She glanced toward the river and saw a solitary figure frantically rowing the boat back across to the south bank. Knowing this might not be over, she stood up. Chee and his son Posey knelt down and lifted Amasa.
“Careful! Be gentle,” Feenie cried. Her mother came up behind her and slipped an arm around her as she nearly collapsed.
“Where you want him?” Old Chee asked.
“In the house.” She pointed. Then she instantly changed her mind. “No. That’s the first place they’ll look. Take him around back. By the shed.” She led the way now, finding a place in the shade where they could lay him out.
To the Utes’ surprise, as soon as Amasa was down, the white woman leaped up and ran into the house. All was silent for two or three minutes, and then she came running back with a fistful of money in one hand and a folded paper in the other. She was waving it at the father and his two sons. “We are in grave danger,” she cried. “I need you to ride like the wind to Bluff and bring help. Here is fifteen dollars. Take it. But please, please, bring help.”
Posey, the older of the two boys, stepped forward, turning to his father. After a moment, Old Chee nodded. Posey snatched the note and the money from her hand and sprinted for his horse. Moments later, the clatter of hooves on stone sounded loudly and then slowly faded away.
Feenie Barton watched him go before turning to her mother. They fell into each other’s arms and sobbed and sobbed. Then Feenie got to her feet. “We need bandages, Mama. And hot water.”
June 12, 1886—Elk Mountain
Lemuel H. Redd Jr. was half asleep in his saddle. Mitch Westland was rapidly sinking into the same torpor. Knowing that if he gave in he’d be awake half the night, he straightened, looking out west. “Looks like there are some thunderheads building up out over the Henry Mountains.”
Lem’s head came up. He tipped his hat back and looked in the direction that Mitch was pointing. Way off to the northwest, thirty or forty miles away, a large slice of the sky was dark gray. He stood up in the saddle, shaking off the weariness. “Lots of moisture in the air right now,” he allowed. “That and the afternoon heat make a bad combination.”
“Wind’s out of the northwest,” Mitch observed. “Think it could come our way?”
“Not sure. Probably not much rain in them. But we may see some dry lightning.”
“Cows hate dry lightning as much as they do wet lightning,” Mitch observed.
George Decker, who was about thirty yards away, nudged his horse into a walk and came over to join them. “Wanna start pushing them together, just in case?”
Lem studied the sky for another moment and then grunted. “Not like we’re busy doing something else right now. Yeah, let’s do it. Better safe than sorry.”
George wheeled his horse around. “I’ll tell the others.”
They took their time. Mitch let his horse pick his way along until they spotted more cows. As he was headed back to the open meadowland, pushing along six head, he pulled up. In the distance he could hear the soft drumbeat of a horse’s hooves. And they were coming fast. He stood up in the stirrups and looked to the east. But with the trees, he couldn’t see much more than fifty yards. He sat down again, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and kicked his horse into a trot in that direction.
Lem, George, and the others joined him. They pulled up, peering ahead where the wagon track came into the meadow. All had their rifles out now. As Mitch rode up, Clint Gurr, who was about fifteen, turned. “You think it’s Indians?” he asked, clearly nervous.
“It’s only one horse,” Lem replied. “And it sounds like it’s shod.”
The Gurr boy gave him a strange look but said nothing. Less than a minute later, a single rider shot out from the pine trees, bent low over a heavily lathered horse. Mitch shook his head as he lowered his rifle. One rider. A shod horse. Lem was astonishing.
It was Henry Johnson, who farmed the little plot next to Ben Perkins’s place. He took off his hat and waved and then spurred his horse all the harder. They all swung out of their saddles as he pulled up and leaped off his horse.
“Got big trouble in Bluff,” he exclaimed breathlessly, without preamble. “Bishop Nielson wants one man to stay here with the cattle and the others to come down as fast as you can.”
“What is it, Hank?” Lem asked in alarm.
“Amasa Barton’s been shot. He’s dying. May even be dead by now.”
There was a collective gasp. “What happened?” Mitch asked.
