Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith)

by Katherine R. Chandler

  Color drained from the Reverend's face, but Tucker's attention snapped to the long-haired man lowering the hammer on his rifle.

  Porter Rockwell! The name was famous among the Saints. Rockwell had stood with Joseph Smith in the church's early days. He was one of the original Latter-day Saint pioneers, and he still defended President, Brigham Young, when protection was needed. Rockwell had used his guns and his reputation was that of a man willing to do so again if the need arose. Tucker Morgan felt his eyes getting round so he got himself together and tried to appear calm and serious, the way both Holloway and Porter Rockwell looked.

  The leathered man, it turned out, was Joe Darlin, and Tucker recalled Holloway mentioning him as long in the mountains.

  With his Reverend's temper harnessed, Darlin said, "You owe these men an explanation, Reverend." He hesitated and then added, "Threatenin' a man with a whip ain't a small thing out here. So, if I was you, I'd be calm in my reasonin' and plain in my speakin'. Fact is, you still ain't all the way clear of this thicket." Darlin released his man and stepped aside, letting the Reverend know he was on his own.

  Reverend Archer made a false start, cleared his throat and tried again. His voice still shook, whether from being a hairbreadth from dying or from his earlier passion, Tucker couldn't tell.

  "You were reading from that devil's work, that Book of Mormon! Reading it aloud, infecting your souls with its false teachings."

  Joe Darlin shook his head sadly, "Reverend, you're not handlin' this situation as well as you might." He looked appealingly at the Mormon men.

  Porter Rockwell snorted in disgust. "Fool words. Men like him are as common as flies on buffalo dung. I've been running into his kind since Missouri times."

  Holloway spat aside, as though ridding himself of a bad taste. "Two ways to handle this, I reckon." He looked at Darlin without expression. "We can just go ahead and scalp this varmint, which might be best."

  Tucker saw the Reverend blanch, and his eyes slid around as though he had finally realized his predicament.

  Rockwell's voice was cold, "Scalping's got my vote."

  "Or," Holloway continued, "Joe Darlin could set his man down by this fire, and we'll talk it out for a spell."

  Darlin said, "Now that sounds square, Grant. Don't it, Reverend?" He pushed a little, and Reverend Archer sat—as though his knees had lost strength.

  Porter Rockwell reached across and pulled the whip to him. "Mighty satisfying to lay on a dozen or two with this lash a'fore we take his hair."

  Holloway nodded soberly, as though considering it, but out of sight behind the Reverend, Joe Darlin was grinning and Tucker caught on that the meanness was gone. They really would just talk a little.

  Tucker guessed Archer was a lucky man because Porter Rockwell wasn't likely to have sat still for a lashing, and he knew for sure that Grant Holloway would have come up like a wildcat and clawed the Reverend so he wouldn't ever have forgotten it.

  Holloway began. "Now Reverend, we're all Latter-day Saints at this fire. We take our teachings as serious as you take yours. The difference seems to be that you figure you've a right to yours but we've no rights to ours. While we're willing to leave you in peace, you're waving a whip at us. We'd enjoy hearing how you figure you've got that kind of authority."

  Archer sputtered, "Your book is the devil's work."

  Rockwell stirred irritably, but Holloway seemed interested. "Now who told you that, Reverend?"

  "It is well known."

  "And, just which part of the book do you find wrongful? Nephi? Alma? Helaman?"

  Archer cleared his throat a bit nervously before answering. "It is all the work of the devil."

  Holloway was silent for a moment. Then he spoke quietly.

  "Isn't it true, Reverend, that you've never read a word of the Book of Mormon? You've never even heard a Saint discuss it, now have you? All you know about Mormons is what folks've passed from mouth to mouth without any of 'em knowing if what they said was right or not. Isn't that so, Reverend Archer?"

  For a moment Archer swelled with righteous wrath. Then his gaze locked with Holloway's and held for a long moment.

  Tucker watched him deflate as though a pin had stuck a pumped-up pig's bladder. His answer did not surprise Tucker Morgan.

