“Oh.” She moved closer to him. “Then maybe I’ll let you go.”
June 21, 1887—Future Site of North Montezuma Creek
“Hey, Mitch! Come look.”
Mitch leaned on his shovel as he turned and looked at Charley. He was standing, shovel in hand, about twenty-five yards away, right where the ditch would eventually connect with the creek. “What is it?”
“You’d better come and see.”
Already guessing what it was, Mitch set the shovel down, took two steps to pick up his holster and pistol, and strapped them around his waist. Then he picked up his shovel again and started toward Charles.
“You want us to come with you?” Parley called.
“Nah. I’ll go check it out.”
When he joined Charley, it was exactly what he had expected. Instead of the gurgle of water over rocks, there was no sound. Instead of water rushing up to their knees, there was no more than an inch or two trickling past them.
Mitch’s jaw set. “I’ll be back,” he called to the others.
“You sure you want to do that alone?” Parley called.
“Yeah. I don’t want them thinking we’re looking for a fight.” Then he grinned. “But I want them to know that if that’s what they want, we’re ready. They’ll learn to file a claim instead of just arrogantly taking whatever they want.” He turned and started upstream, telling himself to hold his temper.
No surprise—no one was there. There were plenty of hoofprints in the mud, and Mitch guessed there had been three or four men here. But they had built their dam, diverted the water into a ditch running in the direction of L. C.’s pastureland, and then skedaddled before the Mormons realized what they were doing.
Muttering to himself, Mitch found a dry spot and sat down. He removed his boots and socks, rolled up his Levi’s as much as he could, grabbed his shovel, and waded into the creek bed just below the rock and sod dam. He shoveled off the sod and then removed the rocks one by one. By the time he finished, the ice-cold water had numbed his feet and his Levi’s were wet above his knees.
He got dressed again and walked back down to join his companions. By then, the creek was back to its normal flow. He gave them a brief report and they went back to work.
June 23, 1887
When the four men returned two days later, once again the ditch was empty. Muttering angrily, this time the four of them rode together upstream, rifles out and lying across their saddles. As they approached the site, they dismounted and tied their horses and then went as quietly as they could through the underbrush, peering through the trees for any sign of movement. There was nothing.
The dam was in the same place, only it was higher and thicker this time. There was also a cold campfire and signs that at least two cowboys had stayed overnight. With Fred and Charley nervously standing watch, Mitch and Parley waded in and tore the dam apart. Only this time, they scattered the rocks and left a terse note nailed to a tree.
To the LC Outfit. The land office in Durango has confirmed that you have no legal rights to this land or water. We have filed for those rights. Further action on your part to stop our legitimate use of this water will force us to send for a law enforcement officer to come and settle this matter.
—The Mormons
The next morning, the scene was repeated. When the men arrived the creek was a trickle. This time Bishop Jones, Charles Sr., George Adams, and Alvin Decker had come with them. The eight of them followed the creek toward the mountains, keeping alert for the possibility of an ambush. This time they caught two cowboys in the act. One was in the creek while the other carried the scattered rocks to him. Dropping the rock he was carrying, the second man gave a cry and raced for his horse.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Bishop Jones barked sharply.
The man pulled up and turned around. He came stalking back, his face ugly with anger. The other one, who was Mitch’s age or younger, and who looked very frightened, clambered up out of the ditch and joined his partner.
“Get out of here, squatters!” the older one snarled. “We don’t want no Mormons here. Get off our land!”
“Sorry,” Charles said, “but we aren’t the ones who are squatters. We have filed for the land and the water rights. So you go back and tell this to your foreman. We don’t want to fight you. Nor are we trying to drive you out. But we are here to stay. And if we find that you’ve stolen our water one more time, we’ll send a rider to Durango for a U.S. Marshall.”
“We’ll see about that,” the man said hotly. Then he whirled to his companion. “Let’s go, Spud. We’re headed for the ranch house.”
