Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Her gaze was too penetrating for him to ignore. “I was just . . .” He sighed. “I would like to be alone for a while—to talk, to think . . . and to make some decisions.”

  She set the book back in her small trunk and got to her feet. “All right, Peter.”

  For a time, Peter was afraid there was no way through. To the south of the camp the first of the foothills rose quickly to the more imposing ridges of the Black Hills. Beaver Creek came out where two hills formed a narrow canyon. It was heavy with trees, willows, and other bushes, too thick to push through on a horse. But then he found a narrow trail—probably made by deer or elk—and guided the horse into it. They rode quietly, Kathryn holding on to him loosely, as he let the horse pick its own way.

  The hills rose steeply on either side now, and it looked as though they were riding into a blind canyon. Then suddenly, after a few hundred yards, the canyon opened up into a small hollow, perhaps a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards wide at its broadest and maybe a quarter of a mile long. He reined in beneath a huge cottonwood tree.

  “This is beautiful, Peter.”

  And that it was. It was as though they had ridden into a park that shut out the rest of the world. To their left the hills had become sharp cliffs that were fifty or sixty feet high. Most startling was their color. The rock was a brilliant reddish brown, a burnt umber that glowed warmly now in the afternoon sunlight. The color contrasted sharply with the foliage and grass that grew all around them. There was a hush, broken only by the soft murmuring of the creek and the slight stirring of the wind in the branches above them.

  “Look,” Peter said, touching her shoulder. He was pointing to their right now. Here the creek made a bend to the west.

  As she turned, there was a quick intake of breath. “Oh, Peter!” she breathed.

  A few yards away, the creek passed beneath a huge natural bridge cut through an abutment of stone that jutted out from the side of the mountain. Here the rock was more naturally colored, beige and yellow and brown. The arch of the natural bridge was perhaps fifteen or twenty feet high and a good thirty or forty feet wide, though the creek was only about half that width. Above the arch the stone was twenty or thirty feet thick, making the top of the bridge about fifty feet above their heads. It was a sight that took away the breath.

  “Mr. Bryant said this was something worth seeing,” Peter said quietly, not wanting to violate the stillness.

  “It’s the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen,” Kathryn whispered. “I can’t believe it. It’s so perfect, like someone made it.”

  “Someone did,” he answered.

  She smiled at him and nodded.

  He turned and helped her slide off the horse, handed her the cane, then dismounted himself. He led the horse to a place on the bank of the creek where there was plenty of grass and where it could reach the water, then tied the reins to a branch. Then he took her hand and started toward the bridge.

  “Can we sit right under it?” she asked, still a little awestruck at the sight that stood before them.

  “Yes.” He could see that there was a place directly beneath the arch, scoured out during times of flooding, that now was thick with grass. They moved there and sat down. Kathryn lay back on the grass and closed her eyes.

  For some time they sat quietly, content to enjoy the setting. Peter flipped pebbles into the creek, noting the different pitches the plopping sounds made.

  “So, are you going to tell me?” Kathryn asked.

  “Tell you what?”

  She opened her eyes. “You’ve made some kind of decision, haven’t you?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  “Was it the drinking?”

  “Partly.”

  “You can’t expect them to believe as we do, Peter. They’ve never heard of the Word of Wisdom. Even some of our own people still drink wine.”

  “I know that. That’s not what disturbs me. It was . . . I don’t know. Did you see the look Mr. Reed gave me when I refused to join in the toast?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “We’re different from them, Kathryn. We’re not part of what they believe and want. And it’s not just the Reeds. It’s everything. They’re going to California on an adventure, to make their fortunes, to find free land. All we want is to find our family and a place where we can worship as we choose, free from having the mobs come in upon us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed softly. “And that seems so strange to them, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “So?”

  He looked up at the mass of stone above their heads, studying the pattern in the rock. “So I’ve come to a conclusion. I want to talk to you about it, and see if we both think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “All right.”

  She sat up and he scooted around so that he faced her. His eyes were deeply earnest, his face showing the depths of his concern. For several seconds he searched for the proper way to begin, then decided that with Kathryn it was best to just come right out with it.

  “I would like to take you back to Fort Laramie, Kathryn.”

  One eyebrow lifted slightly, but other than that there was no immediate response. He rushed on. “The terrain is getting more difficult now. All the loose rocks beneath our feet make it more challenging for you to walk and get around.”

  “Go on.”

  “I had a chance to visit with Mr. Bordeaux, the man in charge of the fort. I was impressed that he was a gentleman and a decent man.”

  “I agree.”

  “So . . .” He took another breath. “So I would like to take you back there and leave you with Mr. Bordeaux until the rest of the family reaches Fort Laramie.” Eager now, he let the words tumble out. “They can’t be more than a week or two behind us. Maybe there will be word of them when we get back to the fort. If Mr. Reed will let us borrow one of the horses, I think I could take you there and catch back up to the Reeds and the others in five or six days. The layover here tomorrow will help.”

  He stopped, waiting for a moment, but her eyes were down and he couldn’t read her feelings from her face, for it had showed no change.

