That argument sounded arrow-straight to young Tucker Morgan and he visualized himself tall in the saddle, with a wide-brimmed hat, riding in from wild places with the people looking on wondering what he had seen and done. Then Holloway concluded and just ruined the whole thing.
"Big trouble is that a man gets older. His joints ache, his shooting eye falters, and he can't hear worth a hoot. He begins seeing the end of his rope and he starts wondering if he's done right. Looking behind he sees his tracks fading and nothing to mark his passing. Nobody gives two raps if he's alive or dead and no one wants to listen to old stories. The hills get too steep and the plains turn lonely. Like an old animal he's outside the herd and about all there is left to hope for is that his dying won't drag out.
"Makes a man think harder about them Saints with their believing and their working together, don't it?"
Avoiding the Laramie Mountains called for a northern loop along the Platte's north fork and then a swing west up the Sweetwater. Ahead lay the Rockies and the final chance to choose a destination.
Evening fires offered talking time, with people worn down just enough from chores and another day's slogging travel.
Mark Morgan liked worrying his ideas past Holloway's pithy observations, but as they neared South Pass and separation of the trails he found his decision almost made.
"I've a mind to swing south and look hard at the Mormon settlements, Grant."
"Not surprised, Morgan. You've about worn that book out as is. Be sorry to lose your wagon, but you should do what you want, 'cause if you don't you'll spend a lifetime wishing you'd taken the time."
"Anybody else turning off, Grant?"
"Not that I've been told. Don't matter, though. Move fast and you'll catch somebody before Bridger's Fort. Go slow and a train'll catch you. Can't lose the trail; ruts're hub deep in wet places.
"Once you're past Bridger's you'll be working through mountains so steep animals can't cling to 'em. Parley Pratt's building a toll road over the last of them that's near complete and it'll help.
"Whole way is steep and rougher than anything we've come near. The trail's lined with abandoned wagons and thrown-away goods so you'll know you're headin' right, but it'd be best to tie onto company for that part. Just be careful to pick a strong party that'll give as much help as they get."
Tucker Morgan was pretty well crushed by the choice, but by parting time, Holloway had built his interest in the Salt Lake route and only the loss of the guide's companionship bit hard.
Holloway came over to the wagon a last time and again shook hands all around. At Tuck's turn he put a big hand on the boy's shoulder and gave him a little shake. “Scout hard, boy, and keep your wagon in meat. Be suspicious all the time and don't listen to every pilgrim that comes riding by."
He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. Then he rolled easily into his saddle and worked his feet into the stirrups. Beneath the broad hat brim his eyes shone and he said, "One day I just might come riding in, boy. Maybe have time to take those lessons then.
"Don't forget your old pard, Tucker Morgan, for he won't forget you."
Then Holloway rode away and Tucker's throat ached too bad to stand.
Chapter 7
Holloway had been right about the Fort Bridger route. It was as easily followed as the Boston Pike. Iron wagon tires had sunk deep and crushed growth in a broad swath. In search of better going, wagons had wound across the land, coming together only where natural obstacles indicated a best way. Weather favored the Morgan wagon and they rumbled steadily across the high and open grasslands.
For a few days Tuck had been held pretty close with repeated warnings not to stray. On the third day he had gone out a way to take antelope, and although he had not found a shot he had seen the best route ahead. The sighting saved a wasteful descent and long reclimb; thereafter he was allowed to scout the trail and do a little hunting until the wagon closed up.
It wasn't nearly as good as it had been on Holloway's horse. It took too long to get a mile's lead on the wagon and it seemed forever before the oxen dragged close enough for him to move on. But, he was scouting and he was bringing in meat just as the guide had ordered. At least he wasn't all the time walking with the wagon—though he got some of that, too.
Nearly a week out he sat within a tangle of growth that sprouted under a shaded overhang, watching the wagon, which was pulled over while his pap worked on an ox shoe. Though it was nearly a mile distant he could tell what the problem was because it happened so regularly. Danged animals were forever pulling a shoe loose. Good thing his pap could blacksmith or they'd have had to hold up until someone came.
