The Gun of Joseph Smith

by Katherine R. Chandler

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: 1850

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Authors

  Books by Roy Chandler

  © 1987 and 2012 Roy F. Chandler and Katherine R. Chandler.

  All rights reserved

  Publication History

  ebook: 2012

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: August 1987

  Deseret Book Company

  P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130.

  Chapter 1: 1850

  Watching the boy from the corner of his eye, the old Mormon let his fingers follow their familiar braiding patterns. You could hardly call the boy's movements an approach. He circled around like a curious whitetail, daring inquisitive glances, poking at leaves, and picking acorns off the great oak's sweeping branches. It wouldn't do to speak to the boy too soon or he might scare off, just like a deer would. But he was almost close enough and was pretty well entranced by the length of braided horsehair.

  How old a boy was he? Maybe eleven or twelve; hard to tell when boys were all bones and points, just beginning to grow muscle and man-shape. He liked the looks of this one—alert, quick, and interested. The boy had a bit of rag tied around a bruised big toe and a ragged tear in his already patched hand-me-down britches. A boy ought to have rips and scratches; they showed he was out doing things.

  The man whistled one of the Saints' old marching songs while his fingers wound the braiding and tight­ened each twist so the result would be strong and uniform. Even with his mind on the boy his hands worked smoothly, as they had for more years than he liked to remember.

  Most whittled while letting time ease by, but a man tired of wooden whistles and toy boats. Not many knew how to turn a horse's long tail hairs into fine ropes and hackamores. So, maybe all the braiding was more than busywork at that.

  When the boy had edged close enough the old man allowed himself a stretch and a look around. The boy stood only a rod distant, studying his crude toe ban­dage as though he had never seen it before.

  Almost-grown boys didn't appreciate being talked to like children. They'd flee from it about as quickly as they would from hard words. Funny how a lot of people didn't feel a youngster's need for real talk without a lot of impatience or oversimplifying. Like all still-growing things, boys profited from some careful cultivating. Hid­ing his smile, the old man spoke as seriously as he might to a passing elder.

  "Hello, boy, that's a sore-looking toe you've got there."

  He didn't get a head raise but the words came clear enough. "Barked it against a stone, but it don't hurt much."

  "Well, a man picks up lumps and scars, that's sure." He looked to his work so his interest wouldn't be too threatening. "Saw your wagon come in down by the river. You all headin' on west?"

  "Uh huh, might even go as far as California, Pap says." Shyness evaporating, the boy came closer and squatted so he could see better.

  The old man flicked the length of braided line within the boy's reach. "Makes a handsome rope, don't it?"

  The boy fingered and looked closely. "Reckon I never seen anything like this where we come from."

  "Don't doubt it. Not many can take the time needed, but a hair rope is stronger and it stays soft even in win­ter cold. Only thing is, you can't go rubbing it against rough things or it'll wear right through."

  "What do you do with it?"

  "Oh, some that ride fancy horses like it for reins and hackamores. Makes extra good bell rope for churches or schools."

  "Sure takes a lot of work."

  "Yep, a man could make a whole harness out of leather before he could finish a length of hair rope. When you've got time I'll show you the trick of it. 'Tain't hard, and it's good for surprising ladies that like it for wrap­ping around things. Hair rope don't stain like leather might."

  He allowed a short silence to give thinking time before he continued in the soft and easy pace of storytelling.

  "Way I learned was from a Spaniard passing through on a long march. He handled English right well and got interested in our talk. Laid over a spell so we could keep it going." He mused a little. "Thinking man, he was. Anyhow, he liked to braid while he talked—same as I'm doing. I got the way of it and I've been making ropes ever since."

  The boy was in close now, squatting on his haunches with his feet flat down, the way only the young and some Indians could.

  "People around here call me Tim because my name's Timothy Selman. What does your wagon call you?"

  "Most call me Tuck—my whole name is Tucker. Tucker Morgan, that is, and my pap's name is Mark Morgan, and he's a farmer but he can also build houses or do blacksmithing." The words tumbled with the boy­ish rush of a dam bursting and ended just as suddenly, as though he were embarrassed or maybe fearful of hav­ing said too much.

  "Well, Tuck, you sound like a New Englander and if that's right you've already come a long way."

  "We come from Abington, in Massachusetts. That's almost on Cape Cod."

  "And you're going to California."

  "Well, Pap hasn't decided for sure. He likes Oregon, too."

  "Both are good places, they tell me, but I've never been far enough west of here to see for myself."

  The boy let his eyes roam across the town, judging the torn-down places and empty houses.

  "I reckon we'd like California better."

  Tim took his own look across the unkempt fields to where the temple ruins blotted a bit of the horizon.

  "Can't argue with that, Tuck. Old Nauvoo has seen better times. Why, once this street was filled with people busy at the work of living and making things better. I can remember military companies marching and there were businesses and a newspaper in buildings that aren't standing anymore."

