“The Sabbath for sure.”
“Maybe they’ll have cowhides. Do you think we might go to the Salt to sell hides?”
Moroni laughed. “So you can see some girls? See what the Lord provides, boy.”
They worked steadily after that.
“Last Sabbath, Grandfather Abinidi said a road used to run by here and people traveled in wagons on it like the ones in books.”
“Abinidi makes such a mystery. You can see what’s left of Highway 91 on the trail to the Salt. A big jumble of broken rock, thanks to the Lord’s wrath.”
“Did you ever see the wagons, Grandfather Moroni?”
“They stopped making ’em after I was born, but I saw ’em, like Abinidi. Just machinery that quit.”
They finished weeding. Moroni removed his black elder’s hat and mopped his bald, sweating dome with a homespun kerchief. Despite the early hour, it was hot.
“Let me get my breath.”
“Did they quit because they ran out of gasoline?”
“I’m glad your father teaches you something. They just ran out. That’s why your sisters walk the treadmill for light and power while we work here.”
Rulon looked back at the house, high on a bluff that marked where the Bear River once flowed broad and wide. Hyrum had built the solid, two-story home with locally made brick and lime. White solar panels on the roof gleamed in the sunlight. Beyond rose barren mountains whose peaks had gone snowless for generations.
“That’s also why it’s hot and dry?”
“Some so-called educated man might spout some fool theory like that, but Allreds know better. The drought and the famine are the Lord’s wrath because the Church abandoned polygamy. Rain comes again if we stick to Joseph Smith’s revealed truth. Every last tenet. We’ll have a new century in ten years, maybe a new age, but only if we’re holy. I won’t see it, but you will. You have to sanctify yourself. Understand me, boy?”
“Yes, Grandfather Moroni.”
“Good. Get back to work.”
In a nearby thick canebrake, Sangrito crouched and spied, reins held lightly in one hand. Insects bit him viciously. He ignored them. Sangrito slowly crept away, his ride trailing behind him. Out of eyesight and earshot, he mounted his horse and trotted northward. Dressed in deerskin leggings, he rode bareback with only a hackamore to control his mount. He’d stolen the swift, tireless brown and white paint near the Albikerk from a Tohona O’Odham he’d murdered. Armed with a Bowie knife and a bow, he wore a quiver that was filled with arrows painstakingly made by hand. His long, lank black hair was tied back with bright ribbons. Three scalps hung from his belt.
The camp was hidden in a dusty draw where a small tributary stream once flowed. Sangrito rode in to find the crew chewing cold deer jerky. Fearful of detection, Kid Crip allowed no fire. Sangrito dismounted, led his horse into the corral, removed the hackamore, and joined the crew. His brother Manolo handed him jerky and a corn tortilla.
Kid Crip ran his fingers through thick, greasy blond hair. He wore a padded black vest, antique armor from the Fat Times, bought with five horses at the Albikerk’s market. At his waist was a Colt .45. Reluctant to fire, having limited ammo, the Kid used the pistol to whip errant followers or other offenders into line. Two shriveled brown ears strung on a copper wire hung from his neck, previously attached to Kid Blood, the crew’s former leader, defeated by Kid Crip through a treacherous ambush. The sidearm, armored vest, and his murdered predecessor’s ears were tokens of his status as crew chief.
“Dog, what did you find?”
“Like you said, jefe, the next place is a long ride away. I sneaked up last night while they were eating. The men are hunting. There’s just an old man and a chico.”
“What about horses, cattle?” Muerte Frio demanded. He wiped his rifle’s barrel with an old rag.
Sangrito grinned. “Mucho. New mounts for all. And cattle, fat enough to last to the Albikerk so we can sell them at the market.”
“Didn’t I say crew chief can smell a juicy steak from across the Big Desert?” OG crowed.
“There’s more. Women.”
The men exchanged knowing looks, leering smiles, and sudden wild, raucous whoops of lustful laughter.
“The crew’s getting wives today,” Mo Ali crowed.
“Shut up,” Kid Crip hissed, “You want to give us away?”
Abashed, the men bowed their heads. “Yes, crew chief. Sorry, crew chief.”
“That’s better. Sangrito, where’s the old man and boy?”
