Tucker went uphill with his tow until well clear of the herd. He halted and dropped the anchor. Laban struggled erect, plucking at scattered paints, easel, and canvasses. He sputtered, "Tucker, why . ." but Holloway's anger silenced him.
The guide's face was black below his hat, and Tucker pointed his horse away to join Tommy Bell beyond earshot. Still he saw Holloway's sinewy arm snatch Paul Laban's shirtfront, and he heard the first few words. Holloway's voice was colder than frozen iron, and it made Tucker's skin prickle.
"You've done this for the last time, Laban." The guide held the artist almost nose to nose, so close that Paul Laban had trouble focusing. Holloway had him hauled half out of the wagon, and if the guide had let go the artist would have toppled onto his face.
"You figure painting gives you a right to be careless and act stupid. Well it don't. You endanger yourself and the people that rescue you. You hold up the train and are about as useful as a dead dog.
"Well, there'll be no more, Laban. When we get in, I'm layin' it out to James Weston that the next time you wander off, or crowd in on dangerous animals, or do anything else you've been told not to, either you or me is leaving. I mean permanent leaving, Laban."
Holloway shoved the artist back on balance. "Now you move that wagon back into camp by the shortest path and stay clear of me while doing it." He turned away, and Paul Laban scrambled for his wagon anchor.
Off to the side, Tommy Bell asked, "What is he saying to Mister Laban, Tucker? He's mad as a hornet, isn't he?"
"About as mad as I've seen him. Glad I don't have to hear what he's plastering onto Mister Laban. I'm mighty thankful that it isn't me he's roused at."
They waited while the artist got his rig moving. Tommy Bell asked, "Mister Holloway can be violent, can't he, Tucker?"
Tucker grinned at the eastern talk. "Yep, I reckon he can. You should have seen how he handled the men that jumped me in Omaha. There are stories about Grant Holloway that'd make you shiver. They are true of all the real old timers west of the Missouri. Those that have survived, like Grant Holloway, had to be tougher than whang leather.
"The way it's told, those were drinking, Indian fighting, and carousing days, as well as exploring, trapping, and hunting times. I'm not putting a bad mouth on Mister Holloway telling you this. That's the way those years were. Unlike most, Mister Holloway moved with the changing conditions. The beaver market gave out, and he took to guiding. But don't ever think that Grant Holloway is softening where he shouldn't. If need be, Mister Holloway could get meaner than a panther caught in a bee cave."
The return to camp was made almost in silence. Paul Laban's face was drained of color, and Tucker couldn't decide whether the artist was angry or mortified. Both, he suspected.
Holloway rode closely ahead, as though daring Laban to veer a yard off his trail. Almost in, Tucker and Tommy Bell rode alongside the guide leaving the artist alone with his thoughts. Holloway's mouth was still grim so Tucker rode quietly.
Unexpectedly, Paul Laban broke the long and awkward silence. Loud enough to be heard, he said, "Well, I'm surely glad my sword of precious metal wasn't handy."
Tucker looked back and shared the artist's chagrined smile. His side look at Holloway caught the guide's mouth easing. Only Tommy Bell was confused. "What is he talking about, Tucker, I didn't know he had a sword."
"He hasn't, Tom. Remember in the Book of Mormon how that Laban got his head lopped off by his own sword? Well, Mister Laban's hinting that Mister Holloway might have done the same."
Holloway looked from under his hat, but his eyes were no longer angry and his voice was warmed. "Well, that man better know that, if need be, I could still forge one up real quick."
Days later they were witness to a buffalo stampede. The herd was smaller than Paul Laban's. Panic entered from the side—wolves working too close, Holloway expected. For a long moment, the herd poised, as though judging the turmoil along its edge. Then motion rippled wave-like across the many hundreds of animals, and as one they lunged ahead, compressing into a river of pounding hooves. Mindlessly, the current surged into a solid wall of flesh, hooves, and horns. The thunder of their passage trembled the earth where the Payne-Weston party stood, and the prairie lay beaten into dust behind the buffalo.
