Star Light, Star Bright

by Marian Wells

When Jenny and Tom stood on the street, he studied her with narrowed, suspicious eyes and asked, “Where you been?”

  “Oh, Tom, don’t look at me that way.” She tried to speak lightly. “I’m not a spy.”

  “I wasn’t thinking spy,” his voice was slow, deliberate. She paused with her hand on the saddle horn and turned to look up at him. “Oh, please, Tom. I am so tired.”

  “I think a lot of Mark,” he continued, stressing each word. “And I won’t let you make a fool of him.”

  “Tom!” she gasped. “I love that man with all my heart—why did you say such a thing?” She watched the frown clear from his face as he continued to study her.

  “Lee said he met you on the trail a couple of days ago, with you saying that you had to go to your place. He said you were pretty insistent, but that he talked you into going to the McBriers’ ’til things settled a mite. Mark went up there looking for you and found Joseph instead.”

  She thought about that for a moment and then pushed aside the questions. “I did go to McBriers’.” Tom continued to study her. Realizing he wouldn’t be satisfied until she told the truth, she said, “Come on, I’ll explain as we head toward Sally’s.”

  They were out of town when Jenny reined her horse and waited for Tom. “I guess no matter how long we live, I’ll still be ‘little sister,’ won’t I?”

  “You want it otherwise?”

  “No, Tom. I can’t get along without you, especially now. I need you to be my friend, too.” She frowned, wondering how much she should reveal. After all, Tom was a staunch member of Joseph’s church. She slanted a look at him and discovered his frown was returning.

  “Tom,” she said hastily, “no matter how badly you think of me, I must admit it. I was on my way to the cabin to get Pa’s green book.”

  His jaw dropped and he stared. “What—you have Pa’s book? Even after all these years it’s meanin’ something to you?” He sighed and scratched his head. Suddenly he leaned forward. “That’s all you went after?”

  “All? Of course all.” She dared not admit having a talisman, even to Tom. “Whatever else could pry me away from Sally’s place with the turmoil going on?”

  A happy grin took over his face. He wiped it away with a shaky hand; frowning again he said, “It’s a surprise to know you’ve had the book all these years. What does Mark think of it?”

  Jenny gasped. “Oh, Tom, I’d never tell him about it.”

  “Why? He’s your husband.”

  “Because, because—” She stopped and could only visualize the horror and the disillusionment on Mark’s face were he to find out about the book. “Can you imagine Mark understanding all we shared in South Bainbridge?”

  “No. But that’s in the past. Jenny, even Joseph doesn’t believe like that anymore.”

  “Yes, he does. No matter what he says, it keeps cropping up. If it were otherwise, then why does he carry a talisman?”

  “It’s probably just a good-luck piece. Besides, how do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Jenny answered shortly. “I’ll just make a bet with you about the craft. I know for a fact that his pa was looking for money with the witching stick while we were in Kirtland.”

  “What his pa does has nothing to do with Joe’s having the book and the keys to the kingdom.”

  “His pa is patriarch of the church. That’s pretty holy.”

  “Jenny,” Tom warned, ignoring her statement, “if you don’t start exercising faith, there’ll be no success for the people.”

  There was her sin again, and she faced it bleakly before saying, “I am. In my own way I’m exercising all the faith and power possible. If there’s a way to win out over all the bad things that’s happening in this place, I’ll find it, even if—” She stopped and searched his face. Even to Tom she dared not say the word that rolled around in her head: sabbat.

  As they rode on down the trail, Jenny was thinking of Adela and the strange vibration she had on the day Mrs. Martindale had walked out of Joseph’s office. Deep inside Jenny the conviction was growing that Adela Martindale was her Adela.

  When Tom and Jenny reached Morgans’ cabin, Sally rushed out to meet them. Weeping, she threw her arms around Jenny, and the terror of the past days suddenly swept over her. Jenny found herself clinging to Sally, trembling and crying.

  Tom followed the two women into the cabin. Tamara, seeing her mother’s tears, began to cry. While Jenny was mopping her eyes, she discovered Tom looking embarrassed while he thumped both of the Morgans on the back.

