Deborah said, “I can’t stop thinking about the photograph. He cares about them enough to carry their images. He sees them whenever he looks at the time.” She paused. “His family’s waiting for him.”
“Could be. But anybody related to a man who does what he does, knows it’s slippery work.”
“That doesn’t make the waiting easier.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I understood she was talking about Samuel. Waiting caused a person’s mind to play tricks. It was easy to think the worst. Like me thinking Samuel might have trouble getting through the mountains.
Deborah got up. She leaned over the marshal and took the bunched-up cloth that was against the back of his head. Holding the cloth in her cupped hands, she said, “It’s dripping. I need fresh snow.”
“I’ll do it.”
She shook her head. “I need the fresh air.”
Deborah left the cabin. The marshal’s breathing changed. The rasp turned into a watery crackle. It was like he was trying to call Deborah back. The crackling kept on. This was the end. He was breathing his last. I stood up, not knowing what to do.
Deborah came back in.
She clicked her tongue. “He does that whenever I leave his side.” She put the cloth against the back of his head and sat down beside him. The marshal’s breathing stuttered, then went back to a rasp.
Deborah said, “He’s aware of my coming and going. It could be he’s aware of what we’re saying.”
“I’ll pick my words with care.”
She didn’t say anything. I ate some of my dinner. Above the marshal’s wheeze, branches from the linden outside scraped against the west side of the cabin. After a while, Deborah said, “You have matters to see to in the morning.”
“I do.”
She lowered her head and I figured she was thinking what I was. While I was taking Braden to Floral Ranch, she’d be on her own with the marshal.
I said, “I’d put it off if I could. But I can’t.”
“I know. But I’m telling you this. I’m not opening my door again. I’ve had enough.”
“More than enough.”
“That’s right. More than enough.”
There might not be a next time. But if we did get out of this scrape, I didn’t know how we’d stop the next man from coming. If one came, I couldn’t see us turning our backs on him. We wouldn’t leave him on his own to wander the cliffs looking for the hideout at Floral Ranch. Neither would we turn him in. That’d be siding with gentiles, people who hated us. The only way out was to leave Utah Territory. All of us in Junction had to leave.
The thought of doing that tore at me. This was home.
Deborah said, her voice low, “We’ll have to get word to his family.”
I understood what she meant. If the marshal died.
She said, “We have to. I can’t bear the thought of a woman waiting for her husband and not knowing what happened. That’s the hard part. The not knowing.”
Like how we didn’t know where Samuel was. Then I was remembering how Carson Miller had called to me—Brother Nels—when he thought he saw something in the ravine. Like it was happening again, I heard the warning in his voice. He thought he saw metal glinting in the light.
Samuel carried wrenches, a measuring traveler, spindle shavers, and a hoop bender in his wagon. He carried axes, hammers, and knives. All were made of iron.
“Brother Nels. Did you hear me? About getting word to his family?”
I looked at her. I did my best to clear my thoughts. I said, “He likely has friends not far behind. They’ll carry the news to his relations.”
She looked down at her hands. She’d bunched the cloth soaked in mint in a tight fist. She said, “That’s right. I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s not the same.”
Deborah didn’t have to tell me what she meant. No one was following behind Samuel. He was on his own.
The marshal’s wheezy breathing filled the room, stopping and starting. It rubbed my nerves. So did the linden’s branches scratching against the side of the cabin. Once we got through this, if we did, I’d take an ax to those limbs. If I could, I’d take an ax to Carson’s words about thinking he saw glints coming off metal in the ravine.
Deborah said, “I went to my sister’s today like I do every day.”
“Did you?”
“She thinks we’ve strayed.”
“Strayed?”
“From how others do.” Deborah inclined her head toward the marshal. She was sitting beside him. This was her way of telling me she was picking words that wouldn’t mean much to him.
“Maybe we have,” I said.
Deborah nodded. “My sister doesn’t like it that I’m alone every fall.”
“She said that?”
“Not in those words but nearly. And she’s not the only one. Especially now, this winter. At church services, people can’t seem to find my eyes when they talk to me. The women are uneasy around me. They don’t know what to say to me beyond how well I’m bearing up. But I know what’s going through their minds. My husband is coming through the Fish Lakes during the winter.”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“You and I know that. But I’m a woman alone, that’s how the other women look at me. They’re afraid. I see it on their faces. Something like this could happen to their husbands.” Deborah paused, then, “I believe they’re afraid of something else.” Her voice was low. I strained to hear her over the marshal’s raspy breathing. “They’re afraid the day might come when someone might think it necessary to claim responsibility for me. But you can be sure I’ve made it clear that Samuel will come home, and I’ve made it clear I can take care of myself.”
“Good.” My voice was sharp. I pushed away from the table. The chair legs scraped against the wood floor. I got up, threw open the cookstove door, crouched low, and blew on the embers. God Almighty. The neighbor men were circling around Deborah. Some of them had told me they thought it looked bad for Samuel, him weeks past due home. They said they were concerned for Deborah’s welfare. I’d told them Samuel would be home by the second week of January. I’d told them Deborah wasn’t alone. Her sister and family were here. And me, I’d thought but held back from saying.