“Out in the fields.”
“Okay, we’ll go now.”
The crew’s faces lit up.
“Remember, this is the biggest job we ever done. Do it right and we’re rich, a real crew with good horses, fat cattle to sell, and wives.”
“No more cooking or chopping wood,” OG said.
“So pop the old man and chico first. Everything’s easy then. Ride in slow. Smile. I say we want to water the horses, trade for beef and salt. When I signal, OG and Manolo spear them. Make sure they don’t shout. Understand?”
“Yes, chief.”
“Good. Mount up, then.”
He put on his war bonnet, an Oakland Raiders ball cap, torn and faded with age, worn backward for strength and courage. The crew stroked ritual amulets and prayed to small, stone bultos. OG and Mo Ali saddled Kid Crip’s horse. Muerte Frio saddled his own. They were the only ones with firearms and saddles. The others slipped on hackamores and draped blankets over their mounts. Armed with handmade but effective lances, bows, and daggers, heads shielded from the sun by broad-brimmed straw sombreros, they had faces that were lined by constant exposure to sun and wind. Forgotten in the Big Desert, ignorant of civilization or humanity, the crew had banded together like feral dogs to hunt prey. Despite the long, nearly fatal journey to the far reaches of the upper Ute, they were eager, chins up and grinning, rapine and plunder ahead. They rode from the draw toward the Allreds.
The sun had neared its peak when Moroni stopped for dinner. Bevenee, Rulon’s little sister, fetched bacon and cheese sandwiches and a pitcher of milk and then left, complaining about the heat. Moroni also cut up a small melon, which Rulon found refreshing. Full from their meal, the old man and the boy resumed work.
A horse’s sneeze, a loud snort from the canebrake, was the first sign something was wrong. Moroni stared uncertainly into the thicket.
“Is that you, Grandnephew Brigham, playing another practical joke?”
A man on horseback pushed through the cane and onto open ground. Others followed. Rulon stared openmouthed. Horses he’d seen before, although these were poor nags compared to his father’s. The men startled him. He’d never seen anyone other than Allreds before.
The riders moved slowly, well spread out, open grins marred by gaps in their teeth. The six men were a mixed bunch. The one in the lead had blond hair like an Allred. Despite the heat, he wore a curious, bulky black vest. Two brown lumps hung from a wire around his neck. Another was pale, closer to a scarecrow than human, bone-thin in a long coat. Two had black skin, something Rulon had previously seen only in books.
“Wassup,” the blond said. A strange flat bill hung from behind his faded hat. “Want to trade beef and salt.”
Moroni’s hard, horny hand caught Rulon full in the chest. The boy staggered backwards.
“Run, Rulon. Warn the women. Get Great Uncle Enos’s gun.”
Moroni’s tone brooked no argument. Rulon took to his heels.
“The chico’s getting away,” one man cried.
“Manolo. Get him, dog.”
A rider galloped after Rulon. He rode by his legs alone, an arrow already nocked to his bow, dark eyes alive with excitement and pleasure.
“Gentile scum.”
The edge of Moroni’s hoe caught the rider full in the face, swung with all the strength the eighty-four-year-old farmer could muster. The rider fell from his horse with the awful scream of a hog under the butcher knife, features split wide.
“Manolo.”
Moroni faced the riders. Hoe raised high, breath heavy and labored, it was increasingly harder for him to move.
“Evil Lamanite dogs.”
The scarecrow rode close to Moroni. He unlimbered his long rifle and fired into his belly.
Rulon heard the shot. He turned to see Moroni slowly sink to his knees.
“No.”
Another man rode up to Moroni and shot an arrow into his chest.
“That’s for my brother.”
“Dog, you slipping,” the blond shouted. “Get the chico.”
Rulon ran faster than ever before in his life, but he was a boy against mounted men. There was only enough time to rush into the yard where his mother and sisters were gathered, anxious about the gunfire.
“Rulon, what’s wrong?” Nauvoo cried. “Where’s Father Moroni?”
“Run. Strangers, bad men. They killed Grandfather Moroni.”
Bevenee began to cry. Nauvoo slapped her hard across the face.
“Stop that. Girls, run as fast as you can to the hiding place. I’ll be right behind. Godlove, look after Bevenee. Go.”
