Abruptly his mother stood. “No more talk about leaving. Not now. Right now we’re going to have supper, and then we’re going to let Mitch sleep for as long as he wants.”
“Yes,” his father agreed. “While you’re getting that ready, I’d like to take Mitch over to meet President Hammond. And we’ll stop in and say hello to Bishop Nielson.”
She nodded. “All right. But the stew will be ready in an hour. Don’t you be late.”
“We won’t, Mama,” Mitch said, flashing her a big grin. “We wouldn’t dare.”
October 15, 1885
Francis A. Hammond was an impressive man. In his early sixties, he was slightly taller than Mitch and solidly built, with broad shoulders and a trim waistline. His face was somewhat long and narrow but pleasant looking. He had a receding hairline, though his dark hair was thick and plentiful with some natural wave to it. His full beard was mostly grey.
Over the next two days, as the men of Bluff got together to discuss this exciting new development, Mitch learned more about their new stake president, and everything he learned was impressive. He was a native of New York state. Like so many of that time, he had little formal schooling. His father was a shoemaker who tanned his own leather and also made saddles and harnessing. Francis learned each of those trades from him.
But at fourteen, Francis decided to go to sea. As a deckhand on a whaling ship, he traveled from the Arctic Ocean to South America and from Cape Horn to Hawaii. After an accident at sea nearly broke his back and cost him his life, he set up a shoemaking business in San Francisco. There he met the Mormons who had just arrived from New York on the ship Brooklyn. Liking what he saw, he joined them and eventually moved to Utah.
After three days of discussion and debate, the plans were laid and the members of the exploring party selected. They would leave in early March, or as soon as the weather permitted. They planned to take a week to ten days. Twelve names were selected. Squarely in the middle of the list was the name of Mitchell Arthur Westland, future rancher.
October 17, 1885
“Must you go back, Mitch?” Martha’s cheeks were wet with tears. “You just got here.”
“I know, I know,” he said, sweeping her up and sitting her on his lap. “I’ve only been here for five days, but remember, it took me four days to get here and it will take four more to get back. But I’ll be home for Christmas.”
“That’s what you said last year,” she pouted.
“No, last year I said I would try to be home for Christmas. I didn’t even have a job at that point, Martha.” He stroked her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “But this time, I promise that I will be home.”
“And we’re holding him to that promise,” Gwen said fiercely. Her eyes bored into his. “Right?”
“That’s what the boss said. If he tries to back out on his word, I’ll just quit.”
Setting Martha down, he got to his feet. Johnny leaped up and grabbed his pack for him. He looked at his mother. “Can we walk with Mitch to the edge of town?” he asked, eyes pleading.
“Yes, but no farther.”
“I’ve got to get some jerky and a couple of other things at the co-op trading post. You can go that far with me.”
That brought his mother’s head up. “You’re going to the co-op?”
“Yes. Can I get you something?”
She hesitated and then shook her head. “Never mind. It can wait.”
He came over and shook hands with his father and then kissed his mother on the cheek. “I will be home by Christmas. You have my word.”
As he and the children left, Arthur turned to his wife. “If you were thinking of the Zimmer girl, she’s not at the co-op today. I saw her hanging laundry with her mother.”
“I know. I saw her too. I just forgot.” Then she smiled at him. “It’s all right. There’s plenty of time.”
Arthur gave her a chiding look. “How old is she now?”
“Fifteen. She’ll be sixteen in May.”
“Isn’t that a little young?”
“Of course it is. I wasn’t going to ask him to introduce himself. But her family is new enough in town that I don’t know if he’s even seen her yet.”
“Hmm.” Losing interest, Arthur started to turn away.
But Gwendolyn continued, “I was only fourteen when you and I first met.”
“Ha!” he cried. “You were fourteen when we were assigned to the same handcart company. I was eighteen. You were just a scrawny little kid in the company. I didn’t even notice you back then.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she cooed. “You’re a man. That’s why your mother and my mother had to make sure it all worked out. It took them four years to get your attention. You didn’t know it, but you never stood a chance.”
He laughed and came back over to her. Taking her in his arms, he said, “That’s right. Once you grew up, I never stood a chance.”
She kissed him, still smiling. “I’m just looking out for our boy, the same way your mama and my mama did for us.”
Notes
For readers who may wonder if people at this time really wore Levi’s jeans, the answer is yes.
In 1870, a tailor named Jacob Davis was looking for a way to strengthen trousers for hard-working men. He used a heavy-duty, dark blue denim cloth but found that miners, teamsters, lumberjacks, and cowboys gave their pants such a hard workout that they kept tearing in critical places. He came up with the idea of hammering copper rivets into the corners of the pockets to strengthen them and triple stitching the places that took the most stress.
Davis went into partnership with a successful merchant in San Francisco named Levi Strauss, and they got a patent in 1873. The pants were an instant hit. Within eighteen months, thousands of people in San Francisco were wearing “Levi’s waist-high coveralls,” as they were first called. People quickly shortened that to Levi’s jeans or simply Levi’s. Though the brand name is often written without the apostrophe, which shows possession, the official brand logo still includes it.