  “Oh, Tom, you’ve missed your calling,” Jenny said with an attempt to appear lighthearted.

  “No, I haven’t; I’m heading back to the smithy.” He said, looking relieved when Sally managed a smile.

  Jenny got to her feet and wandered around the cabin. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. It’s silly. Never once was I in danger, yet—” She stopped, remembering the man with the whip. He had called her a Gentile.

  After Tom left there was Sally’s storm of tearful questions. Didn’t Jenny know how dangerous it was? Daily the stories were pouring into Far West, and as often as Andy was able to be home he carried his own tales.

  Sally knew all about the Gentiles torturing the Saints, killing their animals and ravaging the crops. She knew of the mass of Saints moving out of their homes, rushing into Adam-ondi-Ahman or Far West, rushing to save their very lives when all other hope was gone.

  And when Sally was calm again, Jenny told her story. Sharp memory of the gentle McBriers made her give an honest assessment. “Sally, those people had befriended the Saints. They were willing to be good neighbors, and they were trusting.”

  Now Jenny’s question was for herself. Slowly she said, “How do you measure their story against the other stories we’re hearing? I’m thinking there’s a lot of wrong going on—on both sides. It troubles me, but also I feel as if just seeing all this forces me into admitting I’m a part of it. Somehow I’m less proud to be a member of the church.”

  “Jenny,” Sally was whispering, grasping Jenny’s arm, “don’t give up on your faith. You’ve accepted the revelation in these latter days. You know Joseph is a prophet of God. You also know our only hope in these times is to obey the Prophet in everything he says.”

  “Sally, you keep reminding me of my duty. But do you really believe what you’re saying?” Sally dropped her head. Jenny watched Sally’s trembling fingers pick at a fraying spot on her dress.

  That night decisions were made that started the battle of Crooked River.

  Mark had gone out to walk the streets of Far West. The crisp, clear air hinted of another hard frost before morning, but the sting of cold was preferable to the damp, musty hay that was serving as his bed in the loft of the livery stable. He knew he was brooding over the situation, perhaps feeling sorry for himself. He tried to concentrate on Jenny’s lonely state. But there were painful implications if that chance encounter with Joseph Smith at his cabin meant what seemed to be obvious.

  Mark limped along, kicking at the clumps of freezing grass and wishing that faith had visible strings which he could yank up tight. He was deeply conscious that the most important decision he could make right now was to do nothing except hang on to his confused, limp faith. He tried to find joy in reminding himself that Jenny was in his Lord’s hands.

  But there were other things to think about. He watched the sentry walking off the measured limits of his post. The night seemed serene, but he felt it was only an illusion.

  Mark hunched his shoulders against the cold and reflected on the nebulous sensation of danger moving closer with each tick of the clock. He knew he wasn’t alone in this feeling. He was seeing the troubled frowns, the dark eyes of fear staring at him every day.

  From out on the prairie the cry of the night owls went up. Then came the warning call of the wolves as they stalked their territory and terrorized their enemies with their heart-stopping howls.

  Even the hair on the back of Mark’s neck stiffened in
response as he stood in his lonely place, listening to the wolves’ message that chilled the blood with its threat.

  Peering out across the pale prairie, he was conscious of a parallel between the animal world and the little town of Far West. Wasn’t the little town a hedge, staking a claim against the wild; marking with a threat that was all too similar to the wolves’ territorial claim?

  The wild call and the threat seemed the same. He moved uneasily, suddenly conscious of threat moving closer, just as those roving wolves now sniffed at the outskirts of Far West.

  Shaking off the mood, he turned. The only visible light in Far West came from the window over Joseph’s work table. For a moment Mark stared at that bright spot. Then with a sigh of surrender, he began to walk toward the store.

  Joseph was hunched over the table; he glanced up in surprise as Mark walked into the circle of his lamplight. While Joseph waited in silence, Mark realized he was being forced into position. Aware of the irritation in his voice, he said, “Look, Joseph, I’ve been thinking. We’re all in this together. One falls, we all lose.

