The Gun of Joseph Smith

by Katherine R. Chandler

  "It's wise to have extra wheel parts because hubs will wear and spokes will break. Every box should be watertight because there are a hundred fordings and you'll even float across a few.

  "Keep your iron low in the wagon. Have enough shoes for the oxen, and don't forget charcoal for blacksmithing. Buffalo-dung fires are all right to cook over but they won't heat iron."

  He rambled through the many details that had become important to earlier pioneers and Mark Morgan listened the way a man should. Once in a while he nodded agreement and occasionally raised an eyebrow or pursed a lip in surprise.

  By the time he ran down, old Tim figured the younger man had learned a few things.

  "I've enjoyed your boy, Morgan. He's a good listener and an old man appreciates that. I've something for him that I've been holding back until just the right boy came along. Tucker's the one and if you've no objections I'll give it to him next time he comes by."

  Mark thought that would be fine, and Tim supposed he believed Tucker would get something like a specially braided rope. That suited Tim. It should be a surprise. It was a handsome gift—and it just might be important as well.

  Chapter 3

  They sat for a spell working on their braiding. Tim held the rope at arm's length with his head cocked back so his eyes could focus. Tuck, on the other hand, got his rope almost under his nose and scowled in concentration as he laid in the turnings.

  Tim thought passersby could enjoy a good laugh at the sight of them and an artist might sketch a touching picture of the old and young-content as a pair of cud-chewing cows-with their no-account rope making.

  The boy broke their comfortable silence. "Know what, Mr. Selman? Seeing I've got all that long way to California without nothin' to do, I think I'll just keep braiding away until I've got the world's longest hair rope.''

  The man nodded solemnly. "Interesting idea. 'Course, for material you'll have to slip up on Indian ponies and jerk out their tail hairs without them noticing. And, now that I think about it, you'll be too busy gathering buffalo chips for the campfires."

  "Yuck, I'd rather gather sticks."

  "No sticks on the plains. Just grass as far as a rider can see."

  "Wish we had a horse so's I could ride out and shoot a buffalo now and then."

  "You have a gun, Tuck?" The old man almost wiggled with the ease of it.

  "No, but Pap's got one that shoots shot real good—isn't much with a single ball, though."

  "Must be a smoothbore."

  "Uh-huh, old army gun. Pap got it for takin' camp meat but he says it uses so much powder it's hardly worth firing."

  "Expect you'd like to have your own gun, one that fit proper and shot true?"

  "Who wouldn't? With a real gun in camp I could take fresh meat 'most anytime and we'd feel safer, too."

  Beyond the excitement of the words the boy's eyes dreamed and old Tim remembered the kind of imaginings that saved the wagon from marauding hostiles or shot wolves ravening around the oxen. A good gun made heroics seem possible, and, more than any other thing, a youth hungered to stand brave before family and friends.

  He had waited a long time for this particular moment and he found he enjoyed the telling as much as he had thought he would.

  "You recall that the brick house over there was the home of the Prophet Joseph Smith?" He waited for the boy's nod. "Well, two years back I did a little repair work where shingles had worked loose. Summer sun was cookin' the roof and inside the attic was hotter than an oven. It was dark as a cellar and I sweat myself weak while stirring up enough dust to make mud. I'd about decided to put off the rest when I dropped my hammer through the ceiling joists.

  "I thought some about maybe a big old rattlesnake waiting coiled and quiet, but I had to get the hammer. Then I imagined reaching into a big nest of black widow spiders or grabbing a handful of sleeping bats. Made me feel around real cautiously." The boy nodded appreciaton and grinned at the ideas.

  "About then I got hold of what I thought was the hammer. Instead, I came up with a rifle barrel. In fact, the whole rifle was laying snake-snug right there between the joists. Surprised me more than a little but I still had to go back in for my hammer."

  The boy's eyes were wide as an owl's. He looked so caught up you could have knocked on his head and he wouldn't have noticed. It was the right response and old Tim continued.

