Mitch took it without answering, turned and bowed deeply to his fellow cowboys, and then said, “My apologies, brethren, but I have a matter of some importance to attend to.” He waved again as the heckling came back at him in a wave.
When he was far enough away that their voices were only a murmur, he eagerly ripped the envelope open, removed the letter, and held it up to his nose. He smelled it immediately—just the faintest touch of lavender. Then, turning so that the last light from the evening sky illuminated the page, he began to read.
Dear Mitch,
Sorry for the shortness of this letter. I’ve been working on a longer one that I will send the first time someone takes more supplies up to you. But I heard that Brother Nielson was coming out to Butler Wash this evening, so I dashed this off and asked if he would take it with him.
We heard some disappointing news today that I think you should know about. President Hammond received word that there is a committee in the House of Representatives in Washington who are considering turning all of San Juan County into a Ute Indian Reservation.
Mitch stiffened. “What? They can’t do that.”
Pres. Hammond thinks it is all just talk and nothing will come of it. But he is also wondering if it is wiser not to send families up to the Blue Mountain Mission until this is resolved.
“No!” He stomped his boot on the ground and then gave a stone a savage kick. “No! No! No!”
That is not for certain yet, but I thought you ought to know.
Sorry, I can hear Joe’s horse outside. Got to run.
I listen to “Beautiful Dreamer” every night before I go to bed. I love it. I miss you so much.
—Edie
June 6, 1886—Barton Trading Post—The Rincon,
San Juan County, Utah Territory
They were headed slowly up Butler Wash at a leisurely pace, the cattle out front stirring up clouds of dust, the four men hanging back with bandannas over their noses and mouths.
“Hey!” Mitch Westland exclaimed as he felt a sudden lightness around his waist. He glanced down in time to see his six-shooter, holster, and belt slither down his leg. They hit the ground with a soft thud. “Great!” he muttered, pulling up his horse. He swung down, not sure what had just happened.
About twenty yards away, Lemuel Redd pulled up. “Problems?” he called.
Picking up his belt, Mitch dusted off the pistol and then examined the belt. “Darn!” Then he held it up. “My buckle just tore free from the leather.”
Lem rode over to look. Mitch was fiddling with the buckle, muttering to himself. “It’s clean busted off,” he said, holding it up for Lem to see.
“Do you have an extra one?”
Mitch shook his head. “Never carry one. Do any of you?”
Hyrum Perkins and George Decker had come over to see as well. All three shook their heads. “Just use a piece of rope,” George suggested, trying not to snigger.
“That might hold up my pants, but not my gun, too.” Disgusted with himself for not noticing it sooner, he looked up. “I’m going to have to go back to Bluff. I can’t be worrying about my pants falling off all summer.”
“I think that might be a problem for all of us,” Lem drawled, straight-faced. But then he shook his head. “Bluff is eight, maybe ten miles back. The Barton place is just couple of miles straight south of us.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mitch said, surprised that he hadn’t thought of that. “I wasn’t thinking about the trading post. Good idea.” Putting the belt and pistol in his saddlebag, he mounted up again.
Lem removed his hat and wiped at his forehead with his sleeve. “We’ll be following Butler Wash all the way up to where it narrows. But you should catch up with us long before that.”
“Right.” He wheeled his horse around. “See you in a while.”
Mitch didn’t really know Amasa Barton or his wife, Feenie. When he had returned from Colorado, the Bartons were gone from Bluff. Mitch learned that Amasa and his wife had started a small trading post down on the Rincon, about eight miles downriver from Bluff. Rincon, Spanish for “corner” or “nook,” took its name from a wide, lazy, U-shaped bend in the river that enclosed a substantial area of mostly flat sand and red rock.
When Mitch approached the trading post, he saw that a wooden boat was beached not far from it. Several Navajo women and children were standing outside, seeming perfectly impervious to the heat. Mitch tied his horse to the hitching post and raised a hand in greeting. “Yah-ah-tay.”
