"To kill for the pleasure of executing something is boorish. It demonstrates coarseness and a disdain for the creatures being destroyed. We take camp meat to eat. That is necessary and reasonable, and we do it without qualm or hesitation. The taking of our relatively few trophies is tolerable because we preserve the best for the enjoyment and education of many, long beyond the specimen's lifespan.
"The grand trophy is often an older animal, already in its final seasons. A philosopher might conclude that by quickly ending the animal's life we spare it the agonies of starvation or ravening wolves. There is no gentle death in the wild, so there may be merit in the argument."
Holloway had something to add. Usually taciturn and willing to remain outside conversations, the guide's participation was unusual. Tucker guessed Mister Holloway was specially interested in the subject.
"Mostly, Weston is dead center in what he's saying about the best trophies being old animals. 'Course, there are some exceptions. Moose, in fact all deer including elk and caribou, are different. Their antlers are dropped every year and the biggest and best horns'll be grown during the animal's prime. Antelope shed every year, too, and their best will be on prime animals.
"You've got to watch it with bears as well. Old bears can have scruffy looking fur. They can get scrawny like old men do, and who'd want to make a trophy out of some wrinkled old hide like I'm wearin'?"
Men chuckled, and Tucker was pleased that he already knew these things. They were beginning facts that a hunter should know, but he could tell that some were new to most of the listeners.
The guide continued. "Mountain goat horns stay on and grow more each year. Same with sheep. As Weston says, the older they are, the better they are likely to be."
Holloway paused and, listening hard and thinking about what was being said, Tucker Morgan heard himself speaking up. Out of habit he addressed the guide. "Mister Holloway, seeing we're planning on taking prime animals, it might be best to piece a pair together now and then."
Tuck Morgan felt his tongue start to stick as heads swung to him. He hadn't intended to join in, but the thought had popped out of him. Well, he did know a thing or two, and the idea that had appeared just might not have been brought up.
Eyes questioned, so Tucker hurried on. "Let's say we came on a huge set of moose antlers but the animal's hide was rubbed or maybe a poor color. It might be best to take those antlers and mount them on a good moose hide rather than looking for one perfect animal."
When he had finished, it was quiet for a moment, and Tucker felt a flush rising, wondering if he'd offered up something stupid or an idea that everybody else already took for granted.
Holloway began to nod. Then Payne-Weston smiled and slapped a boot top. "Why you are right, Tucker. Matching horns to hides could give us the best of trophies. In the limited time we have we might never find animals as good as we could put together."
Tucker's flush turned to one of pleasure. He was gratified that the hunters liked his idea. He was at least as pleased to hear Mister Weston call him "Tucker." That "Mister Morgan" stuff really hadn't set too well.
Chapter 6
The Payne-Weston party was not ready to move. Another wagon with more people was expected. The delay suited Holloway and Tucker. Their ride had been long, and they had business in town.
A pair of miles to the east lay the new city of Omaha, and just across the Missouri River was the Saint's old Winter Quarters, where the pioneers had formed up before tackling the Great Plains. There was a city building there as well. Its latest name was Council Bluffs, the name Lewis and Clark had given the area fifty years earlier.
Weston said, "I doubt that you will see much that is interesting in either town, Grant. We probably have better goods here in our train than you will be able to purchase there." Payne-Weston had come to his guide's fire, and the three of them sat with Weston's man hovering behind.
The servant's name was Jones. Tucker liked Mister Jones. He had little to say and did his job about perfectly. If asked something, Jones was knowledgeable and plain spoken. Tucker guessed he might be lonely because his duties kept him separate, and the camp's men seemed to think a valet's work somehow shameful. Tuck Morgan didn't see it that way, and he intended on being friendly, like all should be in a train heading into wild country.
Holloway said, "Well, we aren't goin' in just to look the town over, Weston. We've two things in mind. Seeing we're Saints, we intend studying on the old Winter Quarters where so many gathered with a lot of suffering."