Some oxen hauled bare hooved and before reaching Laramie a lot of them had broken down with split hooves or worse. Not the Morgan team, though. His pap knew a thing or two about traveling right.
No use going down because it was a one-man job and would be done about the time he got there. He listened to the insect drone and heard nothing else until a horse clomped almost in his ear. The sound startled him half to death. Thinking Indians, he sunk as deep as he could into his meager shelter.
Saddle leather creaked and boots struck the ground. He smelled wool and smoking tobacco, which could mean a white man, but caution kept him still and he felt his hand turn sweaty on the rifle's grip.
Whoever it was had stopped his horse on the ridge's far side and stepped off there. When he moved forward he came through a dip where he wouldn't be outlined against the sky and knelt to look where Tuck could see him without even turning his head.
A telescope clicked as the stranger held it to an eye and studied the halted wagon. He watched for a long time before lowering the telescope and studying the trail both ways. Apparently satisfied, he struggled erect and flexed a stiffened knee before turning away.
For a moment his eyes swept the thicket and Tucker thought he was seen, but the watcher's thoughts were elsewhere, and bent low at the waist, he worked his way back to his horse.
After a bit the man mounted and clucked his horse down the back side of the ridge. Heart pounding, Tuck edged to where he could see, but it was safe enough. The rider was in a hollow, gathering the lead rope of a lightly loaded pack animal and heading off toward the back trail.
Tucker didn't like the look of him at all. Not that he was outwardly different. He wore a wide-brimmed hat on a strangely pointy head that sat atop a large, pear-shaped body. Something sneaky about him, though; made shivers run up your backbone. Tuck looked close at the man's gun and it wasn't much, a musket a lot like his pap's draped over the saddle bow, but Tucker was still pleased to see the stranger riding on.
He guessed the man had studied the wagon too close and too long, making his interest more than casual. Thinking about it sort of turned Tucker nervous and he decided to head on in. It would be nearly stopping time and he'd tell Pap about the little stream that ran a mile or so farther on. Good grass there and the usual supply of buffalo chips. Make a good camp, he figured.
The wagon started up before he was off the ridge and he turned a little so they'd meet farther ahead. Halfway down, though, a horseman coming up behind the wagon caught his eye and after a moment he knew it was the watcher coming on easy without his pack animal. The man had circled and left his spare horse hidden. Now, why would he do that? Tucker ducked into a low draw that led down and began to run.
Even downhill feet didn't match a horse and when he came out of cover the rider was just pulling up to the wagon. Fifty yards out, Tucker saw the stranger lean over and look carefully into the wagon bed before riding up to tip his hat to Ma and Pap. By then Tucker wasn't far behind. Controlling his breathing, he eased up tight against the tailgate and peered around.
The stranger was telling a windy about riding to Bridger and wondering if they'd seen his family that had gone on ahead. The story didn't fit and Tucker knew he was looking at real trouble.
The rider's musket was slung, but with a shock Tucker saw a heavy pistol stuck into the back of the m
an's belt.
Even as he talked the stranger's hand reached back as though to scratch and his fingers closed around the curved pistol butt.
The click of Tucker's rifle coming to full cock froze the man's movements. The sound was unmistakable and the stranger's fingers slowly left the pistol and made as though merely to adjust the gun more comfortably. His head turned slowly and mean little eyes took in Tucker and his half-raised rifle.
The man was caught and he knew it, but his bluff did not falter. "Howdy, boy, didn't see you back there."
Getting no answer he added, "Hope you're not nervous with that gun cocked and all."
Mark Morgan's jaw fell and he felt the need to shake his head and clear his thinking. They'd been greeting, and then out of nowhere Tucker had appeared, pointing his gun at the stranger in a plainly threatening way.
"He's got a pistol in his belt, Pap, and he was getting a good grip on it when I cocked."