  “I can’t just back out on our agreement with the Reeds.” He spoke more slowly now. “They’ve been too good to us. And besides, we desperately need the money he’s promised to pay us if we go all the way with him. So I’ll go on to California with them; then I’ll turn right around and come back to find you and the family.”

  His words slowed, then stopped. This time he waited for her to react. Finally, her head lifted and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. He reached out and took her hand. “I’m sorry, Kathryn, I just—”

  She shook her head. “Will you answer me something honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this make you feel better?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been so bothered these past few days. When you think about taking me back and leaving me at Fort Laramie, how do you feel?”

  For several moments he considered that, looking inward. Then he slowly nodded. “It’s like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel at peace.”

  “So do I, Peter.” The tears welled up and spilled over. “I can’t bear to think about you leaving me. But the moment you told me what you are thinking, it was like I was at peace too.”

  “You were?” The relief surged in like a cool breeze. “Really?”

  “Yes, Peter. Because there’s one other thing I’ve been worrying about that you haven’t.”

  “What?”

  “The road is getting rougher all the time now.”

  “Yes. It’s going to be harder and harder to get around, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not talking about it being difficult to walk when we are in camp.”

  He was puzzled. “Then what?”

  “I’m afraid if I have to ride in that wagon every day when it is so jolting and bumpy that I might lose the baby.”

  It took a moment
to register, and then his eyes widened.

  She smiled now, even as the tears trickled down her cheeks. “Yes, Peter. Finally. We’re going to have a baby.”

  He leaped to his feet. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

  She wiped at the tears, laughing aloud now at his joy. “No, I’m not just saying that.”

  He pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms. He kissed her soundly, then did it again. “I can’t believe it. You’re sure?”

  “Not absolutely, but pretty much.” Now she sobered. “I didn’t want to add another worry to you. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I can tell that the constant pounding we’ve been getting these past few days is not good.”

  He let her go, his mind racing. “That will make it easier to explain this to the Reeds. They’ll understand why you can’t go on.”

  “I think so too. I’ll miss the children desperately.” Her voice caught. “And you. But now we’ve got someone else to worry about.”

  “This is wonderful. I am so pleased.”

  She nodded, touching her stomach. “Let’s go right back and talk to the Reeds. If they agree, let’s leave immediately.”

  When Peter and Kathryn returned from the natural bridge and asked for an audience with their employers, Margret Reed instantly saw the wisdom of Kathryn’s going back to Fort Laramie, even though she was greatly disappointed to know she would lose the tutor and companion for her children. Mr. Reed magnanimously offered one of his horses for them to ride, then borrowed a mule from the Donners to carry Kathryn’s things separately. There were copious tears as Kathryn bid farewell to the children. They left shortly after four p.m. on that Independence Day.

  Constantly reassured by Kathryn that the rolling lope of the horse was not nearly as damaging as the jolting of the wagon, Peter pushed hard. They made about twelve miles before they stopped that first night. Fort Laramie was about seventy-five miles east of Beaver Creek. Originally Peter had hoped to average about twenty-five miles per day going east and thirty-five or more on the return, once he no longer had Kathryn’s baggage and could switch between the horse and the mule. But in reality, in spite of her assurances, Kathryn tired quickly, and they came closer to making only twenty miles each day.

  It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day when Peter reined in the horse and mule and paused for a moment to gaze on the sight before them. In the distance the tree-lined course of the Laramie River could be easily traced, and they could clearly see the adobe stockade with its open gate and dozens of people moving in and out of it. Around it on every side, in even more profusion than there had been when they were here the week before, wagons, Indian lodges, stock corrals, and white men’s tents filled the plain. A hundred columns of smoke from cooking fires rose silently into the air.

  Peter turned and looked at Kathryn, who managed a tired smile, and then they started down.

  It was the next morning by the time Peter was able to go to the fort itself. When they had arrived yesterday afternoon, they had found a friendly wagoner who offered them a place to lay their bedrolls and also invited them for supper and breakfast. Then Peter had gone to find a place for his animals. That had proven more time-consuming than he first thought. It turned out that most of the animals at the fort were driven out some distance under the direction of armed guards to find better grazing. Then they were brought back in the corral for the night, where they were more secure. When he explained his purpose, the drovers agreed to let his animals join the herd for two bits, or twenty-five cents. Satisfied, he left them and walked back to their campsite, arriving just before dark.

  As soon as they had finished breakfast this morning, Peter walked to the stockade. Inside, he had to wait for almost a quarter of an hour for James Bordeaux, the man in charge of the fort. But when he finally came over, he was smiling warmly and extended a hand. “Welcome, my young friend,” he said. “How may I be of service to you?”

  Descended from French ancestors but American born himself, Bordeaux was a stout man with a barrel chest and pockmarked face. His hair was black, cut short, and parted on one side.

  Peter quickly explained who he was and the circumstances that had brought him back.

  “Ah,” Bordeaux said easily. “Yes, I remember. You were with Mr. Reed, right?”

  “Yes. I am one of his teamsters.”

  “A fine gentleman, this Mr. Reed. We had a wonderful talk one night.”