“Three days ago, two Navajo came to the Barton Trading Post out on the Rincon.” As their horror grew with every word, he quickly sketched out what had transpired. Mitch went white. Amasa dead? Or nearly so? And what of Feenie? And the grandmother?
“But Amasa was still alive when you left?” Clint asked.
“Yes, but there’s big trouble brewing. When Posey arrived with Feenie’s note, everyone sprang into action. Kumen Jones and Platte Lyman made it back there in an hour and a half. Jo Barton arrived an hour after that. But before that, the Navajo they call Atsidi had come back with six or seven other young bucks. Knowing they were coming to make sure her husband was dead, Feenie bent down and told Amasa to keep his eyes shut and play dead. It worked. The Indians left him and her and her mother alone. But they looted the store of almost everything. Would have got it all except a couple of squaws across the river warned them that the Mormons were coming.”
Mitch had to turn away. He felt lightheaded, like he was going to throw up. He had just been there a few days ago. He had talked with Feenie. Amasa had fixed his belt. Mitch had bought some candy for the Navajo children and Feenie’s little boy. And now this.
Lem gave a curt nod. “All right, Clint. You’ll stay. Keep the cattle together as best you can. We’ll send help as soon as possible.”
The boy blanched a little but nodded.
“The rest of you, be ready to ride in ten minutes. Every man take an extra mount and enough food to get us back down. Leave the rest for Clint.” Then he turned back to Hank Johnson. “Does the bishop want us at the Rincon or in Bluff?”
“At the trading post. There’s a whole collection of Navajo waiting across the river, waiting to see if Amasa lives or dies. There are lots of young bucks demanding revenge.”
“They want revenge?” Decker said hotly. “What about Feenie?”
Hank shook his head. “Atsidi is telling his people that the two of them tried to trade a gun for some jewelry but that Amasa refused to trade. When they wouldn’t leave, Amasa drew his gun and shot Old Eye through the heart.”
“And they believe that?” Clint Gurr cried.
“Doesn’t matter much whether they do or not,” Lem muttered. “When a white kills a Navajo, they start working themselves up for war.”
Mitch’s head came up slowly. “So who’s guarding Bluff?”
Johnson frowned. “When I left it was Peter Allan and John Adams.”
“What? Only two men?” He suddenly saw the face of his mother and remembered the look that came into her eyes whenever she was around Indians.
“Not much choice, Mitch. That’s why the bishop wants you all down there. He’s also calling in the freighters in Colorado and anyone else he can get.”
Faces were flashing through his mind now. His mother. Martha. Johnny. Edie. Dan and John Perkins and a dozen other children. He grabbed his horse’s reins and swung up. “Then let’s get going,” he said. “Lem, let’s make that five minutes.”
“Hold on, Mitch,” Lem said. “I think we need a prayer. Will you offer it?”
“I will.” He removed his hat but didn’t dismount. When the others had their hats off, he bowed his head. “Oh, dear Heavenly Father, protect our families in this hour of danger. Protect Sister Barton and her family, and comfort them in their terrible tragedy.” He paused for a moment. “And wilt thou give wings to the feet of our horses? In the name of our beloved Savior, Jesus Christ, amen.”
Notes
Harriett Parthenia (Feenie) Hyde Barton was t
he first schoolteacher in San Juan County, having taught school in Montezuma Creek before the school in Bluff was started. Feenie was twenty-four years old when her husband was shot at their trading post. Amasa was thirty.
The story of the attack at the Rincon Trading Post is told here as it is found in the histories of Bluff. A few details have been left out, but what is included comes from the accounts of those who were present or arrived shortly thereafter (see History of San Juan County, 57–60; Indians and Outlaws, 86–92; Saga, 68).
There is a discrepancy in the sources about whether this took place in the summer of 1886 or 1887. Albert R. Lyman lists it as 1886 in one source but in 1887 in another. It is placed in 1886 for purposes of the novel, but the Barton family group sheet lists Amasa’s date of death as June 16th, 1887, which likely settles the issue (see http://www.bartonancestry.com/gen/getperson.php?personID=I12425&tree=bartontree1).
Old Eye is listed by name, but no name is recorded for the young hothead who came with him.
