“The information you give us about the country west of here is considerably more favorable than the news given us by Major Harris,” Orson Pratt declared at that great council of the Twelve held beside the ford of the Little Sandy, where Bridger and Bass agreed to tarry till breakfast, answering every last one of the Saints’ questions concerning the unknown country ahead.
“If this here Harris is a feller of dark skin,” Bridger explained, “I figger you run onto Moses Harris, but he goes by the name Black Harris. You read the same sign, Scratch?”
Bass nodded.
Brigham Young confessed, “Said he was a pilot—could guide for us. We shared a camp with him last night at Pacific Springs, but, I’ll admit I never got the man’s first name. Moses.”
Bridger said, “I don’t know how he come to call hisself a major, but I’d be curious to hear what he told you Mormons ’bout where you’re headed.”
“There’s the lake where I feel I’m drawn,” Brigham declared. “I asked him about that lake.”
“Big’un, or small?” Bridger inquired. “Salt or sweet?”
Young grinned. “Salt. Yes! Salt.”
“What’d Harris say ’bout it?”
“Not much good,” Young admitted, his jowls working. “The whole region is sandy, destitute of timber of any size, and there’s no vegetation but for the wild sage. Tell me, should I trust the word of Major Harris?”
Making a casual sign of the cross from brow to breast, Bridger explained, “Can’t figger what he’d know of that part of the country. As for me, there’s plenty of timber. Last twenty year, I made sugar from the trees. Right where Harris told you there ain’t no timber.”
“So you do know the valley?”
Titus snorted, “Know it? Hell, Bridger floated on the Salt Lake his own self.”
The Prophet was taken aback. “You’ve floated the lake? Then it isn’t all as big as Fremont shows it is on his map?”
“It’s so durn big we figgered it for the ocean at first!” Jim explained.
“I ’member you telling me that story, Gabe,” Bass said with fond remembrance. “Not long after I first met up with you. Same time I met Beckwith* too.”
Bridger smiled. “I recollect that too, sitting by the crik an’ scrubbin’ the grease off our hides. Shit, weren’t we the young bucks back then?”
The Prophet waved a hand in the manner of a man impatient to bring someone else’s conversation back to his topic. “What do you know of Hastings’s route?”
“It’s a likely way to get where you’re goin’,” Bridger answered.
The Prophet drew a few lines in the dirt at their feet. “Through Weber’s Fork?”
“Yep. Go right on by my fort, keep marching south by west instead of turning north for Fort Hall. That takes you on Hastings’s road to California. He come out last summer—”
“So that route will lead us to the valley of the Salt Lake?”
“Less’n you get lost off it. Been least a hunnert wagons go through there last year, by way of Hastings’s road.”
“What do you know of the country beyond the valley?”
Jim hastily scratched some lines on the ground with the tip of his belt knife. “After you get around these here mountains, it’s purty flat for aways.”
“From there?”
He jabbed his knife into the grassy soil. “A country covered with a hard, black rock. Ever’ stone looks to be glazed, just like glass. An’ ever’ piece so hard and sharp it’ll cut your horses’ hooves to ribbons in a matter of a mile.”
G. A. Smith leaned forward and asked, “South of the valley of the Salt Lake, what lies there?”
“You run onto the Green again,” Jim answered. “The way runs through some level country, then winds into some hilly ground, but all of it bare as the face of hell, all the way to the salt sea.”
Howard Egan interrupted now. “Hastings reports that from your fort to the Salt Lake it is no more than a hundred miles. How far say you?”
“I been that way more’n half-a-hunnert times,” Bridger declared. “But I couldn’t lay any number on how far it is from my post.”
Wilford Woodruff asked, “Can we pass through the mountains farther south of here with wagons?”
“Sartin you can,” Jim replied. “But there’s places you’ll be in heavy timber, where you’ll have to cut your way through for wagons.”
Now Young asked, “You said you’d floated the lake. Have you been to the other side?”
