The next day was the Sabbath, and they gathered into a building that just about left David speechless. They called it the Tabernacle, and it was something to behold. The roof was an elongated dome, somewhat resembling half an eggshell, and inside the building’s cavernous interior there were benches enough to sit six thousand people. Because of the unique design of the roof, not a single pillar blocked anyone’s view.1 And Brigham Young himself came and spoke to the new arrivals, warmly welcoming them to Zion. That was a term they were hearing with increasing frequency, but it seemed to be used as though it meant they were finally Home—with a capital H.
To his considerable surprise, David liked President Young. He was somewhat portly, shorter than David had imagined him to be, and was now approaching seventy years of age, but he was funny and friendly. He gave an especially warm welcome to those from the British Isles and briefly talked about his years there with the other Apostles—another new vocabulary word—in 1840 and ’41. Afterward, he stood at the door and shook hands with the immigrants. When he heard John’s accent, his eyes began to twinkle. Then he lapsed into a perfect imitation of an East London cockney accent, which delighted everyone around him.
Monday began their orientation. David wasn’t comfortable with how religion kept creeping into almost every conversation, but the people were nice enough. There was no question about them being helpful and trying to get the Drapers on their way. By the time they went to bed that next Wednesday evening—their last night in the Valley—David had decided he and his father had also come to the right place. Their journey was over at last. Jonathan Rhodes and the Cawthorne Pit were somewhere far away in both time and distance. David and John Dickinson were no more. The Drapers had come to America in fulfillment of his mother’s dream. It filled him with a deep sadness whenever he thought how she would have loved to have been part of this, but her years of planning and saving and fighting back the disease within her had finally come to fruition.
And so they had come to Coalville. They traveled to Ogden by carriage, stayed overnight there in a boardinghouse, then caught the eastbound train into Weber (pronounced Wee-bur, everyone told them) Canyon. Disembarking at Henefer, at the mouth of yet another canyon, they transferred by stagecoach and made the final hour-long, jolting, dusty ride to Coalville.
It was even more beautiful than Weber Canyon. Nestled between verdant mountains on either sides, hay fields and lush meadows surrounded the settlement. This was more like England—green, pleasantly cool, with high, puffy clouds constantly appearing from behind the western mountains. The Weber River ran along the west side of the valley, sparkling in the sunshine. Their coach driver regaled them with tales of fishing for trout in the river and streams, and hunting for deer, elk, and an occasional antelope to provide meat for their table.
As the coach pulled away, David’s father turned slowly, taking it all in. Then he sighed contentedly. “Ah, David,” he finally said, “Ah ne’er thought Ah’d be findin’ a place as purty as Yorkshur, but Ah think Ah be content ta call this our new ’ome.”
Before David could answer that, they saw a couple hurrying toward them. The man and woman were both dressed in Sunday best, even though it was a weekday. “Are you the Drapers?” the man called even before he reached them.
“That be reet,” his father answered.
“I’m Bishop Wright, bishop here in Coalville. Welcome. If you would like to come with us, Sister Wright has some lunch for you, and then we’ll take you to the mine and sign you up.” As they turned for their luggage, the bishop waved them off. “My son’s on his way with a small cart. He’ll take your things to your home, then join us for lunch.”
“We have a home?” David blurted.
Sister Wright laughed. It was a pleasant, welcoming sound. “Of course. It’s not much. Just three rooms. No indoor plumbing yet, but there’s a well just out back.”
“We ’ave our own well?” his father said, awestruck.
“You do indeed,” the bishop laughed. “That’s one thing about Coalville. The winters take some getting used to, but there is water aplenty.” He turned to David. “And you’re David, right? How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Did you work in the mines over in England as well as your father?”
“Yes, as a trapper, hurrier, and spragger.”
None of those terms seemed to mean anything to the man. “So, are you looking for work in our mines too?”
“Yes,” David replied.
“NO!” his father burst out at the same moment.
As David stared at him, his father quickly explained. “He didn’t actually work as a collier, usin’ pick an’ shovel ta git oot the coal. Only as a helper.” He turned to Sister Wright. “Do ya ’ave a skoo-ul ’ere in Coalville? David ain’t ne’er been ta skoo-ul.”
“Dad!” David cried, “I don’t want to go to school. I can already read and write. We need to earn money.” He looked at the bishop. “Yes, I am hoping to work in the mines.”
His father stepped between them, looking earnestly into the bishop’s face. “Ah made a promise ta ’is mum, who passed away in May of this year, that Ah wud naw be lettin’ me boy ever wurk in the mines agin. Ah canna go back on me wurd.”
“I understand,” the bishop said, slowly nodding.
“We do have a school here,” his wife broke in, looking at David with new interest. “If you didn’t ever go to school, how did you learn to read and write?”
“Me Mum taught me,” he said. “I really don’t need more school.”
“We have a wonderful teacher. I think you’ll find she has much to teach you.”
“Then it’s settled,” his father cut in before David could protest. “David will be goin’ ta the skoo-ul, and Ah be workin’ in the mines.” He glowered at David, daring him to contradict him. “An’ that be that.”
