The Undaunted

by Gerald N. Lund

  “What?” She gaped at him, stunned by the question.

  “Do you?”

  She barely hesitated. “Not in any way. Whatever made you ask that right now?”

  He shrugged. “Just wondering.”

  Peering at him more closely, she had a sudden thought. Had he seen what had happened between her and David earlier today? Then she shook her head. There was no way. When she had turned and started back up the canyon, it had been a full ten minutes before she reached him and John. She poked his shoulder. “Come on, Dad, you never ‘just wonder’ about things. What made you ask that question right now?”

  There was an enigmatic shrug. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about it for some reason.”

  She grabbed his arm and held him back. “Oh no you don’t, Patrick Joseph McKenna. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  He moved closer to her, put his arm around her, and pulled her up against his shoulder. “Sometime we need to talk, my girl, but right now, we need to get up that mountain and see if we can help Stanford and Belle.”

  Note

  ^1. This story of Stanford and Arabelle Smith is one of the most remarkable accounts to come out of the Hole in the Rock experience. One of Stanford’s and Belle’s grandsons, after hearing the story many times, wrote it up, and it was published in 1954 (see Raymond Jones, “Last Wagon,” 22–25). Miller includes much of this account in his book (see Hole, 112–15).

  The narrative written by their grandson is so rich in detail and dramatic power that I have added only a very few embellishments for continuity. For the most part, the words attributed to them in this chapter are their own.

  Book VIII

  Book VIII

  Attainment 1880

  Chapter 64

  Sunday, February 8, 1880

  It took five more days to bring the rest of the company across the river. On the day when the McKennas went down the Hole, the company got about forty others down too, and twenty-six of them ferried across to the east side. Tuesday morning the storm that had been threatening finally moved in, blanketing the entire area with snow and turning the air very cold. The second half of the company, those camped at Fifty Mile Spring, came forward to the Hole, but there was no way anyone was going to go down that incline when it was muddy and snow-covered.

  The storm lasted for two days, and they had to wait another day to let it dry off enough to begin taking the wagons down. By the time they got them all down and across the river, it was late Saturday afternoon, the last day of January.

  Molly shivered a little and pulled her coat more closely around her. It was still bitterly cold—there was ice several feet out on both sides of the river now. But it wasn’t the cold that made her shiver. She was remembering Belle Smith. If Stanford hadn’t made his way up to her, she would have been caught in that storm up there with those three little children.

  She pushed that thought aside. Stanford had gone up and he had gotten his little family down. The story of Belle’s courage and her remarkable “crow-hop” to the bottom of the chute was now the talk of the camp. Molly was as astonished as anyone at what she had done—she and her mother helped bandage Belle’s leg when she got down—but it left her with a faint sense of guilt. Molly hadn’t even had the courage to ride the wagon down.

  She didn’t want to start into that chain of thought again, so she deliberately forced herself to look around. That began to cheer her up immediately. This was the closest thing to heaven they’d seen since they left Cedar City. Once they were across the river, the wagons began moving up Cottonwood Creek, where the water was crystal-clear and as sweet as anything they had tasted since Escalante. Once the creek came out of the canyon, it meandered across the valley floor toward the river, dropping here and there into natural rock tanks, some big enough to make good swimming holes if the weather turned warmer.

  While the Perkins brothers had been blasting their road down through the Hole in the Rock, another crew had worked on this side of the river and carved out a road up into Cottonwood Canyon. This was a gentle, wide canyon, dramatically different from so many of the rugged, steep, dry-rock canyons in the area. What the builders found about three miles up from the river was a near-perfect campsite. It had shade, plenty of forage for the animals, an abundant supply of clean, fresh water, and plenty of firewood—real firewood, not the sagebrush and shadscale they had been using for almost two months.