The stranger's grin was evil, and Mark Morgan felt its venom as he moved around the horse to look.
"Just moving the gun to a more comfortable position, boy. Didn't mean to startle you."
Tuck could feel his father's indecision so he added the cappers. "Pistol is cocked, Pap. A man doesn't ride with a cocked gun unless he's figuring on using it."
The rider seemed surprised and quickly exclaimed, "Why, so it is, boy. Don't know how that happened. Could have caused a bad accident." He was careful not to feel for the gun.
"Uh-huh." Tucker was surprised at the chill in his own voice and he held the rifle a little closer to target.
"And maybe you can explain how come you left your packhorse tied up back there?" The man's mouth worked but Tucker wasn't finished.
"And how come your tracks behind the ridge come from Bridger and why you watched the wagon so long with the telescope that's in your saddlebags?"
For a moment Tucker thought the stranger might reach for his pistol anyway and he centered the rifle's muzzle squarely on the man's body.
The rider's fingers twitched and his face contorted in rage. Tucker thought, This is the kind we've heard about. If he could, he would kill us right here and now. Mark Morgan thought so, too. He snatched his old musket from the wagon and laid its huge muzzle on the furious rider.
Almost gasping, the stranger snorted his words. "Now, ain't this somethin'? Two pilgrims wavin' guns at an innocent traveler." He managed laughter as wild as a loon's call. "Looks like I ain't welcome here so I'll just ride on." He raised a rein and Mark Morgan tucked his cheek against his musket's stock.
"Now, you decent people ain't thinkin' you can just murder a man that's done you no harm, are you?" The rider's words were intended to create doubt, but the two steady guns put uncertainty into his voice.
Mark's words showed where he stood and there was no hesitation in them. Tucker admired how quickly his father took hold and how surely he meant just what he said.
"Well, traveler, if you don't do just as I say we may do that. You sit real still and don't let that horse move around or I'll see how big a hole this musket can put in you." The stranger's head appeared about to burst, but the musket's gaping muzzle held him motionless.
"Tucker, you just pluck that pistol out of his belt and stay on the far side of the horse so I've got clear shooting."
Tucker had to stretch to reach the pistol and he didn't like handling it on full cock. He was about to lay it aside when his mother spoke.
"Let me have it, Tucker." He placed it in her outstretched hand, tempted to warn her about the tender trigger, but to his surprise she grasped it firmly in both hands and aimed it squarely at the rider's pointy head.
The man's features lost their flush and he blanched with visible fear. His voice was shaky when he spoke. "Now, Ma'am, you be careful with that pistol; the trigger can let go way too easy." Rebecca's aim did not falter and a trickle of nervous sweat seeped from beneath the rider's hat brim.
For Mark Morgan the situation was miserable. They couldn't just shoot the man because he hadn't acted honest—though he suspected that would be the safest course.
Tie him up and transport him to Bridger? Then what? Their story would sound weak and maybe they would be accused of attacking a man innocent of any wrongdoing.
Turn him loose? Perhaps, if they pulled his fangs and ended their solo traveling. Within a train's protection the rider couldn't get at them even if he wished. Mark's decision had to be immediate, so he made it.
Protected by Rebecca's pistol and Tucker's rifle, he stepped close and took the rider's musket, leaving him without firearms. Then he stuck the muzzle of his own musket tight under the man's chin and made his voice as strong as he could.
"Just occurred to me that you never got around to saying your name. Care to say it now?" Only a glaring eye answered, so Mark continued.
"I figure you for a dangerous man that meant us harm. Trouble is, we might be wrong, and that being the case we'll do the fairest thing.
"Seeing you're riding fast for Bridger's Fort, you won't miss these guns. Once we get in, we'll tell the people in charge all about your visit, including what Tucker saw. 'Course your family will be there to back your story and we'll be pleased to turn over your weapons.
"Till then, Mister, I wouldn't get caught anywhere around this wagon because we'll be guarding day and night and we won't be slow about shooting."