July 3, 1887—Verdure
When a few more days passed without hearing from or seeing any of the L. C. boys, the little group at Verdure began to relax. Trips that had been postponed due to the tensions now were put into action. So when Sunday came, Mitch, Parley Butt, and Bishop Jones were the only men left in camp.
They had a quiet day together. Following sacrament meeting, the families gathered together in the shade of a large oak tree on the north side of South Montezuma Creek. The men carried over a wagon box and turned it upside down to create a table. With the heat, no one wanted a fire, so they had a cold meal of fresh vegetables from their gardens, dried venison, a cold bean soup that Mary Walton made, and Dutch oven bread pudding smothered in molasses. After the dishes were washed in the creek, the children were sent off to play and the adults sat around in the shade talking. They were right in the middle of a discussion about whether they were going to do anything to celebrate the Fourth of July the next day, when suddenly Bishop Jones sat up. “Listen,” he cried, holding up one hand. He was looking to the north.
Every head turned, and instantly they heard it. It was a low, distant rumble. Edie glanced up at the sky, thinking it might be thunder. But Mitch scrambled to his feet. “It’s horses. And a lot of them.” Parley was up beside him. He turned to his wife. “Ency, help me get the children. Quickly!”
Mitch swung around. “Sisters, get all the children to the storage shed. Now!” Not waiting to see if they obeyed, he sprinted for his wagon. Splashing through the creek, he reached inside the wagon and grabbed his pistol belt. As he strapped it on, he saw Bishop Jones dart to their wagon. He came back out with his shotgun. Mitch turned to see that Edie and Emma Decker had the children in tow and were running for the shed they had dug into the hillside. They flung open the door. They had planned to fill it come fall, but right now it was empty. “Hurry, children! Hurry!” he called.
By the time the last of the children were inside and the mothers huddled behind the three armed men, they saw the riders come over the ridge from the north. Mitch counted quickly. Six, eight, nine. No. An even dozen. There were twelve riders. All but the lead rider had their rifles out.
“That’s old Carlisle himself,” Parley muttered.
Mitch knew all about the head of the L. C. Ranch but had not yet seen him in person. As their horses splashed across the creek at a canter, he saw that the man was tall and heavily built. His face was etched granite, his eyes a glacial blue, his body stiff as a ramrod. His reputation for being a tough old bird couldn’t have been exaggerated too much. The others spread out in a line to his left and right. It took only a quick glance at them to see why Carlisle had to be tough. These were hardened men he employed.
“Who’s in charge here?” Carlisle growled in a raspy voice.
Bishop Jones took a step forward but kept his shotgun pointed at the ground. “I am.”
“You the one that put that sign up on my creek?” His accent was clipped but definitely British.
“No, I am.” Mitch stepped forward, one hand resting casually on his pistol butt. Several rifles jerked downward. Mitch saw that one of them was in the hands of the kid from the creek. But with a flick of his wrist, Carlisle waved them back. Mitch went on. “It’s not your creek and you know that, Mr. Carlisle. You have no title to the land or the water.”
Carlisle spit a stream of brown chewing tobacco, wh
ich splattered at Mitch’s feet. “Out here, sonny boy—” He sneered as his hand flashed down and came up with a pearl-handled pistol. It was pointed directly Mitch’s chest. “—this is all the title we need.”
Several of the women gasped behind him, and Mitch heard one of the children start to whimper. But Mitch understood that showing no fear was as important with this group as it was with the Indians. He said nothing, but his eyes never left Carlisle’s.
“We’ve got no fight with you, Mr. Carlisle,” Bishop Jones said. “There’s plenty of land for the both of us, and—”
“No!” he roared. “You listen to me. There’ll be no Mormon squatters on my land. You got that?” He turned to Mitch. “And if I see you anywhere near that ditch, it’ll become your gravesite. You understand me, sonny boy?”
“You can’t frighten us off, Mr. Carlisle. We are here to stay.”