  Here it was announced, to the great joy of the women, that they would stop while the road builders continued taking the road up to the tops of the bluffs. When the weather turned mild and pleasant a few days later, the women seized the opportunity and began the first major wash and cleanup effort since they had left the settlements. The natural rock tanks provided perfect washtubs for their laundry and bathtubs for their children. Some women wryly commented that it was difficult to determine which of the two was the dirtiest.

  The men not assigned to the road crew used the break to prepare for the next leg of their journey. Wilson Daily and George Lewis, the two blacksmiths in camp, set up their forges, using coal they had brought with them in their wagons. They went to work making shoes and nails to reshoe the horses, mules, and oxen. Equipment that had been damaged in the precipitous dash down through the Hole was also in need of repair. There were crushed barrels, smashed cages, cracked tires, split tongues, worn harnessing, all in need of repair.

  As Molly looked around at the camp, none of that was going on now, of course. It was the Sabbath. They had enjoyed a worship service earlier that was warmed with a sense of gratitude all were feeling. There would be an evening service later, and Platte Lyman and other brethren would speak to them. But tomorrow, it would all end. The road to the top was now finished, and it was time to move on.1

  She sighed and continued walking. Move on to what? More sagebrush and shadscale? More tepid, stale water from potholes and rock tanks? More endless, jarring miles? More terrifying grades?

  She forced those thoughts aside, too. At least they were moving again. The wait at the Hole, over a month long, had seemed interminable to her. Nice as this camp was, she was ready to move on, to shorten the distance between them and the San Juan.

  She stopped at the front of the tent of Jim and Anna Maria Decker. She went to call out to see if anyone was inside, then saw that Jim Decker was at the adjoining tent, talking with his father and brothers. He looked up and saw her. “Go on in,” he said. “Anna’s there.”

  From inside the tent came a muffled voice. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Anna. Molly McKenna.”

  “How nice. Come in, Molly.”

  Molly cradled the tiny bundle in her arms. “She is so beautiful, Anna.”

  “And sweet as can be,” Anna acknowledged. “Considering where she is and where she was born, she is really a good baby.”

  “Little Lena Deseret,”2 Molly crooned, watching her suck on her fist, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, the soft dark lashes lying against her cheeks. “A whole month old now.”

  Young Anna, the oldest of the three Decker girls, came over. “Can I hold her now, Molly?”

  Molly’s lips formed into a pout. “That’s not fair. You get to hold her all the time.” But she handed the baby to her, tucking the blanket in around her feet.

  As young Anna sat down on the quilt in the corner, her sister Genevieve, or Ginny, came over and plopped down beside her. The two sisters began to coo and goo at the sleeping baby, hoping to awaken her. Molly watched the tender scene for a few moments, smiling and feeling a touch of envy. Then she turned to Anna. “So how are you doing by now?”

  “I’m doing real good,” she said. “The week here in camp has been wonderful for me. I’m finally getting my strength back.”

  “It’s been wonderful for all of us.” Molly glanced at the baby. “So, was Jim disappointed not to get a little boy?” she asked, soft enough that the girls wouldn’t notice.

  “Oh, a little, I suppose. But he adores his girls. Calls them his thr
ee little cowgirls.”

  “I see,” Molly said with a smile. “So he plans to go into ranching when we get to San Juan?”

  “That would be his dream,” she said.

  “And what about your dream?”

  That brought a look of surprise. “I’m happy with whatever Jim wants to do. He’s a hard worker. He’ll make a go of it if he sets his mind to it.”

  Suddenly Molly wished she hadn’t asked the question. Anna evidently saw something in her expression. “Doesn’t David hope to get a ranch too?”

  “Yes. He and his father will work it together.”

  “You sound like that may not be part of your dream,” she observed.

  Molly sighed. Was she that obvious? “Maybe it’s just because we’ve been out here so long, but the thoughts of an isolated homestead . . .” She didn’t want to finish that, and decided to change the subject. “The good thing about David is, I think he could be successful at about anything he sets his mind to.”

