Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith)

by Katherine R. Chandler

  Remounted, Tucker fought the horse west along the river until they struck timber. Then, north again, with snow falling in giant flakes and sticking wetly. Behind them their tracks were rapidly filling, and they wore inches of snow on heads and shoulders. Tucker longed for the protection of his poncho. Wet through, his hide shirt seemed to wrap him in ice. But, they were close now. He just had to keep plugging.

  The wagons appeared almost within touching and familiar forms gained substance. Voices rose, welcoming hands reached, and Paul Laban was helped from his perch behind the saddle. Tucker got down like a cavalryman, stiff-legged, and heavy with fatigue.

  Tommy Bell was there, and Tucker handed him his reins. "Saddle my old Pin horse, Tommy, and bring him here." He slapped his exhausted mount affectionately. "Give this one a good rubbing and special bait while I'm out. He's deserving."

  James Payne-Weston was asking questions, but Tucker took time only to say, "Ask Mister Laban. I've got to keep working."

  Tucker caught a skinner by the arm and ordered, "Take someone and bring me three of the best lodge poles those Indians left. Make it quick." The man went hurriedly. Tucker did not pause to wonder that everyone did what he told them.

  As directed, men brought a stack of buffalo sleeping robes. Mister Jones replaced Tucker's frozen-solid canteen with one filled with hot water. Tommy Bell came with Pin, and Tucker sent him for rope and an ax.

  While he waited, Tucker cooked his numbed fingers at the camp's fire and guzzled thick stew straight from the pot. He thought of Holloway, out there beneath the snow. The guide would get no hot food until Tucker got him in—if he could find him.

  For the moment, Tucker had time for James Payne-Weston. The Englishman said, "I'll come with you, Tucker. You can't go out there alone."

  Tucker shook his head almost defiantly. "You can't do that, Mister Weston. Mister Holloway would skin me alive. If you or someone got separated, we'd be starting all over again. This is a one man job, and I know how to do it."

  Tucker was not telling it all. A hunter Payne-Weston might be, but this was a frontiersman's task. Tucker hadn't time to nurse someone along. Extra hands were not required. He could find Holloway, or no one in this party would.

  The help Tucker Morgan knew he needed came from a power far greater than himself or these others. Tucker had seen that power when the Lord's lightning had saved him from seemingly certain death. He had felt the spirit fill his being when he had knelt to ask if the Book of Mormon was true. A plainsman's skills Tucker Morgan already had. Heavenly Father's help and blessing he had been praying for since he first saw Holloway's broken leg.

  The skinners stumbled through the snow, snaking long lodge poles behind them. Quickly Tucker lashed a pair to his saddle. Trailed behind the patient Pin, the poles would make a travois on which Grant Holloway would ride. Bedded in many robes, Holloway would spring easily with the natural bending of the seasoned poles.

  Tucker chopped a length from the third pole and lashed it as a cross brace to separate the riding poles. Men jumped to help. A thick buffalo robe was wrapped to the side poles, and holes were punched through so that it could be roped into place. A half dozen additional robes were tied on for blanketing, and Tucker's water-warmed canteen was buried within where it would not freeze as quickly.

  He tied extra kerchiefs over a fresh shirt and poncho, and jammed on his hat with the chin lanyard pulled tight. Tucker told James Payne-Weston where to look if he were not back by the time the storm cleared. He patted his elk jerky, touched his Book of Mormon in a saddle bag, and made sure of his compass. Tucker started for the river through snow already a foot deep.

  Beyond the trees the wind again slammed against his back. Pin drew the travois without complaint, and Tucker thanked the horse for that. They had ridden hundreds of miles together, and Pin had never faltered. Of course, that had also been true of Holloway's faithful gelding. Anything could happen in the vastness of the wilderness. When it did . . . well, as the guide had said, a man had best stay smart and avoid mistakes. Tuck hoped he was doing just that.

  Tucker struck the river and turned east. The wind-driven snow was blinding. No trace of his earlier passage remained. Wind had blown and snow had drifted, yet, he had to find the rifle or he could not turn south with any hope of finding Holloway.

  Visibility went only an arm length past the horse's bowed aside head. Occasionally the snow swirled, and Tucker might see a few short yards. He must find the rifle, but there was little sense of distance, and time was distorted by the rush of wind and the inability to see.