The girls fled, long blond pigtails streaming behind.
“You come along,” Nauvoo said, “We’ll hide until the men return.”
“Once I get Great-Great-Granduncle Enos’s rifle.”
“There’s no time.”
“Grandfather Moroni said.”
Rulon ran up the stairs.
“I’ll wait.”
Over seventy years ago, Enos Allred returned after fighting overseas in the Babylon War. Afflicted by a severe concussion and a severed leg, he brought back an AK-47 assault rifle. Like other Fat Times artifacts, the rifle was treasured as a family heirloom and hung from a place of honor in the parlor. Rulon put a chair next to the wall, stood on it, and took the rifle from its hooks. He took out a magazine from the glass case where it was stored. The banana clip was loaded with special-caliber bullets made to his father’s order by gunsmiths in the Salt. He slipped in the magazine and pulled back the charging handle.
“Let me go,” his mother screamed.
“Pretty strong for an old woman.”
“Yeah, but where’s the rest?”
Rulon burst through the door out onto the porch. Two men held his mother, a black and the blond. The other three were still mounted.
“It’s the chico. Shoot him, Muerte Frio.”
The scarecrow raised his rifle, but his intended victim was armed this time. Before Muerte Frio could fire, Rulon put the AK-47 to his shoulder and shot a controlled burst into the center of mass. The bullets’ impact knocked the raider off his horse into the dirt, where he lay motionless. Muerte Frio was now dead himself.
An arrow whizzed past Rulon’s head at a hairsbreadth distance. The man who shot Moroni screamed abuse.
“Stinking Mormon.”
He pulled another arrow from his quiver. Rulon shot him in turn.
“Ain’t any you any good?” the man in the cap said. He shoved Nauvoo aside and shouted. “Hold her, OG, while I take care of business.”
He pulled a heavy pistol from his belt and fired in one motion. The shot went wild. Rulon was raised not to waste precious ammunition. He aimed slowly, deliberately, again for the center of mass. The raider pointed his pistol straight at the boy, a confident sneer on his face.
“Last day, dog.”
His tanned face turned dead white, leached of color by the bullet’s force. He hit the ground like the others. Rulon turned the assault rifle on the man with his mother.
“Let her go.”
The two surviving raiders had knives and lances. Rulon’s voice cracked high with strain and fear, but the bodies scattered about the yard were mute testimony he was just as dangerous as any full-grown man.
“Here, chico, take her.”
The man shoved Nauvoo toward Rulon so hard she fell to the ground. He jumped onto his pony and rode off with the other man. Glad to see them go, Rulon ran to his mother and helped her to her feet. Her long, graying hair had come undone and she was badly shaken, but otherwise unharmed. He held her tight, fighting hard not to cry.
Nauvoo stroked his hair, gently lifted his chin, and said, “You were right, son. If we left without Enos’s rifle, they’d have caught us in the open. I guess we can fetch the girls.”
Rulon basked in his mother’s esteem. “First I better look these fellows over. I should at least get that rifle and pistol.”
Nauvoo smiled. “Very well.”
She left. Rulon walked over to the scarecrow’s body and picked up his rifle. In death, his face kept the same expression, but was even more shriveled and pale. Rulon wondered if he should go through his pockets, but rejected the idea as mean and low. He went to the blond and bent over him.
BLLLAAAMMM
The .45 slug whizzed past Rulon’s left ear, ruptured his eardrum, and left him half-deaf.
“I’ll kill you,” the blond said. He pulled the trigger again, but the clip was empty.
Head spinning, in horrible pain, Rulon still had enough presence of mind to slap the dead scarecrow’s rifle butt flat into the blond’s face. Rulon raised the rifle high by the barrel.
“No. Wait. We can talk.”
Rulon brought the butt down with all his strength.
The blond said no more. Rulon took his kerchief and put it to his ear to staunch the streaming blood. Dead men sprawled around him. They had to be buried before they rotted and drew flies. Poor Moroni and the other raider also lay in the fields. Unannounced and unbidden, manhood forced itself on Rulon that day, years before he should have played that role. In the aftermath, what remained was grief, injury, and the awareness that life in the Lean Times was indeed so much harder than Rulon could have ever known.
