of buffalo hunts of that time are taken from other early writers. The author drew heavily upon a particularly vivid description by Frederick Ruxton, a contemporary pioneer (see Bernard DeVoto, Across the Wide Missouri[Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1947], pp. 35–40).
Chapter 3
Melissa Steed Rogers was alone in the store, working in the back room sorting through the latest collection of bartered goods she had acquired over the last two days. She glanced at the small clock on the fireplace mantel. It was a quarter past nine o’clock. She was startled a little by the lateness of the hour. Normally she closed the store at eight, unless she had customers, but she had become so absorbed in her task that time had been forgotten.
She quickly began to gather up the china set that she had taken in trade for fifty pounds of sugar and a small slab of bacon. Carefully placing the blue-and-white plates and saucers in the box, she saw how chipped and faded they were. It had not been a good trade, at least not for her. But the woman had looked so forlorn, so desperate. The china had been her grandmother’s. It had come from Boston and been carried from Kirtland to Far West and then to Nauvoo. Now it would be left behind. Melissa simply didn’t have the heart to say no.
Her shoulders lifted and fell. How she needed Carl to advise her! How she hated facing these things alone! But Carl wasn’t waiting for her at home. Nor was he at the brickyard where she could go to him if she needed him. She bit her lip. Stop it! Stop it this very moment!
When Joshua decided to go west and help his mother, he had offered Carl the rights to his lumber business in Wisconsin. He and Melissa could keep whatever profit they could make, he said. It was an incredibly generous offer and they needed that money desperately. They hadn’t received an order of any consequence at the brickyard for over a month. And the store was barely profitable. Melissa kept busy there, but mostly it was barter, and then only for peripheral goods like this set of china. Essentials were more scarce now in Nauvoo than the finest of luxuries had been before.
Carl had delayed going to Wisconsin because of the tensions in the city and the dread it had brought to Melissa. He hadn’t blamed her. He said that he didn’t feel he could leave with all that was going on. But there was the letter from Jean Claude Dubuque, Joshua’s foreman and partner in the logging operation. The lumber, he said, would be ready for floating downriver by the first week of June. Even with Dubuque’s urging, Carl had not left until the fourteenth, six days earlier, way past the time when he should have been up there.
A knock on the door brought her up with a jerk. Again she glanced at the clock and felt a little twinge of anxiety. Had something happened at home? She closed the box and grabbed her shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders, then hurried down the hall and into the main room of the store. The lamp was turned low there and shed little light through the windows. She could see that there were two large dark shapes at the door, but nothing more. At least it wasn’t one of the children with news of problems at home.
Feeling a little uneasy, she moved to the door, unlocked it, and opened it a crack. “Yes?”
One of the shapes moved closer, and in the faint light of the moon she saw a bearded face beneath a broad hat. “We’re looking for Carl Rogers.” The voice was gruff, and she caught a whiff of cigar smoke and whiskey.
“I’m sorry, but my husband has left town and—” With a lurch of fear, she realized her mistake. “The store is closed now. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” She started to shut the door again but the man shoved his foot against it.
“We have business with him. When do you expect him back?”
Her heart was thumping wildly now and her mouth felt dry. “Tomorrow,” she stammered. “Maybe even tonight.”
The second man hooted.
“Really?” the first man said sarcastically, showing discolored teeth through his beard. He put his shoulder against the door and shoved it open, pushing Melissa back like a small child.
“Please. The store is closed for the evening.”
“Of course it is.” The man stepped inside, followed immediately by his companion. The second man peered out the door, then quickly shut it. He pulled the blind down.
Now Melissa felt genuine fear. One glance at them in the light told her exactly who they were. The riffraff that rode the riverboats up and down the Mississippi all had that same look to them. A year ago Brigham Young had finally dealt with the problem by creating the “whistling and whittling brigades.” But Brigham was gone now, and so were the boys who followed after the strangers, whittling on their sticks and whistling some nameless tune until the person couldn’t stand it any longer and left. Clutching at her shawl, she moved back until she bumped up against the counter. “What do you want?”
The second man was looking around, his porcine eyes dark and tiny, darting here and there, taking eager inventory. The first held out his hands in a gesture of amiability. “Now, missy,” he said with a condescending sneer, “we just want to look around.”
“My . . . I have a neighbor who is coming to escort me home. I think you’d better go.”
There was a disdainful laugh. “I don’t think so,” said the second man as he moved around behind the counter.
Melissa half turned, her head swinging back and forth to keep both men in sight. “I’ll scream,” she said, but it came out weakly.
The first man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You don’t want to do that.”
The second man was at the register where normally she kept what little cash came in. He pulled open the drawer and swore softly. “There’s nothing here, Jeb.”
Melissa fumbled wildly in the pocket of her apron, pulling out one crumpled bill and a few coins. “This is all I have,” she said, fighting to get control of her lower lip, which had started to tremble. Jeb came to her and looked at what she held in her palm. “We don’t do much business anymore,” she said in a small voice. “And most of that is done in trade.”