The women looked up in surprise and then quickly away, but the children, especially the younger ones, waved shyly and answered back with the same greeting. Mitch smiled at them. There were five of them. With their chubby, round faces, jet-black hair, olive skin, and large, dark eyes, they were beautiful. But in the midst of them was a little white boy, younger than the rest, a towheaded blond with brown eyes.
Removing his hat, Mitch pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside. The rush of cooler air felt wonderful on his face as he looked around. Amasa Barton was behind the counter, serving two Navajo men, one young, one older. He waved a hand. “Be right with you, Brother Westland.”
Mitch waved back and started moving around the store, looking for belts. A movement caught his eye. He turned to see Sister Barton haul herself up out of a chair of rough-hewn lumber. Beside her was a handmade bassinet with a baby in it. “Good morning, Brother Westland. Mitch, if I remember right.”
“Yes, Mitch. Good morning.” He had wondered as he rode down if she might have had her baby yet. Now he had his answer. “How are you, Sister Barton?”
“Feenie, please,” she said with a pleasant smile. “My name is actually Harriet Parthenia Barton, but I prefer just Feenie. How can I help you?”
Mitch held up the belt and explained what had happened. Her smile broadened. “A cowboy emergency, eh?”
Laughing, he nodded. “For sure. We’re taking the herd up to Elk Mountain, so I won’t be down all summer.”
“Then that’s more than an emergency; that’s a crisis.” Her laughter was soft and pleasant. She walked slowly and with some care over to a rack in the corner and motioned for him to follow. “Do you want a new buckle as well or just the belt?”
He shrugged. “The buckle is fine, but if I have to take both, I can do that too.”
“Oh, no. Amasa can fit your buckle on whatever you like. And he can shorten it if you need it.” Before Mitch could respond, Feenie moved over to her husband and whispered something in his ear. He turned to look and then said something to the two Indians. They nodded, and Feenie stepped in to take his place. Amasa came over to join Mitch. Extending his hand, he gripped Mitch’s in a powerful handshake. “Understand you have a problem.”
As Mitch moved steadily up Butler Wash, liking the feel of his pistol on his side again, his thoughts kept coming back to Sister Barton, or Feenie. He couldn’t quite get her out of his head. What a remarkable woman. Two children under the age of two. Out here, more than an hour’s ride from Bluff, standing by her husband in his new endeavor, obviously taking a role in running the store, being a mother, wife, and cook, dealing with Indians and cowboys day in and day out. And yet she was happy, pleasant, and seemed to be contented with her lot.
And that, of course, turned his thoughts to Edie. She was just sixteen—still a girl in some ways, yet fast becoming a woman. He thought he sensed in her that same kind of strength and faith, but it was still too early to tell. It would take some watching. But then, he wasn’t ready for marriage yet. He was only eighteen—just barely a man. And he had things he needed to do first—get his own spread, build a house on it, increase the size of his herd, maybe start adding some horses as well. Give him three years and then he’d be ready. And in three years, Edie would be nineteen. Then he would know for sure if she was a woman like Feenie Barton.
But as he thought about her laugh, her enchanting eyes, that dimple that appeared and disappeared like magic, he realized that he was hoping more and more that she might be
the one.
Notes
“Beautiful Dreamer” was written around 1862 and was one of Stephen Foster’s last songs.
One source says that in early 1885, Amasa Barton discussed his plans to move out to the Rincon with Bishop Nielson and that the bishop discouraged him from doing so, citing the counsel they had received from Church leaders to stay close together (Saga, 68). That may be the case, but we should remember that when President Joseph F. Smith and Elder Erastus Snow came to Bluff in the fall of 1884 and asked the members to stay on, they also gave permission for the pioneers to move out of the fort and start establishing homes farther out from the town. Other families had done the same. One had even started a dairy near Elk Mountain, which was right in Indian country.
Chapter 14
_____________________
June 9, 1886—Barton Trading Post—The Rincon,
San Juan County, Utah Territory
Three days after Mitchell Westland left the Barton Trading Post, while Feenie’s mother was still preparing breakfast, Amasa Barton glanced out the window and made a soft exclamation of surprise. Down at the river a boat was approaching the beaching area. In it were two Navajo men. This was a surprise only because normally the Indians didn’t start coming until 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning. He shrugged it off.
