Governor Brigham Young’s executive mansion was a two-story adobe and sandstone building called The Beehive House. In addition to being the seat of Territorial and City Governments, the house also contained apartments for the wives and children of Governor Young.
Upon their arrival in the City of Salt Lake, the men of the Van Buskirk Party had been taken to meet Brigham Young in the executive center while the women were entertained individually or in small groups by his wives in their individual quarters. Clementine had been ushered to the quarters of Lucy Ann Decker Young, and was now drinking her third cup of tea.
“We have petitioned the Federal Government to name our state Deseret, which is another word for Honeybee,” Lucy Ann was saying. “Utah is such an unfriendly name and it implies ownership by the Ute Indians.”
“I didn’t realize that the territory was that close to being granted Statehood,” Clementine replied.
“We’re hoping it will be soon,” Lucy Ann said.
The women were alone in a neat parlor. A silver tea service for two was set on a small table between them.
“I don’t want to be rude, Mrs. Young,” Clementine said, “but what’s this all about?”
“What is what all about, Mrs. Van Buskirk?”
“Making us come here.”
Lucy Ann wrinkled her brow. “You were invited to come. No one forced you.”
“There was an implied threat from your militia.”
“Oh dear. That won’t do. I shall speak to President Young about that.”
“Let me ask you the same question in another way. Why did you invite us?”
“To invite you to join us.”
“Join your church, you mean.”
“Proselytizing is our duty, of course, but our church is not open to everyone. Our city is.”
“Except to Indians and Negros.”
“That is a common misconception. The Lord has cursed Cain’s seed with blackness and forbidden his descendants from the Priesthood, not from the church nor the city. But all must pass the tests.”
Clementine rolled her eyes. “How long must we stay here?”
“There are no conditions imposed on you or the families accompanying you, Mrs. Van Buskirk. Anyone who desires to leave may do so whenever they wish. Those desiring to learn more about our life and beliefs may stay as long as they wish.”
“So you’re saying that we’re all free to go whenever we want to?”
“Of course.”
Clementine sipped her tea. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel to share your husband with other women?”
“It feels very natural.”
Clementine was about to ask another question when a door at the back of the room opened and a boy came in. “Mother, please forgive the intrusion. May I speak to you a moment, please?”
Lucy Ann stood up. “Will you excuse me, Mrs. Van Buskirk?”
“Certainly.” Clementine waited until the door closed, then got up and quickly found her way outside to where Coyote was waiting. “Let’s get back to the wagons. This place makes me itch.”
“It does what?”
“Never mind. Let’s just go.”
“Is there going to be trouble?”
“I don’t think so but – no, I don’t think so.”
“Who are these people?”
“A religious cult called Mormons. They came west because they were persecuted for their belief in polygamy.”
“What’s that?”
“Polygamy? The men can have more than one wife.”
“Persecuted?”
“Treated badly.”
“Oh.”
“Do your people permit polygamy?” she asked.
“Sometimes a man will bring his wife’s younger sister into his family, and widows must be adopted until they find new husbands,” he said. “I cannot say if that is what you call polygamy.”
“Well, what you’re talkin’ about sure isn’t the same as this no matter what you call it. The lady that I was having tea with just now is one of twenty-six wives. That new house across the street, the one that looks like a hotel, is being built to accommodate some of them and their children.”
“Twenty-six wives? How many children does he have?”
“I didn’t ask. Why?”
“It seems to me that feeding so many mouths would be difficult.”
“It seems to me that servicing so many young women would be difficult.”
“Servicing?”
“Yes. You know.” She used a vulgar gesture to illustrate. “I need servicing more than once every twenty-six days.”
“That is not a subject that we should discuss,” Coyote said indignantly.
“Why not?”
“It is private.”
“Who told you that?”
He looked puzzled. “I could be wrong. Am I?”
She giggled. “No, you’re not wrong. As you’ve mentioned, I’m not very ladylike. I grew up like you with nobody to tell me good manners from bad. Now I usually know the difference, but – I guess – bad is just more fun, sometimes.”
“Especially times when you can confound me with it.”
“Confound you?” She turned to look at him. “Your English has really improved.”
“Has it?”
“Yes. I guess teaching Jack your language works both ways.”
“I think Jack was really helping me by asking me to help him.”
“Could be. Jack’s like that.”
“He is a good man.”
“Yes. Far better than I deserve.” She waited a moment, then nudged him with her elbow. “You’re supposed to contradict me and say something nice about me.”
“Your hair is very pretty. I like the color.”
Clementine laughed. “Good try.”
He pointed toward their circled wagons. “The soldiers are still here.”
“The officer in charge said that they’d stay to protect our property and keep any livestock from wandering off.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No, but I guess we’re about to find out.” She walked up to the officer in charge. “Do you know how far it is to Yellowstone from here, Captain?”
“Yellowstone isn’t a single place, ma’am, it’s a vast area that covers hundreds of miles. You’ll come upon it about four hundred miles north and a little east of here.”