  “I meant everything I said to you, but then you’re a man. I guess you can handle a person liking you even while disagreeing with just about everything you believe in, can’t you?”

  He could see Joseph struggling. Mark sensed that he knew, even better than Joseph himself, just how far the Prophet would have to come down to accept Mark’s terms.

  Finally he spoke. “Of course, Mark. I need your help pulling these people out of a bad spot. Someday you’ll realize how badly you need me. Until that day, we’ll forget the past. Right now—” He paused, and as Mark stifled his one last urge to correct the man, the front door banged.

  “Joseph, you there?”

  It was Wight. He charged into the enclosure, spewing words as he came. “Long-faced dupes, hob-goblins, devils, what have you. The whole lot is to be damned and sent to hell.” Joseph was on his feet and Wight explained. “The Gentiles.”

  “What now? Calm down and give us the facts.”

  “Mob. Gentile mob. Sent to Boggs, they did, reporting lies about us. Comes out that in fact it was them. They won’t stay away from that county line, when they’ve been ordered just as much as we have. Came over the county line they did, and snatched three of our men. Now we’re hearing they’re fixin’ to shoot them at sunrise.”

  Mark watched Joseph’s face turn deathly pale. Quietly he asked, “Mob you say; are you certain?”

  “Mob.”

  “We’ve got to recover our men. This is a job for Patten.” He turned to Mark. “I have two things for you to do. First, get Patten and send him here. Then,” he paused to take a deep breath, “we’ve got to have intelligence from behind their lines. We’ve got to know just what we’re facing. Mark, I want you behind those lines, finding out who’s where and what they are doing. Get a lead on whether or not the state’s behind them, and how many men are milling around with guns.”

  Immediately Mark got the clear picture. He needn’t see the challenge in Joseph’s eyes to be reminded that despite their truce, Mark was still a Saint in disfavor. But he must justify with one last word. “Mark, your face is unknown. Being laid up with that leg’s kept you out of sight. That’s a big advantage to us right now.”

  In the livery stable Mark aroused Patten, and the other men crowded around. He delivered Joseph’s message. Looking around at the other men, he added, “I guess you’ll all be called out before the night’s over.”

  Tom was at his elbow. “What about you?”

  Briefly Mark explained his mission and Tom exploded, “That’s foolish! Doesn’t make no difference now. We just fight regardless. You’ll be a loser no matter which way you go. I’m sayin’ just split, Mark.”

  There were averted eyes around the circle. Patten was dressed and pulling on his white coat. His voice was hard as he said, “Tom, that’s going against counsel. I’ll forget I heard it this time, but don’t you forget that God is protecting us. There’s no bullet, no knife can touch those the Lord is protecting. We may be small in number, but we shall expect the holy angels to fight our battles for us. Don’t fear, Cartwright. You’ll come back safely.”

  “Captain Fearnought!” exclaimed a youth affectionately. “You cheer us all with your faith!”

  Tom was to recall that scene vividly just a few short hours later. He followed as the men scurried along behind Patten striding toward the store.

  Joseph was pacing the floor in front of the fire. He lifted his head, gave a short nod of approval as the men clustered in behind Patten. “Here’s the information I have now,” he said tersely, moving behind his table. “There’s a Gentile mob just south of here on the line between Caldwell and Ray counties. From what we can determine right now, they are down in this draw, holding three of our men. Their intentions—the poor devils—are to shoot our men at sunrise. Need I say more?”

  Tom found himself adding his growl of rage to the chorus around him.

  It was nearly dawn by the time Patten and his sixty men reached the slough at Crooked River. They had spent the pre-dawn hours creeping soundlessly through the rough terrain. Now nerves were taut with strain as eager men, confident of victory, pressed to the battle.

  With his men around him, Patten pointed out the final hill. “Just over this rise is the mob’s camp. We’ve smelled their fires, heard their dogs. Now, before it is daylight we rush over the hill and have them in our hands before they can think.” There was a ripple of excitement through the troops.

