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

by Gerald N. Lund

  His shoulders lifted and fell as if he had shrugged off a burden. “Go back to your homes and your tents and your wagons. Talk together as families. Decide what is best for you and what the Lord would have you do. Before we leave tomorrow, I shall ask Elder Snow to record the names of all present and your decisions on this matter so that we can report back to President Taylor and record this important historical moment.”

  Notes

  In response to the letter written to Church leaders in Salt Lake City during the flood season of 1884, John Taylor, President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, sent a delegation to Bluff to meet with the settlers and assess the situation. Elder Erastus Snow was a natural choice because he was the priesthood leader over the southern part of Utah Territory. No explanation is given in the records as to why President Joseph F. Smith was chosen to lead the delegation. Certainly, his position in the First Presidency gave added weight to whatever decision he would make.

  Sources note that the delegation took time to tour the area and assess the situation before making a recommendation. A meeting was called in which the decision was announced. Unfortunately, a detailed account of that meeting was unavailable. Therefore, much of President Smith’s speech was created by the author. However, these additions are based on key elements of the meeting that have been described by those present.

  Accounts differ as to how many families left Bluff after this meeting. One source says that all but twelve families left, but that seems questionable in light of how many of the original names are mentioned as being in San Juan County in the following years. There is no question that the population was significantly reduced. However, many of those who left Bluff either started new settlements as noted or moved to existing settlements in Colorado and New Mexico, which were also in the San Juan Mission. Interestingly, the population of Bluff today is about 300, which is what it was at the time depicted in this chapter.

  Bishop Jens Nielson was deeply in debt at this time with no idea of how he could pay off those debts if they were called in. While he was at the pulpit, President Smith turned to Bishop Nielson, making the promise of prosperity as described in this chapter. When he died in 1906, Bishop Nielson’s estate was valued at about $20,000, an impressive sum for those days.

  Finally, there was a record made of those who decided to stay and those who chose to go. The assumption is that this was done to include in the official history of the Church (see History of San Juan County, 48–49; Portrait, 41; Indians and Outlaws, 46; Saga, 76–77).

  Chapter 8

  _____________________

  September 19, 1884—Bluff City, Utah Territory

  Mitch’s parents refused to talk about the meeting on the way back to their cabin. “We’ll not be discussing this until we get home,” his father said as they exited the log schoolhouse. When Mitch started to object, his father gave him such a withering look that he clamped his jaw shut and said not another word.

  “Does this mean we’re going back home to Beaver, Papa?” Johnny asked after two or three minutes had passed.

  “No talking about it until we get back to the cabin, son,” Arthur said gently.

  Mitch was watching his mother out of the corner of his eye. If she heard either exchange, she gave no sign. Her expression was unreadable. And she looked neither to the left nor to the right. When they reached their home, Johnny complained of being hungry. Martha said she was too, so their mother got out some bread and molasses. When they were finished eating, she turned to Mitch. “Mitchell, I think your father and I will get the children to bed before we talk. The buckets are almost empty. Why don’t you go down and get some water from the river so we can let it stand overnight?”

  “Yes, Mama.” But as he grabbed the buckets and dumped out what little water was left in them, he muttered, “You just don’t want me here while you talk about what we’re going to do.”

  “What did you say?” his father snapped.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Or,” came the curt reply, “if you prefer, we can put you to bed too along with the other children.” The last word was said with heavy sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry.”

  As he hurried away, his mother called after him. “Mitch, there’s no hurry. It will take at least half an hour to get the children to sleep.”

  “Yeah,” he growled under his breath. “That’s what I thought.”

  It was only a three-minute walk to the river, so after the two buckets were filled, Mitch decided to give them their full half an hour without his protests so they could decide they were going back. It was clear that Mitch was not going to have a voice in this anyway.