  "Backed my way out, dragging my tools and the gun, them and me about as dirt fouled as we could get.

  "I was a little excited about finding the gun, sort of like stumbling on buried treasure. Anyway, I cleaned it off so I could see what I had and try to figure out whose it might be.

  "Boy's rifle it was, short and light, not too fancy; a gun for serious work, I figured."

  He particularly liked that last part. Calling it a boy's rifle might have made the gun sound like a toy, and that wasn't his wish. He cleared his throat, savoring the memories of the find, and then went on.

  "Big question was, who had left the gun behind? The first thought was that the Smiths, with all the confusion over Joseph's murder and all, simply forgot it. I reckon that's what I've wanted most to believe. Still, other folks lived there and the house has been empty for lengths of time. Worst of all, no one remembered Joseph or anyone else having owned such a gun.

  "Next problem to reason through was why the rifle was hidden in the attic. Could be that it was put away out of children's reach. Or maybe the gun was just kept in the attic with other things and it slipped down out of sight. In the end I didn't find any answers there either.

  "Finally I had to decide what to do with the gun. Didn't need it myself of course but, remembering where I'd gotten it, who it went to seemed important.

  "Being a boy's rifle sort of left out the grown folks, but with families passing through in flocks I figured I'd find a boy that should have a rifle with this special background."

  It was good storytelling and Tuck Morgan was sunk into it with his face all eager to hear the rest and still unsuspecting of his part in the tale.

  "Being a Saint myself I looked mostly at Mormon families and nearly all of them appeared right, but something kept holding me back. Seemed as though I was waiting for some sort of special sign, though I sure as shootin' didn't know what it was.

  "After a while I got a picture in my mind as to how I wanted that boy to look and act. Couldn't be too old or he'd outgrow the gun too quick. Didn't consider wisemouthed or sneaky types, and smokers or tobacco chewers weren't in the race.

  "Nope, I wanted a boy that had promise to him. One that would cherish the gun and give serious thought to the mystery of finding a fine little rifle abandoned in an attic."

  The old man braided a few turns, seemingly lost in thought, but Tuck waited with patience, envying the youth who had gotten the rifle. He had already decided it was Joseph Smith's gun. It had to be to make the story perfect. The confusions of persecution, all the problems of being a leader, and maybe . . . maybe the small gun had been a gift from someone admiring of the man who had seen angels. Old Tim's voice snatched him back to the story.

  "Oh, I waited a long time for that boy. Looked over a heap of others without choosing and then one day, there he was, coming up the road. Looked like some I'd already passed by and came from a wagon no different from a dozen others, but this was the one. Something inside told me it was.

  "'Course, I tested him. Sat him down here on the porch and talked things over while we braided away. Wasn't even a Mormon boy, it turned out, and his family was going to California so I wouldn't ever see him again. But he was a dreaming boy who could imagine things, and he was a boy that a family could be proud of—one that was sure to make something of himself.

  "Sometimes when we were braiding together I'd see him as a man grown old like myself handing the boy's gun off to another about like he'd been when passing through Nauvoo.

  "Yep, I knew he was the right one ever since he came wandering up the road, looking interested, with an old rag tied around the big toe he
'd barked."

  The last words startled Tucker from his dreaming. That he had been described came to him late, and he found old Tim's kindly eyes resting on him expectantly. His mouth made an "oh" and he felt tingles start near his knees. Disbelief and fear to hope swirled around in him and Tim's voice seemed to come from a long way off.

  "So, the gun is yours if you want it, Tuck. You're the one I'd like to have it." He chuckled for them both and added, "Reckon you know there'll be words to go along with the gift. Old folks can't ever just hand a thing over, they've got to advise and instruct, but I promise not to take too long at it."

