Only the Brave: The Continuing Saga of the San Juan Pioneers

by Gerald N. Lund

  Little prickles of fear were doing a dance up and down Mitch’s spine. What was Ugly Mike’s intention? That was Mitch’s name for him. Here they were, four men against eleven. They were forty or fifty miles from the nearest settlement. Up here, the Indians could massacre the lot of them and perhaps no one would ever find them. How would his mother take that?

  But then came another thought. We’re here because of Henry. Henry’s here because of the hand of the Lord. So have a little faith in what the Lord is doing, Mitch Boy.

  They sat quietly, waiting for the Indians to come back, but the forest was still except for the sound of the wind in the pines. Finally, Lem stood up. “Let’s start supper.”

  They ate slowly and talked quietly, but their focus was not on their conversation. They jumped when they heard a twig snap behind them. They jerked around in time to see Moenkopi Mike step out of the trees and stride boldly right up to them. He didn’t speak a word as he loomed over them, but he moved his hand to rest on the butt of his pistol. Kumen looked up and nodded pleasantly and then went back to eating. Mitch kept his head down, afraid that Mike would see the naked fear in his eyes. Up close, Mike was even more frightening.

  The four of them continued to eat, speaking occasionally but being very careful of what they said. They ignored Mike as much as possible as he bent over and glared at them. Finally he burst out, “You come our land. Bring cows. We mad.”

  The four white men looked at each other in feigned surprise. “Oh?” Kumen asked after a moment, seemingly puzzled by the accusation. Then he did something that nearly knocked Mitch over. He turned to him. “Mitch, which saddlebags have those loaves of bread our wives cooked for us?”

  “Uh . . . mine do.” Bread? He was thinking about bread? “Want me to get one?”

  “If you would. And that bottle of molasses in my saddlebag, left side. Mind getting that, too?”

  He did so, turning his back on Mike for a few moments. When he came back and handed the loaf and the bottle to Kumen, he saw that Mike was watching them closely. And curiosity had replaced some of the anger.

  Moving very slowly now, Kumen took his hunting knife out of its scabbard. Then he put the loaf between his knees. Ignoring Mike completely, he cut off a thick slice, opened the molasses jar, and used the knife to cover the bread with about a quarter-inch of the thick, aromatic liquid. Satisfied, he licked the leftover molasses from the blade of his knife, making sounds of pleasure and looking like he was in ecstasy.

  He set down the knife and lifted the slice to his mouth. Moenkopi Mike was watching his every move hungrily. Then, just as he was about to bite down, Kumen stopped, as if a sudden idea had just hit him. He looked up at Mike and held out the bread. “You hungry? You want bread?”

  There wasn’t so much as a grunt, but the Indian reached out and took the bread from him. “Mmm,” he said, with obvious relish. Three or four bites later, the bread was gone.

  Kumen had avoided looking at him during all of that. Instead, he had sawed off another thick slice and spread it with molasses again. Again he set the knife down and lifted the slice to his mouth. Again, Mike’s eyes never left the bread. Again, Kumen paused just before biting into it.

  Mike suddenly grinned down at him. “Only little mad now.”

  Mitch nearly choked to stop himself from laughing, but Kumen soberly nodded and handed the second slice to him. They watched as he consumed that with equal relish and then licked his lips. “No mad,” he declared. He waved in the direction from which he had come. “Others they mad, but me toitch tikaboo.”

  “Good, good,” Lem said. He went to the saddlebags and got two more loaves. “Would your brothers like some bread too?”

  That was the right question. Moenkopi Mike whirled around and clapped his hands. Suddenly there was movement in the trees, and dark shapes started appearing. Henry again was the last one out.

  Mitch leaned in to Kumen. “What does toitch tikaboo mean?”

  “Toitch means very. Tikaboo means friendly, like, ‘everything’s good between us.’”

  “I can’t believe it. Just like that, everything’s good now.”

  “That’s another thing to remember about the natives. They are very honest and open in their feelings. When you treat them with respect and show courage at the same time, it makes a big difference to them.”