  "You are correct. I have not read the Book of Mormon. However, men good and true have given their opinions, and I trust them."

  Holloway nodded understanding. "Natural enough, Reverend, but you too are a man good and true who would say to others that the Book of Mormon is evil work. Those who heard would say to me just what you did—that they trust what they heard. Yet, neither you nor them'd know more than passed-along gossip."

  Before he could be answered, Holloway took Tucker's book in his hand and riffled the pages. He tapped it with his finger.

  "Here's a book, not yet in its fortieth year. Men of learning, experience, and wisdom have accepted its teachings. Common men like Porter Rockwell, Tucker Morgan, and me have studied on it and believe what it says. Thousands upon thousands of people, good and true, believe the Book of Mormon is the word of God. We figure that bears thinking about.

  "Now Reverend, all any Saint has ever asked is that people read the Book of Mormon and decide for themselves. If they do that, with open minds and honest hearts, we'll feel fairly treated, no matter how they decide.

  "But I'll tell you straight out, Reverend Archer, the day's gone when we'll let the ignorant abuse us 'cause they feel like it."

  Holloway paused as though to align his thoughts. Then he again leaned into his argument.

  "I've got two more things t'say, and I'd appreciate your letting 'em sink in. First is, people back east have a habit of naming bad things Mormon when they ain't. If a man known as a Mormon steals a cow, the word isn't that Jack Brown stole, it goes out that a Mormon stole. People don't do that if the thief was a Baptist or a Methodist. Saints don't hold with stealing any more than any other church, but blame falls on us. It's not a fair way of doing, and it's the kind of thing you should remember when you're listening to those men, good and true, who don't know any more about the Saints than you do.

  "Last thing is this. West of here there are lots of Latter-day Saints. Once into the mountains it's Mormon country. Despite all the abuse they've taken, you'll find welcome, fair treatment, and safety among our people. If you're of a mind to talk religion, you will find Mormons willing and able. Open your mind and you'll discover a caring people that stand closer to God than most you've met up till now. If you're wise, Reverend, you'll listen and maybe you'll read. You do that and next time you see our fire, you won't trail a whip and rage at strangers who only wish you well while going their own way."

  Joe Darlin led Reverend Archer away. Porter Rockwell said, "Wasted words, Grant."

  "Most likely, Porter, but at least he's warned. Next time you can shoot him."

  The reading was ruined for now, and Tucker sought his blankets, listening to the quiet drone of the men's voices.

  Porter Rockwell! Whew! There wasn't a tougher fighting man in the Mormon settlements, they claimed. Sitting there drinking whiskey—that was not by the teachings, but then, just as Mister Holloway had often pointed out, Saints weren't perfect. Each did the best he could. Tucker guessed if Mister Rockwell was good enough to stand alongside Joseph Smith and President Brigham Young, his drinking weakness could be lived with.

  But it was Mister Holloway who had done the talking, and Tucker had seen his words hit that whip-waving Reverend like slaps with wet leather. Reverend Archer had been told a few facts that he hadn't looked at before. Tucker expected the man might do more than a little considering before he bellowed "blasphemy" at the next Saints he encountered.

  Tucker Morgan scrunched deeper into his sleeping robe, settling his hip into the hollow he had dug for it. He touched his Joseph Smith gun lying close alongside, just making certain it was there.

  Grant Holloway had said things just right. He had pulled the fuse from a nasty situation
and made an angry, unthinking man settle down and take heed. Tucker slept on the thought that Grant Holloway had a way about him and would make a fine bishop, if his stick started floating that way.

  Chapter 4

  The Reverend Josiah Archer did not immediately sleep. Accustomed to respect and deference, defeat and humiliation lay poorly on his spirit. If asked, Archer would have described himself as a modest and humble man, but it was mortifying that his knowledge and opinion be challenged by the western wildmen he had encountered.

  By will and power of speaking, Josiah Archer had bound to him dedicated followers who even now journeyed west. The small band would join him in a campaign to drive heathen beliefs and practices from the Indian tribes and replace their false gods with a type of cold, unforgiving Christianity he had decided was the true word.

