The Undaunted

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I told you it was rattlesnake eggs,” Eddie chortled.

  David reached in and pulled out the contents. What he held was a V-shaped piece of spring steel. A rubber band had been stretched across the two upper ends of the V. In the center of the rubber band a large coat button, about an inch in diameter, had been threaded. Not sure exactly what he was looking at, he held it up, giving them a querying look.

  Mary reached out and took it from him. “Watch,” she said. She held the bottom of the clip in one hand, then started winding the button with the other. Still puzzled, David watched as the rubber band began to twist and tighten, pulling the two ends of the clip closer together.

  And then he got it. “Give me that,” he growled.

  Holding the button so it couldn’t unwind, Mary picked up the envelope, inserted the clip, then carefully tucked the flap in. Only then did she hand it back. “There you go,” she said, suppressing a smile. “Rattlesnake eggs.”

  He took it, shaking his head. As he had done before, he held the envelope up and used one finger to open the top again. BRRRPP! Even though he was expecting it this time, it still made him jump. The vibration against his hand, coupled with a sound that was eerily like that of a coiled diamondback, still gave him a jolt.

  Once again the children shrieked with laughter. Their little joke had gone off perfectly. Feeling sheepish, David turned to them. “Okay, you three,” he said darkly, “you know this means war. You hear me? I will get even. That is a promise.”

  Note

  ^1. The conversation between James and Mary Elizabeth Davis and David Draper, who is a fictional character, is obviously not based on any known record. The details given about their life, however, come from “History of the Life of James Davis” (see Miller, Hole, 155).

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday, April 30, 1879

  Lee’s Ferry proved to be a turning point for the exploring party expedition. To that point, with the exception of Buckskin Mountain, they had traveled along well-established roads. While crossing the Buckskins, they had taken a wrong turn and ended up having to unload the wagons and lower them over a fifty-foot cliff by ropes. But, other than that, it had been easy going. They had never been more than a day and a half’s travel from one of the settlements. They had frequently passed isolated homesteads or ranches where they could replenish their food or get help with needed repairs. And the only Indians they had seen were a few individual Utes or Paiutes going peacefully about their business in the settlements.

  Lee’s Ferry was named for John D. Lee, who was sent by the Mormon Church in 1872 to provide ferry service at the confluence of the Paria and Colorado Rivers. Paria Canyon provided a natural opening in the otherwise impenetrable Colorado River gorge. Lee was no longer there, having been arrested and eventually executed in 1877 for his yet unclear part in the infamous Mountain Meadows Massacre. That had happened west of Cedar City during the Utah War of 1857, but even now, more than twenty years later, and two years after Lee’s death, his guilt or innocence was still being hotly debated all across southern Utah.

  His widow, Emma Lee, and some of her children, along with a few others who helped run the ferry, lived nearby at what they called the Lonely Dell Ranch. What they had created in that arid, desolate, red rock canyon country was astonishing. It was a virtual oasis in a vast desert. With unlimited water from two rivers, they cleared about twenty-five acres of land and put it under cultivation. They had fruit trees, sugar cane, cantaloupe and other melons, several kinds of vegetables, and deep green fields of alfalfa. In addition to beef and milk cows and a few horses, they raised pigs, chickens, and ducks, supplemented their diet with fish from the river, and kept several beehives. Travelers were amazed to find they could purchase honey, milk, butter, cheese, eggs, fish, ham, bacon, and beef—either fresh or dried as jerky. The two rivers also provided abundant firewood in the form of driftwood deposited each year during spring runoff.1

  It was as if the little exploring company from Paragonah had been wandering in the wilderness for forty years (even though it was only seventeen days) and had somehow stumbled into a land of milk and honey—literally. It was such a rejuvenating experience that several proposed that they lay over for several days to recuperate.

