Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Cabins had been unroofed, rail fencing ripped apart, stores brickbatted. Men were running everywhere, pouring in and out of homes like ants on a foraging expedition. They carried bedding and clothing, pots, jars, dishes, boots, tools—anything that wasn’t fastened down and that someone else had not already grabbed. Haystacks were torn apart as frantic men looked for treasure the Mormons may have hid. The front yard of virtually every house was littered with their leavings. Clothing had been slashed, linens trampled into the mud.

  Joshua passed a dry goods store. Its door hung crazily from one hinge. The windows were smashed. Inside, men were fighting over the contents of the shelves, yipping and snarling and snapping at each other. Behind the store, three men were ripping at the railing of a fence. Puzzled, Joshua slowed his step, not sure why the fence should be a target. Then as the men finished their task, he understood why. With the fence down, they went after the five or six horses in the pasture, driving them through the opening they had made and into an adjoining cornfield. The men ran behind the horses, waving their hats and yelling at the top of their lungs. The cornfield, also fenced, was considerably smaller than the pasture, and the horses went wild in the confined space. In moments, the cornfield was a trampled, muddy mass of useless pulp, and the men whooped with glee at what they had done.

  Joshua shook his head in disgust. This was even worse than the looting. At least there was some personal gain in that. This was just wanton, blind destruction. He moved on swiftly.

  Joshua was nearly to his father’s cabin when he pulled up short. In the narrow space between a cabin and a shed, a man was on his knees in front of a small bench. He was sobbing uncontrollably over what looked like a rumpled piece of clothing. Cautious, but curious, Joshua changed direction and moved closer. And then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. It was not a piece of clothing on the bench. It was a woman. In her late twenties, maybe. Her dress was torn. Her face was bloody. Her hands had been pulled above her head and lashed down tightly to the bench. Her feet had been tied to the opposite end.

  Joshua felt suddenly sick. With terrible clarity he realized what had happened. He wasn’t sure how many men there had been, but enough to kill her. And they had probably made her husband watch the whole thing at pistol point.

  He fell back a step, horrified beyond anything he had ever felt before. The man must have heard him, for he jumped up, whirling around. His eyes were wild, and he raised his hands in front of his face. “No! Please!”

  Joshua was backing up now. He raised his own hands, trying to calm the man. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a friend. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Please. No. Oh, please.” He was almost babbling.

  Joshua turned and trotted away. Then, as the reality of what he had just seen hit him with its full force, he broke into a run. Faster and faster. Toward his father’s house.

  * * *

  There was a third “Indian” in the Steed cabin now. He had been passing by just as Caleb and Hugh came back into the cabin and pulled back the rug that hid the root cellar. Sticking his head in to see what was going on, he instantly saw an opportunity too ripe to pass up. Now this third man had a pistol trained on Peter. But his eyes kept darting hungrily to where Lydia, Jessica, Rebecca, and Mary Ann stood wide-eyed and terrified. “I get the dark one, Caleb.”

  “Shut up!” the large man roared. “You’ll get whatever Hugh and me say you get. We found ’em.”

  “Yeah,” the little man with the dirty beard and the streaked war paint chortled. “We sure did.”

  The muffled screams and wailing of the children could be heard coming from beneath the floor. Caleb had made the women get out of the cellar, then had slammed the cover back down on the children. Only young Joshua had scrambled out to join the women. Now he stood beside his mother, clinging desperately to Lydia’s skirts.

  “Leave them alone,” Peter shouted.

  The newcomer swung around, his fist aimed at Peter’s head. Peter jerked away, but the blow caught him on the back and shoulder and sent him slamming against the wall. He stumbled to one knee, gasping.

  “One more word outta you, boy, and you’re a dead Englishman. You hear me!” He swung a kick at Peter’s ribs, but Peter saw that one and rolled away in time.

  “You hear me!”

  Peter dropped his head and nodded. “Yes.”

  The one called Caleb moved slowly across the room, his glittering eyes fixed on Rebecca. She shrank back with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Come here, missy,” he breathed heavily. “I like the young ones.”

