The Undaunted : The Miracle of the Hole-In-The-Rock Pioneers

by Gerald N. Lund

  His brother screamed and leaped for the door.

  “No!” one of the cousins shouted, diving to intercept him. Too late. The young boy was through the door and on his knees beside his brother. Another shot. The bullet hit him in the chest and flung him backwards into the snow. His legs jerked spasmodically for a moment or two; then he was still.

  “Get down! Get down!” the cousin screamed at his companion, who had fallen back and was standing by the fireplace, bow drawn, looking around wildly. He grabbed the rifle, frantically trying to lever a shell into the chamber. There was a sharp crack, and a bullet splintered the thin wood of the shutters. Instinctively, he dropped to the floor. Then he heard a moan. He turned and saw his cousin on the floor, face white, back against the stones of the fireplace, a red stain spreading high up on his shoulder.

  The older Navajo grabbed a piece of woolen cloth from one of the packs, scrambled across the floor, and stuffed the cloth up under the buckskin hunting shirt of his cousin. He pointed to the window opposite from where they were. “I will draw the belagana off. Go out the window. Don’t let them see you.”

  “No!”

  “Run!” He gave him a hard shove, ignoring the scream of pain. “Go!”

  As his companion opened the shutters and heaved himself out the window, the Navajo grabbed the rifle and flung himself out the door. Firing blindly in the direction of the riders, he crouched low and ran like the wind. He dove left and felt a bullet whip past his face. He heard the crack of the gunshot an instant later. He scrambled behind a cottonwood tree and stood up, drawing in huge gulps of air. He risked a peek. The men were shouting now as they fired. Bullets whined past or thudded into the thick bark. As the belagana spurred their horses forward, he held the rifle out with one hand, fired off another round, then took off, running hard, dodging back and forth between the trees.

  To his left, the trees ended and the ground started to rise toward a low ridge about forty yards away. If he could draw them over that, the cabin wouldn’t be visible to them. He sprinted away, slipping and sliding in the snow. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could hear the thunder of hooves behind him. Twice they fired at him, but there was no way they could hit him while they were riding and he was running.

  He crested the hill and dropped down the other side. He had made it. But what stretched out before him now was a quarter of a mile of nothing but open country. Zigzagging wildly, taking great leaps to push his way through the deep snow, his lungs on fire, he ran as he had never run before, all the time praying that the Holy Ones would give him enough strength to draw the belagana after him.

  A searing pain in his back knocked him rolling. He bounced once, then slid for eight or ten feet, facedown in the snow. His mind commanded him to get up, to run. Another voice told him to play dead. Then he remembered his cousin. With a gasp, he pushed himself up with his hands. It was no use. His body refused to obey what his mind told him to do, and he fell again.

  He heard the horses come pounding up behind him, heard the triumphant shout from one of the men. For a moment, he thought they might run over him, trample him. But they stopped. The horses were snorting and blowing, just feet away now. One of the men grunted something that he didn’t understand. This was followed by the sound of a shell being levered into the chamber of a rifle. He closed his eyes, calling on the Holy People to protect his cousin.2

  Notes

  ^1. The brief summary of the history of this time period and the ensuing Navajo War is drawn from several sources (Miller, Hole, 8–9; Hamblin, Journals and Letters, 45–91; Lyman, “Fort, Parts I and II,” 688–89, 719–20).

  ^2. Hamblin, Lyman, and Corbett all give accounts of the tragedy in Grass Valley (Hamblin, Journals and Letters, 99–114; Lyman, “Fort”; Corbett, Jacob Hamblin, 343–44). Other sources recount it as well (see Brooks, “Jacob Hamblin,” 254; Kumen Jones, “Navajo Peace,” 214–15). We know what the Navajos had with them from a letter later written to McCartey by Jacob Hamblin demanding that he return those goods to the families of the Navajos or make appropriate payment to satisfy them (in Corbett, Jacob Hamblin, 343, 367–68). Kumen Jones mentions “McCartey brothers,” but all other sources refer to only one McCartey. No first name is given, so “Frank” is my addition.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday, January 17, 1874

  Jacob Hamblin was in the barn, pitching hay into the mangers for his three milk cows and two horses. It was going to be a beautiful winter day in Utah’s Dixie. The sun was not quite up yet, but the sky was a brilliant blue, the air was pleasantly warm, and when he finished here, he planned to spend the rest of the day preparing his garden for spring planting.