He took it from her and shoved it into his trouser pocket. “You go sit in the corner there and don’t make a peep. Then we’ll be gone”—he laughed contemptuously—“and you can wait for your neighbor to come take you home.”
Afraid that her legs might not carry her that far, Melissa meekly obeyed. She moved to the corner and sank slowly into a seat that allowed her to watch them.
Jeb found a bag of potatoes and dumped them out across the floor, then moved to the shelves. The second man went into the back room, looked around for a moment, then brought back one of the empty flour sacks Melissa had folded and stacked on the sorting counter. They worked swiftly, taking only that which was of greatest value and easily carried—two cans of gunpowder, an old pistol that no longer worked but which Carl had agreed to take because it might be fixable, some small bags of lead shot, a larger bag of salt, some women’s jewelry. If they picked something up and then decided they didn’t want it, instead of putting it back on the shelf or in a box, they flung it disdainfully aside. Soon the floor was littered with what little goods the store still had.
The one called Jeb raised his finger at her in warning to stay still, then went back into the storage area. She could hear him thumping around and an occasional c
rash. A few moments later he came out, his sack lumpy and hanging heavily from his hand. “All right, Levi, let’s get out of here,” he growled.
Melissa felt a great surge of relief. Maybe they would simply go. Maybe they . . .
Her heart dropped as Jeb gave her a long, sensuous look, then moved slowly toward her. His partner grabbed three knives from beneath a counter and shoved them in his sack. Melissa shrank back as Jeb reached her and leaned down, shoving his face close to hers. His breath was foul and she saw flecks of tobacco in his beard. “For a storekeeper, you’re not a bad looker.”
He reached out his hand to touch her hair. She jerked away. “Please! Take what you want. Just go.”
The second man was finished now. He started toward the door. “Come on, Jeb. Let’s get out of here.”
“Maybe I ain’t finished quite yet,” he said, leering at Melissa.
“Come on,” the other snapped. “What if she does have someone comin’?”
Jeb’s free hand shot out and grabbed Melissa at the back of her neck. She pulled back, but he easily pulled her in closer. “Now, why you fightin’ me, missy? If your hubby’s gone, maybe what you need is—”
Suddenly the door flew open, crashing back against the wall with a sharp crack. “Get away from her!”
The two men jumped and whirled around. The one called Jeb let go of Melissa as if her skin had suddenly become red hot.
“Get back. Drop the sack!”
The voice came from out on the porch, beyond the light, and though it was gruff-sounding, Melissa recognized it instantly. It was the voice of young Carl, and with that realization, the instant relief that had washed over her fled.
Levi peered at the door. “We dropped the sack, mister. Show yourself.”
“Keep your hands high.” Now it was unmistakable. It didn’t matter how hard he was trying to sound older; this was a young boy’s voice. “I’ve got a shotgun on you.”
“It’s my neighbor,” Melissa managed, standing now, her voice shaky. “I told you he was coming.”
Jeb and Levi looked at each other. “Ain’t no more than a boy,” Jeb whispered.
Levi nodded. “Bet he ain’t even got a gun.”
The blast of the shotgun caused both men to yelp in fear and jump wildly. Melissa also gave a startled cry. Dust and wood chips rained down from the ceiling. She looked up and saw the tight pattern of buckshot peppered into the ceiling.
“Next one’s for your britches, mister. Now, git!” There was no attempt to disguise the voice now. The roar of the shotgun had suddenly made Carl old enough. “Get out of there before I lose my temper.”
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Jeb raised his hands even higher and started shuffling toward the door. Levi was right behind him, using Jeb as a shield. They eased out the door, then took off running. Bam!Another shot blasted off. There was a cry of fear and the fading sound of men running hard.
Melissa felt her knees go weak and had to reach out and steady herself against the chair. “Carl?”
“Mama,” came the hoarse whisper. “Turn out the lamp so they can’t see nothing.”
She obeyed, fighting the trembling in her hands. The moment the light was out, she heard his footsteps on the porch. “Lock the door, Mama. We’ll put the stuff away tomorrow.”
She did so, still half-numb with the shock of it all. “How did you know, Carl?”
He stepped beside her, holding his finger to his lips. He double-checked the door, then took her by the elbow and guided her off the porch in the opposite direction that her invaders had fled. Only then did he answer. “Papa said I was to keep you safe.”
“But how did you know there was trouble?”
He seemed puzzled. “I just suddenly had this really bad feeling, Mama. And something told me to get the shotgun.”
She reached out and took his arm, suddenly unable to speak. She glanced up at his face in the dim light. He had turned fourteen in April. At twelve he had caught and then passed her in height. In the last year, whiskers had started to show—surprisingly red and soft, much like his father’s, though his hair was dark. But not until this moment had she really considered him a man.
“Did they hurt you, Mama?” he said, suddenly anxious.
“No, Carl. I’m fine. Thank you for coming. I . . .” She couldn’t finish, and she had to look away. Her shoulders started to shake.
He shifted the shotgun to his other hand and laid his arm across her shoulders, patting her gently. “It’s all right, Mama. They’re gone now.”