President Francis Asbury Hammond was probably called by Church leaders in Salt Lake City in the fall of 1884, shortly after Platte D. Lyman was released as stake president. The details of his early life come from his biography (see LDS Biographical Encyclopedia, 351–53). He lived in Bluff for a number of years and then in Mancos, Colorado, before eventually moving to Moab. While in Bloomfield, New Mexico, in November 1900, probably on stake business, he suffered an accident that took his life.
Chapter 11
_____________________
March 24, 1886—North Montezuma Creek,
near the Blue Mountains
The surveyors of the U.S. Geographical Survey who came through the area during the 1870s called them the Sierra Abajo, a Spanish phrase meaning “lower mountains.” This title seems to have been given because the highest peak in this range was only a little over 11,000 feet. But in the La Sal Mountains, just forty-five miles to the north, there were five peaks over 12,000 feet.
But the residents of San Juan County had always called them the Blue Mountains, or just the Blues, because the pine-covered slopes took on a bluish tinge when the light was right.
Compared to Bluff and the desert country along the San Juan River, the eastern slopes of the Blue Mountains were an incredible paradise. The spring grass was just coming up, but judging by its abundance, Mitch guessed that by summer it might reach the horses’ bellies. Several streams came down from the heights, their crystal-clear, ice-cold waters teeming with trout. The ravines through which those creeks ran were lined by groves of willows, maples, cottonwood, and quaking aspen. The sloping mountainsides were covered with oak and stately pines that came down almost to where the ground began to level out. That meant they had “sawable” lumber within a few miles of where the settlements would be. As the explorers rode along, they were constantly spooking mule deer out of the brush and trees. Sage grouse would explode from their cover with a whir of sound that startled the horses.
Per
fect cattle country, Mitch thought. Plenty of water, plenty of feed, and summer range within half a day’s ride. And now, with a year and a half’s worth of railroad wages in the bank and his father still willing to sell his cattle for fifty cents on the dollar, Mitch was ready to make his move. He had turned eighteen in January. That was young for starting your own ranch, but he knew he was ready.
Then he frowned. Winter would be more of a problem. The elevation at the base of the mountains was just a little over 7,000 feet, about 3,000 higher than Bluff. It would definitely be cooler in the summer, but he guessed the winters might turn brutal. Right now, with the sun just going down behind the highest ridgelines and a stiff breeze coming out of the northwest, it was cold enough to see his breath and to make him grateful he had on his woolen long johns and leather gloves.
When they left Bluff three days before, the early morning temperature had been near fifty degrees. By morning here there would be frost on the ground, maybe even ice on standing water. But that was all right, Mitch decided. Build some lean-to sheds that blocked the north winds, put up plenty of hay before winter set in, and they could ride out even a tough winter.
At the sound of horses, he turned in his saddle and looked to the south. William Adams and his two sons, George and Fred, were coming at a steady walk toward him.
“What do you think?” George asked Mitch.
Grinning, Mitch responded, “Thinking as a man who wants to spend his life running cows, I think it’s fantastic. As a man who wants to spend his life as a farmer, what do you think?”
William Adams turned in his saddle and looked to the east. From where they were, the ground gently sloped away for miles into a broad plain whose smooth surface was broken only by the few ravines that marked the creek beds. “I never expected this,” he said, half in awe. “I think we might even have some success dry farming up here.”
Cocking his head to one side, Mitch gave him a quizzical look. “I thought we had dry farming down in Bluff. Isn’t that the problem? It’s a little too dry for farming?”
William laughed, as did his two boys. “That’s irrigated farming, Mitch. That’s why we’ve struggled so much. With the Big Ditch being wiped out by the river, it’s hard to grow anything down there. But up here—” he turned completely around to gaze up at the mountains. “You’ve got a thousand acres or more that are flat enough to not need a lot of grading. And this close to the mountains, it’ll get enough rain to keep crops growing without having to dig ditches and turn water on it. Put in wheat or oats first thing in the spring and I’ll wager by fall we’re getting fifteen, maybe twenty bushels per acre.”
George was nodding vigorously. “Not only that, but remember that little valley we came across about six miles south, where South Montezuma Creek runs?”
“Yes.” Mitch remembered it well, because he had thought of it as a possible settlement site.
“Did you notice how green and verdant it is? That’s going to be a great place to farm. Maybe run some milk cows, start a dairy.”
“Ugh,” Mitch groaned. “The problem with milk cows is you have to milk ’em twice a day. Give me beef cattle any day.”
“Actually,” William went on, “I think we go back and recommend both sites as settlements. One here on the North Fork, one down there on the South Fork.”
“You’ve got my vote on that,” Mitch said. His exultation was soaring.
Standing in the stirrups, William surveyed the land around them. “Have you picked out a spot for yourself?”
“I have.” Mitch pointed to the north. “Starting right about where that line of cedar trees begins. I’d like to build a ranch house right there. There’s a spring just a hundred yards from there. That’s assuming everyone agrees.”