The man rode out fast, and once he was beyond range, rose in his saddle to curse and revile them. He disappeared on their back trail, probably to collect his pack animal, and they could not tell his final direction.
"I think we should have shot him, Pap."
Mark Morgan did not immediately answer his son but when he did his voice was mild. "Would you have shot him while he was just sitting there unarmed, Tucker?"
Tucker admitted that it would have been awfully hard. "But he might try coming up on us in the dark, Pap."
"He surely might, so we'll bring the stock in and keep a careful watch until we meet other wagons."
"Mr. Holloway said the best time to attack is just before rising time. Likely this one knows about that."
"I'll take that watch then, Tucker, and I wish Grant Holloway was with us now."
"We'll handle it, Pap."
"We surely will, son."
They traveled harder, shortening the rest stops and continuing until almost dark every evening. The oxen were tied to the wagon and the nights were broken by guard duty.
No longer was Tucker allowed to roam. He went ahead to point the trail, but only when it seemed important. Each day they expected to encounter wagons, but no horsemen appeared and no smoke rose in any direction. The land lay empty of human life.
At Rock Springs the earth was chewed to dust by former camping but was as deserted as the prairie. They crossed the Green River and surged along Black's Fork before they overtook a pair of weary and footsore wagons. They gladly slowed to join the others' pace and were able to at least partly relax their vigil.
A day later a wagon came up from behind and their train became four. A hunting party out of Fort Bridger rested with them and they began to anticipate their arrival at the last post before entering the high mountains protecting the Great Salt Valley.
No one had encountered the rider with the strangely shaped head and the Morgans suspected they had seen the last of him. It wouldn't pay to be careless about it, though, and they stayed close and kept an eye out.
Jim Bridger had built his fort to milk what was left of the fur trade, and leathered mountain men still rode in. The Mormons' exodus had invigorated the fort and the California gold rush made it an important supply and reorganization point. The fort had become a sprawl of shacks, tents, and wagons. In places, Indian tepees rose, and too many oxen, horses, and mules raised dust across the eaten-down and hoof-pounded prairie. Smiths hammered their glowing iron and men bought and sold whatever they needed or could spare. Ahead lay the great mountains and their final destinations.
When he was allowed, Tucker Morga
n took his rifle and poked as close as he dared to the diverse camps. He didn't crowd the Indians but he liked speaking with the weather-blackened trappers and traders who had powerful tales to tell and advice to give. They never failed to admire his rifle and compliment him often for carrying it wherever he went—as they did. They talked like Holloway had—calling themselves "this child" and mixing in a lot of Spanish and Indian words. He felt comfortable at their fires.
More than a few identified the stranger whose guns the Morgans had taken. Most were surprised that Pin Larkin was still in the west, as his welcome had long run out, and if he were caught, justice would be quick and final.
Bridger was away but his man summed Pin Larkin. "He's called 'Pin' 'cause of his pointed head and maybe 'cause there ain't much in it. He's mean and he's snake crooked.
"You're lucky to have bested Larkin. He's known to have killed a family and he got caught peddling their goods. The Mormons nearly caught him when he ran for California and we figured he'd cleared out.
"We'll never see him in these parts, that's for sure, so you'd best keep the guns for your own use." The man added an afterthought. "Too bad you didn't leave him for the buzzards. As it is, he'll probably head east and no doubt try again. The next wagon might not be ready for him."
Before the subject got old, Tucker voiced a thought that had been in his mind. "Remember what Elder Bowton said about my gun saving my life, Pap? Maybe it saved all of us when Pin Larkin was reaching for that pistol."
Mark nodded belief. "The more we hear, the more it seems likely. Tell you what really saved us, though. It was you thinking clearly and being ready to act.
"Suppose you'd loafed coming in? Or suppose you hadn't slipped up quiet and ready? You did it just right, Tucker, and your mother and I are both proud of the way you handled yourself."
The Gun of Joseph Smith Page 6