“Have you been there?”
“No ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She started toward the wagons, then stopped. “Our people should start trickling back soon. There’s no need for you to stay.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
“I’m sure. Thank you for your help.”
He gave her a salute, then mounted his horse. “Sergeant, pass the word that the men are dismissed.”
~
“Seven families are definitely staying here in Salt Lake City,” Jack said. “Two or three others are unsure if it’s now safe to continue on north with our reduced number.”
Clementine moved the coffee pot off the fire, then stuffed her burned fingers into her mouth. “Shit.”
“You use that word often lately,” Jack said.
“So Coyote has informed me.”
The look on her face warned that she was ready to fight, so Jack pulled on a glove and lifted the coffee pot by its ring, then poured coffee into three tin cups without another word.
“If you want to go with the others,” Coyote said, “I can find my people from here.” He handed one of the cups to Clementine and took another for himself.
Jack shook his head. “Two of the wagons signed on specifically to go to Yellowstone.”
“Buffalo hunters,” Coyote said, making a face to show his distaste. “The safety of the family wagons is more important.”
“What do you think, Clem?” Jack cautiously sipped his coffee.
“You wanted to go to Yellowstone,” she said.
“I know what I wanted,” Jack replied. “This is a new situation.”
“New in what way?” she asked. “We were always going to leave the others on the Oregon Trail and go on north with the buffalo hunters.”
“But now, with fewer wagons, the journey from here to the Oregon Trail has become more dangerous,” Jack said.
“Turning around is just as dangerous,” Clementine insisted. “It was only luck that we didn’t run into any hostiles on the way here.”
“I thought you’d jump at the chance to abandon the trip to Yellowstone,” Jack said to Clementine.
She shrugged. “I’m for whatever’s gonna keep us alive. If we keep on goin’ north we’ll come onto Coyote’s people and from then on we’ll be safe.”
“There is no safety for you with my people,” Coyote argued. “They might not even accept me back.”
“You don’t understand,” Jack said to Coyote. “There’s a treaty between the Army and the Sioux. That’s what Clementine means.”
Coyote shook his head. “It is you that does not understand. The Sioux are many small bands united only by customs and a similar language. We have no telegraph or mail. The white man refuses to understand this and makes treaties with one band expecting all the other bands to abide by the terms.”
Jack looked surprised. “Now that’s a profound truth.”
“Why would you not already know it without me telling you?” Coyote asked.
“Because it’s not the same in the east,” Jack replied. “The tribes are tighter knit and the bands, as you call them, come together often for council meetings.”
“How can they do this?” Coyote asked.
“The territories are much smaller in the east,” Clementine replied.
Jack nodded. “You can ride from one end to the other of most eastern territories in a few hours, or maybe as much as a few days. The Sioux territory would take a year to cross.”
“We both have much to learn,” Coyote said, gazing into the fire.
Jack looked into his coffee cup. “Your way of life isn’t going to survive, Coyote. I’ve seen the eastern tribes swallowed up. The same thing will happen here.”
Coyote looked at him. “We will fight.”
“And you’ll lose,” Jack answered. “The ports are overflowing with people who’ve come to America for free land and gold. The railroads will soon connect the Atlantic to the Pacific. Travel from New York to San Francisco will be measured in days instead of months. Towns will spring up at every whistle stop and water hole. No matter how well you fight, the white man’s industrial advantage is too much to overcome.”
“What must we do?” Coyote asked. “Submit?”
“Adapt,” Clementine said. “That’s the real white man’s advantage. They come here from all over the world and adapt to become Americans. You have to do the same.”
“We were here first,” Coyote argued.
“Doesn’t matter,” Clementine replied. “Adapt or die.”
Jack tossed the dregs from his coffee cup into the fire. “Better get some sleep. We’re heading north at daybreak, with anyone that wants to come along.”
June 11, 1855
Fort Bridger, the Oregon Trail
All trails between the West Coast and Utah Territories converged at Fort Bridger. It was situated on an island formed by the fractured channels of an unnamed river. Built from pickets driven into the sandy soil, it contained numerous buildings and a stockyard. “It’s a private enterprise, not an official fort,” Captain Howard Stansbury was saying to Jack.
“Who owns it?” Jack asked.
“That’s currently under debate,” the Captain replied. “It was originally established by Jim Bridger, but the Mormons seized it in ‘53. We’re here to keep the peace until it gets straightened out in the courts.”
Jack chuckled. “Since Congress seems unable to decide if we’re standing in the Wyoming, Utah or Montana Territory, a quick legal solution seems unlikely.”
Stansbury nodded. “I’m in no hurry. There’s worse duty than this.”
“Agreed.” Jack looked toward the mountains. “Do you have much trouble with Indians?”
“Not much. This isn’t a permanent home to any of the tribes, so nobody seems to feel compelled to drive us off.” He gestured toward the north. “Somebody said that you’re planning to go on to Yellowstone with only three wagons.”