Melissa shot up, grasping at the bedclothes, thinking for a moment that the sound was part of the nightmare she had been having—a nightmare no doubt prompted by the ordeal she had experienced earlier at the store. But now as she stared around wildly in the darkness, seeing the square of window only slightly less dark than the walls, she heard the sound again. There were three sharp bangs, then three or four more. Someone was pounding on her front door.
As she swung out of bed and groped for her robe, she heard young Carl’s footsteps go past her door, moving swiftly. The pounding started again, this time followed by the faint cry of a man’s voice. “Mrs. Rogers! Wake up!”
Fully awake now, heart pounding with a sudden clutch of fear, she threw her robe on and stepped out in the hallway. They kept a small candle burning there during the night because Mary Melissa was terrified of the darkness. To her surprise, the clock on the wall showed half past three. Another door opened and David looked out, eyes wide, hair wildly tousled. “What is it, Mama?”
She shook her head. “Stay here, David. Watch the children.”
By the time she started down the stairs, she saw that Carl was moving across the main room toward the door. She also saw that he had the shotgun in his hand again. Melissa moved quickly and reached the door just behind him.
“Mrs. Rogers. It’s Jeremiah Ogletree. Wake up!”
She recognized her neighbor’s voice and motioned to Carl. He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping aside enough for his mother to move up beside him.
“What is it?” Melissa asked, alarmed now by the urgency in Ogletree’s voice.
He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out on the porch. “Look.”
She turned and looked up the street. For a moment she saw nothing because she was looking straight up Granger Street. Then suddenly she gasped. To the right, in a direct diagonal line through the block, she saw an orange-red glow against the black sky.
Her hand flew to her mouth. She couldn’t be positive. There were houses in between. But then she was sure, and she went as cold as death. With a cry, she plunged off the porch and began to run, her nightgown flying out behind her.
By the time they reached the store, there was nothing to be done. The flames had totally engulfed the building, crackling and roaring in the otherwise still night. People were running from everywhere, and someone shouted for a bucket brigade. But they were far too late for a bucket brigade now.
She jumped as one of the rafters collapsed into the inferno and sent up a towering ball of sparks and flames. She stared in numbed horror as flames licked the sign, which was now barely readable. The Steed Family Dry Goods and General Store. Even as she watched, the rope holding the sign burned through and it fell into the flames. With one great sob of pain, Melissa Rogers turned and buried her face against her son’s shoulder.
“Oh, Will,” Alice breathed, leaning her head against his shoulder, “it’s as beautiful as Robinson Crusoe Island.”
“I told you it would be.”
“I can’t wait to get off the ship and be on dry land again.”
“Well, don’t get too impatient. We’ll have to drop anchor outside the reef and wait for a pilot to come take us into the harbor.”
She groaned. “How long will that take?”
He glanced up at the sun. “It’s already almost midday. By the time we get into place and anchored, it will probably be too late for today. Hopefully tomorrow.”
Her mouth turn
ed down and she looked away glumly. “Another whole day?”
He lifted her chin. “I know, I know, but after almost five months, we can stand one more day, can’t we?”
“You can if there’s no choice,” said a cheerful voice.
They turned to see Samuel Brannan, the leader of their little group of emigrants.
“Hello, Brother Brannan.” Will turned back to look at the lush green hills and the snow-white beaches that they could see beyond the breakers washing over the reef. “This is a welcome sight, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed it is. And what makes it all the sweeter is knowing this will be our last stop before we set foot on California soil.”
“Do you know yet how long we’ll stay here, Brother Brannan?” Alice asked.
Brannan shrugged. “Hard to say. The captain says we have five hundred barrels of freight down below that need unloading. Then, of course, we’ll have to restock the ship.” He shrugged. “A week. Maybe ten days.”
Alice smiled for the first time. Ten days would be a welcome boon. Their stop at the Juan Fernández Islands had given the group’s morale a tremendous boost, but six more weeks at sea had faded the memory all too quickly. “And then how long to California?”
Brannan turned to Will. “You’ll know that better than me.”
“Captain Richardson estimates four or five more weeks, depending on the winds.”
Alice turned back to look over the railing toward the approaching harbor. “It doesn’t seem possible that we’ll ever actually get there, does it?”
Suddenly Will leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I think that’s a United States ship there,” he said.
Alice and Brannan turned to look at the ship that rode at anchor just outside the reef. It was still about a mile away, but there was no mistaking the Stars and Stripes hanging from its halyards at the rear of the ship.
“Well, maybe we’ll have some company of our own kind for a—”
“It’s a warship, Brother Brannan.”
If the Latter-day Saints had reservations about the sight of a U.S. warship anchored off the reef, Captain Richardson did not share them. To the dismay of his passengers, he brought the Brooklynwithin a few rods of the USS Congressand dropped anchor there. Sailors lined the rail of the man-of-war and peered curiously, though for the most part silently, at the Saints who now filled the upper decks and peered back at them. The sense of misgiving was strong among the Saints, but like their captain, Will did not share it, though he understood it.
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