David stood his ground. “I’ll do what you say, Dahd. But only until I turn sixteen. Then I’m going to find me a real job and earn some money.”
His father looked at him for a long time, a sadness in his eyes. “Ya got a real ’unger in ya, don’t ya, Son.” Then he made up his mind. “Awl reet. If ya stay until ya be sixteen, Ah’ll naw be tryin’ ta stop ya after that.”
Thursday, June 13, 1872
David awoke early on the morning of his sixteenth birthday. His father had gone to work an hour before, and with school over for the summer, he lay in bed, indulging himself with a brief spell of sheer laziness. As he lay there, his mind went back ten years. He remembered very clearly waking up that morning on his sixth birthday and what a special day that had been. That was the day he and his mother had gone to Barnsley and spent the day, and coming home he had learned that he would start working in the mines the following Monday. How thrilled he had been with that news. How far away that time and that life seemed now.
While he had chafed somewhat these last three years with his confinement in Coalville, David had to admit that they had been good years. His father’s experience quickly moved him up to foreman in the mines, and he was able to pay back his debt to the Church. And though David was the second-oldest student in the school, and sometimes felt awkward with the younger children, he had thrived on it. Mrs. MacArthur, a newly married convert from Scotland whose husband worked in the mines with David’s father, was a wonderful teacher. In some ways she reminded David of his mother. She had the same deep love of learning, but she especially enjoyed challenging the thinking of her students by throwing questions or problems at them, then critically analyzing their responses. Just as his mother had become the favorite of Reverend Pike when she was a girl, so David had become Mrs. MacArthur’s favorite student. She had rekindled his curiosity about life and his insatiable love of learning.
Pleased that he wasn’t fighting him about school, his father arranged for David to work in the pit yard after school and on Saturdays. During the summers he became a shoveler, riding the coal wagons down to various settlements not served by the railroad, where
he helped unload the wagons. Not only had this provided a good supplement to their income, but David loved being on the road and seeing new places. By the time he was fifteen, he was a teamster, driving the teams himself, with a shoveler of his own to help him.
Gradually, David found himself assimilating into the religious and social life of Coalville. He went to church every Sunday with his father. He found himself terribly bored in some meetings, and faintly interested in others. He quickly learned to suppress his troublesome questions about God and prayer because they always brought deep creases to the foreheads of his teachers or a counseling session with the kind and wise Bishop Wright. He became adept at putting forth a pleasant and conforming facade.
And that was all right. If he was not converted by all of it, at least he was comfortable. On the other hand, his father was totally involved, accepting calls to serve, always volunteering for this need or that, and making some deep and lasting friendships. David couldn’t help but wonder how much of John’s “conversion” was driven by his guilt for joining the Church under false pretenses, but David never said anything to him. His father was happy. And, if he were to be completely honest with himself, so was David.
But it was time. He was sixteen. Coalville, lovely and charming as it was, was too confining. It was time to spread his wings and fly on his own.
In the three years since they had come, the railroad had run a spur up from Henefer to service the mines in Park City, a few miles to the southwest. David and his father stood near the stagecoach stop, now serving as the train station as well.
“Thare be nothin’ Ah cud say that be changin’ yur mind?”
David shook his head slowly. “No, Dad. And this has nothing to do with you. You were right. It was a good thing that I stayed in school. And I have loved being with you these three years. But there’s better money out there.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the west. “I don’t know yet what I want to do with my life, but I know this. It will take money, and I’ve got none of my own. I’m a man now. It’s time I stopped living off my father.”
His father said nothing.
“They’re laying railroad lines everywhere, and telegraph lines into Southern Utah. And they’re paying good money for horse wranglers and teamsters in Wyoming Territory.”
John’s face fell. “An’ when will Ah ever see ya?”
“I promise I’ll come up at least twice a year. Since you’re going to conference in Salt Lake now, what if I meet you there each April and October?”
That had not been expected and it pleased his father. “Ya promise?”
“I do, Dad. You know how much I love you. I’m hardly gonna be forgetting you.”
His father drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he stepped back and eyed David up and down. “Ya be reet, David. Ya be a man now, an’ a strappin’ one at that. Ah guess thare be naw way Ah be wrestlin’ ya ta the groond an’ holdin’ ya ’ere, eh?”
David laughed, stepped forward, and put his arms around his father. “I love you, Dad. I’ll write as soon as I light somewhere.” He put his cheek against John’s, feeling the roughness of his whiskers.
“Ya tek care of yurself noow,” came the gruff reply. “Ya ’ear?”
Note
^1. The Salt Lake Tabernacle was constructed between 1864 and 1867. The first conference was held in it in 1867. At the time represented in this chapter, the balcony, which is part of the Tabernacle today, had not yet been added. That came in 1870 and increased the capacity of the building to 7,000-plus.
Book II
Book II
Setting 1873–1874
Chapter 15
December, 1873
In man’s feeble efforts to draw borders and put his own stamp on the landscape of the world, natural features are often ignored and lines are drawn based on the invisible markers called latitude and longitude. Such man-made borders were laid down in an area of North America that is one of the most desolate, forbidding, and unrelentingly harsh places on the continent. As Congress carved up the West, defining various states and territories, a unique thing happened. The state of Colorado and the territories of Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico came together at a single point on the map. It is the only place in North America where four entities share a common point. Not surprisingly, it came to be known as the “Four Corners” area.