Without reason, the flight veered and arced until it again swerved, crossing a portion of its own trail. Animals tired or lost interest and fell behind. Almost as suddenly as it had begun the rumbling passed, and with much stiff-legged posturing, the buffalo again spread loosely and resumed grazing. The dust drifted on the wind, and only trampled earth evidenced the awesome fury of the stampede.
Thereafter, Paul Laban was more mindful of his activities. Holloway still grumbled, but his dissatisfaction was minor. The artist began sketching small creatures and that probably helped. Fort Laramie was closer, and the expected break in routines grown monotonous cheered them all.
Chapter 16
Tommy Bell had asked to go camping. James Payne-Weston suggested that was what they were doing every day of the hunt. Tommy said it wasn't the same.
Tucker knew what he meant. Camping was getting off to a place of your choosing, making your own fire with the deciding being part of the adventure. There should be a hint of danger, the possibility of great bears roaming or Hunkpapa Sioux appearing unexpectedly. Camping, you cooked your own food, and you talked about the things you were interested in.
Payne-Weston was doubtful. Paul Laban offered no opinions. Grant Holloway caught Tucker's eye and cocked his head. Tucker understood and agreed, as he was already thinking it through.
"I reckon Tommy and me could saddle up with our rolls behind and lead off into those hills south of here. We might scout the trail, and we could leave a useful mark or two along the way." The boy was instantly excited so Tucker continued.
"We could find us a good camp, with maybe a seep to water at. My idea'd be to stay out a night and catch onto the train when you come through."
Payne-Weston saw no real danger in it, and if Tucker was willing . . . well, he would consent.
The campers rode out early and struck a fast pace to put distance between them and the others. Tucker made importance of finding the best dry wash crossings and had Tommy plant Holloway's markers.
By middle afternoon, the boy was tiring so they began hunting the right campsite. They had already talked over how they would need shelter from the westerly wind that whistled unchecked all the way from the South Pass in the Rockies. Water would be nice, but they had canteens and could refill in the creek.
Tucker let Tommy do most of the choosing. The boy thought a twisty crook in the hump of ridge that paralleled their creek was to his liking. The spot was sheltered on three sides and was open to the north. Tucker expected they would see the main party's campfires.
While Tommy dug through the sod to make their fire pit, Tucker gathered a few armloads of buffalo chips. They had picked up dead wood along the way, but a camp needed a proper fire, so chips would be necessary.
They leveled sleeping places and dug hip holes. Tucker explained how he liked his sleeping spots dipped in the middle.
"When I'm sleeping on my back, I like looking at my toes. Layin' too flat makes backaches." Tommy shaped his place like Tucker's.
What was eaten while camping wasn't important, but cooking something was essential. Tucker mixed flour, water, a handful of ground-up corn, and a dab of salt into patties and fried them in their skillet. They broiled strips of antelope loin around an old iron ramrod and basted the meat with salty lard drippings. They ate in the dark, listening to wolves howling from about every high place. Coyotes yipped, and once something large moved past just beyond their firelight. Bats dipped close as though drawn by the flames. Tommy Bell wished a good wind would come howling through so they could test how sheltered their camp really was.
"Never tempt the weather, Tom. The only people who like rain, snow, or wind are folks who don't have to be out in them. Little is worse than being wet and cold wit
h no way to dry off and warm up. Me, I'm grateful for every clear day."
Of course Tommy hungered to talk of Indians. Tucker told what he could. "Fact is, I'm surprised we haven't encountered villages and hunting parties. Mister Holloway said he wouldn't have been startled if a war party or two had shaken lances at us in passing.
"We've crossed land claimed by Omaha, Pawnee, assorted Sioux bands, and even Arapaho can get up this way. All we've met are a few traveling families. We'll likely see a big Indian camp alongside Fort Laramie, but I had hopes of seeing more Indians myself."
"What'll we do if some of those Sioux sneak up on us in the night, Tuck?"
"Well, it isn't likely because we aren't near a path. Indians don't just wander. They move for reasons and prefer familiar places. We've crossed their trails, and you've seen where travois poles have worn deep grooves over years of passing.
