by F. M. Parker
Joe had some of the prettiest blond-headed girls I ever did see. I expect he plans to marry about half of them.”
“No man can take care of fifty women,” Charlie said.
Drum ignored Charlie and continued to speak. “The spring is the time of the year when the Mormon missionaries return to America with their converts. They congregate in St. Joe until there is a group of two or three hundred. Then all of them gather into what they call a handcart company and go marching off over the plains to Salt Lake City. They’ve been doing it now for three years.”
“What’s a handcart?” asked Nathan.
“The Mormons have carpenters at Florence just up the Missouri River from St. Joe. There they build high, two-wheeled carts that the girls and men use to haul their belongings to Salt Lake City.”
“That’s many hundreds of miles,” Nathan said.
“Over a thousand miles across the prairie and the mountains. Now, the way I figure it is that this religion thing with the girls is not very deep, that they mostly want to get married, and pretty bad. Well, we’re going to go find them. We’ll pick a pretty one for each of us and ask her to come back to Texas with us.”
Nathan shook his head in wonderment. “How long ago did you see these pretty girls?”
“About a month ago,” Drum answered.
“Won’t they have left St. Joe long before you can get there?”
“Sure. And they travel fast for people on foot. It’s told that some days they cover more than twenty miles after they get toughened up. We’ll catch them on the trail before they can reach the old polygamist himself, Brigham Young, in Salt Lake City. He’ll probably take all the young girls that the missionaries don’t take for wives.”
“You’re going to ride twelve, maybe thirteen, hundred miles and then all that long way back to Austin on the off chance of getting a wife? You’re a handsome lot, but that’s a wild plan. Every one of them may turn you down, and then everything would have been for nothing.”
“Just pick the one you want and carry her off,” Crow commented, speaking for the first time.
“Sure. The Indian’s right,” said Ash. “What’s to stop us from doing that?”
“Probably get yourself shot by the Mormon men,” Nathan said.
“There’s only a very few men with the women,” Drum said.
“We can get wives,” Charlie said with certainty. “Are you married, Nathan?”
“No,” answered Nathan.
“Then why don’t you come with us?” Charlie asked.
“We could use another gun,” Les Jamison said. “We’re bound to run into some Indians that won’t let us go through peacefully.”
Jake Payne spoke. “The winter was late in ending, but the spring grass is coming now and there’s plenty of water. So your livestock should be all right for the six weeks or two months you’d be gone.”
Nathan fell silent at the unexpected suggestion that he should ride with the band to find a wife. He looked to the north, where the women must be at this very minute, toiling at the handcarts. If Drum told the complete truth.
Jason, his brother and friend, was dead and never could be replaced. Crow provided some companionship, but he was often absent, and even when at the ranch house, he would sit for hours and not utter a word.
However, a woman, a wife—that was a thought. He had known girls as he had moved along the frontier. Each one had provided an enjoyable interlude, a pleasant moment in a rough life.
With a grand clarity Nathan knew he wanted a woman, for she could give him more than friendship. She could give him children. Without his own family, all his labor, land, and cattle, no matter how much he acquired, would have little meaning.
Nathan wondered what kind of woman would travel the tremendously long distance from Europe to America and then drag a handcart a thousand miles. Surely she must be a very special person. Nathan would go and find out for himself. Perhaps they were also as pretty as Drum had said.
“I’ll go with you if Drum swears he tells the truth,” Nathan said.
Drum bristled at Nathan’s statement. “I don’t lie. It’s just like I said. There’s many good-looking women somewhere on the prairie between Florence, Missouri, and the mountains east of Salt Lake City. That’s big country, but they always travel the same route, west from Florence along the Platte River to Fort Laramie, and then southwest to Utah. We can go north until we strike the trail. Then see if they’ve passed that point or not. We’ll go either east or west, depending on whether they are ahead of us or not, and catch them.”
“All right,” said Nathan.
“Then you’ll come with us?” Charlie asked.
“Yes. I’ll go home and get my gear.”
“We’re not waiting for you,” Drum said.
“Ride on,” Nathan said. “I’ll overtake you tomorrow or the next day.”
“Whether or not you come means nothing to me,” Drum said. “Charlie, go get the horses. We’re traveling.”
Nathan climbed erect. “Crow, let’s go,” he said.
***
Crow selected a horse from the remuda in the corral. He put a packsaddle on the animal and led it to the door of the house. The Comanche stepped inside the door and watched the white man gather provisions for the journey.
“Take extra guns, for there are many bad Indians where you go,” Crow said.
“I intend to,” Nathan replied. He examined the weapons that had belonged to the men who had murdered Jason. He chose a rifle and pistol of the same caliber as his own two weapons so that the ammunition would be interchangeable. When he returned, he would take the guns to Austin, as he had promised the Ranger.
“Kill some Kiowa for me if you get the chance,” Crow said.
“I’ll do that.”
Nathan swiftly loaded the packhorse. He mounted the gray.
“Take care of the cattle,” Nathan said. “Keep the springs open so they can get water.”