“Grandma Hyde, I’ve got some customers. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He retrieved the keys to the store and went out.
Farther on by the milk house he saw a small group of Utes who had come in and camped the evening before. They were watching him with stone faces. Their leader was an older man named Cheepoots, but everyone called him Old Chee. His two teenage sons, Posey and Scotty, stood beside him. There were also three women and some children, but they were staying back for the moment. Amasa raised a hand and called a greeting, but knowing that the Utes and the Navajo were longtime enemies, he didn’t worry about them. They would stay out back until the two Navajo left.
By then the boat was landing. Amasa recognized one of the men in it. It was an older Navajo whom Barton knew well. He had worked for the Bartons off and on for several years. In fact, he had lost an eye one day helping in the blacksmith shop when a piece of metal broke off from something Amasa was hammering on and hit the Indian in the eye. Now everyone called him Old Eye. He was mostly gentle and amiable, and he still came over from time to time to help in the trading post.
Barton didn’t recognize the other man at first. But as they started up the bank toward him, he realized he looked familiar. He was much younger than Old Eye, probably in his mid-twenties. His countenance was dark and ugly, and he was powerfully built. He walked with the natural swagger of a bully. He also had a pistol stuck in his waistband and carried a short piece of lariat curled up in his hand. And then it came to Barton. This was Atsidi, “The Hammer.” Barton had not dealt with him before, but he knew his reputation. His name said it all. He was a bully, mean and vicious and hot-tempered.
Wishing he had brought his pistol out with him, Barton considered going back for it but then changed his mind. They would see him, and that would not be good. Besides, he had dealt with angry young natives before. So he turned and unlocked the door to the store and went inside.
Old Eye led the way inside and immediately stated his purpose. Atsidi stepped back, watching with a sullen expression. Through Old Eye’s limited English, Amasa’s limited Navajo, and a lot of sign language, Old Eye reminded Barton that a few days before he had traded some of his wife’s jewelry for some goods in the store. Now he wanted the jewelry back. He withdrew an old broken pistol and offered that in trade.
Barton shook his head. “Now, Old Eye, you know that pistol is not worth anything. You’ve got to offer me something better than that.”
The young man stepped forward. “You trade,” he said angrily. “The Man with One Eye want jewelry back.”
“I’ll give him the jewelry back, but not for that old pistol.”
Atsidi raised a fist and started yelling. “You cheat old man. You bad man. You no cheat my friend.”
Stunned by this sudden hostility, Barton looked at Old Eye. His head was down, and he was staring at the worthless pistol. Barton had a sudden intuition that this young buck had set this up and that Old Eye was a reluctant partner. He turned calmly to the younger man. “This trade is between me and Old Eye.”
Atsidi would have none of that. “You give Old Eye jewels. You take gun.” He let his hand rest on the butt of the pistol stuck in his belt. “You do it now.”
Feeling a little chill and not liking what was happening here at all, Barton had an idea. “You hungry, Old Eye? We’re just having breakfast. Would you sit at our table with us?”
The two men exchanged glances. Atsidi finally gave a curt nod. Only then did Old Eye nod. Not a good sign. The old man was clearly afraid of his companion. Barton walked to the door and pushed it open. “Feenie! We have company for breakfast.”
He knew this would not be a surprise to his wife. They often fed the Indians who came to trade with them. It was a way to make friends.
The three men ate quickly while the two women sat in the corner. Feenie tried to talk to Atsidi, but she might as well have been talking to a rock. He refused to even look at her. Old Eye kept his head down, barely speaking. Barton’s feeling that Atsidi was coercing Old Eye into something grew stronger, as did his uneasiness. Feenie and her mother sensed something too, and Feenie kept warning her husband with her eyes. So Amasa stood up as soon as they were done. “Let’s go see what we can work out for you, Old Eye.”
Back in the store, Barton tried again. “I’ll be happy to give the jewelry back, Old Eye, but I have to have something more than that old pistol. Do you have any money?”