  Holloway's life depended on being found and taken to warmth and safety. For Holloway, Tucker Morgan prayed. He spoke aloud, the words snatched away on the howling wind. His prayer was that he find the Joseph Smith rifle, for on that turning point, everything else depended. Was his asking too little for Heavenly Father's attention, or too great an intercession for a pair of plainsmen, so unimportant in the Lord's mighty plans? Tucker did not doubt that he was heard, and he had been answered before. It could happen again. Tucker poured his soul into his words and his heart into the asking.

  The horse plodded on, and Tucker stared desperately into the snow wall ahead. Glancing to his right was helpful, for he then looked down the wind's course and could occasionally glimpse the river's farther side. It was like sighting through a gun barrel however. Only a tiny tunnel was clear at a time. Tucker kept his head swinging, working hard at it.

  Tucker stopped his horse. He saw nothing, but a warming tingle had touched the skin of his arms and flickered across his body. He knew the feeling; he had known it before. A great calming enveloped the soul and mind of Tucker Morgan. He sat his horse, a wall of blowing snow disguising what he had to see, but he knew.

  Tucker's lips almost smiled. He knew where the gun of Joseph Smith hung waiting. He felt his head turn as though he could see, and the wind swirled, its direction momentarily confused. A sudden shift of the heavy overcast split the clouded sky layers.

  A beam of late afternoon sun stabbed through and glinted for the barest of instants on the polished maple of the rifle's stock. Within a few steps, the gun hung in its lashings, pointing its barrel southward—exactly where Tucker was looking. Then, the light was gone. The sky blackened, and the wind drove as if infuriated by its momentary lapse. The rifle was again hidden, as though the disclosure had never been granted.

  Tucker kneed his mount closer, and the rifle was within touching. He jerked loose the knots and held the cold of the gun to him. A doubter might howl coincidence or a disdainer could sneer at pure luck. Tucker Morgan knew better.

  Tuck slid his rifle into its scabbard and turned Pin into the river. It was a good crossing with water too shallow to wet the robes on the travois. Tucker headed Pin with the wind, directly south, and the horse walked steadily, glad to have the gale behind him.

  Again the way was long. Tucker's imaginings tore the trail markers away while he searched futilely for the snow covered mound that would be Holloway and the gelding. Tucker could only guess at his progress. His eyes searched for the rag markers long before he could have reached them; they strayed only to check his compass.

  The markers were there, standing strong in the deepened snow. Paul Laban's canvas had blown away and might be across the mountains by now. Tucker's eyes searched until he found a snow drifted mound higher than the others. Quickly off his horse, Tucker looked down on Holloway's partly exposed nose. As he knelt, the guide's eyes opened and he said, as easy as ever, "Hoped that was you thumpin' the ground, Tuck, and not a curious grizzly."

  Tucker Morgan's relief was almost stupefying. He knew he was grinning and rocking on his knees in satisfaction.

  Holloway looked concerned and his questions came swiftly. "You get Laban in all right?"

  "He's in camp, Mister Holloway."

  "I didn't hear a wagon. One coming on? They aren't lost are they?"

  "I'm alone, Mister Holloway. I've got a lodge-pole travois. Figure'd you'd ride better there th
an bouncing in a wagon bed."

  Holloway was nodding. "Bright as gold, Tucker. Wish I'd thought of it. My mind's been dreading the trip back. Indian way'll be downright comfortable."

  Inside, Holloway could hardly believe Tucker was back. He knew if their situations were reversed he'd have come for his partner, but he was equally certain few others would have again risked a blizzard's fury to rescue Grant Holloway, Tucker Morgan, or anyone else.

  Tucker got Pin positioned and eased the guide into the deep bed of robes. After Holloway drank deeply from the canteen, Tucker covered the guide thoroughly with the rest of the robes.

  Holloway looked sadly on his dead gelding. "About breaks my heart, Tuck. That horse and I rode some long trails together."

  "He was a good one, Mister Holloway."

  "Surely was. Might be wise to move my saddle out a ways, Tuck. Wolves or bears could find the horse before we get back here. Don't need my equipment chewed up."