  Archer and his small group had dubbed themselves "Correctors." Through spirited preaching and sterling example, they would force the devil and his evil hordes from the souls of the simple redmen. If the Correctors' teachings also seared the spirits of the countless god-separated whites who had already wandered west to drink, gamble, curse, and participate in all of the other evils known to man, that too would be welcome.

  To the Reverend Archer, the Mormons presented a special challenge. That Latter-day Saints did not usually drink, curse, or gamble barely confused the issue. Instead they possessed their cunningly contrived book which, despite Grant Holloway's explanations, was unquestionably false doctrine. Its impure words would never enter the eyes or ears of Archer or his Correctors.

  It was known that Mormons and Indians lived in relative harmony. Where other whites seemed constantly at war with the many tribes, the Latter-day Saints were usually at peace with their Indian neighbors. Proof, Josiah Archer accepted, that the devil's people worked together. Neither Mormon nor redman could realize that a new order was coming. Led by the Reverend Josiah Archer, the twenty men of his Correctors would ignite the spark that would become a conflagration; one which would spread the true word across the vast plains and into the great mountains. The vision was monumental, and Archer's spirit could revel within it.

  Tonight was different. He had been forced to endure lecturing by strangers obviously inferior in breeding and prospects. Archer had no doubt they would use their weapons. Their guns and knives made such men dangerous. The awareness brought a shudder and sudden longing for the east where law gave security.

  The Reverend could see no likelihood of repaying Rockwell or Holloway for his humiliation. Joe Darlin had warned that if roused, either man could be more dangerous than a cornered panther. The boy was another matter.

  Tucker Morgan had been the cause of it all. He had produced the book, and he had been the one who dared to read it aloud. The mind of Josiah Archer turned calculating.

  Holloway and the boy rode to the Missouri. There too would be Archer's Correctors. The western wilderness had few roads and fewer people. Tucker Morgan and the Correctors would meet. If separated from Holloway's protection, young Morgan could be made to pay, at least in part, for his Mormon reading and for the demeaning of the Correctors' leader, the Reverend Josiah Archer.

  Archer organized pen, ink, and paper. He would send a letter. The message might be long in arriving, but its content would be taken seriously and his men would act.

  Mortified by his humbling, Josiah Archer wrote swiftly. He paused only to deliberate on a proper punishment for the boy who read aloud the false doctrine. A thorough thrashing would be fitting, the Reverend decided, and the judgment caused Archer's hand to speed across the paper.

  Chapter 5

  The Payne-Weston party's wagons were drawn close in a semicircle. The camp's fire was centered downwind and far enough out to let people move around without bumping and crowding between fire and wagons.

  The wagons were heavily built with large wheels and wide iron rims. Tucker approved, and he was pleased that oxen would pull the loads. His own family had crossed behind oxen and, although they were slower than horses, oxen pulled powerfully, and you didn't have to double-team over every bump in the prairie. Finding the best of the plains and mountain animals would take the hunters far from usual routes. Strong, dependable teams and rugged vehicles were important.

  Holloway had ridden ahead while Tucker came in with the artist. Hitching their pack animals to the artist's tailgate, Tucker got a good look at Paul Laban's painting. Nothing more than the grass they saw every day, Tucker thought. Until he glimpsed the quick sketch Laban had made of him and Holloway riding up, Tucker was not impressed. But there they were. The artist had Holloway just right, so Tucker guessed he must look about as he was drawn. A man never got to see himself the way others did and Tucker found it hard to turn away. He wished Laban had finished so he would know how he really did look. Astounding how the artist could capture them with only a few minutes and some charcoal. Tuck wondered if Laban could do the same with bears and snakes. It would be fine to have some pictures of wild things in the parlor. They would remind a man of how it was beyond where most folks lived.

  James Payne-Weston was a short man, thick of body, without appreciable fat. He dressed English with a round cap set squarely, a military looking coat, and wool pants tucked into lace-up boots. He sported an immense mustache that, despite its length, crossed his face as straight as a knife blade. Payne-Weston stood regally with a fist clenched on a hip, the other relaxed atop a wagon wheel. Tucker wondered how Holloway would address their new employer. Tucker tried "Mister Payne-Weston" on his own tongue and found it awkward. He didn't see why a man would have two last names, and he guessed he would have to mumble around it until he heard what Holloway decided on.

