Table of Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1: Spring 1856
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Authors
Books by Roy Chandler
© 1991 and 2012 Roy F. Chandler and Katherine R. Chandler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher
Ebook edition: 2012
Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher
St. Mary's City, Maryland
First printing: May 1991
Searoth Publishing,
Laurel, Florida 34272
Summary: Follows the 1856 adventures of a young Mormon guide and hunter on the great mid-western plains.
Cover Artist: Charles F. Wolf III
Introduction
Tucker Morgan was barely twelve when Tim Selman gave him the gun discovered in Joseph Smith's home. Old Tim chose Tucker because he wanted "a boy that had promise to him. One that would cherish the gun and give serious thought to the mystery of finding a fine little rifle abandoned in an attic."
The Gun of Joseph Smith told how Tucker Morgan did just that. It also told the story of how the gun served Tucker in unexpected ways while his family and their ox-drawn wagon journeyed the pioneer trail west.
As a sequel, Tuck Morgan, Plainsman chronicles Tucker's further adventures with his Joseph Smith gun, this time as partner alongside Grant Holloway, the guide who had been his hero in The Gun of Joseph Smith. Now seventeen, Tuck returns over the mountains to hunt the prairies that he had spent so many days crossing.
This story of Tucker's guiding, hunting, and adventuring shows that old Tim had picked well - this boy has promise. This is the right boy.
Katherine Chandler
Prologue
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 dead wood fire.
A light, brightly painted 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 again seemed a special omen, and he turned in his saddle to watch. After a moment the bonnet looked 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 buffalo, the antelope, 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 of it, he tugged his hat brim when Holloway did and settled the Joseph Smith gun comfortably across a forearm.
Chapter 1: Spring 1856
West of the Missouri River
The artist had chosen high ground where he could look west across rolling prairie to distant horizon. New spring grass was barely green, but dried tufts, belly high to a horse, showed how tall it would grow. It was a landscape almost frightening in its immensity. As far as the eye could see, the grass leaned with the western breeze unbroken by bush or tree.
Paul Laban had painted through the best of the morning light, filling his canvas with the natural browns and greens of the great American plains until he had caught their likeness and could be pleased with his work.
The artist knew that the hollows hid larger vegetation and that a hundred horsemen could lurk undetected within folds of land, probably within rifle shot of where he painted, but Laban saw only a sea of grass uninterrupted except by a pair of distant dots.
Laban's painting was background for a magnificent buffalo bull that he envisioned, poised wind-blown and alert, dominating the painting's foreground. To date, the few buffalo encountered had been scraggly beasts that dragged lengths of winter hair and worn bald spots where they had rubbed itching hide. The artist was patient; when their guide arrived, the party would march west and great bulls in all their majesty would be found.
As he detailed his painting, the dots he had seen grew into horsemen trailing pack animals. While Laban cleaned brushes and placed his canvas safely in his wagon, the riders altered course and worked their horses up the long slope toward him.
As the riders neared, Paul Laban looked closer and felt his pulse quicken. He hastily placed clean paper against his easel and snatched up a charcoal bit. His wish for a buffalo faded as dark before a sun. Here, riding ever closer, was the real American west— two men as natural to the prairie as the animals or the grass itself. Men unique to their time and place. Men, the like of which he had only heard about. Without effort, Laban's charcoal touched and began to lay out what his eyes beheld.
Two men, both lean, one larger. Father and son? Probable. They moved as one and sat their saddles with the same easy grace. Weathered and stained leather hunting shirts were thigh length. Neither wore a belt, but hunting pouches and powder horns slanted across chests. Rifles lay over forearms, heavy barrels pointing almost horizontal, and skin pants hung over moccasin boots that had thick but soft-looking soles.
The men rode with their stirrups long, almost standing in the saddle. When their horses broke into a trot, the riders did not post with their rumps raising and lowering. They seemed glued to their mounts, and they adjusted to the choppy rhythm without notice.
Excitement touched Paul Laban, and his charcoal flew, blocking in the riders and horse shapes. He knew how he would show them. The horses' heads would be low so that he could capture more of the riders. He would position the smaller horseman almost in the center of his painting with the larger close beside. Both would look across the canvas into low ground where the old Oregon trail ruts were wide and deep. He hardly glanced at his sketch, allowing his hand to do its work while his senses absorbed features he would need for finishing.
The artist was so intent that the riders pulled to a halt, courteously distant, before he could drag himself from his drawing. It was that way when inspiration gripped him. It was a flooding of rightness he always sought but too often failed to find. If it came, the artist's subjects took form with lives of their own. Those paintings were Laban's best.