  “Captain, sir,” a cautious voice whispered, “’tis nearly dawn. I suggest you remove that white coat. It gleams like a flag of truce, and we don’t want them making a dreadful mistake.”

  There was a choked howl of mirth and Patten responded, “Well said, my lad. However, we’ve nothing to fear, either of being taken too lightly or too seriously. The coat? Well, the Lord’s on our side. His angels wear white. Perchance they’ll see me as another angel.”

  When they reached the last hill Tom saw that hickory trees blanketing the slope made an unexpected obstacle, dragging at the Saints and slowing their progress. Tom realized the threat immediately, and looking at the sky felt his first uneasiness. But there wasn’t time for fear; it was too near sunrise.

  Flat on their bellies, the Saints squirmed into position. Patten’s word passed down the line. The Gentile camp was safely ensconced behind a sheltering line of thick oaks. But daylight was already upon them, and Patten’s strategy was in disarray. Reluctantly the order was given. There was no recourse but to dash down that hill.

  Patten’s men were on their feet; then came that cautious change of position. Muscles tensed, rifles readied.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  “Friends,” Patten yelled.

  “Armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lay them down.”

  “Fire,” Patten snapped. He was on his feet, leading the men, surging with them down the hill.

  Tom heard the shots. In the next second, there was return fire. He heard a startled grunt. The Saint in front of him dropped and rolled limply down the hill. With a growl Tom was on his feet, shooting as he ran; but that scene of the rag doll figure, rolling away with arms like useless ropes, stayed with him.

  When the Saints charged into the Gentile camp, Tom was still on the hill, bending over the man, knowing suddenly the reality of war. Nothing but that man was important. But his help was useless. As he got to his feet he saw the Gentiles fleeing their camp, running like startled partridges.

  He was still staring at the scene when he saw the one Gentile who didn’t flee but instead ducked behind the tree. When the crack of the rifle came, Tom was looking at Captain Fearnought and saw him fall.

  They carried him back to Far West to die. Tom, in the frozen emotion of the moment, could only focus on the white coat smeared with blood.

  ****

  It was late morning when Jenny and Sally learned of the battle. Jenny and Tamara had gone for a walk, w
ith the toddler happily leading the way. They had circled through the woods, following Log Creek nearly to the settlement of Haun’s Mill. When Tamara was tired, her tearful face won a ride on Jenny’s shoulders.

  Homeward they went, with Tamara sagging against Jenny, and Jenny feeling every vibration of the forest, drinking in every fragrant whiff of moss and wood, seeing every shade of green, brown, and dampened gray.

  There they met Andy Morgan, sagging, white-faced, and bone-weary from battle. Jenny led him home, but before he could rest, they found he had to relieve his soul.

  He described the battle. “Patten died early this morning,” he added. “I was down there with the others. Danites. It was a lark. Nothing could touch us.” His voice was bitter, his eyes bleak. Jenny and Sally clung to each other, shivering.

  “Patten, foolish man. He’d heard so long that we were invincible. Didn’t take ordinary precautions. In his white coat, he yelled, ‘Charge, in the name of Lazarus!’ I could see we were outlined against the morning sky.”

  He got to his feet to pace the floor, and when Jenny tried to comfort him, he said. “I’m ashamed. I could have reasoned with the man. But it’s hard when you’ve been taught not to question. Not to even think they mightn’t have all the right answers.” Later his voice was bleak as he said, “I’m the one who’ll have to live with my uneasy conscience. It’s too late to change what has happened.”

  And then Jenny remembered. She could only say, “Mark?”

  Andy turned quickly. “Oh, I’m sorry. Mark was sent on another assignment.”

  ****

  At that moment Mark was facing Joseph in the office behind the shelves and barrels. Did Joseph seem surprised to see him?

  Mark rubbed a weary hand across his face. “I found out that all of Richmond is running like scared rabbits. They’re moving the women and children out, preparing for siege.”

  Mark was seeing the pleased smile on Joseph’s face. “But that isn’t the most significant fact I discovered. Sorry I didn’t find out in time to warn you, but—”

  “Warn?” Joseph was leaning forward now.