  Tucker got the bridle loose and moved the saddle well away. "I'll bring the bridle now and pick up the saddle when the storm breaks, Mister Holloway."

  "Night's still closing in. You made quick time getting back, Tuck."

  "I had some help, Mister Holloway."

  The guide was quiet while Tucker checked his lashings. Then his voice was subdued. "Reckon you did, Tucker. Wonder if it was your prayers or mine or both that got listened to?"

  Tucker laughed aloud. "Guess we'll never know, Mister Holloway, but when I tell you how it went, you'll know as sure as I do that the Lord gave us a hand."

  Exhaustion sledged Tucker, dulling his reflexes and slowing his thinking. Pin plugged away, leaning into the wind, seeming to understand that his course lay straight into the blinding snow.

  Tucker tried not to doze and at times sang Holloway's marching song to keep himself alert. When he spoke to Holloway, the guide answered, but the going was rough and Tucker could hear the pain in his voice.

  Their luck at the river was not as good. The travois floated just long enough for the horse to plow across, but the north bank was steep, and Holloway shouted something in Indian that Tucker was pleased he didn't understand.

  An eternity later, in the black of the blizzardy night, Tucker spotted the flicker of the camp's fire and headed in. Men met them and worked swiftly. Holloway was hustled to a wagon emptied and double lined with furs and blankets. James Payne-Weston's small iron stove had been set up in the wagon and the interior was warm and cozy.

  Mister Jones took charge of the guide's nursing. He removed the rifle splint and cut away Holloway's leather pants. The servant expertly judged Tucker's leg straightening, prodded Holloway's heavily swollen thigh, and sighted along the leg. Jones pronounced the leg ramrod true. He washed Holloway as though he were a babe and replaced the rifle splint with a pair split from a seasoned tailboard. He padded the splints and used wide cloth strips to secure them. Mister Jones' outside splint went clear to Holloway's waist, and the guide complained that he was trussed up like an Egyptian mummy he'd heard Weston talk about.

  Holloway was clad in a wool nightshirt and was sipping a meat thickened broth when Tucker got to see him.

  The guide swallowed the last of his broth and set the bowl aside. He looked drawn, and his graying hair made him appear older than usual. Holloway laid a hand on Tucker's knee and squeezed strongly.

  "Old Tom Wadson couldn't have done it better, Tucker. You saved my hide, and you certain sure pulled Paul Laban through. Hope he knows how close he came to paintin' his last picture."

  "He's humbled, Mister Holloway. Going around wringing his hands and promising never to stray again."

  "Watch him, Tucker, or he'll be gone before first light. Man's as foggy minded as a fool grouse."

  Tucker grinned wearily, "Maybe we should stake him out like we do a milk cow."

  It was Holloway's turn to smile but the guide was tired, and Tucker left him to Mister Jones' gentle but determined disciplines.

  Almost too exhausted to fall over, Tucker sat on a wagon tongue close to the campfire. Tommy Bell plopped down beside him, and Tucker felt obligated to speak.

  "Hard day, Tommy, but the Lord saw us through."

  "Reckon you helped too, Tuck. Uncle James figures you rode more than thirty miles today, most of it in a blizzard. You wore out both horses, Tucker."

  "Well, my beat down carcass tells me I was doing something, Tom, but when I tell you how it went you'll recognize there was more than me working on it."

  Tucker crawled gratefully into his robes. He organized in his mind the thanks he would give the Lord, but somewhere in the planning sleep caught him, and without knowing, Tucker Morgan drifted off. Twice during the night, Mister Jones looked in on him, making sure he hadn't thrown his coverings aside, but the exhausted youth slept like a wintering bear with no awareness of being looked after.

  Chapter 20

  Once off the mountain, James Payne-Weston rode ahead, anxious to be back in camp. Tucker brought the sheep-burdened pack horse along slowly, savoring the fine hunting they had experienced and reveling a little in weather as soft as an August eve.

  This had been their third hunt since the snow of the early blizzard had melted. The first time out, he and Payne-Weston had scouted. The last two hunts had been for shooting. Payne-Weston had done the most of it, but Tucker had taken one of the handsome rams he was now packing.