  Suddenly young Joshua hurtled forward, arms flailing as he threw himself at the man’s legs. “Leave her alone!” he screamed. “You leave my aunt alone!” It caught Caleb by surprise and stopped his forward progress.

  “Joshua!” Lydia screamed. She lunged forward, but instantly the one called Hugh had his rifle up and pointed straight at her head. “Get back!” he yelled.

  Sobbing, Lydia fell back. From the root cellar Emily started to scream. “Mama! Mama!”

  Caleb swung down and corralled Joshua with ridiculous ease, then pushed him out at arm’s length. “Lookee here, Hugh,” he said over his shoulder. “This little Mormon mite has got some real spunk.” He went into a half crouch, peering into Joshua’s eyes. The boy was still trying to hit him, but his blows were going wild. “How old are you, boy?”

  Joshua looked straight into the man’s eyes but clamped his mouth shut.

  Caleb’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I said, how old are you, boy?”

  “He’s seven,” Lydia cried. “Please don’t hurt him. Take me, if you must. But don’t hurt my children.”

  Caleb gave Joshua a hard shove, and the boy stumbled back into his mother’s arms. Lydia gathered him in with a sob, holding him tightly to her. Caleb leered at her. “Now, don’t you get anxious, honey,” he crooned. “You’ll get your turn soon enough. First we’re gonna get to know this one.”

  In one leap he was to Rebecca. His hand snaked out with lightning speed and he had her by the arm, dragging her toward him.

  “No!” Rebecca screamed. There was the sound of tearing fabric and she pulled free, leaving most of her sleeve in his hand.

  Mary Ann and Jessica leaped at him simultaneously. With a roar, Caleb swung around. His fist caught Mary Ann in the chest, knocking her backwards. Jessica was clinging to him, clawing at his face, the bandage on her hand totally forgotten. He reached up and grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. He smacked her across the side of the face with the pistol butt. There was a sickening thud and Jessica dropped like a sack of flour.

  Rebecca and Lydia screamed. Young Joshua was shouting hysterically. But Peter kept quiet, hoping to seize an opportunity to make a move. The newcomer still had the pistol trained on him, but the man’s attention was fixed on the action taking place across the room. Peter moved quickly, scrambling on all fours.

  “Hey!” the man shouted. He swung up his pistol and fired. It was deafening in the confines of the cabin. But Peter was too quick. The shot buried itself in one of the logs where Peter had just been. By then Peter was at the fireplace, clawing at the two loose stones he had dug out earlier that day. Cursing wildly, the man leaped for the table, where Caleb’s rifle lay. His pistol carried only one shot without reloading and was useless now.

  Peter gasped in relief. The stones were free and the pistol lay in its hole beneath them. He yanked it out, rolling away as he did so. The man had the rifle up. There was a flash and another blast. The bullet whanged into the fireplace, flinging splinters of rock into Peter’s face. But he was not conscious of the stinging barbs. He was up on his knees, clasping the pistol with both hands. He pulled the trigger, flinching as the pistol bucked in his hands.

  The man who had come into the Steed cabin to share in the spoils slammed back against the table, his eyes wide and startled. Blood poured out of a small hole high in his left shoulder. The rifle clattered to the floor. He coughed once, then went down, clutc
hing at his wound and moaning.

  Peter heard a noise to one side and swung around to meet it, raising the pistol again. But this time he was far too slow. Hugh’s boot came swinging in. The toe of it caught Peter right on the elbow, and the pistol flew out of his hands. “You stupid pup!” Hugh shouted.

  The rifle butt came slashing in. Peter tried to throw up his arm, but it was like throwing a twig in front of a crashing log. There was a burst of flashing light and Peter went sprawling. He rolled to a stop and lay still.

  “No!” Mary Ann was up on one knee. She was gasping. One arm was across her chest where Caleb had struck her. Her face was white, her mouth drawn back as she bit down on the pain. “Peter!” she cried. She began dragging herself through the debris on the floor toward him.