Holloway nodded toward the gun propped close beside Tucker's elbow. "Then we're a'mind to have Tucker's Joseph Smith rifle freshed to a bigger caliber and maybe lengthened a mite in the stock. Gun was built as a boy's rifle, and Tuck's getting a little big for it. Fine gun, though, so it would be worth working on even if the prophet hadn't owned it."
Payne-Weston appeared puzzled. "You are referring to a story that I have not heard, Grant. The rifle appears ordinary to me."
Holloway held out a hand, and Tucker gave him the gun. The guide ran his hands over the maple stock, pleasuring in the feel, before sliding it across Payne-Weston's lap.
"The gun means something because we believe it belonged to the man who founded our church. Now understand, Weston, that we know that possessions don't gain special powers because of who owned 'em, but having this rifle got the Morgans interested in the Book of Mormon. In time they joined the church. Listening to Tuck's pap read the book got me to reasoning on it, and after a while, I chose baptizing and became a Saint, too.
"On top of all that, some remarkable things came about with this gun involved. Most amazing was a time when Tuck was about thirteen and a crazy man was going to bash him into pulp with this Joseph Smith rifle. Lightning came down the barrel, fried the man to death, but left Tucker with just a tingle or two. Didn't hurt the rifle a bit either. Gave us all a pause, and while we're not claiming Heavenly Father aimed that lightning bolt on purpose . . . well, together with other things, it makes a man wonder."
Payne-Weston leveled the rifle and sighted on a few distant objects. "A simple gun with nice balance. I would guess it to be .36 caliber." Tuck nodded agreement. "The barrel is thick enough for boring out to say . . . .45 caliber?" This time Holloway nodded, and Weston continued his speculation.
"Boring will make the gun barrel-light. You might consider having a rib soldered under the barrel where the stock will hide it. That would add weight where you want it and help dampen the recoil."
Both Holloway and Tucker accepted the idea, so Weston went on. "Butt lengthening is another matter. You will want at least an inch added, will you not?"
Tucker said, "An inch will do, Mister Weston. I could use it longer, but most of our shooting is done wearing heavy clothing. Too long a stock makes shouldering a gun unnatural so that you have to think about handling, instead of just leveling down and letting go. Better to be just a hair short, we figure."
Young Morgan was right. James Payne-Weston had hunted continents, and he knew guns and game. In Holloway, Payne-Weston had hired the best of the old timers. When he had asked for a guide who knew the west, who was trustworthy, and who was as dependable as a sunrise, Grant Holloway's name came first. The offer of guide and scout had reached Holloway and here he was, just the man Payne-Weston had hoped for.
Tucker Morgan rode in Holloway's shadow—that could not be mistaken. They were alike as bullets. Holloway was a larger caliber now, but in a few years you would have to peer under their hat shade to tell one from the other.
That young Morgan understood gun stock fit showed perception and interest. Most just fired away with little regard to weapon refinements. Too many accepted their gun as it was, no matter how ill the fit. Tucker, Payne-Weston speculated, would possess a great measure of Grant Holloway's knowledge. Riding together week on week, Holloway would tell and Tucker would listen. Payne-Weston judged that he had picked up a pair of good men when he had expected only one.
When he laid his rifle on the
gunsmith's blanket-covered counter, Tuck began experiencing doubts, and he almost snatched it back. Although they had reasoned it through, and both he and Holloway agreed the rifle would be more useful firing a bigger ball, the act of actually altering the special gun surfaced reservations. Had he the right to change the rifle? It had been given for his use with the hope that someday he would pass it on to a son. The gunsmith helped ease some of the doubts.
The smith was a Latter-day Saint. That fact alone helped make things seem right. He was a Pennsylvania German who had learned his craft apprenticed to a riflemaker of note. The work he displayed was handsomely done, and Tucker's confidence grew.
The gunsmith's words also helped more than a little. With the rifle disassembled, he held the barrel to the light.