  They had found the wild sheep early, still bedded out of the wind, where the first morning sun warmed them. Tucker had waited until Payne-Weston had made his shot. With the animals up and running, Tucker held a double length ahead of his ram and squeezed quickly. The shot was challenging, and Tucker was gratified when his animal collapsed as though hit by a cannon ball.

  They skinned the carcasses, leaving the heads attached to the hides. The skinners would remove them with utmost care. Tucker boned the best meat and dumped it unceremoniously into a canvas pannier. Mountain sheep was tasty without the greasier mutton flavor of domestic animals. Holloway claimed wild sheep tasted better than farm sheep because their bodies were fit from living free. They ran and climbed and ate wild forage. The argument made sense to Tucker.

  Throughout the morning, Tucker had kept his eye on an Indian hunting party far below them. They were probably Cheyenne, but Shoshone sometimes drifted in from the Wind River country. The Indians were miles away, but Tucker was sure that sun glitter from his and Payne-Weston's rifles and knives had alerted the hunters to their presence. The Indians had worked north and by noon were beyond seeing. That suited Tucker Morgan.

  This load would finish the sheep hunting for the year. Payne-Weston was anxious to start east. His single taste of a western blizzard was warning enough. The Englishman had no wish to be trapped on the plains in such weather. Holloway was their problem, but Tucker wasn't worried, and it was clear that the guide was not.

  Tucker thought about the past days. The storm had lasted three days. Holloway said that a lot of bad weather did. A day to get going, another to be foul and miserable. Then a final day of clearing up.

  Tucker allowed a fourth day to let the snow melt and for warmth to creep in. Then he and Tommy Bell went after the guide's saddle and Laban's wagon, if they could find enough of it to bother with.

  The river was swollen and running wild. They got wet crossing but didn't care because they were out adventuring. No large animals had found the gelding but buzzards were feasting and the horse was not good to see. Rodents had already chewed on the leather of Holloway's saddle. The guide would be irritated, but the ravage was not great.

  Salt, Tucker explained. Wild animals were always salt hungry, and tanned leather, especially equipment often handled or worn, absorbed salty sweat. Getting salt, porcupines were known to eat ax handles, wagon seats, even pistol grips or rifle stocks.

  Laban's team grazed within a dip two miles further on. The wagon was upright and the harness undamaged, but the artist's equipment was mostly blown away. The loss was small. Laban's summer painting had gone eas
t from Fort Laramie with the hide wagons. Except for Holloway's broken leg and the dead gelding, they had been extremely fortunate.

  By the fourth day, Grant Holloway was almost himself. The worst of the swelling was receding and his feverish look was gone. Men transported his bed into the best sun, and the guide slapped his hat back on, as though being bareheaded was embarrassingly unnatural.

  Mister Jones said Holloway would need at least six weeks before he could risk using the broken leg. The guide did not argue. Jones also insisted that Holloway's wagon should not roll for a month. That determination turned Payne-Weston nervous. Winter could come and trap them in the mountains. A hard winter with deep snow could also close the plains for long weeks. The Englishman was anxious to leave.

  Holloway had made it easy. "Well, I don't see serious difficulty, Weston. You and Tucker can hunt the sheep. When you're done, your party can trail on down to Laramie. Tucker and I'll stay bedded right here. We'll keep this wagon and one ox team. When we're ready and the weather's right, we'll come out.

  "Plan'll be to leave this wagon and team with the rest of your outfit at the fort. Tuck and I'll winter there until I'm fit to ride. Then we'll ease over to Bridger's, and weather permitting, on to Salt Lake.

  "We'll meet at Fort Laramie next June and head into the Rockies. We've got bear, big horn sheep, moose, mountain goats, and maybe caribou to find. You'll want mountain lion, of course. Down south there's small wild pigs and some big cats the locals call jaguars.

  "Next year's hunting will be even better than this season's, Weston. The land is prettier than Laban can paint. We'll see a lot of Indians, too. We've talked over trade goods, so you'll bring them along."

  The guide stretched what parts he could move. "Going to be a fine season, Weston. I can feel it."

  So that's the way it would go, Tucker thought as he neared their encampment. While Holloway mended, Tucker would provide for the camp. In late winter they might work through the mountains and get home to Salt Lake. Tucker hungered for that. He had tales to tell, and he could imagine his mother and father hanging on every detail.