  It turned out easily because Grant Holloway made introductions by ignoring the first half of Payne-Weston's name. Tucker watched the Englishman's eyes and decided Payne-Weston didn't care.

  Holloway said, "This here's Tucker Morgan, Weston. He and me crossed the plains once before, and he'll do a job right. Tucker'll help me when I need him and do anything else that's handy when I don't."

  Tucker stuck out his hand. "Mister Weston."

  Payne-Weston's clasp was firm and his smile sincere. "Welcome, Mister Morgan. Pleased to have you with us."

  Being called "Mister" made Tucker nervous, and he hoped they would soon start calling him "Tuck," like he was used to.

  Tucker headed off to make their camp. Holloway usually lived a few steps separate. During their long ride from Salt Lake, Holloway had explained that camping separate put a little social distance between him and the people he guided. Helped others from deciding he was just one of them, when he was really the herd dog who kept them bunched and out of trouble.

  Half a dozen other men completed the hunting party. One was a personal servant to Mister Weston, but he moved around as though he had been afield before. Holloway said Payne-Weston hunted all over the world; the personal man probably went along.

  The others appeared to be seasoned, but none of them looked or sounded to Tucker like plains or mountain men. It seemed to Tucker Morgan that this time out, he and Mister Holloway would be the knowing ones.

  Grant Holloway planned on at least a full season's hunt and probably a second year if they were to go into the Rockies. No question they'd know each other real well before this trip was over.

  They all sat down together at the evening fire. Weston's man brought out a folding chair with a canvas back, which let Mister Weston sit comfortably, a bit higher, and directly upwind of course. The rest clustered about leaving the smoky side empty.

  Holloway and Tucker sat cross-legged, like Indians, on their saddle blankets. Bare ground sitting wasn't often wise because a man got wet, jabbed, chilled, or maybe bitten. Being careless about it gave old men rheumatism, and it was less comfortable anyway.

  Weston's man sat a little behind his employer on a small chest. The rest sprawled and leaned on elbows. Tucker thought they would make out better if they watched how Mister Holloway did things and learned from him.
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  Tucker remembered, years back, when he had first met Grant Holloway. They had been casting bullets, and how to live wild had come up in their talk.

  Holloway had said, "Now boy, there's two ways a man can go out here. He can weigh himself down with trappings that give him civilized living. Trouble with that is, he'll also need a herd of men to spend all their time setting up and tearing down camps.

  "Second way is to carry only what's needed, but making sure to have all that is needed. Way I see it, a new man might look to the Indians to learn how they manage. 'Less of course, he knew someone like me who could tell him right." Holloway grinned, then went on.

  "After all, any fool can be uncomfortable. But it don't take much to make out well; you've just got to put some thought into it.

  "Now take eating tools. A man should have a bowl. A plate can't do a thing a bowl can't, so don't bother with one. A man always has a knife but he might carry a spoon. Comes in handy, though he'll drink his soup and stir with his blade. A spoon is good for eating stew and such. Never bother with a fork—dumbest instrument ever invented. Anything you want to jag with a fork you can pin or lift with a spoon." Holloway showed Tucker how his steel spoon was sharpened on an edge so he could cut with it. "Make do, boy. That's the secret."

  James Payne-Weston was an educated and wealthy man. His chosen service was to provide educational displays of animal and bird life from far places to his country's museums and universities. Payne-Weston had a fine time doing it.

  This venture would capture the American West. Mister Paul Laban would draw and paint authentic backgrounds for the fully mounted trophies they would shoot. Laban was already drying grasses and leaves for placement around animals to give natural appearance to the panoramas.

  Mister Weston and Grant Holloway would shoot the trophies. Only the finest examples would be taken. Sport shooting was not their intent. Payne-Weston did not approve of pointless killing. Now, close to the start of the hunt, their employer spoke some on it.