  But Silas Smith was unbendable. They arrived just before noon. Once they were settled in camp, their captain called a meeting and announced they would start ferrying across the river first thing in the morning. They had come about 175 miles now, but that wasn’t even halfway yet, and by far the worst portion of the journey still lay ahead. In the meantime, they should rest up, do their laundry, purchase what they needed, and otherwise enjoy their brief stay here.

  Since leaving the high elevations, 6,600 feet in the Panguitch area, they had dropped about three thousand feet. They had also traveled a hundred and fifty miles farther south. Down this far, it was no longer spring. The daytime temperatures were now consistently in the high eighties or low nineties. Feet and hands that had been tender and soft when they started were thick with calluses. Faces and arms that had been wintry-pale when they left were now a deep brown. The children looked like little Indians, and often the boys went without their shirts.

  As David came out of the trading post, he heard the cries of the children and turned to look. Just above the west ferry landing, the riverbank curved gently inward, making a small, shallow area where the water whirled in slow eddies. The Harriman and Davis children were making the most of this “swimming pool,” as Emmy called it. David saw that Mary Davis and Sister Harriman were sitting nearby in the shade of a juniper tree, enjoying the chance to relax.

  As he watched the children for a moment, he was once again astonished at their resilience. They seemed to bear up under the rigors of the trail better than the men, women, or even animals. He saw Emmy scoop up a bucket of water, sneak up behind Eddie, and dump it on his head. In seconds he had scooped her up and dumped her unceremoniously into the shallow waters.

  That gave David an idea. He walked quickly to his campsite and put his purchases into his saddlebags. Then he strode into the forest of juniper trees that lined the banks of the river and began searching along the ground. In two minutes he found what he was looking for—a two-foot length of dead juniper branch that was dark grey and, like most juniper branches, twisted and gnarled. He picked it up, brushed it off, then sighted down it. Perfect! Grinning broadly, he stuck it in his belt at the small of his back and started for the river.

  Pausing only long enough to tell Mary to be sure to watch, he strode on down to where the children were playing. Emmy and the younger Harriman children were now sitting in water up to their waists. She saw him and waved. “David, come swim with me.”

  He waved back, but turned and headed in another direction. About twenty yards away, Jimmie and Eddie and the oldest Harriman boy were digging “canals” to the river with one of their dad’s shovels. This was good. He wouldn’t be frightening the younger children.

  David stopped about ten feet away. “Hey, Eddie.”

  The thirteen-year-old looked up. The sun was behind David, and Eddie had to squint to see him.

  “Remember those rattlesnake eggs?” David called.

  Eddie sniggered. “Yep. Wanna see ’em again?”

  “No need,” David replied. “I think I found the mother.” And with that he pulled the juniper branch out from behind his back and gave it a gentle flip toward the boys. Up it went, arching gracefully, rotating in the air as it flew, looking every bit like it was alive.

  Jimmie gave a shout and rolled away. The Harriman boy screamed and fell back. Eddie was squatted down over his “canal.” He gaped for an instant, then scrambled backwards, howling with fright. The stick hit the sand and gravel right in front of Eddie’s jerking feet, bounced once, and slithered to a stop, almost touching the bare flesh. Eddie exploded upwards, tried to run, but tripped and went sprawling.

  David ran to the stick and picked it up in one smooth movement. He held it by the “tail” and ro
lled it back and forth between his fingers, causing it to dance in his hands. “Come on, Eddie,” he cried. “She won’t hurt you.”

  And then Eddie saw what it was and started to laugh. He got to his feet, reached out, and took the stick from David. He examined it for a moment as the other two boys edged closer. Then he gave a whoop and slapped his leg. “You got me, David. You got me real good.”

  “You, my boy,” David said solemnly, “have just received what in England is known as your comeuppance.” He winked. “I would say that we are now even.”

  Thursday, May 1, 1879

  It was going to be a costly day for the company. Although the Lees were members of the Church, the fact that the exploring company was on an official Church mission made no difference. Income from the ferry was what the Lee family lived on. The fees were set and there would be no exceptions and no discounts. Each wagon with its teams was two dollars. A horse and rider was two dollars, unmounted horses or mules a dollar, and cattle twenty-five cents per head. That added up to a lot of money for a cash-poor company.