He could see their faces now, still shaded but near enough to examine. The smaller was a youth, perhaps seventeen, the artist judged. Lean, but wide shouldered, he sat statue motionless, looking Laban over as closely as he was being studied.
The larger rider touched his hat brim with a finger and dipped his head a possible inch to meet it. Laban guessed he wa
s touching fifty but taut with corded muscle, the kind that never tired. There was soberness about the man, as though he had seen too much to bother with nonsense. The artist filed the impression for inclusion in his painting.
The older man said, "I'm Grant Holloway and this here's Tucker Morgan."
The youth's finger touched his hat brim, and his chin inched in exact duplication of Holloway's. Well, thought Laban, if they weren't related they should be. They were as alike as pod peas. Perhaps the Great Plains molded men of this stripe, but he doubted it. These two were special; Laban could sense it.
The artist stepped around his easel, smiling because he felt good about these riders, and made his own introduction.
"I am Paul Laban." He gestured toward easel and painting palette not yet put away. "As you can see, I am a painter intent upon capturing some of this country on canvas."
As one, the riders slipped from their saddles. They dismounted like Indians, crossing a leg before the saddle and touching earth with both feet, their backs to their mounts, rifles still lying across forearms. Remarkable! Graceful and natural, as though born to it. Laban placed the ease of it in his memory.
He caught their scent as the westerly breeze carried to him—strong of woodsmoke, leather, sweat, and horses. Lesser hints, too. Perhaps animal musk, crushed sage, and even gunpowder. It was a wild and free smell, different from the stale tobacco, beer, and heavy cloth odors of most. Oh yes, Paul Laban realized, these riders were of the frontier, and only belatedly did the older man's name spark recognition.
Paul Laban stepped forward, hand extended for shaking. "You are Holloway, Grant Holloway? Why I am from the Payne-Weston party. We are the ones you will be guiding." Laban realized he was grinning like a schoolboy. Well, he was pleased all the way through. Their guide had arrived, a little before they were ready it seemed, and perhaps equally gratifying he should have all the opportunity in the world to finish his painting exactly as he imagined it.
Tucker Morgan waited out Mister Holloway's handshake before having his own paw about shook off within the artist's enthusiastic grip. The man's grin was infectious, and Tucker found himself smiling in response.
They had ridden hard, eight hundred or so miles from Salt Lake to meet the Payne-Weston party. Stumbling across them here, only a few miles west of the Saint's old Winter Quarters gave a satisfying finish to the journey.
Chapter 2
Most traveling days Tucker and Holloway had talked about the hunting they would do, collecting museum specimens for display in England. The planning had flooded Tucker's mind with imaginings of desert sheep along the Popo Agee and immense grizzlies near Yellowstone, where magical geysers spurted steam and boiling water high into the sky.
Even wolves, lynx, coyotes, and lowly prairie dogs would be taken. Hides and furs were to be carefully preserved. Later they would be remounted over clay forms to depict the animals as they had been in real life.
Of course, only the finest examples could be chosen. What hunting it would be! Sometimes Tucker went to sleep with far valleys and high mountains in his thoughts rather than the words from the Book of Mormon he read aloud most evenings.
Tucker did the reading because Mister Holloway's eyes didn't see too well up close. Tucker was also the better reader. Although he could now work through most of the words, the guide still wasn't smooth at book reading. On the other hand, Mister Holloway was good at finding deeper meanings within the passages.
The reading was important because both he and Grant Holloway were now church members, and there was a lot they didn't know. They tried to be camped a half hour early so that the Book of Mormon reading got done. When they were alone, Holloway often insisted they eat and read during daylight. When dark came, they moved camp at least a mile and off their planned route. The guide slept cougar-light and noticed if a mouse crossed the camp, but moving made it hard for an enemy to slip in. All he would find would be fresh horse droppings and maybe some fire coals.
If they pulled up at a regular stopping place, Holloway liked to sit near their fire and watch the coals pulse with heat while Tucker read. Even though he had to lean the book close to the flames to get reading light, Tucker also liked the campfire nights. On the Great Plains, it was comforting to have others close-by with voices breaking the night quiet.
Campfire talk covered about everything, so sometimes when visitors came they discussed religion, and occasionally they argued. Then Tucker held his Joseph Smith rifle closer, remembering from where it had come, and let his fingers enjoy the smooth maple stock and browned steel barrel. Tucker liked it best when he and Holloway could explain about the prophet Joseph Smith and how the angel Moroni came to him. Tucker never tired of those stories. They seemed from long ago, but they had happened during Mister Holloway's lifetime.