"Well, it's about time your rifling was cleaned up. There is erosion in the chamber, and it runs up the barrel a way. A .45 caliber is better on the plains. It'll stop animals that a .36 will only tickle." He glanced at his customers. "Of course, you men already know that."
Stock lengthening was another matter, and the smith spent a moment rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Now the usual way is to just cut the butt flat and fit in a thick spacer. Unfortunately, the result is ugly and an embarrassment to a caring gunsmith or his customer.
"So, seeing this gun once belonged to our prophet, I'll suggest another way. It's more work but it will look better. I'll make no extra charge. In fact I will consider it a privilege to have worked on this special rifle.
"I'll saw the butt stock at a long angle. The piece that gets added will sort of blend with the grain and, while we won't try to hide it, the alteration won't jar a man's sensibilities."
Both Holloway and Tucker were pleased with the gunsmith's interest and his promise to set aside other work to concentrate on the Joseph Smith gun. How long? Two days to bore out and re-rifle, a day to cut out the stock and glue, another to final scrape the wood and refit the buttplate. If he wished, Tucker could work in the oil finish himself. Best to plan on four days, though it might be sooner.
The season was still early, and old snow rotted against sheltered banks. A biting wind made them bundle in heavier clothing when they crossed the Missouri to visit the Saints' old Winter Quarters. Paul Laban rode along and provided a questioner to whom they could explain how the earliest Mormon emigrants had suffered hardship and illness. Through a bitter winter they had waited the spring and the long trek west to where they would build new homes and begin constructing a magnificent temple, as Latter-day Saint teachings directed.
Holloway pointed out, "That was less than ten years ago, and if you'd look at Great Salt Lake City you'd find it hard to believe."
Winter Quarters had been placed in a hollow where ridges gave some protection, but it was a stark and cold land with ruins of primitive shacks and dugouts still showing. The burial ground was kept up because Saints still lived nearby and new migrations passed westward throughout the traveling months.
The site drove home how hard the early years had been. Mighty was the faith that held the Saints together through the mindless abuses, plagues of illness, and unrelenting privations. Like iron wrought with forge and hammer, the more the Saints suffered, the stronger they became. They were still strengthening, spreading like wild flowers through their mountains and valleys, giving beauty to the lands they occupied. Winter Quarters was a brave scene, marked by courage and tragedy, and Tucker Morgan was glad to have seen it.
Paul Laban was interested in the stories, and Tucker wondered if he knew about the Mormon battalion that had marched in that terrible time to serve the United States in the Mexican War. That would be a campfire tale worth telling.
Grant Holloway must have been thinking about the artist as well. As they trotted their horses back to the ferry, the guide spoke up.
"Did you know your name is in the Book of Mormon, Laban?"
"No?" The artist was surprised. "Our family has never been prominent, and we have no branches of cousins that we know of."
"Well, back around the tower of Babel times, Laban was a rich and powerful man. You can read about him in the first part of our book. Seems he stood in the way of the Lord's wishes. Ended up having his head lopped off with his own sword."
Paul Laban smiled a bit grimly. "I'll surely have to read about that. The man might have been an ancestor a hundred or so generations back."
Holloway looked serious. "Well, I'll loan you my book to read in." He shook his head in mock worry. "You'd best be warned, though. The Book of Mormon is a powerful work. It can get inside your mind and grip like a pocket full of fish hooks. It's the word of God, artist. Better not fool with it unless you're prepared."
The guide kicked his gelding into a canter and rode ahead. Tuck moved close so that his stirrup touched the artist's. He turned, and Laban could see his teeth shining within the hat brim shadow.
"Don't let Mister Holloway scare you, Mister Laban. The Book of Mormon is good reading."
The smile broadened, and Tucker added, "And don't worry none about what happened to your ancestor. Why west of here no one uses a sword, and the Indians'll only take your scalp."
He booted his horse into a run, and Laban heard his whoop as he took out after Grant Holloway.