The ranch owner stood up in his stirrups and leaned forward, waving the pistol back and forth. But when he spoke, it was to Bishop Jones. “Let me make this perfectly clear to you. You have ten days to pack up and be gone. And that includes taking those stakes with your so-called claims on them and also taking down your fences. If you’re still here after ten days, we shall annihilate you.” His eyes lifted and swept across the faces of the women. “You hear that, ladies? Annihilate. Ten days, and then you will all die, and your children with you.”
Jamming the pistol back in its holster, he wheeled his horse and dug his spurs in. The others wheeled in behind him, and in less than a minute, they disappeared back the way they had come.
Once the children were in bed, the adults gathered around a low campfire to discuss what had happened earlier that day. “What are we going to do, Bishop?” Mary Jones asked.
Mitch had to smile. She always called her husband “Bishop” when they were in front of others.
Bishop Jones turned and took her hand. “We can’t run, Mary. We were called here by the Lord. And we knew that the cow outfits weren’t going to like it.”
Emma Decker spoke up. “He had eleven men with him. Do you think that’s all he has?”
Parley shook his head. “They say he’s got twenty or more hands. The rest were probably left with the cattle.” Ency reached to take his hand but said nothing. She didn’t have to. The anxiety in her eyes was there for all to see.
Edie sat next to Mitch, her arm through his. He looked at her and she smiled up at him, but she said nothing. He sensed that she was feeling like this was not her decision.
The bishop turned and looked at Mitch. “No going up to the ditch until we get this settled, Brother Mitch,” he said softly.
He felt Edie’s arm squeeze his for a moment, and then she leaned up and whispered in his ear, “That’s right!”
“I know that, Bishop. Taunting them is not the answer.”
“No, definitely not.” He dropped his head and rested it in his hands, staring at the fire. “Well, there is nothing more we can do tonight. We have ten days. Let’s think on it. Pray about it. Then tomorrow, we’ll discuss it some more.”
As he got to his feet, Edie raised her hand. “Yes, Edie?” the bishop asked.
Mitch was taken aback to see a hint of a smile on her face. “Maybe we should remind Mr. Carlisle that tomorrow is Independence Day, the day we celebrate winning freedom from oppression.”
Evelyn Adams was staring at her, not sure she had heard right.
Then Edie snapped her fingers and, with an impish smile, said, “Oh, that’s right. He’s British. They lost that war. Maybe that’s why he’s so angry.”
Laughing merrily, they stood and gathered in a circle. “Parley,” the bishop said, “would you offer our prayer this evening?”
Note
Within a short time of their arrival on the Blue Mountains, the new settlers started clashing with the cattlemen. Water rights were a major issue. The Saints had picked a site for a settlement on North Montezuma Creek, which was directly east of the mountains. But to make that work, they had to divert water into the town site. This quickly became the flash point. For several days, the Mormons and cattlemen dammed and undammed the ditch several times. Though we don’t know the exact day, a short time later Mr. Carlisle, who is said to have come from England, came to Verdure and gave the Saints the ultimatum as it is found here: “You have ten days. Then we shall annihilate you” (see Lariats, 86; Saga, 93–94; History of San Juan County, 61–62)
Chapter 18
_____________________
July 4, 1887—Verdure, San Juan County, Utah Territory
When Mitch poked his head out of the wagon cover, he was startled to see Edie sitting on a stool a few feet away, obviously waiting for him.
“Happy Independence Day.”
“What? Oh, yeah. That’s right.”
“Are you up and going or do you want me to leave you alone?”
He opened the canvas and pulled it back, revealing that he was fully dressed except for his boots. “I’m up and going. What has you up so early?”
She gave him a look that said, Do you really have to ask?
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Could you?”
He shook his head. “Not a lot.”
“Get your boots on. I went out for a walk this morning. I want to show you something.”
She led him across the creek and up the wagon road to the north ridge and then kept going for another quarter of a mile. “You walked this far?” he said after a minute. “I’m not sure that was a good idea.”