  His head came up as he heard the clatter of hooves on the dirt track that rose from the wagon road down below. He pitched one last forkful into the manger, stuck the pitchfork in the hay, then climbed down and walked outside. Two horsemen swept into view, coming at a full gallop, kicking up dust behind them. He squinted, then started in surprise. John D. Lee?

  He removed his hat, wiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, then replaced the hat as the horsemen swept into the yard, pulled up short, and dismounted.

  “John?” Jacob said, going to meet them. “This is a surprise.”

  John tied the reins to the hitching post and came forward, extending his hand. “Hello, Jacob.” He turned and pointed to his companion, a younger version of himself. “Have you met my son, Benjamin?”

  They too shook hands, then Jacob turned back to his friend. “What in the world brings you to Kanab?” Lee’s Ferry, on the Colorado River, was fifty miles to the southeast.

  The horseman shook his head, a shadow darkening his eyes. “We rode all night. There’s trouble, Jacob. Big trouble.”

  Jacob sat on the ground, his back against a cedar tree, slowly massaging his temples to ease the throbbing. He looked up to where father and son were drinking deeply from gourds that hung over the well. “We had heard that three Indians were killed up in Grass Valley by a white man by the name of McCartey,” he said. “But he’s not a Mormon. It was supposedly over a stolen cow.” He blew out his breath in a long sound of discouragement. “I just assumed they were Utes. That’s Ute country that far north. Now you’re telling me they were Navajos?”

  “Yes. And it gets worse. All of them were of the Kacheenay-begay clan.”

  Jacob visibly winced. “Ah, John. This is not good.”

  “Two of them were his sons.”

  There was an audible groan. “I stayed in the hogan of Kacheenay some years ago. I probably met them.”

  “I’m not finished, Jacob,” Lee said gravely.

  He grimaced. “There’s more?”

  Lee nodded and continued, “There weren’t three Navajos in Grass Valley. There were four.”

  “What?”

  “The fourth one was wounded but got away. Don’t ask me how, but he managed to stanch his wound and make his way back in the dead of winter over more than a hundred miles of wild country. Took him almost two weeks. He arrived at Kacheenay’s camp a few days ago. And here’s the story he’s telling his clan brothers. According to him, the four of them were caught in a blizzard and holed up in a cow cabin in the valley. They were out of food, so they caught a calf and butchered it.”

  “Oh dear Lord,” Jacob breathed. “One of McCartey’s cows.”

  Again there was a curt nod. “They thought it was a Mormon cow. They believed the Mormons would understand their need. The boy said they had money and planned to pay for it.”

  “So they think it was us who did it?” His head dropped back in his hands.

  “The boy said they weren’t given a chance to explain. The chief’s oldest son was shot down like a dog when he stepped outside with his hands in the air.” He waited for a response, but Jacob was in too much pain to say anything.

  “The Kacheenay clan are out for blood and crying for revenge. The chief has sent runners out across the reservation calling for war. One of those who was called is
friendly to me and my family. He figured the ferry was the closest Mormon settlement and I needed to be warned. He thinks we are in grave danger. And not just at the ferry. All the settlements.”

  That galvanized Jacob at last. He got up, pushing back the weariness. “All of our work, two years of peace, shattered in one instant by wicked, terrible men. We’ll have to warn the settlements. I’ll send a wire to President Young right away.”