Feenie’s first child, Amasa Hyde Barton, was born in September 1885, which means he would have been about twenty-one months old at the time of the shooting. The new baby, also a boy, whom they named William Penn Barton, was born on May 18th, 1887, so he was just three weeks old when the attack occurred. Feenie was still recovering from giving birth, and this is why her mother, Angeline Hyde, was there with her.
None of the sources indicate that the note written by Feenie Barton still exists, but Albert R. Lyman quotes it verbatim, without correcting punctuation, which suggests that he had access to it, or at least a copy of it. She wrote:
Come quick someone Amasa is shot in the head in two places and Ma and I are alone. For the sake of us do hurry. Send for Jo. A Navajo did the shooting Amasa had no gun The bullets are lodged near the surface and can be removed do come as many as can the Bishop, Platte and as many as well and do have faith.—Feenie Barton.
Jo was Joseph F. Barton, Amasa’s brother and partner in the trading post. The Bishop, of course, referred to Bishop Nielson. Platte was Platte D. Lyman.
Immediately, almost all of the men at Bluff raced out to the trading post to protect Feenie, her mother, and the two children. It appears that only two men stayed back in Bluff, Peter Allan and John Adams (Indian and Outlaws, 92; History of San Juan County, 59). The women and children gathered at Bishop Nielson’s home, filling up the floors inside and camping out in the yard (Indians and Outlaws, 92).
Chapter 15
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June 18, 1886—Bluff City, Utah Territory
To everyone’s astonishment, Amasa Barton lingered for days with two bullets in his head. The balls seemed to have lodged behind his eyes, leaving him blind, and he was paralyzed on one side of his body, but he was conscious much of that time. Every known medical effort available was used to try to nurse him through the crisis, but his wounds were too serious. At times he was aware of his surroundings and spoke with Feenie and others, but much of the time he was in a delirium or unconscious. He would speak to himself, pray, and sing songs.
To add to the horror of those days for Feenie and the others, the threat of further violence from the Navajo hung over them. Old Eye’s body, which Atsidi had dumped on the south riverbank, was covered with wood and burned. The perpetrator continued to harangue the people with his accusations that Old Eye had been gunned down without warning by the wicked white man. Hordes of Navajo gathered on the rocks and cliffs directly across from the trading post, chanting and dancing and preparing for war. The young men put on war paint, shouting that Old Eye must be avenged.
Finally, one week after he was so brutally shot, Amasa Barton passed away. He was carried to Bluff along with Feenie and her children. What goods were still left after the looting were hauled back to Bluff and purchased by the San Juan Co-op Store, leaving the trading post abandoned. Amasa’s funeral was held the next day in the old log schoolhouse. He was buried in the cemetery on a small hillock overlooking the town, and a grieving Feenie moved back in with her parents.
Amasa’s death seemed to defuse the crisis with the Navajo. With the “guilty” person now gone, their angry gatherings dispersed. With the threat over, the Mormon men began to return to wherever they had been when the frantic call for help came. Mitch Westland, Lem Redd, and the others from Elk Mountain stayed in Bluff for the funeral but left the next day. Gwen and Edie put on brave smiles as they hugged and bade Mitch good-bye. Then both returned to their homes and privately wept.
The next day, life returned to normal—or at least, as normal as life could be in the San Juan Mission.
June 21, 1886
Gwendolyn was getting water from the well near the fort when the barking of dogs erupted. Not just one or two. It sounded like every dog in town was joining in the chorus. Before she could figure out what was causing it, she heard someone shouting her name. “Gwen! Gwen!”
She turned and then gasped. The bucket crashed to the ground, instantly soaking her dress and shoes. She wasn’t aware of it. Arthur was sprinting up the street from the river. His hat was gone, and he was waving his hands wildly. But that was not what had caused her to drop the bucket. About seventy-five yards behind him, coming from the direction of the Sand Island ford, was a band of Navajo on horses. They were coming at a steady trot, kicking up a large cloud of dust. A dozen dogs ran alongside, yipping and barking furiously. Even at this distance, Gwen saw something that turned her blood to ice. Their faces were painted black and had brightly colored markings on them, and everyone carried rifles, spears, or bows and arrows.