"We're not too far out of Fort Laramie now and hostiles shouldn't be around. Of course, it might be hard to tell a hostile from a friendly if they came across easy pickings like us. Let's hope these hills stay empty of Indians for the next night or two."
"But what would we do if some found us?"
"Well, we'd make peace signs. We'd invite 'em to light and join our fire. As soon as I could I'd let 'em know about Grant Holloway being with us. Mister Holloway has his own sign among the tribes. When he's recognized, they make the sign of the snake, which is an open palm held edgewise in front of your face and wriggled up or down, like a snake moves. Never have learned how Mister Holloway got known by that, but I'll bet it's a tale."
'Think they'd leave us alone then, Tucker?"
"Most likely. Its important around Indians to never show fear. They don't, so you don't. Respect is big among 'em. Courage counts for a lot. Look 'em in the eye and stand proud. Could make a difference, Mister Holloway says."
Fire specks glowed well to the north marking their train's progress.
"They won't catch up till noon, Tuck."
"Good, we'll have the morning to loaf and explore."
"You going to braid rope tonight, Tuck?"
"Nope, all that's back in our wagon."
"How'd you learn to make horse tail hairs into rope?"
"An old Mormon named Timothy Selman showed me. Same man who gave me this Joseph Smith rifle."
"Wish I had a rifle."
"Your uncle will come around to it one of these days."
"You going to read from your book tonight?"
"A little I reckon."
"Maybe I'll become a Mormon."
Tucker smiled only a little. "Well, that would be real fine, Tom. You've already learned more than most about our church, and before this hunt is over you'll know other things.
"You'll have to work it out with your folks though, Tommy. Best way would be to keep studying on it till you know ours is the right way. But don't fight your ma and pa. Families should stick together. Nothing is more important than strong families, we figure."
"We don't go to church much in our family."
"I expect it's that way with most families, Tom. Not with Saints, though. Church is part of our daily living.
As you've seen—we're apt to study our Book of Mormon pretty regularly."
"I'll bet there are Mormons who don't go to church and who never read their book."
Tucker laughed a little ruefully. "You're right, Tom. We have backsliders, and we have people who disagree with about everything. Some can't live up to the Word of Wisdom no matter how hard they try—that's the teaching that counsels no smoking or drinking. Being Mormon doesn't make you perfect, but I remember something Tim Selman told me. He said, 'Once a man quits smoking, swearing, and drinking, and gives a tenth of all he makes to his church, he's made a heavy investment. A man that interested in doing right will likely stay straighter than a lot of men.' Since then I've looked to see if Tim was right. Seems to me he was."
"Well, maybe I'll have it all worked out by next hunting season, Tuck."
"You coming out again, Tommy?"
The boy was surprised. "I'll have to, Tuck. Back east I'll wheeze and get sick. It's a sure thing. Only times I've ever been healthy were on a sea voyage we took and since I got out here. I'd rather live healthy on the side of this hill than wheeze away in the Adams' mansion back home.
"Anyway, I'm planning on being a westerner, like you and Mister Holloway."
Tucker couldn't help being pleased by the boy's placing him alongside Grant Holloway. He considered a moment before responding.
"A man could do worse than raise his lodge out here. Not on these plains, maybe, but up there in the big mountains. Mister Holloway's thinking of staking out a holding well back in, where there'll be timber, wind shelter, and good animal forage. Fact is, I'm thinking of joining with him. Maybe we could work out a small settlement of Saints all working toward a common good."
"Wow, Tucker. We could put up cabins and have horse corrals. We could dam our stream with rocks and have a pond with fish in it." Tommy Bell was ready to move in.
Tucker grinned and slid more comfortably with his head on his saddle, fingers laced behind his neck. Above, the stars glowed warm and friendly. He moved a leg so it wouldn't cook in the fire heat. The night was right for dreaming.
"It wouldn't be easy, Tommy. Shaking a living out of this country is never gentle. It takes powerful teams to break this sod for plowing. Trees don't just fall down and turn into logs either. Cash money gets terrible hard to come by, though Mister Holloway and I might make a little trapping.