  He turned to the left and followed the river a short distance to the Swing Tree. The sun was down now, but there was enough lingering light for him to see clearly that no one was there. He snorted bitterly. That was easy to explain. All the other families were talking together now, just as President Smith had suggested. But, oh no, not his family.

  He set the buckets down and then, grumpy as an old setting hen in molt, he swung slowly back and forth in the swing, working out in his mind what he could possibly say that might change his parents’ minds. And changing their minds was what needed to happen. Now that President Smith had given his official permission to return home, Mitch had no question about what his mother would do. They were already halfway packed, and her heart had returned to Beaver weeks ago. Now there was nothing stopping them except maybe for Mitch, and he was realistic enough to know that the chances of that happening were probably a hundred to one.

  He sat there, staring at the river, barely aware of the time, thinking how totally and completely unfair life was. And he discovered something about feeling sorry for yourself: it had a certain perverse satisfaction to it. If no one else appreciated the injustice of the world, then at least you could. You could wrap your wounded feelings around you like a blanket—even wallow in them if you liked.

  How long that went on, he wasn’t sure. The mire of self-pity is a deep bog, and he was well lost in it when he remembered the thought he’d had previously. Only now it came to him as a complete idea. He stiffened, letting the swing come to a stop. Hope was shooting through him like a Chinese rocket. The simple brilliance of what had just come to him was stunning. He sat motionless for another minute or two, testing the idea from every angle. Then he jumped off the swing and headed back toward town at a swift walk.

  Kumen Jones had two wives. His first wife was named Mary. She was the daughter of Jens and Elsie Nielson. His second wife was named May. She was one of the Lyman girls. Mitch knew who they were, of course—he saw them in church every week—but he couldn’t keep straight which one was which. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t there to talk to them.

  The door swung open, and a woman considerably shorter than Mitch stood there in the lamplight. “Yes?”

  “Uh . . . hullo. Is . . . uh . . . Brother Jones here?”

  “Hello,” she said with a pleasant smile. “You’re the Westlands’ boy, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mitch Westland, ma’am. Is Kumen here?”

  He heard footsteps, and then Kumen’s voice called out. “I’m here. Be right out.” He appeared a moment later. He was in stocking feet and was tucking his white shirt into his trousers. “Evenin’, Mitch.”

  “Good evening, Kumen. Uh . . . could I talk to you?”

  A little surprised, Kumen nodded. “Sure. Come on in. I’m just leaving for a meeting with the bishopric. How much time do you need? I’ll be back later this evening if we need more time.”

  “No. This will only take a few minutes. I just had a question.” Then he shrugged. “But I guess it can wait till morning.”

  Kumen looked at his wife. “May, will you get my boots, honey?” Then to Mitch, “If it’s only a few minutes, we can do it now.”

  “Thank you.” Mitch stepped back. He didn’t want to talk to him with anyone listening. “Uh . . . I’ll wait out front, if that’s okay.”

  Kume
n shrugged. “Okay. I’ll be right out.”

  When Kumen joined Mitch out on the street, he moved even farther away from the house, sensing Mitch’s need for privacy. “What can I do for you, Mitch?”

  He let his breath out in a long, low sound of discouragement. “I think my folks are gonna choose to go back to Beaver.”

  “Okay,” Kumen said slowly. “As President Smith said, there’s no shame in that. Your folks are good people, Mitch. No shame in that at all.”

  “I know that. I don’t think Pa’s as keen on going back. But my mother is. And he’ll do it if that’s what she wants.”

  “Your mother is a woman of faith and courage, son. But she’s got some real health problems, and those can’t be ignored. Back in the settlements, she can get much better treatment than here.”

  “I understand that. But I don’t want to go back. I feel like my place is here. Especially now that President Smith said that we’d get double the blessings for staying.”

  “I see.” Kumen’s eyes narrowed as he studied him. “How old are you again, Mitch?”

  “I’ll be seventeen in January.”

  “But you’re big for your age.” There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he said it.