  They were up at first light and started the wagons down to the ferry landing. The Harrimans crossed first, followed by the Davis family. George Hobbs, one of the four scouts with the party, helped the Harrimans over. George was Sister Harriman’s younger brother.

  Joe Nielson and Kumen Jones came to help David load the two Davis wagons on, then helped push the ferry out into the current. As they turned to see who was next, David noticed that Silas Smith was standing over near the herd of livestock. That was a little surprising, since the animals would be the last to cross over. Two of Silas’s grown sons had accompanied their father on this expedition, and the three of them were conferring now, heads together. Then, as David looked more closely, he saw that Silas had separated out his horses from the rest of the herd. He had about a dozen in addition to the ones pulling his wagon.

  Silas looked up, saw David watching him, and motioned him over. “Bring Kumen and Joe,” he called. As the three of them started toward the herd, Silas walked toward the river, his sons with him. David, Kumen, and Joe angled so they joined them at the water’s edge.

  For several seconds, Silas didn’t speak. He was looking at the river, his face lined with concern. It was a very intimidating sight that lay before them. They were in the height of the spring runoff. The water was chocolate brown and filled with debris. Branches, driftwood, tumbleweeds, and full-sized juniper logs floated by. David watched one log for a moment, calculating its speed. He estimated that the current was probably moving at five or six miles per hour, faster than a man could comfortably walk.

  About half a mile upstream from where they were, the river came out from between high, narrow canyon walls. Another half a mile below them, it entered Marble Canyon, where it again was squeezed into a narrow channel. Even from here they could hear the water roaring in protest. Lee had chosen this site for his ferry because the channel widened out to about a hundred and fifty yards here and the water was relatively smooth. But now, at high water, it was choppy enough to leave tiny whitecaps. And the river was bitter cold.

  “We’ve been talking,” Silas said after a moment. “I think we’re going to ford the horses.”

  All three of the other men jerked up at that.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “But I can’t spare that kind of cash, brethren. It’ll cost me six dollars for our three wagons. Nothing to be done about that. But at two dollars a head for the three of us, and a dollar more for a dozen horses, that’s just more than we can afford.”

  Kumen Jones had run a cattle spread out west of Cedar City and was one of the most experienced stockmen in the company. “Silas,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “look at that current. And I’ll bet ten or fifteen feet out from shore, it’s over the horses’ heads. They’ll have to swim it most of the way.”

  “One of those logs hits you or one of the animals,” David said, “and it’ll be over. Cost you more than twenty-four dollars if you lose even one.”

  There was a clipped nod. “Considered all that.” He looked at his boys, all grown and adults now. They nodded in answer to his unasked question. “But I think we’re going to try it.”

  He turned and looked across the river to where they were unloading the two Davis wagons. “George Hobbs is already over there. If you three boys went over with the next load, you’d be there to help us if we get in trouble.” He turned and looked upriver. “We’ll take them upstream as far as possible. That should give us enough angle to cross before we hit the rapids.”

  Kumen gave David and Joe a long, searching look. They nodded, and Joe spoke for all of them. “If you’re committed, Silas, we’ll be there to pull you out.”

  “We’re committed,” he said in a low voice.

  They waited until all twelve wagons were safely on the other side. Even while they were still unloading Silas’s wagon—the last to cross—David, George Hobbs, Kumen Jones, and Joe Nielson stripped off their pistols and anything else they didn’t want to get wet. Each grabbed an extra lariat; then they called the other men together. The mood was somber, and David sensed that he was not the only one with a sense of foreboding.

  “We’re not sure where they’ll come out,” Kumen began, “so we want you brethren to space yourself evenly from the ferry landing all the way down to where the rapids begin.”