Once there had been real trouble over being Mormon and that had been a time to remember. Tucker wrote it out in his journal so he would recall it right.
They had laid over a night at Fort Laramie, and Holloway returned to the fire with a friend he introduced as Porter. Tucker addressed him as Mister Porter, and the man laughed easily, as though at a private joke. He asked to see Tucker's gun.
It was a common request among Saints because the rifle could have belonged to their church founder. Tucker had learned to tell the story in quick words because he had done it a hundred times.
"The gun was found in the attic of Joseph Smith's home in Nauvoo, Mister Porter. Old Tim Selman found it and gave it to me with the understanding that because it might have been Joseph Smith's, I was to treat it special. I've been carrying my Joseph Smith gun since I was twelve. Fact is, the rifle saved my life at least once and maybe my family another time. No question I treasure it more'n anything I've ever owned."
Porter studied the boy's rifle intently, the way an experienced rifleman would, and laid the sights on various targets.
"Nice feel to it, Tucker. Joseph might have owned it. He always had guns around."
Mister Porter sounded as though he had known Joseph Smith, but it wasn't likely. The man had whiskey and took a pull or two. His hair hung far down his back and was arranged in multiple braids. He also wore two of the new Colt pistols and carried a fine rifle. He didn't look like a hunter or trapper, and Tucker couldn't place what his living might be.
Tucker worked on their horses while Holloway and Porter yarned together. A wagon pulled in and made camp a little closer than need be. A heavily built, leather-clad man led the wagon. He raised a hand to Tucker's fire and rode off while his companion got their team unhitched.
When Tucker came in, Porter was finishing something about Jim Bridger selling his fort to the Saints, but Tucker caught only the end of it.
With dusk closing, Tucker opened his Book of Mormon and got set for their reading. Mister Porter made no leaving motions so Tucker waited him out.
Holloway said, "Go ahead, Tuck." He turned to his friend. "We're in Mormon right now, Porter."
Wondering a little, Tucker found his place and started in. "And it shall come in a day when the blood of the Saints shall cry unto the Lord. . ." Tucker read slowly, speaking carefully and allowing time to digest meaning.
"Blasphemy!"
The voice was a raging squall, almost in his ear. It jerked Tucker Morgan from his concentration and sent his eyes searching.
Towering against the firelight, a bearded figure aimed a bony finger directly at him while trailing a long snake whip from the other hand. Glaring eyes riveted Tucker and froze his movements.
Again the black clad figure shouted condemnation. "Blasphemy!" His extended arm trembled, and the whip twitched as though hungry to be used.
Mesmerized, Tucker saw sinew tighten the man's shoulder, and his ears recorded a familiar double click, that for the instant held no meaning.
Features rage-contorted, the figure lashed with the whip—and nearly dislocated his shoulder. His return unnoticed, the leather dressed man who had come with the wagon had planted a foot firmly on the whip e
nd. Almost indolently, the leathered man took hold of the whip and reeled in the raging figure.
"Now Reverend, taking a whip to that boy wouldn't have been neighborly and certainly not Christian."
The Reverend, if he was one, had not gained control. "Blasphemy!" He almost spat the word, and Tucker Morgan felt himself getting mad.
The leathered man kept a grip on the whip, but he spoke to the others.
"Don't stay riled, boys. He'll quiet in a minute. Mighty passionate man, the Reverend, but he ain't this suicidal most of the time."
Tucker looked around. Holloway's fingers were closed around the handle of his Green River knife, but Porter—Porter's heavy-barreled rifle was pointed at the Reverend's chest bones, and the clicks Tucker had heard were the gun coming to full cock. With a chill, Tucker Morgan recognized that the Reverend's whip would never have reached him.
Chapter 3
Their defender shook the whip wielder's shoulder, and Tucker could see the unreasoning rage beginning to wash away.
"Reverend Archer, it's best you discover just who you was fixin' to lay your whip on. Now, I don't recognize the boy, but the one fingering a knife is Grant Holloway. Grant's an old mountain man. He fought Indians and wrestled grizzlies when Jim Bridger was still hunting the Mississippi. Grant and me're old pards, Reverend, so I might've just stood back to admire how he'd carve you.
"Fact is, the one figuring to put a rifle bullet just under your breastbone likely saved your life. If he'd touched off, I'd of had to find another pilgrim to lead around these prairies, so I guessed I'd better step in.
"Now Reverend Archer, that rifle pointer is Porter Rockwell. He don't carry all them guns 'cause he likes their weight. Way I see it, Reverend, you was about a quarter of an inch from meeting your Maker 'cause that's about how far Porter's trigger finger had to move."
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith) Page 1