  Mitch winced. That was his standard answer when adults asked him how old he was. But it was a good answer. “Yes, I am. You saw that when we went up to Elk Mountain. I can hold my own.”

  “Yes, you can. And I’ll tell you straight out, Mitch. You earned your spurs out there. I’d be happy to have you ride with me any time. So would several others.”

  “What if I worked for you for a year?” he blurted. “Until I’m eighteen. Then I can go out on my own. I’m determined to have my own spread someday. I know my family has to go back. But I don’t. Pa’s been talking of selling our herd rather than trailing them all the way back to Beaver, and I’m gonna see if he’ll sell them to me on credit and—”

  Kumen held up his hand, smiling. “Slow down, son,” he laughed.

  Suddenly embarrassed by his excitement, Mitch shook his head. “I’ll help them go back, of course. But hopefully I could make it back here before Escalante Mountain gets snowed in. But I’d need a place to stay. Just for a year. I could do whatever you need me to do. And I’ll not be asking for any pay or anything like that.”

  Kumen’s head cocked to one side slightly. “Do your parents know you’re talking to me about this?”

  Mitch’s head dropped and he started kicking at the sand with the toe of his boot.

  “I see. Well, then . . .” He rubbed at his chin, thinking hard. Finally, his head bobbed once. “Tell you what, Mitch. With your permission, I’ll bring this up in our bishopric’s meeting. See what Bishop Nielson thinks we should do. Would that be all right?”

  “All right? That would be great!”

  “Actually, we’ve already been talking about your family as a bishopric. Bishop Nielson’s concerned about your mother. Making the trip back isn’t going to be easy on her either. We’re halfway through September, and if the snows come early on Escalante Mountain, they might have to hole up in Escalante or one of the other settlements, which means you’d be living out of your wagon through the winter.”

  “I know. I was thinking about that too.” This was a slight exaggeration. Mitch’s worries about Escalante Mountain getting snowed in had been regarding how it would affect him getting back to Bluff this year.

  “You go on back to your cabin. Talk to your parents. Tell them what you’re thinking. You’ll have to have their permission or no one is going to take you in.”

  “Yeah,” he said glumly. Talking to his folks was something he didn’t even want to think about.

  “I’ll get back to you. We’ll work something out, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  Kumen stuck out his hand. “Am I the first one you asked?”

  “You were the first one I thought of,” Mitch said as he gripped his hand and shook it.

  “Then I’m honored.” He started away. “I’ll get back with you,” he called again over his shoulder.

  Mitch went back for the water buckets, but he didn’t start back for the cabin right away. He went back and sat down in the swing again. His mind was firing off like a Gatling gun. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! The thoughts were coming that fast. The one thing he knew for sure was that it was going to be an uphill battle for him to convince his parents to let him stay in Bluff. So he had to line up some good answers to their objections before he went back.

  It was nearly dark when he realized what time it was. He’d been gone longer than half an hour, of that he was sure. He jumped up, grabbed the buckets, and broke into a trot, sloshing water as he ran.

  As he rounded the corner to their cabin, he stopped short. A lamp was still burning inside, casting a glow of soft gold outside by their wagon. Four or five figures were silhouetted in the light from the window. All were adults. Three were sitting on chairs. One was standing. One was seated on a log. The one standing turned at the sound of his footsteps.

  “Mitch? Is that you?”

  “Coming, Pa.” Slowing to a walk to avoid spilling any more water, he quickly crossed the street and joined them. To his surprise, the entire bishopric was there with his parents. Kumen Jones nodded at Mitch but said nothing. Bishop Nielson and Lemuel Redd stepped forward and shook Mitch’s hand as he set the buckets down.

  His mind was reeling. They were supposed to be in a meeting. Then a thought struck him. Had Kumen already told his parents about Mitch’s proposition? Had Kumen asked the bishopric to come and discuss it with his parents? His heart plummeted. He could imagine how his father must be reacting to that. And he hadn’t talked to his parents, as he had promised Kumen he would.