“I know a half dozen men or more been around that lake,” Bridger said. “Had a brigade over there one autumn. Some of ’em got their horses stole by Diggers or Utes*—you best watch out for them Utes, they’ll be troublesome for you—so we cut some canoes outta cottonwoods an’ sent our men around the lake, looking for beaver.”
“How long did it take for them to bring back the beaver pelts?”
He grinned at Young. “Never did find no beaver, and them boys was about three moons getting back to us. Said it was more’n five hunnert fifty miles to get around.”
“What of these Indians stole your horses?”
“Utahs and Diggers both, bad Injuns. They catch you out, got you beat on the odds—they’ll plunder your outfit an’ whup you, if’n they don’t just kill you outright. But, a bunch big as you got here, ain’t got no worry. Them Injuns is yeller cowards less’n they got big odds in their favor.”
“With my apologies, President Young?” James Little injected. “I’d like to ask Mr. Bridger about the favorable conditions for growing our crops, like corn.”
“Yes, how is the soil in the valley?” asked William Clayton.
“I know of a feller was a trapper too, he has him a small place up in the valley of Bear River,” Bridger explained. “Soil’s good up there for his growing season, so I figger it’s good on south in the Salt Lake country. Only trouble is—”
“Trouble?” Young repeated the word with his stentorian voice.
“I figger the nights get too cold in the Salt Lake Valley for your people to grow Missouri field corn. Frosts of a night’ll kill off most grain. Country south of Utah Lake better for your crops.”
Three of the bystanders immediately leaned over Brigham Young’s shoulders as the Prophet hunched in study of his Fremont maps.
“Ah, here it is,” Young announced with pride. “Is this the valley?”
Jim squinted and asked, “A little’un? South of the Salt Lake?”
“Yes,” the Prophet assured.
“That’s the place I’m telling you of,” Bridger continued. “There’s a band of good Injuns down that way, got farms of their own, and they raise grains. I can buy the very best wheat from ’em. As I recollect that country, I ’member a valley down that way. If there was ever a promised land your God was leading you to, it’s gotta be that valley aways on south of the Salt Lake Valley.”
Surprised at that declaration, Young stammered, “W-why do you call it a promised land?”
“There’s a cedar grows down there, bears a fruit, like juniper berries, but bigger an’ yellow—’bout the size of a small plum. And the Injuns in the country ain’t thieves. They feed themselves: pick them berries and grind ’em into a meal.”
Little asked, “There’s a lot of this fruit?”
“I figger I could gather more’n a hunnert bushels off one tree alone,” Jim declared. “I’ve lived on that fruit afore, when I couldn’t bring no game to bait.”
“How’s the water, Mr. Bridger?” asked Egan.
“Streams running outta the mountains all over, and many springs too.”
Young sighed with impatience, “How far is it from the valley of the Salt Lake?”
Jim brooded a moment, then said, “Twenty days’ ride from there.”
The Prophet’s face hardened. “That far?”
“Maybe not that far … just the country you gotta go through to get there is so bad. Nothin’ much for your animals to eat. Not like it is here on the Little Sandy, where your horses got
all the feed they want. But once you get there, you’ll find a copper mine on one of the rivers running through the valley. Fact be, there’s a whole mountain of copper. Gold an’ silver down there too. I never had no use for such. You spot veins of coal in the hills. Yessir, that land is good. That there’s your promised land, Brigham Young. Soil is rich. Nights don’t get cold in the growin’ season. That country is thick with persimmons. Ever you ate a persimmon? That’s a shame you ain’t. There’s wild grapes down there too, for a man to make the best wines.”
“It takes a good climate to grow grapes, Prophet,” commented Woodruff.
So Brigham asked, “How far north have you seen these grapes growing?”
“Never saw any around Utah Lake,” he answered, “but I seen lots of cherries and berries. That’s better country than the valley of the Salt Lake. But, it’s far better south of there, where I told you. Plenty of timber, an’ the fish in the streams ain’t never been caught. Even found some wild flax growing down there.”
Young asked, “How many years has it been since you were in that country?”