  He nodded a little in memory. "Why, I can even remember when the Saints came here and it was mostly swamp and river bog that no one else wanted. They cleared and filled and made farms until the land could support them. This city rose out of nothing almost before you could know it. It was a powerful work, though they tell me that the new city at the salt lake will be even more astonishing." He fell silent, tugging at his braiding while his thoughts drifted through the building time and into the destruction that left Nauvoo nearly abandoned. The boy's question brought him to the present.

  "How come everybody left if it was so good and all?"

  "Well, that's hard to explain, but times were wilder then. A lot of people believed untrue things about the Saints. More than a few feared that so many Mormons were coming that before long only Mormons would have a say. Anyway, they rose up and made things so mean that the church leaders decided to move on. They'd done it before, only this time they figured to go far enough so that no one would bother them again. Went all the way to the Great Salt Valley and you've likely heard about the city being built there."

  "You're a Mormon?"

  'Yep."

  "How come you didn't go?"

  The man had to smile at the boy's directness, but it was a natural question that was worth answering.

  "Well, you have to remember that when the Saints went west it wasn't a few families packing wagons and start­ing toward where the sun sets. First a band of pioneers led off to open a trail and after them the people went pretty steady. Nauvoo about emptied but a lot of things needed settling. Homes and land had to be sold and property had to be protected
the best it could be. On top of that, those traveling to the Salt Valley needed help and direction. Some came through these parts on their way—just like your family has—and we could help in lots of ways.

  "So, that's been my calling, doing what I could for those that came, and are still coming, for that matter."

  The boy flicked his end of the hair rope and wound it around his wrist as though testing its strength before offering his next thoughts.

  "My pap don't hold with Mormons much. He says they're standoffish and clanny."

  "Uh-huh, a man could think that, I suppose, but my guess is he'll change his mind when he gets to know them better. Some Mormons have grown wary because of troubles they've seen, but in most things Mormons are just like other folks. Some are outgoing and some aren't. You'll see 'cause you'll run across lots of them from here on."

  "My pap said a Mormon stole a bunch of horses when we was comin' through Ohio."

  "They catch him?"

  "Nope, he had all the horses."

  "Well, that's a bad thing, all right. Any stealing is wrong, but taking horses is extra bad. If a man can't plow his ground or ride over to his neighbor's he's left in poor shape. Your family go to a particular church, Tuck?"

  "Back in Abington we were Congregationalists"

  "Good people in that church, all right."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Ever know a Congregationalist to steal or do some­thing mean?"

  "Tom Snowdon that stole his pap's money and run off with it was the worst I knowed of."

  "Mighty poor Congregationalist."

  "Sure was."

  "Same as that Mormon who stole the horses. Man like that can claim to be a Mormon but he really isn't because Mormons don't hold with stealing."

  The boy looked dubious. "Don't Mormons never steal—even a little?"

  The old man thought about it before answering, as though he wanted to get it just right. "Well, Mormons don't get perfect just because they're Mormons. Temp­tation probably gets a few, but once a man gives up smoking, chewing, swearing, and drinking, and gives a tenth of all he makes to his church, he's made a heavy investment. Way I figure it, a man that interested in doing right will resist stronger than a lot of men."

  The boy seemed satisfied.

  Before he left, the old man gave him a four-foot length of braided line as a gift for his mother. He watched the boy skip away, twirling the rope around his head and dodging imaginary things with a youth's boundless energy.

  Tucker Morgan, the old man thought, I believe you are the one.

  Chapter 2

  Tucker liked being with old Tim, not that he ever called Mr. Selman that because it would be disrespectful. But as soon as he had seen to the stock and gathered enough wood to last the day his mother would turn him loose. Sooner or later he'd work around to Tim's porch where they would talk and work at their rope braiding.

  He usually sat on the step where he could see up the street with a porch post providing a comfortable backrest. From there he could flip his knife in mumblety-peg or scratch in the yard dirt while Tim told exciting yams about things he had seen or heard.

  Most stories were about going west. It seemed as though a whole country of people had gone through with heavily loaded wagons like theirs, but others owned only packs and maybe led a cow or drove a few sheep. There had even been families pulling all they possessed while the women and children walked along when they weren't helping.

  Tim Selman had seen a lot. He had something to say about almost everything, and Tucker expected that most of what Tim said was pretty well thought out and could be relied on.

  "Your pap's wise to choose oxen over horses for your wagon, Tuck. Once, the movers believed an ox would break down or his feet would wear crossing the great plains, but it wasn't so. Turned out the oxen did as good as the horses. The horses needed more grain while the oxen ate like the buffalo and stayed strong on grass. They moved slower, but they also pulled more. You know how many teams they hook up to drag a plow through that prairie sod? Sometimes as many as ten animals. Horses don't look so good under those conditions."

  Tuck thought that good to know and around their evening fire he repeated a lot of what his new friend told him. Old Tim's words became his regular contribution and it was pleasing that his pap agreed with most and was even surprised by some.

  Of course they often spoke about Mormon doings and the names of some became familiar and were easy on Tuck's tongue.