All nodded in agreement with that. William Adams wheeled his horse around. “Well, we promised to meet the others about now down on the South Montezuma, so we’d better get moving. Our brethren back in Bluff are anxious for our report.”
April 7, 1886—Bluff City
There weren’t a lot of people out and about yet on this chilly morning—chilly for Bluff, not for North Montezuma Creek. But every cabin and house had smoke rising from the chimney, and Mitch could smell bacon and eggs and oatmeal in the air. He drew the smell in deeply.
As he came around the corner and started up the street for the trading post, he saw Kumen Jones out behind his house saddling his horse. Mitch changed directions and headed that way. Kumen looked up and waved when he saw him. “I heard you brethren got back last night. Welcome home.”
Mitch got down from his horse and they shook hands. “Thanks.”
“Can’t wait to hear your report tonight.”
“We’re anxious to give it. It’s incredible country.”
“I know,” Kumen agreed. “I’ve ridden up that way several times.”
“So you think the place has promise?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. How have things been here?”
“Good.”
Mitch smiled to himself. That was Kumen. Not much for wasting words. He raised his hand. “See you tonight.”
“Right. Oh, Bishop Nielson and President Hammond might look you brethren up today to get a preliminary report.”
“I’ll be home.”
“I’ll tell them.”
Mitch stopped at the store that Ben Perkins and his wife had attached to their house and chatted with Mary Ann for a few minutes. Ben was on his way back from Colorado with another load of freight. Farther on, he waved to Lem Redd, who was up on his roof patching a spot that looked ready to collapse.
It was good to be back, he thought. His family had only been here a year—well, actually two, but one of those he had spent in Colorado—but this felt more like home to him than Beaver ever had. These were good people, people you liked to sit across a campfire with, people you wanted at your back if you were going after horse thieves or facing down Moenkopi Mike.
As he approached the co-op store and dance hall, Mitch noted his amazement at this new structure. It was by far the largest building in Bluff. The San Juan Co-op Association had worked with the town to build a spacious store on the ground floor and a large meeting hall on the upper floor. Though their town meetings were often held up there, everyone called it the dance hall, for that was its primary use. He was impressed. Just as President Smith had promised, Bluff was beginning to prosper.
Mitch was glad to see that there were no other horses tied up outside the co-op. If you happened to arrive after a new load of freight had come in, you could end up waiting as much as half an hour to pay for your purchases. He swung down, tied his horse, and went in.
Removing his hat as he entered, he stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. He saw a woman at the counter waiting to make a purchase, but no one was helping her at the moment. With the light coming in from the windows behind her, he didn’t recognize who it was. Not in a hurry, he moved toward the small counter in the back that held the guns and ammunition.
“Be right with you,” a pleasant voice above him sang out.
He turned and looked up. Along the narrow catwalk that served as a makeshift loft, a woman came into view. She was carrying a small barrel of what looked like pickled cod. Mitch raised a hand to signal he had heard her, but she didn’t see him.
When she came down the stairs, she was only ten feet or so away from him. “Oh,” she said, momentarily startled. “Hello.” Her smile was warm and welcoming. A dimple on her left cheek flashed briefly. She was not a woman, as he had thought. She was a girl about his age—one that he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before. “I’ll be right with you, Brother Westland.”
As she turned and moved toward the front counter, he stared after her. She knows me? And then came another thought. Am I supposed to know her?
Puzzled, he moved on to the gun counter and checked to see if they had what he was looking for. A few moments later, he heard the woman at the counter say something. The girl re
sponded with, “It’s pretty heavy, Sister Wahlquist. I can have Alma deliver it to your cabin.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. He should be back in about half an hour and I’ll send him right over.” She followed the woman out, saying something about the weather. A moment later, she appeared again, coming toward Mitch.
“All right, how may I help you?”
“Um . . . I need a box of thirty-thirty shells and—no, make that two boxes.”
She slid open the glass door and pulled out two boxes of Remington 30.30 center-fire shells and set them before him.
“Good. And a box of .45 caliber for my pistol.”
She retrieved another box.
“Good. And do you have a gun-cleaning kit?”
“We do. For your rifle or your pistol?”
“Pistol.” He smiled sheepishly. “I lost mine while we were crossing a creek.”
She set the ammo for his Colt .45 beside the other shells and then rummaged for a minute. “Ah.” She held up a small tin box. “How about this?”
“That’ll do,” he said, impressed with how well she knew what she was doing. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”
Her lips pursed as she concentrated, touching his purchases one by one. That gave him a moment to study her, and he liked what he saw. She was shorter than him by quite a bit, about the size of his mother, he guessed. Five foot three, or maybe four. She was slender but shapely. But it was her face that arrested his gaze. Her nose was petite with a slight inward curve to it. Her lips were soft and full. The lines of her face were also soft, with skin that was browner than he would expect this early in the year. She evidently spent some time outdoors. But it was her eyes that held him. They were large, slightly almond shaped, and a lustrous deep brown that drew you in and made you like her immediately. Very nice indeed. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. But then, several new families had come to Bluff while he’d been in Colorado.
Only the Brave: The Continuing Saga of the San Juan Pioneers Page 14