  Caleb gave Peter’s still form one contemptuous look, then whirled back around to face Rebecca. His eyes had narrowed to tiny slits. The pistol came up and steadied, not two feet away from Rebecca’s face. “Now, missy!” he grunted. “You come to Caleb, or I’ll blow your brains all over this—”

  Behind them there was a tremendous crash as the back door to the cabin burst open and slammed against the wall. Hugh and Caleb both whirled, weapons coming up.

  “Don’t do it!” Joshua shouted, waving his pistol at both of them. “Don’t do it!”

  Both men hesitated. The figure of a man was silhouetted against the outside light, and all they could see for sure was the shape of the pistol. Their hesitation was their undoing, and they knew it. Slowly Caleb lowered his pistol. In a moment, Hugh followed suit.

  “Joshua?” Mary Ann was at Peter’s side, but she clambered to her feet. There was a look of incredulous joy on her face. “Joshua, is that you?”

  At the same instant, Rebecca gave a soft cry and dropped to her knees, burying her face in her hands. Great shuddering sobs began to rack her body.

  Joshua didn’t look at either of them. He jerked his head toward the two men. “Put your weapons on the table, then get over by the wall.”

  “Who are you?” Caleb snarled. But he complied as he did so. His partner did the same, his eyes darting back and forth between Joshua and Caleb.

  Joshua stepped inside and shut the door. “Captain Steed, Third Brigade, Missouri militia. Serving under General Lucas.”

  “You’re one of us?” Hugh exploded with relief.

  Joshua’s pistol never wavered. “What are you doing here?”

  A lecherous grin stole across Caleb’s face. “Whaddya think, Captain?” He leaned forward, the lust burning in his eyes. “And you’re just in time. You can have first choice.”

  Joshua lunged forward, the pistol barrel whipping downward. The gunsight caught the big man high on his left cheek, instantly opening a three-inch gash. Caleb screamed and fell backwards. Joshua waded in, shouting at the top of his lungs. “That’s my sister, you—” His hand lashed out again and again. “That’s my sister!”

  Caleb was shrieking now, his hands over his head. He went down to his knees, then into a ball on the floor, trying to escape the blows raining down on him.

  “Captain! Captain!” Hugh shouted. “Stop it! You’re killing him!”

  Joshua’s hand stopped in midair, then gradually lowered. He stepped back, chest heaving. “Get outta here!” he said in heavy disgust. “Get outta my sight before I kill the both of you.” He motioned to the man whom Peter had shot and who was now moaning and writhing on the floor. “And take this scum with you.” The wounded newcomer needed no prodding. Lumbering awkwardly, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder with his other hand, he stumbled outside and disappeared.

  Caleb reached up, groping for the table. He was a ghastly sight. His cheek was streaming blood. Another blow had cut open one eyebrow, and the blood pouring into his eye had closed it. He held his head in his hands, cowering as he started past Joshua. Joshua stepped back, turning away, afraid he might hit the man again. Then suddenly the big man lunged across the table, grabbing for the pistol he had laid there.

  “Joshua, watch out!” Lydia cried.

  Joshua rolled hard, shooting as he fell, his pistol firing a split second ahead of Caleb’s. The bullet caught the Missourian square in the chest, smashing him backwards, jerking the muzzle of Caleb’s pistol up sharply. The ball from Caleb’s gun went straight up and into the ceiling of the cabin.

  There was a crash as Caleb careened off a chair and then hit the floor. Joshua sprang up again, but the threat was over. Hugh was staring at his partner, eyes bulging from the midst of the streaked and washed-out war paint.

  Joshua stepped forward, waving the pistol. Hugh cried out in terror and fell back scrambling. “You miserable cur!” Joshua said with low menace. “Get outta here!”

  “I’m goin’! I’m goin’!” he squealed. He bolted through the front door and darted away, howling as he ran.

  Joshua spun around. In three steps he was to Rebecca. Dropping the pistol, he gently took her by both elbows and pulled her up. He took her in his arms and pulled her to him. “It’s all right now,” he soothed, pressing her against him to steady her. “It’s all right.”

  She looked up, still dazed. Then recognition dawned in her eyes. She threw her arms around him and buried her head against his shoulder. Mary Ann came over, crying now too, but with relief and joy. “I’ll take her,” she said, pulling Rebecca to her.