  Tim said, "That house over there—that brick one—was Joseph Smith Junior's. He was our first prophet. The wooden one belonged to—"

  The boy interrupted him. "Did you ever see Joseph Smith, Mr. Selman?"

  The old man flipped his braiding more smoothly before answering. "Yes, I knew Joseph Smith. Not as a close friend and I doubt that he knew me, but I saw him and heard him speak. I should have known him better, but we couldn't suspect what was to happen and there seemed time enough later on."

  "They say angels came and talked to him?"

  "That's what we believe."

  The boy seemed troubled. "Wonder why God picked him. He wasn't rich or anything, was he?"

  Old Tim rocked a few times, giving thought to words he had spoken before, a little amazed as always at the good sense of them.

  "Well, if you think about it, the Lord usually picked ordinary people to do his work. Some were shepherds, others were fishermen, a few were wanderers, and even Jesus probably worked as a carpenter. Joseph Smith was a common boy with a common name, raised on his father's farm. He was struggling hard to find answers to things he believed were wrong and it seems as though choosing him to found our church was just about right. He got the roots in deep and we are growing as fast as a willow but strong like an oak."

  "Wish I'd seen him."

  "Well, maybe you'll see some of the others during your travels. Brigham Young was called to Joseph's position and others we've talked about are often on the roads."

  "Wouldn't be the same though, Mr. Selman. Joseph Smith's the one who saw the angels."

  "Well, some others saw them too, Tuck, but let's not talk too much about it, your pap not holding with Mormons and all."

  "We saw where Joseph Smith got shot to death, Mr. Selman. My pap took me and we went right in to where it happened and I saw real bullet holes."

  "That's right, I'd forgotten you'd come up through Carthage. About everyone passing through goes to visit the jail."

  The boy frowned. "My pap said it was an awful thing and that Joseph Smith had come in his ownself so he could stand trial and get declared innocent."

  'Your pap's right, and those that broke in are guilty of murder, which is a lot worse than anything they accused Joseph and Hyrum of." The old man sighed. "Nothing has been done about it and I doubt anything ever will. But one important thing came out of it, and it is just the opposite of what the mob had hoped. Joseph's death tied the Saints even closer together and proved that they had to have their own place where they could be secure.

  "Why, since that time thousands have marched west to the Salt Valley and they're working like beavers to make the wilderness bloom. It is something marvelous to imagine, and if I wasn't so rickety in the knees I'd load up and join 'em."

  Mark Morgan had come a single time to meet Tuck's special friend, but since then he had stayed busy preparing for the long crossing to Council Bluffs on the Missouri. There the family would likely join a train and follow the Platte River until the turnoff for Oregon or California.

  The California fork was shorter, with steep and hard traveling. It led into the Great Salt Valley and to the Saints' growing city. Mark Morgan had no interest in that fact, but in the eye of his mind, Tim Selman saw it often, and he had directed many a Mormon family along its rugged course.

  From a distance old Tim had watched the Morgans' preparations for the next leg of their journey. Some of what he saw did not please him. With his special interest in Tucker, he guessed he should wander down and at least lay out his ideas on what shoul
d be done.

  He chose a moment when the elder Morgan rested. Seated on his chopping block, Mark contemplated an iron wheel rim ready for final fitting. He appeared surprised by the old man's visit but offered a ready greeting and cleared a nail keg for sitting.

  "Well, Mr. Morgan, it looks as though you are about ready."

  Mark Morgan took his own look at the camp's clutter and allowed a slight smile to match his words. "About ready, though it'll take a lot of careful packing."

  Tim nodded understanding. "Hard to fit it all in, and sure as shooting, whatever you need will be on the bottom."

  They shared a chuckle while Tim studied the younger man. Typical Yankee, he thought. Sure of himself and his place in things, a bit dour around strangers and as independent as a hawk. Common sense was there too, he expected, but that mellowed the careful reserve which Morgan showed the world.

  Tim cleared the rattle from his throat and spoke directly to his business—the way New Englanders seemed to like it. "Fact is, Mark, I've come to talk to you about that very thing: the packing, I mean. Now, I know my advice hasn't been asked for, but I've sent a lot of wagons on west from here and I've heard back from a good many that made it through. That means I've learned some things worth passing on. You'll do as you like, which is the right way, but at least you'll have another opinion to consider."

  Morgan seemed willing to listen, so he got on with it.

  "First thing is to get rid of every stick of furniture you've got aboard. No matter how important it may seem, leave it behind now or you surely will somewhere on the plains or in the mountains. Once across the Missouri the trail is littered with Aunt Tilly's sideboard and Grandma's favorite table.

  "Load only things you'll need on the trail. Using them up will lighten your wagon before the mountains. In California you can replace whatever you've left, or you can store important furnishings here and have them brought out by wagoneers after you've gotten established.

  "Fact is, my barn's half full of chests and barrels of china packed in wheat left for safekeeping. Some has already gone on to the salt lake and I suppose some will probably never be claimed. Anyway, you're welcome to store, and," he added a rueful smile, "I expect to last a few seasons longer so it'll get sent on when you want it.