  On impulse, Mitch asked one last question. “Looks like we’re going to mingle a little now. Is it all right if I introduce myself to Henry?”

  “Sure. Just be sure he’s not the only one. And make it look like you’re meeting him for the first time.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  As he started to get up, Mitch whispered down to Kumen. “Toitch tikaboo, I like it.”

  Kumen just gave him a lazy smile, as if this kind of thing happened every day.

  When the natives finally left, well after dark, Lem Redd waited until they were out of earshot and then grinned at the others. “Did you hear what me and Moenkopi Mike agreed to?”

  Hy Perkins shook his head. “I thought I saw some money change hands.”

  “Yep. We now have grazing rights. I paid him fifty dollars. That and twenty-five pounds of flour and some other small items from the store to be paid the next time they’re in Bluff. So what say you? Instead of exploring up here any farther, I say we head back to Bluff. Take a bath. Kiss our wives and—” He looked at Mitch and grinned. “Not you, kid. And next week we start bringing the herd up here.”

  Mitch feigned a most forlorn look, though the relief had made him weak in the knees. “Isn’t there anyone I could kiss?”

  Notes

  Time zones in North America were officially introduced through the combined efforts of the US and Canadian railroads on November 18, 1883 (People’s Chronology, 564).

  The story about Navajo Frank comes from a written account by Kumen Jones (see Saga, 70–71; see also Portrait, 49).

  Albert R. Lyman describes the search for a way up onto Elk Mountain, including meeting a band of Piute Indians led by Moenkopi Mike along with the young boy who provided critical help to the Mormons. The details about the bread and molasses and the treaty that followed come from his account as well (see Indian and Outlaws, 55–59). In his History of San Juan County, chapter 18, Lyman tells this same story with slightly different details. In that account, he says the Indians were Utes rather than Piutes, but he doesn’t change the story or its outcome (History of San Juan County, 40).

  In Bluff, almost all references to interaction with the natives involved the Navajo. But once they were away from the Navajo Nation, most accounts of native encounters were with the Utes. Because of that, I decided to make this hunting party Ute rather than Piute.

  Albert R. Lyman’s account of the expedition to Elk Mountain states that the men were camped at Kigaly Springs when Moenkopi Mike and the other natives confronted them. On modern maps of the area, there is no place identified as Kigaly Springs. However, on Elk Mountain there is a Kigalia Canyon and a Kigalia Point. Nearby is what is now called Twin Springs. Since names of isolated places often change over time, it is likely that Twin Springs is where the men camped.

  Chapter 4

  _____________________

  June 27, 1884—Bluff City, Utah Territory

  The four trail-weary men passed through Butler Wash, five miles west of Bluff, in the early afternoon of the second day after leaving the springs. There was great rejoicing when they came across a group guarding the herd outside town and Lem reported what had transpired on Elk Mountain.

  One of the young men guarding the cattle, eager to be the bearer of good news, mounted his horse and took off at a lope to let the town know the scouts were back. So it was no surprise that when they came plodding into town at about four o’clock, most of the townspeople were gathered to applaud and call out their appreciation to the triumphant explorers. Everybody started shouting questions at them before they even dismounted. Mitch ignored the crowd as he swung down from his horse just in time to sweep his
mother up in his arms and swing her around and around.

  Bishop Nielson finally raised his hands and called for quiet. “Brodders and sisters,” he chided. “These brethren are tired and hungry.”

  “And dirty,” Hy Perkins added.

  “Let them go to their homes to rest and clean up. Vee vill meet in the schoolhouse at 7:30 this evening, vhere vee can all hear their full report.”

  There was some good-natured grumbling about that, but the people moved back and let the explorers through, though they continued calling out their thanks and congratulations.

  Gwendolyn Westland didn’t wait for Mitch to rest or clean up or eat. As they started for their campsite, she took him by the hand. “I know you’re hungry, and I know we’re going to hear it all tonight, but I can’t wait. I want to know everything.”