“A year ago, this coming July,” Bridger declared. “There’s good rain there, but not much wind. If your God brung you out here to a promised land, it’s for sure it ain’t in the Salt Lake Valley. By gonnies, you won’t find no promised land till you get south of Utah Lake.”
The Prophet brushed both hands down the front of his dusty vest and said, “Perhaps it would not be prudent of us to bring a great population to that basin until we have ascertained whether grain will grow there or not, to sustain our faithful.”
At that moment three more men stepped up to the assembly, one of whom announced, “Supper is heated, President Young.”
The Prophet stood and tugged on the points at the bottom of his vest. “I would like to take my supper in the shade of that tree over there, Brother Whipple. Would you throw down a blanket and set two places under the branches?”
“T-two, sir?”
Young turned to peer at Jim. “Would you do me the honor of eating with me tonight? I have so many more questions I want to ask you about the valley of the Salt Lake … and that valley you said was God’s own Promised Land. Join me, please?”
“We be glad to,” Bridger replied.
Young cleared his throat. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding, Mr. Bridger. I invited only you to dine with me. Not your friend here.”
“You don’t wanna eat with him, then I ain’t—”
“Gabe,” Bass interrupted. “G’won ahead with this fella. S’all right. I ain’t gonna go hungry.”
Jim studied his eyes a minute. “Awright. I’ll eat my supper an’ then we’ll make camp. Light out in the morning.”
Titus nodded, then watched Brigham Young turn Bridger away, the two of them walking toward the tree where the three young men were spreading a blanket and preparing to serve supper.
A strange people, Bass thought to himself as he sighed and turned away. You’d think a man what calls hisself a prophet of God would know where God wants him to go already, Titus brooded. Wouldn’t you think this Brigham Young would have no need to ask Jim Bridger for directions to the Promised Land?
* James P. Beckwith (sometimes spelled Beckwourth).
* Tribes of the central and southern basin and plateau region.
NINE
“They call themselves Marmons,” Titus explained to his wife as they stood at the open gates and watched the two dogs trotting toward the first of the Pioneer Party hoving into view more than a half mile from the stockade.
She did her best to mimic his English. “Mar-mo-o-o-o-ns.”
He quickly glanced over his shoulder at the Cheyenne woman and all the children who had gathered with them to watch the arrival of Brigham Young’s Saints at Fort Bridger. Then Scratch whispered in Crow.
“Gabe took to their chief right off; but I saw him as a hard-faced man,” he declared as the sun shone hot upon them.
As Bass watched the riders approaching through the trees, crossing one small streamlet after another to reach the post, he ruminated on his confidential talk with Bridger some nine days back, late that night after Jim had finished his supper with Brigham Young.
“Not a bad sort,” Gabe had observed as Titus put a few more limbs on the small fire as the summer night grew cold.
“I don’t trust him,” Titus snorted. “None of them others.”
“But I don’t read his sign same as you,” Bridger said.
“Hell no, you wouldn’t,” Bass whispered as they unfurled their robes and blankets in a small copse of willow there beside the Little Sandy. “You just et supper with that preacher, an’ now he’s even got you seein’ angels dancing on the top of a pin.”
Bridger shrugged. “Simmer down, Scratch. He an’ his brethren seem like they’re honest, God-fearin’ folk—just like Whitman.”
“Like Doc Whitman?” Scratch repeated, incredulous. “Now, there was a good man, Gabe. He wasn’t like most ever’ other preacher I knowed: looking down their long noses at you from up on high, with them accusin’ eyes full of fire an’ the air around ’em filled with the smell of sulfur an’ brimstone. No, I’ll be glad to say our fare-thee-wells to this here Brigham Young an’ his pack o’ Marmons come mornin’.”
For a moment, Jim had pursed his lips, then disclosed, “I was hopin’ to talk you into turning around from here.”
“You don’t want me to see you on to the pass, e’en down to the Sweetwater?” he had asked. “I ain’t see’d Devil’s Gate, or that ol’ Turtle Rock in a long time—”
“I was figgering you could take President Young and the rest on to the fort, Scratch,” Bridger admitted. “Since I ain’t got no choice but to keep on my way to Fort John to see about them goods we’re needing for the store, you’ll be the host for me.”