  “That’s fine,” Lee said, “but Jacob, you have to come as soon as you can. You’re the only one who can reason with the Indians. There are two miners at the ferry. They said they’d stay with my family until Benjamin and I can return. They said they’ll go with you.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod. “I’m going to the telegraph office. I’ll also send some of the Paiutes here in town as runners to spread the word.” He stopped for a moment, a scowl darkening his face. “And I’d better send someone to Grass Valley. We have to know if Mormons were involved.” He blew out his breath. This was a bitter blow. “Come, we’ll get you some food. Then you get back to your family, John. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  As the two men started toward the house, Jacob spoke very quietly. “I will be blamed for it. I was the one who promised them the Mormons would live in peace with them. I was the one who told them that peace was the best way.”

  Tuesday, January 27, 1874

  In spite of the urgency, it was ten days before Jacob Hamblin reached Lee’s Ferry. Much of that time was spent waiting for two things—confirmation that Mormons had not been involved, and further instructions from President Brigham Young. Those instructions came in the form of a telegram:

  jacob stop critical you visit navajos stop only one they trust stop go as soon as practical stop tell them mormons not involved at grass valley stop the lord be with you stop brigham young.1

  Jacob left the following morning.

  Friday, January 30, 1874

  Hamblin stopped at the ferry only long enough to take some refreshment. The two miners, brothers by the name of Smith—neither of them Mormons—were still there, as promised. And in spite of Jacob’s warnings about endangering themselves, they insisted on accompanying him. They had a fresh horse for him and put a pistol, holster, and belt in his saddlebags. Jacob objected to that as well—he had never worn a gun among the Indians—but once again they insisted, and, once again, he agreed.

  As they traveled east into the land of the Navajos, they found growing evidence of possible war. The Hopis, or Moquis, as the Navajos called them, who were a peaceful people, fled eastward to escape being caught up in it. Fifteen miles east of Moenkopi,o they saw a lone rider approaching. He turned out to be a Paiute, sent by the Navajo chiefs to meet Hamblin.

  The Smith brothers were shocked that the clan already knew that Hamblin was on their land and coming to them. Jacob was not surprised at all. “How far?” was all he asked.

  It was close to a full day’s ride, and it was nearly dark when they arrived at a “village” on Black Mesa. There were only two hogans, but quite a few cattle, horses, and sheep were gathered in corrals nearby. The dogs started barking while the men were still half a mile away and went into a frenzy when they arrived—barking, howling, darting in to nip at the horses’ legs.

  About a dozen Indians milled around. At the sight of Hamblin, an outcry went up. They jeered at the three white men in open contempt. But then grey-heads came out of the bigger hogan, and Jacob felt great relief. These had to be some of the chiefs. That was good. He had been afraid he would have to deal strictly with a group of young, hot-blooded warriors.

  Their Paiute guide whispered that this was the hogan of Kacheenay himself and that the other was the hogan of Po-ee-kon, Kacheenay’s son. However, neither of them were here at present. They had gone to fetch more braves for the council.

  Jacob only nodded, but he felt the chill go into his bones. They were in the very place from which the murdered young braves had left on their trading mission.

  As the three swung stiffly out of the saddle and began to stomp their feet to get the circulation going again, Jacob spoke in low tones to his companions. “Remember, don’t speak to a Navajo unless he speaks to you first. And keep your hands well away from your guns.”

  Saturday, January 31, 1874

  As it turned out, not much happened that night. The three whites were treated courteously by the chiefs. They were fed and led to comfortable, warm beds of sheepskin. This did nothing to relieve Jacob’s anxiety; he knew they were simply waiting for more braves to come.

  The additional Indians finally arrived about midday. The dogs gave the first warning, and a distant rumble of horses confirmed it. When they appeared, Jacob counted twelve of them. And that was probably just the first group. His hopes sank.

  Jacob and the two miners were wandering around outside, trying to pass the time. When he saw how many were coming, he turned to his two companions. “I think it’s time to begin,” he muttered. “I’m sorry you boys are in on this.”

  The older Smith managed a sickly grin. “I’m a little sorry myself.”

  “I’ll ask the chiefs to let you go. They won’t bother you. It’s me they’ve got their eye on.”