  “They can’t get in those rapids,” George Hobbs said. “There won’t be any saving them then.”

  “The four of us will be on horses,” Kumen continued. “We’ll ride along with them as we see them coming down, then, when they’re close enough, go out and help them. But, as you know, we can’t go out very far or our own horses will be swimming too. That won’t do them much good.”

  No one moved. David turned to James Davis. “Jim, you and Brother Harriman make sure your wives keep the children back. We can’t have one of them getting bumped into that current.”

  “They’re clear over there in the trees,” Hank Harriman said. “They’ll watch them close.”

  Kumen took a deep breath, then let it out. “Okay. George, give Silas the signal.”

  “Here comes the first rider,” George Hobbs yelled.

  David had already seen him. He squinted, trying to make out who it was. But with the sun glinting off the water and the men laid low over their horses’ necks, there was no way to tell. And then, strung out in a jagged line behind the lead rider, David could make out other dark spots coming toward them—horses’ heads held high to keep their noses out of the water.

  David felt his stomach lurch. They had already covered half of the distance downstream from their starting point but were only about a third of the way across the channel.

  “More angle! More angle!” David shouted. He lifted his lariat and started making a loop.

  “We’re too high,” grunted Kumen. “They’ll be lucky if they make the ferry landing.” He kicked his horse and raced back toward the ferry, which was about a hundred yards away. David followed right behind him. As they pulled up, George raced past them. “I’ll have the men below the ferry bunch up closer,” he shouted.

  Joe Nielson shot past them too. “They’re going to need a horse lower down,” he called.

  David and Kumen were just above the ferry landing. David turned in the saddle, his eyes searching the dark surface of the river. He could make out all three riders now—two in front, leading the way for the horses, and one behind to help any animal that got in trouble.

  “It’s going to be close,” David said. He turned Tillie’s head and they plunged into the river. He gasped as the cold water hit his legs. Kumen did the same, going in about twenty yards farther downstream from David.

  David urged Tillie into the river until she was chest deep but still on firm footing, his eyes never leaving the dark shapes riding the current. He could make out more detail now. The two lead riders were low over the necks of the horses, one hand twisted in the animals’ manes. David could hear them yelling encouragement to th
eir mounts as they fought to keep their horses’ heads turned crosswise to the river’s flow. The horses’ eyes were wild with fright, and their heads bobbed up and down as they lunged against the powerful current.

  “Help!” The closest rider had released one hand and was waving wildly. David saw it was Silas Smith. The fear in his voice was evident. Though they were out of the swiftest part of the current, the river was still sweeping them downstream. It looked like they were going to go right past David and Kumen.

  David began swinging the lasso. He waited, judging his speed and distance, then threw. He led the horse a little too much, but Silas stood in the stirrups, stretching high, and caught the loop. In one quick movement he had it over his saddle horn and pulled tight. David wheeled Tillie around and urged her out of the water. She grunted as the weight of the other horse hit the line, but she never faltered, and in another thirty seconds, they were both out.

  Silas slid off his horse and hit the ground running, shouting at Kumen to throw the rope to his boy. Kumen’s throw was better than David’s. The loop sailed out, then gracefully settled over the horse’s head. Kumen backed his horse up and out of the water, bringing Stephen Smith and his horse with him. Father and son grasped each other’s wrists for a brief moment; then again they were off, yelling at Albert, Silas’s other son. But Joe was already moving to him, sailing his rope out right into his hands.

  They nearly lost the last horse as it was swept into the rapids, but two men there waded out and managed to put a rope around its neck and drag it in.

  Five minutes later they were all gathered near the ferry landing. Silas and his boys had blankets around their shoulders, shivering violently. No one was saying much. It had been too close and they all knew it. As the last of the horses were brought up, Silas shrugged off the blanket and walked over to them. He counted swiftly, and then his shoulders sagged with relief. He gave David and Kumen a crooked grin. “Best twenty-four dollars I ever saved,” he gasped.2