The Comanche reluctantly nodded his agreement. Nathan, like most white men, thought only of work.
“Crow, sleep in the house and wear Jason’s clothing.”
“The clothes would be too long for me.”
“Wear them, anyway. Some white men might come past. You’ll be safer if you are here at the house and wearing a white man’s clothing. They’ll know you are not a bad Indian but a tame one.”
Crow looked sharply at Nathan, his black eyes sparking. “I’m not a tame Indian.” Then he relented and laughed his low, guttural laugh. “I’ll not wear white man’s clothing. But I will be careful. All your possessions shall be safe until you return.”
“Do you want me to bring you a woman?” Nathan asked.
“Yes. But not a white woman. Bring me a brown-skinned one so that I can beat her sometimes.”
“You truly are a bad Indian,” Nathan said.
Nathan was laughing as he left the yard. He spoke to the gray horse, and the cow pony broke into a swift, rocking-chair-gallop.
19
In the grayness of the early dawn, the sphere of the sinking moon, white as a grizzly’s tooth, hung low on the western horizon. All was quiet, except for the muffled thump of iron hooves striking the ground and the swish of grass upon the legs of the horses.
The six horsemen rode at a gallop, the legs of their mounts swinging easily after a night of rest. The immense, flat Llano Estacado, the Staked Plain, surrounded them and stretched away mile upon mile on all sides. The north wind cooled them and tossed the fast-growing prairie grass of the plains into thousands of waves, crests pursuing troughs as though they were part of the surface of a great green sea.
Nathan rode on the right edge of the line of horsemen. His heart beat nicely as he contemplated the fresh morning and the journey over new country. Possibly he would accomplish his quest to acquire a woman. That last thought lay quite pleasantly in his mind.
He ranged his sight out over the limitless prairie. A man could get on a horse and ride it forever at a run across the g
rand land. How glorious life was.
It was the beginning of the fourth day since he had left his ranch on the Red River. He had caught the group of young Texans on the second day. The band had now come one hundred and fifty miles and was north of the Canadian River. Each evening they had traveled late into the dusk, until darkness threatened. Then, rolled in their blankets, they slept. The first hint of dawn found them up and riding again.
Drum Shadley set the pace. The direction was always straight north. Nathan followed. He was the outsider, the stranger in the group. He would say nothing unless the band took some action that could cause him harm.
Drum was in his early thirties and was the band’s eldest. He was a wanderer, a hard, morose man. Les Jamison had a ranch he was developing on the Colorado River. Charlie Morse was the son of a gunsmith. He said his father would soon make him a partner. Jake Payne was a blacksmith. He had rented out his forge and shop to one of his brothers for the time he would be gone. He was well over six feet tall, with large biceps from pounding iron. Ash Brock was a wild horse wrangler, or rather had been. He said he now had enough money to start a horse ranch when he returned.
Nathan understood the desire of the men for wives, except for Drum. Why would a drifter want a wife? More importantly, why would a woman take a drifter as a husband?
The men pulled their mounts down to a trot, a rougher, less comfortable pace but one the horses could keep up for a long distance.
When the sun had climbed a third of the way into the sky, a broad, dark swath of land came into sight a few miles ahead. As the men drew nearer, the dark zone seemed to be moving, drifting off to the west.
“Wow! Look!” exclaimed Charlie. “Buffalo. Thousands of them!”
“More like tens of thousands,” Ash said. “We’ll have fresh buffalo hump for supper tonight.”
“Don’t shoot until we’re almost through them,” Nathan said.
“Yeah, don’t shoot,” said Ash. “I’ve never seen such a big herd. Let’s see how close we can get to them before they stampede.”
The riders pulled their mounts down to a walk. Closer and closer they came to the herd. The nearer buffalo looked up from their grazing to inspect the approaching horsemen. A young calf, still retaining its tannish orange color and not dark like the adults, ran in a frolicking light-stepping way out toward the men. The cow sounded a warning and the calf, its tail arched upward, wheeled and dashed back to the herd.
The buffalo drew back both left and right from the horsemen, like the parting of a black surf, to let them ride through. Two large white wolves, part of the large packs that followed and fed off the buffalo, watched from a distance. The horses of the men warily eyed the buffalo and the wolves.
For more than an hour the men rode through the countless thousands of buffalo. The herd gradually closed in behind and resumed grazing. Nathan never had seen the huge beasts allow men to approach so close. The wolves again took station on the herd, their keen eyes searching for an unwary calf, or an animal weakened by injury or sickness.
The edge of the sea of buffalo came into view. Drum pulled his rifle. “We all need some practice with our guns. Let’s shoot a few of the critters.”
“Good idea,” Ash said.
“Charlie, you hold the packhorses while the rest of us go hunting,” Drum called.
“Ah, Drum, I want to shoot a buffalo too.”
“Hold the packhorses like I told you to,” Drum repeated in a rough tone.
“The packhorses are trained well enough to stay put,” Nathan said. “Let him ride with us.”
Drum looked at Nathan with a hard expression.
“I don’t think they’ll run off, either,” Ash said.