  His father was nodding. Little Johnny was literally dancing with excitement. Filled with pride that her brother had been part of the expedition, Martha took Mitch’s other hand and wouldn’t let go.

  “Okay, okay,” he laughed as Johnny kept peppering him with questions. “Just let me sit down in the shade. My backside feels like it’s still got my saddle attached to it.”

  “Get Mitch a blanket,” his father told Martha. “Spread it out on the log over there beneath the tree.”

  As they got settled, Mitch’s mother reached out and took her son’s hand. “Now, Mitch, I agreed to let you go, even though it was against my better judgment. But I don’t want you leaving anything out just because you think it will upset me. I deserve that much, all right?”

  Mitch glanced at his father, who nodded. “She has a right to ask that, son.”

  Actually, Mitch was glad. He wanted to share the whole experience, including the times he was too scared to spit. He also wanted to try to describe the enormous sense of relief that came when it was all over. “Okay, Mama. But I’d like to tell it all first, and then you can ask questions afterward.”

  “Fair enough,” his mother said. She looked to the younger children. “No questions until your brother is done.”

  And so he began. He talked briefly about his three companions and how much he had learned from them. He watched Martha’s and Johnny’s eyes grow larger and larger as he described Moenkopi Mike and the line of Indian braves that blocked their way. At one point, Johnny’s hand shot up, but his father pulled it back down again and told him to wait.

  His mother sat quietly as Mitch spoke, her eyes never leaving his face. Her expression was inscrutable, and Mitch wondered what was going on behind those pale, blue-green eyes. He also wondered if maybe he should have softened his account just a bit, in spite of her counsel. Then he decided that she did have a right to know the full truth.

  As soon as he finished, both Martha’s and Johnny’s hands were in the air, waving wildly. “No, children,” Arthur said. “Your mother first, please.”

  Gwen gazed at him for what seemed like a full minute but was probably only about fifteen seconds. Then she cocked her head slightly to one side. “And what is the most important thing you learned from all this, Mitchell?”

  He reared back. Now, there was a question. And it wasn’t one he had expected. He shifted his weight a little as he gave it careful consideration. “A lot of things, I guess, Mama,” he began. “It was a wonderful thing to be with those men. I didn’t ask a lot of questions of them. I just listened to them and watched.”

  “Good,” his father said.

  “But . . .” He let out a breath. “I guess the most important thing I learned is that Heavenly Father was with us. We were all praying furiously the whole time, but two things stand out in my mind. First, Henry showing up out of nowhere. I mean, think about it. Here was this band of Indians out trying to protect their hunting grounds, led by one really mean and dangerous man. I mean to tell you, just looking at Ugly Mike—that’s what I started calling him—gave me the chills. But to have in that band a young boy who just happened to have known Thales Haskell and—”

  “Who’s that?” Johnny cut in.

  “Later, Johnny,” his father murmured.

  “—and whose family had been helped by Brother Haskell? And who because of that actually liked the Mormons? I mean, what are the chances of that?”

  “Slim to none,” his father murmured.

  “Exactly! Henry actually put his own life at risk to help us. If Big Mike had known that he was showing us the way up to Elk Mountain, I’m sure he would have killed him on the spot. What Henry did is really quite amazing when you think about it.”

  “More than amazing,” his mother said softly. “It was a miracle.”

  “Yes! And then the other thing that stands out was when Kumen had the idea to offer Big Mike that piece of bread and molasses. That was brilliant. It changed the whole situation in a matter of minutes. Up to that point, I thought there was a chance Mike would pull out that huge pistol he had and start blasting away at us. We asked Kumen later how he came up with that idea, and he said, ‘I don’t know. It just came to me.’”

  Mitch’s mother’s eyes were glistening, and to his surprise, he suddenly found it hard to talk himself. He reached out and took her hand. “And I’m sure your and Pa’s prayers were part of that too.”

  “The whole town has been praying for you, son,” Arthur Westland said in a husky voice.