Chapter 7
Four men bunched against the shadowed corner of a bark-sided building. Two were dressed as though for business. Black suits and low cut shoes placed them as townsmen. Their companions were of another breed. Unshaven, slovenly clothed, slouchy in posture, they appeared typical of the riffraff that congregated along the river front.
There was a furtiveness among the foursome that went unnoticed amid the bustle of Omaha's Front Street. Wagons rolled and riders passed. A steady flow of customers serviced the rough planked stores that were the heart of the western trading center. Men gathered to talk on corners and along the storefronts. The four secreted in the shadows attracted no attention. Bartholomew Elton and his brother William, the men wearing suits, spoke for the Correctors.
The Reverend Josiah Archer's letter had arrived. The name Grant Holloway was recognized by locals, and he had been located within the Payne-Weston hunting party. Identifying the boy took scarcely longer. Thereafter, however, the matter of appropriate punishment became difficult.
Neither Bartholomew nor William Elton was a physical man. In the east they had kept accounts. Although their zeal burned as strongly as their leader's, the brothers recognized their inability to face Grant Holloway. When questioned, men spoke solemnly of Holloway's earlier days, before maturing years had steadied him. If the tales were even partly true, the guide was no man to tangle with. As the Reverend Archer had ignored any such requirement, the Elton's would avoid the Holloway complication.
The solution was simple: get the boy alone and drub him severely. As it might not appear fitting for two men of the cloth to publicly pound or whip a boy of Tucker Morgan's years—and the Eltons were not certain of their ability to succeed even in that—the Correctors employed a pair of river rat toughs to perform the beating.
There were many such available. Brutal, dull in sensibilities, club-handed brawlers could be found in numbers along the docks and within the saloons. They worked cheaply and cared nothing for the right or wrong of a thing.
Coincidently, the brothers Elton had chosen brothers John and Coy (no last names admitted) to administer Morgan's beating. Their instructions were clear. "You must leave him marked and in severe pain. The youth must understand that evil pronouncements and abuse of the righteous will not be tolerated by the Correctors."
John and Coy had nodded serious understanding. That they were hired by influential people was gratifying. That the Lord was said to be on their side did not influence them. For the offered ten dollar gold piece, they would have left the boy broken and barely alive.
The problem had been to separate the Morgan boy from Grant Holloway. Holloway was only one, but the thugs wanted no fight with a man known to be willing and capable. For days they
had watched and waited.
Holloway and Morgan were always together. Until the pair and the camp artist rode into Omaha, prospects had appeared dim. John and Coy had crossed and returned on the ferry, but the trio had stayed together on the eastern shore.
Finally it had all come right. Holloway and the artist were inside a store, and the boy dawdled along the board sidewalk gazing in windows and watching the parade of busy people. Almost as comforting to the brawlers was the absence of Morgan's rifle. The gun was unlikely to have been used, as the thugs would give no warning, but an unarmed victim was always safer.
Coy said, "Now's the time."
Bartholomew's voice was tight with anticipation. "Leave him well marked, and be sure to warn him against false scripture."
Coy's eyes blanked a little, but he said, "We'll tell him."
William Elton was less certain. "For Heaven's sake don't kill him. We want no trouble over this."
One of the thugs snorted disdainfully as they moved into the street.
Bartholomew whinnied nervous laughter and wondered at the excitement shortening his breathing. He had never before hired men to harm another. It was a heady power.
Coy said, "I'll knock him flat. You put the boots to him. Once he's down, I'll knuckle his face up and that should do it."
"You going to do the telling about scriptures and all, Coy?"
Coy's words were blunt. "I ain't wastin' words on him. No one'll know whether we tell him or not."
John added, "Best we ease down along the cattle pens after we're finished. That Holloway might try findin' out who done it."
"Don't nobody know us."
"Best to be safe just the same."
Coy wished he had brought a short club, but his fist would do as well. It was just a boy after all. The Eltons had already paid two dollars for their waiting around. This ten would come just as easy. Ahead, the boy was standing on the walk looking over the street traffic. No sign of Holloway. Coy moved in.
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith) Page 3