I blew harder on the embers. They glowed, then flared into flames. I hadn’t understood what the neighbor men were saying. Only Ollie Cookson had two wives. No one else here practiced plural marriage. It hadn’t crossed my mind someone would consider taking Deborah as a second wife. It hadn’t crossed my mind their doubts about Samuel getting home were that strong.
She said, “They’re leaving.”
“Who is?” I closed the cookstove door and faced Deborah.
“My sister and her family. They don’t like it here. After the baby is born in the spring, they’re going back.” She hesitated. “They want me to go with them.”
I sat down at the table, blood thumping hard in my ears. There was no need for Grace to bring up leaving in the spring. It didn’t do any good to talk about something that was months off. She should have waited until the time was closer. Now, Michael and Grace’s leaving was one more thing to prey on Deborah’s mind.
From the start, I didn’t have much use for either Grace or Michael. Grace expected Deborah to wait on her hand and foot. Michael was a good enough schoolmaster but he didn’t know up from down when it came to orchards. He was a big man, tall and sturdy-looking. That didn’t do him much good, though. His eyes were weak. He had to wear spectacles. He’d rather have a book in his hands than work the earth.
What got under my skin the most, though, was how he wanted to change Junction. He and Grace moved here early in October. A week later, Michael called a meeting of the men and boys ages sixteen and older. By my count, that was fourteen of us. Fifteen if I counted Samuel but I didn’t. It being October, he was still in southern Utah repairing and making wheels. Eight of us men showed up at the schoolhouse for the meeting.
“Brothers,” Michael had said. He stood at the front by h
is desk. The rest of us sat corralled in school desks that were too small for us. He said, “I come to you with a message from our brothers and sisters in western Utah. A message of grave importance.” His thick spectacles had slipped down his nose. He pushed them back into place. “They’re concerned about the people in Junction. Gravely concerned.”
A desk behind me squeaked. Somebody shuffled his feet. Michael said, “Your brothers and sisters believe you’ve drifted from the church. I’ve been called to direct you back to the teachings.”
“Who’s saying this about us?” Ollie Cookson said.
“The stake presidents. And some of your families.”
We shot each other looks. Say too much against the church, and we’d be branded apostates. That would bring shame to our relations. They’d be pressed to disclaim us. There’d be no going back home.
Michael said, “The solution is at hand, Brothers. I propose we begin by electing a bishop, one who will give freely of his time to organize Junction. He’ll appoint counselors and ward clerks. A woman will be appointed to organize a Relief Society.” Michael picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “I’ve sketched out plans for a wardhouse. We can build it here, close to the schoolhouse.”
He handed the paper to Peter Sorenson in the front row. Peter gave it a quick look. Over his shoulder, he handed it to me. My look was just as fast. If we’d wanted a wardhouse, we would have built one. I passed the sketch on.
Michael said, “As for the matter of a bishop. I propose that those who want to serve, come to the front now. A week from today we’ll meet and take a vote.”
Somebody cleared his throat. The sketch of the wardhouse rustled as it made its way around the room. Nobody came forward. Michael studied us, his eyes big behind his spectacles. I figured it would perturb him, a crowd of us not stampeding to the front of the room. Instead, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He fought to hide it. A full beard would have done him some good about now. One trimmed close to the skin didn’t do much covering.
He said, “It’s a weighty responsibility, one not to be taken lightly. I understand that. Perhaps you believe you aren’t deserving of the honor but as the Prophet Joseph Smith said, we’re all equals.” Michael’s gaze went from man to man. “Brothers? Are any of you willing to be considered for the position?”
Did Michael need it spelled out? If we’d wanted a bishop, we would have elected one years back. We came to Junction to get away from being organized into committees. We didn’t want to be told what we were supposed to do and how. It wasn’t that we didn’t hold church services. We did. The same went for how we helped out when a family needed a barn built or a woman was too sick to care for her children. We just didn’t want to be made to do it.
Michael stood alone in the front of the room. If Samuel had been there, he would likely have untangled himself from his school desk and gone to stand with Michael. He’d have to reach up, Samuel being shorter than Michael, but he’d reach up and put an arm around his brother-in-law’s shoulders. He would get us to give Michael a rousing cheer of appreciation. He’d say how proud he was of Michael for bringing the concerns of the stake presidents to us. Then, somehow, Samuel being Samuel and knowing how to do such things, he would shift the talk so that we looked like far better Saints than Michael had first thought. The idea of electing a bishop would be left to dangle.
It was October, though, and Samuel wasn’t due home until the first of December. Michael stood before us, waiting. He pushed his spectacles up into place. “Brothers,” he said. “If you’ll have me, I’m willing to serve as your bishop.”
I cut a sideways look at Adam Baker sitting in the desk next to me. A fair-minded man, we looked to him to settle our disputes when Samuel wasn’t here to do it. He tapped his fingers on the desk. Likely he didn’t want a bishop any more than I did. But if word spread that we turned down Michael’s offer, the stake presidents could turn us out of the church.