  He glanced quickly at Kumen, but his face was a mask, giving nothing away.

  “Come,” Bishop Nielson said. “Let us sit.” As they all got settled, Bishop Nielson started right in.

  “My dear Sister Vestland, vhen the meeting ended tonight, I vas vatching you. I vas thinking about you. And my heart vas very sad.”

  She was watching him intently. “I’m all right,” she finally said.

  He nodded. “I had an impression that perhaps you might like a blessing at the hands of the priesthood.”

  Her eyes flew open. Then she surprised them all. “Why?” she asked softly. “Why did you feel I needed a blessing? I’m not the only one struggling.” She looked pointedly at Mitch.

  Bishop Nielson smiled, and the kindness in his eyes was like a warm glow. “Dear Sister, I did not feel like you needed a blessing. Your Heafenly Father did. You vill haf to ask Him that qvestion.”

  Tears instantly filled her eyes, and after a moment her chin dropped. “Then yes,” she whispered. “I would like a blessing.”

  The bishop got to his feet, took a small bottle of consecrated oil from his vest pocket, and then looked at Mitch’s father. “Brodder Vestland, vould you like to do the anointing, please?” Then to his counselors, “Vill you join us as vell, brethren?”

  As was customary, Mitch’s father did the anointing by himself, using her full name, and then the others stepped up to join him. Each placed his hands lightly on her head. Mitch bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  “Sister Gwendolyn Greene Vestland, in the name of our beloved Savior and by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I seal upon you this anointing and give you a blessing through the direction of the Holy Spirit.”

  Bishop Nielson continued with language commonly heard in blessings. He assured her that her Heavenly Father loved her and that He knew her heart. He assured her that her Father was pleased with her willingness to come with her family to Bluff in answer to a call from the prophet. He blessed her with improved physical health, and he blessed her family. When that was done, he was silent for several seconds. Then, in a softer voice, he went on. “Our dear Sister Vestland, the Lord knows how difficult it vas for you to come here, and He vants you to know that if He vere here vit us this night, He vould t
ake you in His arms and tell you how much He loves you as His choice daughter.”

  A choked cry escaped from her lips. Mitch opened his eyes. In the lamplight he could see that her cheeks were wet.

  Bishop Nielson was silent for several more seconds before he went on. “Dear Sister Vestland, you now haf a choice before you. It is a difficult choice, but the Lord vould haf you know this. Your sacrifice is acceptable to Him. He asks no more of you. The Spirit vhispers that you are free to return to your home with your family and vit His blessings.”

  Another sob. And now her shoulders began to shake.

  Mitch felt his own eyes burning. But it wasn’t for joy. In that moment, he knew he would be going back too. There was no way he could ask his mother to let him stay behind now. The sadness was like a knife, but with it came a peace as well.

  “Go vit the Lord’s blessings,” Bishop Nielson continued, “if that is vhat your heart chooses to do. As President Smith promised this evening, you and your husband vill be blessed for coming and you can return vitout shame.”

  His voice suddenly dropped to a mere whisper, and Mitch had to lean in to hear it.

  “But vee vould also say this unto you, our dear sister. The promise given by President Smith—that those who stay vill prosper and receive a double blessing—vas from the Lord too, and is also extended to you and your good husband should you choose not to return.”

  Mitch’s eyes flew open and he stared at the bishop. Was he encouraging her to stay? But his hopes plummeted with his next words.

  “But vhether you stay or go, I say unto you again, in the name of the Lord, either choice is acceptable to Him. You and your husband are free to choose vhat you feel is best for you and your family. And vee gif you this additional promise. Vhen you decide, if your choice is pleasing to the Lord, you vill be filled with peace in your heart and in your soul. You vill no longer be torn vit uncertainty. You vill know that the Lord accepts vhatever you decide.” A brief pause. “And this blessing vee promise you in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer, amen.”