  Tucker got out some sort of an acceptance, although he doubted his mouth could form words. His heart hammered as if he had run up a mountain and he still feared his ears were playing tricks. He, Tucker Morgan, to have a gun of his very own, and one that had belonged to Joseph Smith. His palms began to sweat and he hastily wiped them on his ragged pants.

  Tim reached behind the door frame to where he had leaned the rifle and brought it into the light so that the maple grain of the stock contrasted handsomely with its rust brown barrel and brass fittings. Wrapped around the gun's wrist his big old hand made it seem even smaller than it was and he heard the boy's breath suck just from the sight of it.

  He didn't hand the gun across right away because once the boy was handling the rifle his mind wouldn't stick with outside thoughts.

  He raised the gun to his shoulder and lined the sights on a distant spot. The stock's shortness brought his cheek against his thumb, but a grown man could still use it. He had measured the barrel and it was only thirty-six inches, which made it light for steadiest holding but quicker to swing and more right for a boy's strength. When the gun came down he leaned it against a porch post where they could both admire it.

  There was nothing fancy about the rifle. Except for its thin front sight, the butt plate, trigger guard, and ramrod ferrules were the only brass, but he had polished up the wood until it shone and the nicks and gouges were honest, a lot like the experience scars a man gathered during a useful lifetime.

  When he had turned out the breech plug the rifling had looked sharp and the lack of pitting showed that someone caring had cleaned it after every shooting. It was a plain gun—a gun meant for using, not just for showing around—and it deserved a good home.

  Where it had come from was important, too, and that was a part that made the giving special.

  He took his eyes away to enjoy the boy's round-mouthed admiration. For a moment he could almost share the youth's wonder, the excited longing strong enough to taste, the thrill of discovery that flooded the mind with things possible from having such a rifle. Only a youth could raise those rich enthusiasms. Somehow they disappeared with experience and maturity.

  "Now, Tucker, there isn't a lick of proof that Joseph Smith ever owned this gun, but it came from his home and that means something to me.

  "Even if it was Joseph's gun it wouldn't have any magical properties because our prophet wasn't that kind of man. Joseph didn't know all things and he wasn't even the finest speaker I ever heard. Maybe the Lord picked him because he was just about like the rest of us.

  "For being chosen, Joseph suffered some terrible hardships, but he never faltered and he faced up to what was right no matter how difficult it must have been. That's the kind of man I want to have this rifle. I'm thinking you're an honest boy heading in the right direction. I doubt you're much better or any worse than a lot of others. You come from good stock and should grow into a decent, straight-thinking man.

  "My hope is that the rifle and thoughts that go with it will help you along your way."

  He again picked up the gun and allowed his gnarled hands to slide along the polished maple as gently as a caress. Then he held it out to the boy.

  "You take it now, Tuck, and handle it awhile. Go down and make sure it's all right with your pap. Come back later on and I'll show you how to load and we'll shoot a bit down by the river so that you get the hang of it."

  The boy was gone almost too quickly for old Tim to draw the most from the moments. He had intended to lecture a little on the things boys got told about over and over, but it occurred to him that more talk right then wouldn't be remembered anyway. The boy needed this time to show his gun, to point it around, and thrill to the idea of owning it. Later, maybe, he could pound away at working hard, staying true, and being square in all things.

  The sun was past its peak when Mark Morgan came pacing along the street. He didn't have the rifle and he didn't appear angered, so it must have been all right. A parent could get jealous of an outsider giving a gift beyond his own abilities, but Mark figured to be a bigger man than that and Tim expected to approve of what he had to say.

  Morgan seated himself in Tucker's usual spot, and Tim saw similarities in their quick and easy movements. Like father, like son—the saying had truth in it.

  The older man spoke first. "Howdy, Mark."

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Selman."

  Without looking they weighed each other.

  "I'm more than grateful for the interest you've shown in Tucker, Mr. Selman, and your gift of the rifle is handsome and extremely generous. I speak for his mother and myself when I thank you for it."