“At your post?”
Jim leaned close to Bass. “I can trust you to show ’em your best manners.”
He didn’t have a good feeling from the start, and it wasn’t getting any better. “I dunno—”
“Treat the Saints good an’ they’ll be on their way in a few days,” Bridger said. “They need some smithin’ done afore they move on. I told President Young you’d fire up the anvil for all they needed, an’ he said they could do it themselves, or pay for your work in coin, or take it out in trade. They brung ’em plenty of supplies along, so maybe you can take a look over what they got to trade for. See what the women needs the most in the store, an’ swap out your work for the goods.”
“You’re sure ’bout makin’ these Marmons welcome like this, Gabe?”
“I get back from Fort John, I’ll make it good by you.”
“Not that,” he whispered with a correcting shake of his head, “I mean, do you got your mind made up to help these here Marmons gonna set up their promised land right at your back door?”
“They ain’t gonna be no trouble, not like Utes or Bannocks, raising hell an’ running off with my stock if I give ’em the chance!” Bridger snorted. “The Saints only got a differ’nt God than you an’ me, Scratch. Hell, this here Brigham Young really ain’t no differ’nt from a Snake or ’Rapaho medicine man. Some shake a rattle or look at the dried blood in the belly of a badger for some sign of the One Above.”
Bass scoffed, “An’ this here Brigham Young listens to all that his angels tell him about what God wants him to tell all his flock.”
Jim’s brow knitted. “Where you get these notions ’bout angels an’ his flock?”
“While you was havin’ supper with your Prophet, them others had a hold on my ear, telling me all ’bout this here Brigham Young bein’ the only one what knows the true word of God meant for the ears of man,” Titus confided sourly. “Damn, but they was preachin’ hard at Titus Bass. Harder’n any preaching I ever got whipped on these ol’ ears. Made my head ache with all their Urim an’ Thummin. Hell, they claimed they was the only folks bound to sit on a throne in glory. Angels named Moroni an’ Nephi … Gabe, this
bunch wuss’n all the hell an’ brimstone preachers I knowed back in Kaintuck. These Marmons don’t holler sayin’s outta the Bible like McAfferty or Bill Williams neither! They got their own book they was thumpin’ an’ drummin’ on—”
“Young showed it to me. Where they get called Mormons—from their own book on the word from God,” Bridger said with an unmasked enthusiasm in his voice. “He said they still believe in the Bible, but it’s older, an’ their book is a newer word of God, meant for them what’s chose for heaven here in the latter days.”
For a moment, Titus had carefully studied his old friend. “Young change you into Marmon?”
Jim smiled and leaned forward to say in a hush, “Hell no, Scratch. But I give the man my manners an’ listened to all he had to say. We talked some more about the country an’ the Injuns an’ crops they could grow down there south of Utah Lake, but in atween it all he was giving me a sharp lesson on all they believed an’ why he’s brought his people out of Missouri—”
“Missouri!” Scratch interrupted. “Why, them Marmons hate Missouri an’ all the folks in that country! Afore I had my fill of supper for all they was poundin’ in my ears, they told me the Garden of Eden—where Adam an’ Eve was birthed by God—why, it was right outside where ol’ Fort Osage stood, near the mouth of the Blue River, on the Missouri! No preacher I ever heard spout a sermon back in Kaintuck ever come anywhere close to saying God started the hull world back yonder on the banks of the Missouri River!”
“An’ a Snake medicine man claims he can pull a evil spirit right out of a man’s mouth so he ain’t sick no more,” Jim argued. “These here Mormons just got their own way of seeing God, an’ Brigham Young says they only wanna be left alone by folks who don’t understand ’em.”
“You sure you ain’t gone Marmon on me?”
With a shake of his head, Bridger stated flatly, “No. I been out here in the Rocky Mountains too long to swaller talk about angels coming down from the clouds an’ Eden at our back door, an’ one prophet gonna talk to God hisself so he can tell me which way my stick floats an’ what don’t smell o’ horse apples.”
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