For centuries the Four Corners area had been a staging ground for war. Three major groups of Native Americans—the Utes, the Paiutes, and the Navajos—had raided each other’s herds and flocks for longer than even the wisest sage could remember.
When the white man, including a flood of Mormons, came into the Great Basin, the Indians acquired a new competitor and a new enemy. And a rich one. The largest of the tribes was the Navajos, or the Diné—the people—as they called themselves. For centuries, the Navajos had crossed the Colorado and San Juan Rivers to raid the Utes and Paiutes. Now they had a more lucrative temptation.
Finally, in 1863, the U.S. government had had enough. Six thousand Navajos were rounded up and marched 250 miles east to Fort Sumner on the Pecos River. When the Navajos returned from their “Long Walk,” they were so destitute that they began raiding across the rivers again, hitting Mormon settlements especially hard. In one year alone, over 1,200 head of cattle were driven south across the rivers. Even the Mormons, whose policy was to befriend the Indians, decided they could not tolerate this. The resulting conflict came to be known as the Navajo War, and, as 1870 began, it raged along the borders of Utah and Arizona. Finally, thanks to the astonishing influence of two key individuals—the nationally famous explorer Major John Wesley Powell and a Mormon missionary from southern Utah by the name of Jacob Hamblin—a treaty of peace was negotiated. By the end of 1872 and the beginning of 1873, southern Utah was entering a time of unprecedented peace and prosperity for both Indians and whites.1
On a day late in December of 1873, four young Navajo braves were caught in a full winter blizzard in Grass Valley along the Sevier River. These four young men were from the Kacheenay-begay clan, who lived deep within the heart of the Navajo Reservation. Two were sons of Kacheenay himself, the clan chief. They had come north almost a month before to trade with the Mormons and the Utes along the Sevier River Valley. They were anxious to return to the reservation and report on their great success. In addition to the extra horses, they were bringing back buffalo robes, saddles, bridles, several bows and quivers of arrows, and a rifle. Because they had not planned to stay so long, what they were not carrying was extra food. They were down to a few pieces of jerky and a small pouch of corn.
Holing up in a deserted line cabin used by cowboys in the summer grazing season, they waited out the storm. To their amazement, a day or two later, several cows and a young heifer wandered up to their door. Seeing this as a gift from the Holy People, their sacred ancestors, and desperate for food, they killed the heifer. Knowing they were in the country of the “Mormons,” whose policy was to feed the Indians rather than fight them, they believed that the owner of the cow would not mind, especially if he knew of their circumstances and if they paid him for it, which they were prepared to do. Unfortunately, the line cabin they found and the heifer they killed did not belong to the Mormons at all.
Frank McCartey, like several other ranchers who had come to this area because of the rich grazing, was not a Mormon. In fact, he took great pride in making it clear to anyone who would listen that he was not one of those—then would follow a stream of profanity—Indian-hugging, pulpit-pounding Mormons. McCartey ran cattle in Grass Valley. He and his cowhands had an unsavory reputation among their few neighbors. There were rumors of their willingness to solve problems through violent means, and even of an occasional foray out of the valley as cattle rustlers and highwaymen.
Ugly of temper, quick to take offense, and meaner than a wolverine, there could not have been a worse man to receive the news that a bunch of “them filthy Indians” was butchering McCartey cattle up at the cow cabin in Grass Val
ley.
The following morning, the Navajos were packing up. They each had a week’s worth of smoked meat in their packs now. What they hadn’t stripped from the hind quarter, they had taken outside and hung with the rest of the animal. It was time to saddle the horses and start for home.
“Hey! You there in the house.”
Four heads snapped up. They didn’t understand the words, but they understood the tone. The voice was harsh, flat, angry. The Navajos’ leader went to the shutters and pushed them open enough to look out. There were five riders, heavily bundled against the cold. He could see the path their horses had made through the deep snow, and where they had crossed the creek on the ice. They were only about fifty yards away. He also saw that all five had rifles out and laid across their saddles. “The belagana are here,” he said. “Five of them.”
His brother snatched up the rifle and brought it to him. He hesitated, then shook his head. He fingered the leather pouch tied to his belt, making the coins inside jingle softly. “It is all right,” he said nervously. “I shall speak to them. Offer them money.” The other three, all with bows and arrows notched in the strings, were clearly frightened. They weren’t so sure that was the best thing right now. “It is all right,” he said again. He opened the door, took a deep breath, then stepped out, keeping his hands in plain sight.
The first bullet caught him high in the shoulder, jerking him violently around. The second hit him squarely in the back as he started to fall. He was dead before he plowed into the snow.
His brother screamed and leaped for the door.
“No!” one of the cousins shouted, diving to intercept him. Too late. The young boy was through the door and on his knees beside his brother. Another shot. The bullet hit him in the chest and flung him backwards into the snow. His legs jerked spasmodically for a moment or two; then he was still.
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