  "Thanks accepted, Mark. It's been my pleasure knowing Tucker and meeting his family. I held that rifle through many a visit, waiting for the right boy, and I'm pleased that Tucker is the one."

  "You've always addressed me in the familiar, Mr. Selman. I'd like to do the same with you."

  "I'd admire having you call me Tim, Mark. Makes me feel closer to your family."

  "It's Tim then, and before I forget, I've taken your advice and sold off the furniture we were carrying. We thank you for that direction as well."

  "Good decision. The mountains climb high and the way is hard. You would hate that furniture long before you arrived."

  They again sat silent, but it was comfortable, just a matter of picking the next subject.

  "Tucker says his rifle could have belonged to Joseph Smith; is that so?"

  Tim retold the story, allowing the possibility, but stressing the lack of evidence. "In the end I guess I'd like to believe it was Joseph's gun and that's why I've been particular about who ended up with it."

  "You understand that we have no leanings toward becoming Mormons, Tim?"

  "Well, not many have, until they learn about it, Mark. A lot of strange things are told about Mormons and until the truth is heard, it's hard to work through the foolish stories. For instance, I've heard it claimed that we aren't Christians. You ever hear that?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Strange thing to say when the Bible stands even with our own book and the whole of our name is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."

  "Some folks say Mormonism is just a passing fancy that won't last."

  "Yep, I've heard that one too. Way I read it, though, we don't fit that description. We're too large and already spread around a lot of the world. We don't answer to a single leader, either. We have a president, various councils, and lots of bishops.

  "Problem is that we grew so fast the truth hasn't kept up with the imaginings. The sad part is that all a person has to do is read the Book of Mormon and judge for himself. The book is either entirely correct or it is not worth the paper it's printed on, Mark. We say, 'Find one untruth and we are wrong,' but no one has, and we believe no one ever could."

  The old man paused as though weighing a decision.

  "Tell you what, Mark. You're a man that can read and a man who can think. Ahead you have months of just walking and riding with nothing but your own thoughts for company. I'd like you to take along my copy of the Book of Mormon and I'll get another. If you've a mind to, when things are slow and time lays heavy, give it a try."

  He picked the well-used volume from his porch table and riffled through the pages.

  "This is a remarkable story, Mark, and it's only fair to warn you that the truth of it can grab you tighter than a bear t
rap. But no man should fear or avoid what's true.

  "You'd please me by taking the book with no obligation to read it. Just keep it by, in case you get curious or feel in need of a bit of reading."

  Morgan took the book and weighed it in his hand. He shook his head, half in wonder, partly in chagrin. "Some would say I'm handling the devil's work, Tim—risking perdition just by considering it."

  The old man snorted disgust. "Pure foolishness, Mark. You find one word in that book that's contrary to God's teachings and you are welcome to use it to light campfires."

  The father left and soon the son came with the rifle. Tim gathered up the bullet bag, powder horn, and a tin of percussion caps he thought should go with the gun and they made their way to a good shooting spot along the river.

  They put up an old wood chunk for a target, and Tim spread the loading components on the flat of a sawed-off stump.

  "Loading is easy enough, Tuck, but there's an order to it a man should follow.

  "First, make sure your rifle is empty. You can do that by blowing in the nipple. If air comes out the barrel, she's clear.

  "Figure a safe powder charge by laying a proper ball on your open palm and pouring powder until it piles up and just covers the ball. Later you can figure a best load.

  "Now you take a little piece of cotton cloth that'll just wrap the ball and lay it over the muzzle. Set the ball on top of it and push everything gently in with your ramrod until it seats firmly on the powder charge; and for safety, always keep your head back away from the barrel.

  "Put your ramrod back under the barrel, put the hammer on half cock, slip on a cap, and you're ready to shoot."

  Tucker's hands shook with eagerness and he had trouble aligning the sights the way Tim told him, but the trigger squeezed smoothly beneath his finger and when it let go, the rifle jolted hard and satisfying against his shoulder.