“All right,” Drum said grudgingly.
The men leading the packhorses dropped the lead ropes. All pulled their long guns from the scabbards.
“Let’s get to shooting,” Drum called. He charged at a huge bull nearby.
The other men, whooping and spurring, sped toward their selected prey.
Nathan chose a yearling male and raced up beside him. The animal veered away. The gray horse swerved to follow. In three jumps he was again alongside the yearling.
Nathan raised his rife and swung the barrel. There was no possible way to miss, with the animal barely fifteen feet distant. The gun roared. The buffalo went down tumbling end over end, as if tripped.
He swung the gray horse around and brought it back to stop by the carcass of the yearling. He stepped down. With a few strokes of his skinning knife, careful to keep the hair off the flesh, Nathan laid back the skin from the ridge of the animal’s back, and cut eight to ten pounds of tenderloin from the yearling.
Nathan sliced off a bite of the meat and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed contentedly as he peeled a section of the thinner hide from the buffalo’s stomach and wrapped the remainder of the meat in it. In the evening he would make jerky.
Shots were still ringing out, though now at a distance. Some of the men, their single-shot rifles empty, were continuing to pursue the buffalo, riding up quite close and shooting them in the head with their pistols.
The firing dwindled away, and Nathan assembled with the other men on the now vacant prairie. The buffalo had stampeded at the crash of firearms. The animals were a black mass, fast disappearing on the far-flung horizon. The rumble of their hooves was a distant thunder.
The men retrieved the packhorses and struck out on their course to the north. Behind, on the prairie, laid the bodies of thirteen buffalo. On the green grass the carcasses looked like dark brown boulders thrown down randomly by some playful giant.
***
Orrin Grueling rode his jaded, mud-splattered horse into Temple Square. The night was full of the mixture of falling snow and rain. The dark form of the partially constructed Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was barely visible on his left.
Construction of the grand temple had begun in 1853, but the walls were little taller than Grueling’s head. Brigham Young, president and church prophet, had set back the construction substantially. During an inspection he had judged the foundation to be too narrow and weak. He railed at the master builder, telling him the temple must stand for a millennium, for a thousand years. He ordered the entire structure to be torn down and started anew, with the foundation doubled in thickness. Grueling hoped he would live long enough to have the privilege of viewing a ceremony inside the church.
Grueling passed among the mounds of cut stone waiting to be placed in the walls, and went on toward the office of Brigham Young, which was located on an adjacent street. The hour was late—near midnight, he judged. Still, the Prophet’s orders had been specific: to see him immediately upon his arrival in Salt Lake City.
Young’s office came into view. Yellow lamplight shone in the window. A horse was tied at the hitching rail. The presence of the mount told Grueling that the president had a visitor. The prophet always walked to his home, only a few blocks distant.
***
Brigham Young waited for Michael Combers, a bishop of the Church, to sit down and begin his report. Strife within the family of high Church officials was a very bad thing. Young had directed the bishops to go to Richfield, one hundred and fifty miles to the south, to evaluate and in some manner resolve the conflict.
The prophet was of stalwart build and in his late fifties. His face was broad, dominated by large brown eyes. He was weary. Worst of all, he had missed his usual evening with his wives and children.
Without removing his coat, Combers seated himself across the desk from Young. He rotated his hat in his hands.
“Good news or bad?” Young said, wanting to hurry the discussion.
“That depends on whether you were the son or the father,” the bishop said. “For the Church, the news is mostly good. However, this case does point up one of the problems of plural marriages.”
“Give me the important information,” Young said. There was a hint of sharpness in his voice. He did not want th
e conversation to become one on polygamy.
“John Bartley married Elizabeth Browning a little more than a year ago. She’s one of Irving Browning’s daughters. A very lovely young woman.”
“I know the Brownings,” Young said.
“Elizabeth was Bartley’s ninth wife. She was a dutiful wife and got along well with the other wives. For a time. Then she fell in love with Bartley’s oldest son. A son by his first wife. Both men wanted the pretty woman.”
“What did Elizabeth want?”
“She wanted the son.”
Brigham had young wives, and sons old enough to wed them. He felt the sadness of John Bartley as if it were happening to him. “What was the solution? I assume you did find one?”
“The son offered to go off on a long mission. Then, when he returned to Utah, he would find work far away from his home, and the woman.”
“Something tells me that was not the final solution.”
“That’s correct. John Bartley did not want to lose a son. He agreed to divorce Elizabeth so that she could marry his son.”
“You had the authority. Did you tend to that?”
“I assisted in the divorce and then performed the wedding ceremony for the young woman and the son.”
“Well done. You have not spoken of your role in Bartley’s decision. But I’m certain it was substantial. I thank you for resolving a very difficult situation. I shall tell the Twelve Apostles of your good work.”
“The Church business must be done,” the bishop said.
“Yes. And there seems to be more and more of it each day as our numbers increase.”
A knock sounded on the door and both men ceased talking. “It’s Orrin Grueling,” a voice said from outside.
“I shall be going,” Combers said to Young. He put on his hat and opened the door.