  She nodded. “Knowing how your father feels about him, I’m sure he’d be happy to have David become part of the family business.”

  Yes, but would David be happy in the family business? Molly just shrugged in response to the observation. And then a thought struck her with great force. Four months ago, her answer to that question would probably have been, Yes, but would I want him? Would I want this charming, handsome, cynical, doubting, questioning skeptic as my husband? That had dominated her thoughts for so long, it seemed strange that it hadn’t even surfaced now.

  Not liking where that was taking her, she changed the subject. “By the way, Mama and Abby will probably be here in a few minutes. They were writing in their journals when I left, but they really want to see the baby again.”

  And with that, the conversation turned to other things, and Molly gratefully turned her thoughts away from David, at least for the moment.

  Abby moved up to the wagon, listened for a moment, then scratched on the canvas cover. “Anybody in there?”

  “Aye, lassie. Stick yur ’ead in an’ say ’ello.”

  She walked around to the back and pulled open the flap. John Draper was propped up against a sack of corn, reading from one of the books Abby had lent him over a week ago. “What are you doing inside there when the weather out here is so pleasant?” she teased.

  “Ta be reet ’onest wit ye, Abby gurl, Ah be readin’.”

  His eyes looked a little droopy. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said.

  “’Tis awl reet.” He looked around. “Whare be David?”

  “That was going to be my next question. I need to see him for a moment.”

  “Sorry, Ah cahrn’t ’elp ya thare, Abby.” He started to get up. “But Ah can cum ’elp ya look.”

  She waved him back down. “That’s all right,” she said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You stay here and continue your—” one eyebrow arched—“your reading.”

  He laughed. “Ah, Abby, Ah fear ya been aroond me son too mooch. Ya be pickin’ up sum of ’is cheek.”

  “You have a good read,” she said. She pulled back and let the flap fall shut again. Then she tapped on the canvas as she walked past it. “Usually, however, it’s easier when you have the book right side up.”

  After asking several other people, she found David by the creek, downstream from the campsite about a hundred yards. He was beneath some giant old cottonwood trees that shaded one of the rock tanks. To her surprise, he was seated on the ground with his back to her, and in front of him, gathered around the pool, were nearly a dozen children. She stopped and moved behind a tree, curious as to what was going on.

  The children included a wide age span, those in their early to mid-teens down to five- and six-year-olds. Billy Joe was visible near the front. One girl about Billy Joe’s age was waving her hand back and forth wildly. “I know, I know,” she cried, barely able to keep her seat.

  David pointed at her. “Yes, Sally?”

  “‘Bits and bobs’ are odds and ends.”

  “Good.” David leaned forward a little. “Are your parents from England?”

  “Yep,” she said proudly.

  “Okay,” David said, chiding them a little. “How many of you have parents or grandparents who come from the British Isles?”

  To Abby’s surprise, nearly half the hands came up.

  “I can see I’m going to have to make these a little tougher then,” David mused. “Okay, I’ll say the word or phrase. If you know what it means, you just sing it out. You don’t have to raise your hand. Ready?”

  Every child leaned forward, eyes bright with eagerness.

  “To ‘witter on.’”

  A girl about twelve shot up her hand and blurted it out at the same time. “To gab and gab.”

  “Good, Delia. How about ‘dicey’?”

  “Questionable or risky,” she fired right back.

  He laughed. “Okay, I can see you’re a real Brit. Come on, you others. How about ‘chuffed,’ as in ‘I’m real chuffed.’”

  “Mad?” a younger girl asked tentatively.

  “Nope, just the opposite. It means to be delighted.” He reached up and pulled on his lip. “All right, let’s make this a little more challenging. What’s a ‘train spotter’?”

  “Someone who sees a train,” Billy Joe called.

  “Spoken like a true Yank,” David said. “Sorry. Anyone else?”

  Heads were shaking back and forth.

  “Ha!” David said. “Got you. A train spotter is a dull person, someone who’s really boring.”