“I was fine.” She took his hand and pulled him to a faster walk.
As the trees started to thin, she stepped off the road. Ahead of them was a small rise of red earth covered with scattered cedar trees. In a moment, they came out into the open. Before them lay the grand vista of the Blue Mountain region.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “A beautiful day and a beautiful view.”
“Look closer.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Look closer at what?”
“Well, for a start, look out there at the La Sals.”
He turned slightly. To the northeast, about forty-five miles away, were the La Sal Mountains. The highest peaks were still showing snow. In the clear morning air, they looked like you could reach out and touch them. “They’re beautiful too. Probably some good cattle country up there.”
She smiled, in spite of herself. Did he think of nothing else? Then she slugged him softly. “Mitch, look more closely. Pay attention to the details.”
He squinted a little, and then came a soft exclamation of surprise. “Whoa! Is that smoke?”
“Yes, Mitch. I think it is.”
He shaded his eyes against the morning light. There was no mistaking it. At the top of one of the snow-clad peaks there was a tiny pinpoint of golden light. As he focused on it he saw a very thin column of white, like a thin, white cloud tipped on its side. He turned and stared at her. “A signal fire?”
“Ah,” she said softly, “so it wasn’t just my imagination.” She grabbed his arm. “Now look out there. Way out there. Just a little to the left of north. There are two red peaks.”
“Yeah, those are called the Six-Shooter Peaks—one north, and on—” He jerked forward again. After what seemed like a long time, he turned and looked at her in awe. “Another one.”
“Yes. Now look behind you.”
He turned to face the Blue Mountains, which were just slightly north of due west from where they were standing. This time, he saw it instantly—or rather, saw them. There were two large pillars of smoke rising vertically into the sky, one near the top of Abajo Peak, which was closest to them, the other on top of Horsehead Peak.
“They are Ute signal fires,” he breathed, feeling his pulse start to race. “No doubt about it.”
“And what does that mean?” she said, anxiety darkening her deep eyes even more.
“It means the Utes are calling their people to battle.”
The adults stood around in a circle, any thou
ght of food forgotten as Mitch and Edie described what they had seen. “So it’s true,” Bishop Jones finally said.
They all turned to him. “When we were in Mancos a few weeks ago, there was news that some cowboys up on Disappointment Creek had come upon some Ute Indians and shot several of them down in cold blood, including women and children. The Indian agent had sent out a warning to the entire area that the Utes were looking for who did it and would retaliate one way or the other. Maybe they found them.”
“What does that mean for us?” Evelyn Adams asked.
He turned and gave her a wan smile. “This had nothing to do with the Mormons, and the Utes know that. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful. It’s not a good time for a white man to be out alone, because they often don’t distinguish between us and the cowboys.”
That set them all to talking among themselves. After yesterday’s shocking confrontation, no matter what Bishop Jones said, the women were all pretty shaken—as were the men, though they tried not to show it as much. He watched them for a minute and then signaled Mitch and Parley to walk with him. As they moved out of earshot, he spoke in a low voice. “Brethren, what I haven’t said yet is that while we were in Mancos, the sheriff told us what had happened and said that he thought some of those who were guilty of the killings had come our way, probably looking for work with Carlisle.”
Parley grunted softly. “If the sheriff’s heard that, there’s a good chance the Utes have too.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means they’ll be coming here. So are you saying we pack up and leave?” Mitch asked.
“No. But I am thinking that maybe I ought to head for Mancos tomorrow. I’m pretty sure President Hammond is still there. Let’s get his counsel on what to do.”
“Good idea,” Parley said.
“I agree,” Mitch nodded.
Then he glanced back and saw that the women were watching them. “If you can handle the children for a minute, I’ll go tell the sisters what’s going on. Then maybe later today we can sit down and make some plans.”
Only the Brave: The Continuing Saga of the San Juan Pioneers Page 21