  “Hell and daisies,” came the reply, “we’ll not leave you alone now.” The man looked around quickly. The Indians around them were focused on the incoming riders. He spoke in a low voice. “Jacob, I think it’s time you took that pistol out of your saddlebags and put it on.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then he nodded. This was different from any situation he had ever been in. Turning his back to the surrounding Navajos, he took out the gun and strapped it on, Just then, the three chiefs suddenly appeared at the door of the hogan and motioned their “guests” to come inside. Through the translator, the oldest of the three asked Jacob and the Smiths to remove their pistols. They did so, but hung them on pegs just behind where they were going to sit.

  When the warriors threw back the blanket and strode inside, their painted faces were twisted with anger and hate. Several carried long knives or tomahawks at their belts. Worse, Jacob immediately recognized one of them. The lead brave was Po-ee-kon, the fiery son of Chief Kacheenay, and therefore brother to the two Navajos who had been slain. Jacob had met him before, and knew that he was renowned for his courage and his utter contempt for the white man. Jacob had been told that he had taken more than one scalp of his enemies. The only glimmer of hope was that Chief Kacheenay was not among them too. To have a brother to deal with was serious enough. To have the father as well could well prove disastrous.

  They waited for another hour—the three whites in silence, the Navajos talking among themselves in low, angry voices, all the time smoking cigarettes. Po-ee-kon dominated much of the conversation, shooting dark looks at the three men in the corner. Then, once again, the dogs began their wild barking outside, and in a few minutes they heard the sound of more horses.

  A moment later, eight more Navajos entered—seven young braves, also wearing war paint, and another chief, older than the seven, but not as old as the three chiefs who were already there. The newcomers barely glanced at the three white men as they sat down around the fire and joined the others in lighting more cigarettes and venting their anger to each other.

  Another ten minutes passed while they all smoked; then finally the newly arrived chief arose. Instantly all went quiet. He walked to a place in front of the door where he was facing the three white men directly and could see all of the others as well. The Paiute interpreter moved quickly to stand beside him. Suddenly the chief’s face twisted with rage. Words tumbled out in a torrent—hot, bitter, livid. When he finally stopped to let the translator speak, he had to wipe flecks of spittle from the corners of his mouth.

  “Jacob Hamblin has come to our lodge,” the Paiute said, clearly nervous to be translating for someone that angry. “Jacob Hamblin has come to tell us that the Mormons did not kill our young men. He comes to tell us that the Mormons are not to blame.”

&
nbsp; He started again, and now the Paiute tried to keep up with him. “I say Jacob Hamblin has forked tongue. He lies. It was Jacob Hamblin who convinced us to cross the river and trade with the belagana, the white men. Jacob Hamblin promised there would be peace. Now three of our sons lie dead, murdered by the Mormon belagana, their bodies eaten by the wolves.”

  A growing chorus of angry imprecations rose with every sentence. The young braves shook their clenched fists at Jacob. Several gave war whoops. A couple drew their knives and shook them in the air.

  As the interpreter raised his voice to be heard over the tumult, Jacob sat quietly, arms folded and face impassive. The host chief let the anger run for almost a minute, then raised a hand. The shouts died away, but the low mutters and angry gestures continued.

  “Jacob Hamblin must not think that he will be going home,” the new chief said. “The other belagana, who have done no wrong, may go if they wish, but Jacob Hamblin will not be going home. Jacob Hamblin shall be tortured. Jacob Hamblin must pay for this terrible thing he has done to our people.”

  The chief stopped again, letting the translator interpret. The noise crescendoed while he stared coldly at Jacob. Then he raised his fist and stabbed the air above him. “Jacob Hamblin must die.”

  The room exploded. Jacob, who had barely blinked through this rampage, slowly held up one hand, motioning to the more elderly chiefs that he wished to speak. When they signaled their permission, he half turned to face the two prospectors. The Smiths, of course, had not understood anything because the translation was coming in Paiute. Speaking in a low, calm voice, barely audible over the uproar around them, Jacob told them of the chief’s offer. “There is a good chance that I shall be killed,” he said, “but the way is open for you to leave. But you must do so now.”

  There was not a moment’s hesitation on the part of either of the brothers. “We’ll not be going until you do,” the older Smith said.