Old Eye shook his head. The younger Navajo, who had moved off to one side, was growing increasingly angry. He still carried the piece of rope in one hand and kept slapping it against his leg. He hissed something at the old man.
Barton decided this had gone far enough. His warning senses were tingling, but he knew he could show no fear. “If you won’t trade,” he said to Old Eye sternly, “then you go now.”
He started around the counter to usher them out. As he did so, Atsidi quickly moved around behind Barton. Barton started to jerk around to see what he was doing, but it was too late. The rope was in both of Atsidi’s hands now, and Barton saw that it had a noose on one end. With a practiced flick of his wrist the Indian threw the rope over Barton’s head. Instantly, the young buck jerked back hard, screaming at Old Eye to do something.
Clawing frantically at the rope around his throat, Barton kicked back at Atsidi, but he jumped clear. Quick as a cat, Old Eye darted around and grabbed the rope too. Both men yanked hard, pulling Barton backward up onto the counter. A box of trinkets crashed to the floor. “Outside!” Atsidi screamed. “Get him outside.”
Amasa Barton was a big man, and years of blacksmithing had left him strong as an ox. But with two men pulling on the rope, he was fighting frantically for breath. Somewhere he heard Feenie screaming. Through the window, he saw her come out of the house carrying his pistol. That sight filled him with terror. He dug at the rope, pulling it loose enough to shout at her. “No, Feenie. Hide the gun! Go back!”
That momentary distraction was just enough for the Indians to pull Barton over the counter. He crashed to the ground. He was stunned for a moment, disoriented and confused. Then he realized they were dragging him outside. His head cracked on the counter, further dazing him.
Digging at the rope and fighting desperately for breath, Amasa struggled to get free. He clutched at anything to stop them from taking him outside. The Indians got him halfway out the door and had to stop. Both bent over, gasping for breath. Barton turned his head toward the house in time to see Feenie dart inside. He felt a rush of relief.
Raging now, Atsidi yanked out his pistol and fired a shot at her. “No!” Barton screamed. He turned his head and felt a thrill of joy. Feenie was gone and the door was shut behind her. Then, jus
t as he started to lose consciousness, Barton saw something else—something he didn’t understand. Old Eye had let go of the rope and backed off a few steps. He was clutching at his chest, where a blossom of red had appeared on his shirt. Blood was oozing out from between his fingers. Staring at his companion in utter shock, Old Eye staggered backward and then broke into a stumbling run. Then Barton lost consciousness.
Things were happening very fast now. Grandma Hyde, who was watching from the window, saw her son-in-law go down and heard a shot. Thinking the Indians had killed him, she burst out the door, sobbing and screaming at Atsidi to leave him alone. Atsidi’s reaction was swift and unhesitating. He stepped forward to stand over the unconscious man lying facedown at his feet. He aimed his pistol and fired a shot into the back of Amasa Barton’s neck.
At a full run now, Grandma Hyde, nearly hysterical, threw her shoulder into the Navajo and knocked him away. She instantly dropped down beside her son-in-law and started loosening the rope. Dazed at the speed with which things were happening, Atsidi jumped back. For a moment it looked as if he would shoot the old woman, but then he turned away and ran stumbling around the store to find his wounded companion.
Old Eye was behind the store, sprawled on the ground, dead from a gunshot wound to the heart. Hoisting the body of his fallen partner onto his shoulder, Atsidi came back around to the front of the store. Yelling at the old woman to get back, he walked up to Barton a second time, still carrying his dead companion. Cursing and shouting, he fired another shot into the back of Amasa Barton’s neck. Then, in a lumbering run, he headed for the boat, carrying Old Eye with him.
For several seconds it was as if time had been frozen in place. Grandma Hyde was bent over Barton’s body, examining his wounds, which were just inches apart. Feenie came at a dead run out of the house and fell down beside her husband. “Amasa! Amasa! Amasa!”
Through all of this, the little band of Utes had sat back in silence, watching events unfold. Now, Old Chee and his two sons came forward and asked if they could help. Though numb with shock, Feenie nodded. “Help me get Mr. Barton into the house,” she said.
Only the Brave: The Continuing Saga of the San Juan Pioneers Page 17