II. A Raid on the Gentiles
It was late when the cart pulled into the barnyard. Hyrum handed the reins to Obadiah.
“Untack the horse. Put him in his stall. Brush him down and see he’s fed. Then go to bed.”
Hyrum went into the house.
Rulon heard his mother’s voice raised high in greeting. A wet puff of breath invaded his left ear. He whirled around, hand cupped protectively over it.
“Obadiah, leave my bad ear alone.”
“Or what? You going to help me untack the horse like Pa said?”
About to speak further, Rulon thought better of it and went over to the horse. He slipped the bit off while Obadiah undid the harness.
“You didn’t seem eager at the convocation.”
“You made up for that, Obadiah.”
“Guess you don’t like the bad wilderness, far from Ma and home.”
“Don’t see the point, that’s all. Besides Manolo, I got the other fellows.”
“You mean Splitface?”
“That’s not what a good Mormon says. His name’s Manolo. I’m just saying, why look for trouble?”
“You’re afraid. That’s it. It’s just dumb luck you got those fellows.”
Rulon put a halter on the horse and led him to the barn. Obadiah followed. Both boys brushed the horse.
“Not my fault I was here that day and not you. I wish you got the praise and attention. I hate it.”
“No, you’re the hero, Rulon.”
They finished brushing the horse and spread fresh hay.
“Come on into the house. We got a long ride tomorrow.”
“After I check the stock.”
“Ain’t you the good farmer too. Please yourself.”
Obadiah left the barn. Rulon went out back to the pigsties and stock corrals. He climbed a corral fence and whistled.
“Hey, Manolo. You awake?”
“Yeah. That you, kid?”
“Yes, it’s Rulon.”
There was a clink of chains. A shadowy figure got to his feet and shuffled over, hands and feet shackled. Darkness mercifully shielded his disfigured features, the curled, blackened ruins of a shattered nose and the open, smashed-teeth grimace of a caved-in
upper jaw, torn open by Grandfather Moroni’s hoe.
“You know, only you say my name. Got tobacco, kid?” His mangled, breathy voice was unintelligible except after long listening. “Homebrew a Jack Mormon cousin made?”
“Allreds don’t do that. I got some rock candy from the Salt you can have.”
“Sure, kid.”
Rulon fished rock candy from a vest pocket and handed it to Splitface. The slave loudly sucked on the candy.
“Thanks, dog. Your padre don’t feed me much, specially nothing sweet.”
“Pa said tonight at convocation he’s going to lead an expedition with you scouting. Parley and Nephi are coming here first thing sunrise.”
“No surprise. All he says when he ain’t beating me.”
“Pa said you claimed there’s a ranch your crew had near the Albikerk full of stolen cattle. That true?”
“Sure, kid. Sweet hideout in a box canyon. Got spring water and rustled stock.”
“I hope so, Manolo. I don’t want to shoot you like I did your brother.”
Splitface chuckled, a death rattle rasp.
“No fear. I ain’t go tell you wrong. Nobody mess with Kid Allred.”
Rulon scowled. “We got to get up early. You need a blanket?”
“No. Used to the dirt by now. See you, kid.”
Nephi and Parley rode into the barnyard before sunup, each man on his best mount with two spares trailing behind as instructed. Older than Hyrum at forty, worn and wrinkled by hard toil outdoors, Nephi was small, fox-faced, with brown teeth. Parley was another big Allred with flaming hair and a freckle-jammed face, the clan’s blacksmith and farrier. He brought a hand-forged, single-barreled shotgun. Nephi carried a century-old Ruger MK III hunting rifle he’d bought at the Salt for an impoverishing sum. Hyrum waited in his shirtsleeves, thumbs in his galluses.
“Howdy. Nauvoo’s got tea with strawberry jam.”
“Now, that is thoughtful,” Parley said. He hopped off his horse.
Nauvoo came out of the house with three steaming clay mugs of Mormon tea. The men drank deep of the sharp, sweet, hot tea.
“I’m glad to see you, Cousin Parley. Cousin Nephi,” Nauvoo said.
Rulon and Obadiah emerged. Obadiah already dressed with his hair combed. Rulon stretching and yawning, still half asleep.
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