“That’s the plan.”
“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, it’s a foolish plan. We see dozens of hunters and trappers go north every spring and only one or two come back in the fall. I might add that those who do come back are usually the same men who’ve gone up there and come back many times before. It’s apparently a very hard place for the uninitiated.”
Jack shrugged. “I know the risks.”
The captain looked at Clementine who had just returned from the trading post. “White women are an extraordinarily valuable commodity in these mountains. A woman as beautiful as your wife isn’t safe. My men haven’t taken their eyes off her since you pulled in.”
Jack didn’t like the way the captain was looking at Clementine. “If you value your men’s lives you’ll keep them on a short rein,” Jack said. “I won’t hesitate to kill them as quickly as I would any marauding Indians.”
“I was simply trying to drive home my point, sir.”
“Your point was well made and has been taken,” Jack said. “Excuse me. I better go help my wife load the wagon.” He trotted to take a sack of flour from Clementine, then heaved it onto the open tailgate. “Where’s Coyote?”
“I sent him back to buy some fishhooks.”
“Alone?”
She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“I want you to take this and hold it in your hand.” He gave her his big Navy Colt pistol. “If any man comes close, point it at him. If he keeps coming, shoot him. I’ll be right back.” Jack turned and ran toward the trading post. When he got there and pushed his way through the crowd, he found Coyote paying for his purchases. Behind Coyote, two of the buffalo hunters, who were going to Yellowstone with them, smiled at Jack and tipped their hats.
Jack returned the smile, wondering if there had been trouble.
“Did you leave Mrs. Van Buskirk alone?” Coyote asked in an accusing tone.
Jack turned, pushed his way out and ran back to the wagon. “Clem?” he shouted.
“Here.” She stepped out from between two of their horses. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She gave him back his pistol. “Are you feeling okay?” She put her hand on his forehead.
“Yes.” He stepped back in annoyance, then looked around. “I want to get moving as soon as possible.”
“That’s gonna be some time tomorrow,” she said. “Most of our buffalo hunters are in that tent swilling down moonshine and dancing with lewd women.”
“How do you know that?”
“Mr. Baker told me.” She pointed a thumb at the big fisherman from Maine who had come west to hunt buffalo.
Baker, who was sitting on the seat of his wagon with a Sharps rifle across his knees and two revolvers strapped to his hips, grinned and tipped his hat.
“Glad somebody else has been thinking,” Jack muttered.
“What?” Clementine asked.
Jack shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Where’s Coyote?”
“He’s with two of the buffalo hunters. They were paying for their goods and should be along soon.”
“The two Bobs,” she said with a nod.
“What?”
“The buffalo hunters with Coyote are Texas Bob Logan and Bob Longstreet from Virginia. They’re always together. Why don’t you know that?”
“It’s an old habit.”
“Not learning people’s names is an old habit?”
“Yes. Not learning the names of men who are almost sure to die soon.”
“You think they’ll die up there but we won’t?”
“Yes.”
She was at a loss for words momentarily, and decided to change the subject. “Bob Longstreet’s brother’s a West Pointer. Maybe you know him.”
“Pete,” Jack said with a nod.
“No.” Clementine shook her head. “That’s not him. James. I’m pretty sure he said James.”
“James Longstreet’s West Point nickname is Old Pete.”
“How did that come about?”
“I have no idea.”
“What was your nickname?”
“I didn’t have one. They tried to hang several on me, but they didn’t stick. I was just Jack.”
“How about Robert and the rest?”
Jack smiled. “Robert was Professor. Thomas was Rowdy. William was Bad Billy. Dad was Yank. His father and everybody earlier went to Sandhurst in England. If they had nicknames, I don’t know them.” He thought a moment longer. “Quincy is Pug. That’s all I can remember.”
“Bad Billy. That one fits.”
“Yes, but it was only used behind William’s back. Nobody in his right mind would have called him Bad Billy to his face.”
“I remember your mother saying that Robert was terrified of William.”
“We were all scared of William. Even Mother. He was like Dad’s horse Beelzebub; only Dad could handle him. He bit and kicked everyone else but he toed the line when Dad snapped his fingers.”
“Here comes Coyote and the two Bobs.” The relief on Clementine’s face was obvious.
Coyote handed Clementine a package and her change, then he looked accusingly at Jack. “This is a dangerous place for a woman.”
“And for Sioux boys,” Jack said. “That’s why I came running after you. I didn’t know the two Bobs were watching over you.”
“I need no watching over,” Coyote said vehemently. “Mrs. Van Buskirk does.”
“Stop it,” Clementine said. “I sent Jack after you, Coyote. I was armed, you weren’t. Leave it alone.”
“The boy’s right,” one of the Bobs said. “We’ll need to keep a close watch after dark.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll be leaving at first light even if your associates are dead drunk.”
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