  “Yes. He speaks very highly of you.”

  That seemed to please the trapper-turned-trader. He nodded, beaming. “Good, good.”

  “We didn’t know this when we were here, but my wife is in the family way. It is of great concern for us. Our party is later than we should be, and we have to go all the way to California.”

  “I worry too,” he said gravely. “The mountains of California are to be respected even more than an Indian war party on the trail.” His eyes narrowed a little. “Are you thinking of turning back?” There was no mistaking the critical look in his expression.

  “No. I have contracted with Mr. Reed to help him all the way to California. I intend to honor that contract.”

  “Good!” The faint look of condemnation had disappeared.

  “But my wife and I are Latter-day Saints—Mormons, as we are often called—and I—”

  “Ah,” he said. “You are Mormons. Your people are coming too?”

  “Yes. We thought they were ahead of us, but now we know they’re coming behind.” He took a quick breath, and plunged into the reason he had come. “Mr. Bordeaux, I’ve decided that it is not wise for my wife to keep going. I’m wondering if I could leave her here with you until our people come. It would be only two or three weeks.”

  Bordeaux was nodding. “I would be very pleased to help you out, Mr. Ingalls, but you have Mormons coming up the trail right now.”

  Peter’s head came up with a sharp jerk. “What?”

  “A rider came in from Fort Bernard late yesterday. He says there is a small group—fifteen or twenty wagons maybe—coming up the trail. They should reach Fort Bernard later today.”

  “Fort Bernard? That’s the one downriver a ways?”

  Bordeaux nodded. “About eight miles.” He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice over the railing and into the dust of the courtyard. “John Baptiste Reshaw is trying to take away our business, but it will do him no good.”

  Peter wasn’t interested in this local competition. “And he said it was a company of Mormons?”

  “That’s what he said. Before you leave your wife here to stay, best you go downstream and find out for yourself, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Peter said, grateful now. “Thank you, Mr. Bordeaux. I shall do just that.”

  Fort Bernard was nothing like Fort Laramie in either size or activity. Only two sides of what was to eventually become a log quadrangle were completed, with small buildings attached to the inside of each wall. There were a few Indian lodges round about and half a dozen wagons camped between the river and the fort, but after Fort Laramie it seemed pitifully small, almost deserted. Peter dismounted at the largest of the buildings, went to the nearest door, and knocked.

  “Come in,” someone growled.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom he found there. The room was about ten feet square, and both the walls and the floor were made of black mud. The roof was made of rough-hewn timbers covered with sod. There was a huge fireplace made from four flat stones laid on top of each other to form the firebox. A hole had been cut in the ceiling to allow the smoke to escape. In one corner there were several rifles stacked together. From nails driven through the mud daubing into the log walls hung various Indian paraphernalia—a pipe and tobacco pouch, what looked like some kind of medicine bag adorned with dyed porcupine quills, an Indian bow and otter-skin quiver. The only furniture in the room was a rough settee covered with buffalo robes on which lounged a tall Indian brave. In the light from the door Pete
r saw that his hair was plastered down against his temples with a thick vermillion paste. Beyond him, two or three mountain men sat cross-legged on the floor smoking pipes.

  “I was looking for Mr. Reshaw,” Peter said.

  “Ain’t here right now,” one of the mountain men grunted.

  “It’s important that I see him immediately. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

  Another of the heavily bearded men stirred. “Goshen Hole. Went down to trade some robes with an incoming emigrant company.”

  Peter swung to face him. “And where is that?”

  “Downstream a few miles. Just follow the river.”

  “Thank you.” He retreated, shutting the door behind him, then strode to his horse.

  Chapter 11

  The sun was nearing its zenith when Peter topped a small knoll and saw the white tops of wagons in the distance. He counted quickly. Nineteen. Bordeaux had said there were about twenty. They were not moving, which meant they were nooning. He had no doubt but what this was the company for which he was looking. With a surge of elation, he slapped his horse with the reins and sent it into a running lope.

  At the sound of his horse, the camp came to a standstill and several people gathered at a spot near the lead wagon. He slowed as he approached them, feeling the euphoria dashed as quickly as it had come. He recognized no one. There was no Brigham Young. No Heber C. Kimball or John Taylor. He searched the faces quickly as he reined to a stop. Then came the most bitter disappointment of all. There was not one Steed family face in the crowd.

  Two men stepped out in front of the gathering. The shorter of the two, Peter immediately guessed, was Reshaw. Though not tall, he had a slender, athletic build and appeared to be strong. He was a dark, swarthy-looking man with long black hair that was parted in the middle of his head and fell in thick curls over both shoulders. He was dressed in buckskins, and his frock was richly adorned with bead and quill work. Long fringes lined the seams of his sleeves and leggings.

  The man beside him was an American and dressed for the trail. He was taller than Peter by an inch or two, probably over six feet, Peter guessed. He had a full head of hair and a thick dark beard. As he looked more closely, Peter was surprised. This was clearly the leader of the wagon company, and yet he was not much older than Peter was, perhaps no more than three or four years. Not only that, the man did seem familiar to him.