  The children gave him blank looks. Abby stepped forward. “Why’s that?” she asked.

  David jumped a little as he turned and saw who it was. He looked instantly sheepish. “We’re just playing a game,” he said. “Seeing if they know the meaning of British expressions.”

  “I see what you’re doing,” she said. She walked over and sat down beside Billy Joe. “So why is a dull, boring person called a train spotter?”

  He felt even more foolish. “In England there are people who stand by the railroad tracks and write down the serial numbers of all the cars or locomotives as they pass by because they have nothing better to do.”

  “I see. That does sound pretty boring. Thank you,” she said, and sat back.

  But she had rattled him, and he looked uncertain about what to do.

  “Give us some more,” the children called.

  “Yes,” Abby said. “Give us some more.”

  He shot her a dirty look. “Okay, a few more, then it’s time to get back to your families. How about ‘chock-a-block’?”

  Frank’s hand was up in an instant. “Stuffed full, like the cupboard is chock-a-block.”

  “Good, Frank. And ‘whacked’?”

  “Very tired,” an eight-year-old said. “Grandpa’s always saying that: ‘I’m real whacked.’”

  “One more,” David said. “How about ‘dotty’?”

  That one had them. They looked back and forth but came up blank. Abby finally raised her hand. “I may know that one.”

  “Miss Abigail,” David said, giving her a low bow.

  “To be dotty is to be silly or a little bit crazy.”

  “Exactly right. Can you use it in a sentence?”

  She looked at her brother. “Billy Joe is a bit dotty about guns.”

  “Am not!” he said hotly as the other children shrieked with laughter.

  “I’m afraid you are, Billy Joe,” David said, “but would you rather be dotty about guns or nithered?”

  His nose wrinkled, as he was not sure he liked either. David looked around. “Anyone?”

  No one moved. Even Abby was silent. Pleased that he had them, he stood up. “Nithered means to be very cold, nearly frozen. And since we are not nithered at the moment, and this is a lovely day, I would suggest you go back to your families and see how many words they know.”

  Abby stood back and watched as the children came up to David to say good-bye or to ask him a
question. A five-year-old girl motioned for him to bend down, then kissed him on the cheek. A younger boy gave him a pretty rock he had found in the creek. To her surprise, watching that made Abby want to cry, though she wasn’t sure why.

  When the last one left, he turned to her, motioning for her to join him as they walked back to the camp. “That was sweet,” she said, “and fun.”

  “They’re great kids.” They moved slowly, neither speaking. “Where’s Dad?” he finally asked.

  “In your wagon,” she said. She stopped, then moved over to one of the cottonwood trees and leaned back against it. Her eyes never left his. He finally had to look away.

  “I have something I want to say, David,” she said, speaking very softly now.

  “I thought you might.”

  “I wanted to thank you for the other day. If you hadn’t insisted on me and Dad coming down with you that first time, I don’t think I could have found the courage to drive down it by myself.”

  She had surprised him. Trying not to show his relief, he nodded. “When I suggested it, I had no intention that it would ever come to that.” He glanced up, his eyes pained. “I am so sorry that I left you up there alone.”

  She smiled. “It’s a good thing you fell into the river,” she said, making a face, “or Molly and I would have personally thrown you in. How is your leg, by the way? I see you’re not using the cane now.”

  “It’s healing. Fortunately, the hoof didn’t cut too deeply.”

  “Well, anyway. Thank you.”

  He bent down and picked up a dead twig and began breaking it into small pieces. “Is that what you really came to say?”

  She straightened, and he saw that her mouth had pinched tight now. “Would you like to tell me what happened on the mountain the other day?”

  Now he began kicking at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “I’m not sure,” he finally said.

  “And that’s it?” she cried.

  “I’m sorry, Abby. I . . . I suppose part of it was being so relieved that we made it down safely. I think the adrenaline was still pumping.”