  At that, the tears spilled over and trickled down Gwendolyn’s cheeks. Mitch stood and pulled her up so he could hug her tightly to him. “When Brother Redd told us that we couldn’t shoot anyone or we’d bring down retribution on the whole town, I felt this great sense of hopelessness. How were we ever going to get out of it alive? And then, just like that, everything worked out. It was a miracle, Mama. And I’ve never had my own miracle before.”

  Her lips brushed his cheek, and then she looked directly into his eyes. “Then you going was the right thing to do.”

  Summer, 1884—Bluff City

  As it turned out, the people of Bluff didn’t take their stock up to Elk Mountain that summer, for two reasons. First, the people fully expected the mission to be closed by President John Taylor and so, in addition to their cleanup efforts, they began to pack their things, thinking they would be leaving before winter set in. Second, the spring rains had brought an abundance of grass to the desert country, and so the need for Elk Mountain turned out not to be as critical as they had expected.

  A flutter of excitement swept through the community in midsummer when it looked like the whole of Bluff might pick up and move to a place called Yellow Jacket, which was farther upriver in Colorado. It was not as prone to floods and had more farmable land. But when the owners asked $30,000 for the property, their hopes were dashed.

  When Bishop Nielson finally received a letter from Salt Lake on July 23rd, the day before they were to celebrate Pioneer Day, another flurry of excitement swept the town. The letter said that leaders from the Church would come down to personally assess the situation and would be arriving just one month later.

  This was wonderful news. The people were confident that once Church leaders saw how desperate their circumstances were, there would be no question whether the mission would be dissolved. Their enthusiasm was dampened, but not extinguished, when another letter arrived saying the Church leaders had been delayed and would not arrive until late in September.

  Sadly, at least in Mitch’s mind, some found their patience had run out. Like those families from Montezuma Creek who had left after the floods, they decided they could endure no more. In mid-August, eleven men and their families returned to the established settlements in the West. That included three families from the group that had come earlier in the summer with the Westlands.

  Tearful farewells were made, and some, like Mitch’s mother, watched with envy as those departing rolled out.

  As the last wagon disappeared over a small rise, Mitch shook his head. “Sure glad we’re not turning tail and running,” he said.

  His mother whipped around. “What did you say?”

 
“I . . . uh . . . I was just saying that—”

  “Don’t you dare criticize their faith, Mitch Westland.”

  Even Mitch’s father was shocked by the ferocity of her outburst. “Gwen—”

  She lifted a finger and shook it about two inches from his nose. “Don’t, Arthur.” Then back to Mitch. “You don’t know what’s in the heart of a person. And it isn’t your place to judge what they are or are not doing.”

  Sixteen years of age is often a time when young people, especially young men, develop an absolute surety that they know more than their parents, so Mitch ignored the warning flags and fired back. “Say what you want, Mama, but we’re a lot worse off than some of them, and we’re not going. All right, so their cabins were flooded and their gardens washed away and their wells were polluted. But at least they had cabins. At least they had gardens. They had wells. They had stoves. They didn’t have five people living out of a wagon box and cooking over an open fire and carrying water from the river every day.”

  “You want to go,” she snapped. “Then go.”

  “No, Mama. I don’t want to go. That’s the point. We were called here by President Taylor, and—”

  “That’s enough, Mitch,” his father cut in. “Let it go.”

  “No, Pa. Mama’s got as much reason to give up and go back as anyone in this settlement. But she didn’t go. She’s staying. And I’m proud of her for it.”

  She stepped squarely in front of him and looked up at his face. Gwendolyn Westland was a few inches over five feet tall. Mitch had now passed six feet, so she had to tip her head back to look up into his eyes. To Mitch’s surprise, the anger was gone and there was only sorrow there. “You are right,” she said. “But I chose not to go only because we were called here by a prophet. And until a prophet says we can go home, then we’ll be staying in that wagon box, and we’ll be cooking over an open fire, and we’ll be drawing our water from the river.”