  Joshua whirled back around. Jessica was getting up, holding her bandaged hand to the side of her head. Lydia was holding young Joshua tightly, sobbing uncontrollably. “Lydia!” he barked. “Jessica! Where are the children?”

  They both turned and pointed. “In the root cellar,” Lydia said.

  He waved his hand in the direction of the dead man on the floor. “This is bad. Very bad. We’ve got to get out of here. Where can we take you?”

  “To our house,” Lydia cried. “There are two other families there, but it’s a place where we can hide.”

  Joshua straightened. “Get the children. I’ll get Peter. Come on! We don’t have much time.”

  * * *

  Joshua moved cautiously, pistol in hand, wishing desperately that it was night. He half laughed at his own irrationality. It was not even noon yet. There would be no covering darkness for him this time. He stopped at the corner of a barn and carefully peered around the corner. There were some men looting a home down the street about half a block away. He stepped back, wanting to be sure he could cross without being seen.

  He would head west out of the city. Go four or five miles, enough to give Lucas’s camp a wide berth, then head south. He had no plans to try and get back to his horse. That would be certain suicide. He would find a place to hole up, along a creek maybe, and wait until it was dark. Then he would head for Independence. Given half a break he might find a homestead. He’d buy a horse—or steal one if he had to. It was critical he get back to Independence and to Caroline, before the news could precede him. It would be close, but Cornwell had the wagon and emergency supplies all ready and waiting. They would go to St. Louis. Farther if they had to. He nodded at that. He suspected that anywhere in Missouri was not going to be safe for him now. Not for a very long time.

  He cursed at himself. I should have shot the other two as well! That way there would have been no witnesses, no one to identify Captain Joshua Steed. But he pushed that thought aside almost as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t just shoot a man down in cold blood. Besides, if he had shot them and gotten away clean, they would think the Mormons had done it. And there would be a heavy price to pay for that. A price that would fall on the heads of his own family.

  He peeked around the corner again. The men were still at it, but they were running in and out of the house. He let out his breath, his mind racing, knowing it was dangerous to stand still too long. He had to move.

  One more quick look. He jerked back, his heart pounding. A man had come out of a house just three buildings down. He was coming toward him. Joshua couldn’t tell if he was Mormon or Missourian. With almost all th
e Mormon men still held outside of town under guard, it was probably a Missourian, but Joshua sure wasn’t going to wait to find out. He started backing up, lifting his feet carefully so as to make no sound.

  He never heard the sound of the rifle shot. He just felt the terrible blow to his back and the instant, searing pain that cut right through his entire body. He half fell, staggering, caught only by the wall of the building. Clutching at his chest, Joshua stared down at the blood splattered on the wall. Someone’s been shot! It didn’t register that it was his own blood he was seeing.

  Dimly, through a roaring in his ears, he heard a voice shouting from somewhere behind him. “I got ’im! I got ’im!”

  He turned slowly, his knees starting to buckle. I know that voice! The pain was making him gasp now, and he slid slowly downward until he was sitting down, his back against the barn. Where have I heard that voice! It seemed like a problem of immense importance. And then with a great sense of relief, he remembered. It was the voice of the man back at his mother’s cabin. The little man. Joshua shook his head, vastly troubled. But he left his rifle on the table. He doesn’t have a rifle.

  Joshua let the pistol slide out of his fingers. He was glad he had talked to Cornwell. So everything would be ready for him and Caroline to quickly flee. There wouldn’t be much time once he got there.

  He was aware of the sound of running feet, but he couldn’t make his eyes focus. The fire was blinding him as well as deafening him. He toppled over onto his side. Somewhere it registered that his face was in the wetness of prairie grass. “I’m coming, Caroline,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

  Chapter Notes

  The surrender of the Mormon arms was the key to giving the Missouri militia and mob free rein to loot and pillage. Lucas made no effort to control or restrain them. (See Persecutions, pp. 243–45.) The descriptions of what followed as seen through Joshua’s eyes are based on contemporary accounts of the fall of Far West (see Persecutions, pp. 243–45; CHFT, p. 206).