That part didn’t bother me. I was a man on my own. That couldn’t be said for the men with wives and children. If the church turned against us, the elders would see to it that no Saint would trade with us. In that way, we’d have to leave Utah. We’d have to live with gentiles, people who hated us.
Adam stopped tapping his fingers. He gave me a quick glance, then drew himself up the best he could in the desk. He said, “Well now, Brother Michael, this is good of you. Generous, I’d say, you stepping forward like this. And you and Sister Grace new here and hardly settled in. We all appreciate it. But in keeping with church practice, the appointment of a bishop calls for a vote. As you said. Even in a one-man race.”
Somebody laughed.
Adam went on. “Since not all the men are here tonight, seems we should take a vote when everyone is. I’m thinking about the women and the children, too. They’ll want to witness this. I can just hear my wife now. For that matter, all the women. They’ll want to bring cakes and pies for a celebration. The election of our first bishop is a momentous occasion.”
“That’s right,” Peter Sorenson said. “A vote at another meeting. As the Prophet Joseph Smith declared all such matters should be handled.”
There was no arguing around the Prophet Smith’s word. “Of course,” Michael said. “We’ll vote a week from today. Next Tuesday.”
The next Tuesday, it rained too hard for everyone to attend the meeting. The Tuesday after that, Ollie Cookson needed a fair number of us to help fix a broken-down fence. After that, the irrigation ditches in the orchards were filled with silt and needed digging out. There were always reasons we couldn’t meet. We never did take a vote. Neither did we build a wardhouse.
I was wrong to think Michael would let this ride. He’d been sent to save us. None of us took him up on this offer. Now he’d have to go back to Parowan and report about our downfall. That’d be bad for us. It’d be bad for Michael. He’d been sent to save us, and he’d failed.
Deborah, still sitting by the marshal, said, “I knew something was wrong when I went to my sister’s. She wasn’t herself. I felt sure she somehow knew about this.” Deborah nodded her head toward the marshal. “But it wasn’t this.”
“It’s winter talk, this business about leaving, that’s all. Don’t listen to her.” My words came out too strong. I got myself a lungful of air, then let go of it. “Folks get restless when they’re mostly shut up inside. Their minds fill with peculiar notions. You can’t listen to talk brought on by the cold and short days. Your sister and brother-in-law will forget about leaving come spring.”
She didn’t say anything to that. I sat at the table, my plate before me empty. We could all be driven away from Junction long before spring. In the lamplight, Deborah’s head was bowed. I didn’t know what to do if she started crying.
She said, “You’re a good man.”
My hands went still. If she were mine, I’d walk across the room and put my arms around her.
“A good friend,” she said. “None better.”
I felt a hard pinch in my heart. “Well,” I said. It was the best I could come up with. I ran my forefinger along the edge of my plate until I found the fair-size chip on one side.
Deborah turned back to Fletcher. I couldn’t see her face. We sat, the marshal’s breathing stuttering and starting, each of thinking our own thoughts. After a while, she said to Fletcher, “You’ll be all right, I’ll be nearby.”
She got up, carried her chair to the table, and placed it so she’d face away from the bed. She sat down, catty-corner to me. I didn’t know what to make of any of this. Deborah looked into my eyes. The lamplight was faint and I couldn’t see the blue in her hazel eyes. That didn’t matter. I felt myself pulled to her.
“Brother Nels,” she said. “His badge is missing. We have to find it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NELS – MOUNTAIN MEADOWS
January 12, 1888
Sitting at my table, Deborah leaned close. “Did you hear me? His badge is gone.”
Like it was happening
all over again, I felt my fingers pick it up from the bed. It must have fallen out of the marshal’s pocket. It was warm. He kept it close to his person.
Deborah said, “What if he lost it near my cabin? In my barn? Or here somewhere in the snow? If it’s found, it’ll be used against us. It’s proof he looked around my place or yours. They’ll claim he identified himself to us. They won’t believe our story about how you found him.”
I couldn’t tell her what I’d done with the badge. When the other lawmen got here, it wouldn’t take long for them to figure out it was missing. They’d ask Deborah about the badge. If she knew the truth, she’d have to lie. It’d be one more lie on top of others. Her voice could give way. Panic might show in her eyes. The deputies would see the loose ground in our story.
I said, “It could be he didn’t have a badge. Not all of them do.”
“He had one. He showed it to me.”
“When?”
“When he first got here. Before he searched the barn and my cabin.” She held out her left hand, palm up like the badge might be there. “We have to find it.”
I had to tell her something. Otherwise, she’d worry herself over something that didn’t need worrying. I said, “He lost it.”
“But where?”
“It’s lost.”
Her forehead puckered. I understood she was deciphering the meaning behind my words.
I said, “Nobody will find it.”
“You’re sure?”
Already I couldn’t recall exactly where the crevice was on the trail where I’d hidden the badge. It was before Braden and I got to the pocket. It was one crevice of thousands. The badge was lost even to me. I said, “It’s gone.”
Deborah sat back in the chair. She tilted her head a little like she was looking heavenward. Maybe she was thanking God that the badge had been taken care of. Or she might have been asking God to forgive me for taking something that wasn’t mine.
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