“Run, Gwen!” Arthur shouted. “Get in the fort!”
She swung around, blood rushing to her head. She felt suddenly faint. “Martha!” she screamed. “Johnny!” She started across the open space to the cabin, which was across the compound from the fort. But her children had heard their father too. They came tearing around the house, crouching low and running hard.
“Into the fort,” she screeched. “Hurry! Hurry!”
All around them screams and shouts could be heard. People were scattering in every direction. What few men there were ran for their rifles. Women and older children frantically herded the younger ones into the safety of the rock fort.
A block away, Edie Zimmer was in the back room of the co-op store, putting away the latest load of freight. She straightened and cocked her head as the faint sound of dogs barking became evident. She moved out into the store. Aunt Mary, who was clerking in the store, was standing at the window, neck craned to see up the street. Suddenly, her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no!” she cried.
Edie felt chills shoot up and down her back and darted out to join her. Mary Nielson Jones was the wife of Kumen Jones and daughter of Bishop Nielson. To most in the town she was simply “Aunt Mary.” She whirled as she heard Edie behind her. “Stay back from the window,” she hissed as Edie came up.
Out the window Edie saw a street full of horsemen coming down the street toward them. She couldn’t tell how many there were, for they filled the street and were kicking up a lot of dust, but she saw enough to know there could be as many as a hundred of them. And it looked like every dog in the town had come out to drive them off. But what left her dizzy with fear was the sight of them. All were men. All were armed. All had their faces painted for war, and all of them looked very, very angry.
To Edie’s further horror, when the first of them reached the street in front of the co-op, they pulled their horses to a stop, turning to face the store. “Stay here,” Aunt Mary hissed. “Keep the door open, but if I come diving back in here, bolt the door behind me and grab a rifle.”
“Yes, Aunt Mary,” Edie whispered, her head throbbing so hard she could barely hear herself. And then Aunt Mary did the unthinkable. She stepped through the door and onto the porch. With a strained smile, she lifted one hand. “Yah-ah-tay.”
No one moved. No one responded to her greeting. The rider on the horse closest to her stirred but said nothing. He was young, as were most of the ot
hers, and she wondered if this had been the one who actually shot Amasa, which didn’t help the thumping of her heart. “Can I help you?” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. Show no fear. That was one of Kumen’s cardinal rules for dealing with the Indians.
“Where Big Chief? We need big talk. Very mad.” He lifted his rifle and shook it at her. “Squaw, you get Big Chief now. You hear?”
“Yes,” Mary said calmly. “Wait here.” She turned. “Edie, go get my father.”
Edie gulped. “Shall I go out the back?”
“No!” she hissed. “You can’t show any fear. Just walk past them. Don’t run, but tell Bishop Nielson what’s going on. I think—I hope—Kumen is with him. If not, find him. Kumen will have to act as translator. I can understand a little of their language, but not enough to translate. Now, go.”
Edie couldn’t remember ever before feeling such relief as she felt when she knocked on the door of Bishop Nielson’s home and his son-in-law answered. “Oh, hi, Edie,” Kumen said, opening the screen. “Come on in.”
“Is Bishop here?” she asked. But even as she said it, Bishop Nielson came limping out from the kitchen. He started to smile. She cut him off. “Come quick, Bishop. There’s a war party of Navajo at the co-op. They want to see you.”
The two men exchanged glances, and then Kumen said, “So that explains all the barking. I’ll get our hats.”
“Ya, but no guns,” the bishop added.
Edie started at that. “They all have guns, Bishop,” she blurted. “And there’s about a hundred of them.”
“No guns,” he said again.
As Kumen came out with their hats, Edie stepped back out on the porch, holding the screen open. “Is Mary Ann all right?” Kumen asked.
“Yes. She’s talking to them.”
Bishop Nielson reached out and laid a hand on Edie’s shoulder. “Go. Make sure everyone is in the fort. Tell the men to keep their vheapons out of sight.”
Only the Brave: The Continuing Saga of the San Juan Pioneers Page 18