"First, we'll have to find just the right park. It ought to be only a few days ride from a trading place. Getting out too far is a mistake. People need things, and you can spend all your time riding back and forth."
"I can see it clear, Tuck." Tommy's voice was drowsy, and Tucker let him drift away on his thoughts. "I'll build next to you and Mister Holloway. I've even got a name picked out.
"We'll call it Morgan's Park."
Chapter 17
Fort Laramie was a needed stop. To most it was an exciting visit. For Tucker Morgan the layover was an opportunity to acquire new clothing. During the summer he had again grown. Now Holloway's hunting shirts fit him nicely. His own garments were split and patched at the shoulders with crudely lengthened sleeves and pant legs.
Good leather shirts were not found on sutlers' shelves. Contracting to have them made demanded measuring and sewing time. Tucker paid extra to have his ready before the train's departure.
Wagon trains heading west were already past Fort Laramie. Winter hovered too closely for them to linger. Latecomers would lay over until spring.
The Indian camps Tucker had expected were in place, and assorted bands of swifter travelers came and went. Cavalry and infantry units lent martial tones, and the trading establishments bustled with a hurry to do business before the Frost Father froze things solid.
Payne-Weston and Holloway oversaw the reshoeing of animals and the thousand and one details of resupply and refurbish. When he was not busy with those duties, Tucker Morgan guided Tommy Bell through the fort's attractions.
They stared at the Army's racked muskets and sabers. They rubbed hands along the cannons' smooth curves. Trading stores were looked into, and they managed a few visits within Indian lodges, which cost them only trinkets or a pair of lead bullets.
A preacher proclaimed loudly to a small gathering of men. His shout of "Blasphemy!" sounded familiar so Tucker moved closer. Sure enough, atop a cottonwood stump the Reverend Archer brandished a bony finger above his few listeners. Keeping watch to one side, the leather clad Joe Darlin nodded to Tucker's wave, apparently still guarding his sulfurous charge. Archer did not appear to recognize the boy who had months before read from the Book of Mormon.
Before Tucker and Tommy Bell moved on, Archer had convicted most of the world of horrid profanation, assured every one of his own unmatched preaching powers, and promised to wrestle the devil to a standstill later that very night. The youths departed barely in time becau
se the Reverend began passing the hat for donations.
But, Josiah Archer did recognize Tucker Morgan, and his heart pounded with the possibility that things might finally change.
Archer's mighty spring dreams had crumpled before the realities of vast distances and human perversity. The ardor of his Correctors withered beneath the drudgery and discomforts of plains travel. Their itinerant preaching fell on deaf ears or were openly scoffed. Ridicule and derision became the preachers' lots. No one listened. No one cared.
Only part way to Laramie the Correctors split. Without their leader to bind them by promised successes and certain salvation, most turned back to plant less fallow soil, where women's attendance drew men into line and guaranteed more respectful and peaceable assembly.
Only four Correctors reached Fort Laramie, and among them, only the unwavering Elton brothers were strong preachers. The other two were helpful believers, welcome in camp, but unlikely to influence anyone.
Although distressed by the falling away, the Reverend Archer hurled his handful into the fray. As swords of retribution, they thrust into nearby Indian encampments; as fitful as fire smoke their thunderous preaching dissolved, drifted, and faded among blank-eyed squaws and stone-faced braves.
The Correctors carried their speechifying into the very tents of suppliers, sutlers, and traders. Few listened, none rallied to them. Powerful arguments collapsed unremarked.
Impending defeat tortured the fanatical mind of Josiah Archer. Nothing had gone right. Since the night of the Mormon reading, his crusade had been pocked by failure.
Although Archer's individual efforts had been poorly received, he had believed the arrival of his band of twenty would surely overwhelm the ignorant who disregarded his messages and warnings. When only four arrived, Archer nearly faltered.
Then the writing grew clear. A great curse lay upon him. Somewhere along the journey he had not been strong enough. Increasingly often, Josiah Archer suspected his failure might have been in not chastising the Mormon book reader.
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith) Page 9
