The Undaunted

by Gerald N. Lund

  Once again S. Smith proves himself worthy to lead. Nearly had more trouble with Indians—Paiutes this time—but Silas wisely dealt with it & defused it. The night passed without further incident.

  Wednesday, May 28th. Accompanied scouts—Bullock, Jones, Hobbs—searching out road. Reached the San Juan River this afternoon! Much elated, returned to camp to report. Last few days very difficult. Did more work on road yesterday than any day so far. After traveling down a canyon for some miles, came against a solid rock hill, very steep. Had to cut notches in the rock to provide footing for the horses, then put 8 horses per wagon to pull them up. After that traveled on solid rock for some miles. Incredible. Just solid red rock hills & canyons as far as the eye can see. Dramatically different from England’s verdant scenes, but has a remarkable beauty of its own. Heat is becoming unbearable. Sometimes we travel at night to escape it.

  Saturday, May 31st. We have reached our destination!!!! After three very arduous days, with much difficult road building required, & much sand in the lower washes & canyons, full party camped on south bank of San Juan River. Ate fresh fish for dinner last night. To our surprise, when Bob Bullock crossed the river, he found several families farming at what they call McElmo Wash & Montezuma Creek. Peter Shirts is a Mormon. Bullock knows him well. He was much surprised & happy to see us, as were the others. Much rejoicing on our part too. We have come 400 miles in six weeks, the last 150 through trackless country where no wagons have ever gone before. I am proud to have been part of it, in company with as fine of men as I have ever been privi-leged to know.

  Saturday, May 31, 1879

  “Billy Joe? Would you offer a blessing on the food, please?”

  Patrick Joseph McKenna looked up at his father and nodded. All five heads bowed.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” Billy Joe began, “I thank Thee today for the food. Bless it to our good. We thank Thee for all the blessings You give us. Bless the sick and those in need. Bless Paint so that he will come when I whistle. Bless the exploring party, especially David and Tillie. Keep them safe. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

  His mother, father, Abby, and Molly looked at him with great fondness, but he paid them no mind. He grabbed the bowl of mashed potatoes sitting beside him and, even as he scooped out a large spoonful, said, “Pass the gravy.”

  “Please,” his mother reminded him.

  “Please,” he said. “But hurry. I’m hungry.”

  The food was passed and dished up, and as they began to eat, Patrick reached in his pocket and withdrew an envelope. He waved it back and forth. “Guess what came today.”

  Molly actually dropped her fork. It hit the plate with a loud clunk. “From David?” she cried.

  His face fell a little. “No, dear, I’m afraid not. It’s from Sister Mary Davis, though.”

  “Really?” Sarah exclaimed. “How is she? Any problems with the baby?”

  “Does she say anything about David?” Molly blurted. “Is he all right?” She was leaning toward her father, almost like she might snatch the letter out of his hand.

  “Yes, of course she does.” He looked to his wife. “And she’s fine. Wonderful, in fact, according to her. It’s written from a place called Moenkopi, in Arizona Territory. She and James stopped there while the rest of the party went on. They’ll come back for them later.”

  “Can I read it, Daddy?” Molly said eagerly.

  He opened the envelope and extracted three folded sheets of paper. “I shall read it for you, and for all of us,” he said. “As you can see, it is quite a long letter, all of which I think you will find to be very interesting.”

  Abby was sitting in the chair beside her bed, reading by lamplight, when she heard the creak of footsteps in the hallway. When they stopped outside her door, she didn’t wait for the knock. “Come in, Molly,” she called.

  Molly slipped through the door. She was in her nightdress and a robe, as was Abby. She moved to the bed and fell heavily upon it. “Oh, Abby, why won’t he write? He could have sent a letter from Panguitch, or Hatch, or Orderville.”

  “I don’t think they went through Orderville,” Abby noted. “They turned east before then.”

  “Stop it,” she wailed. “Don’t rub it in.” She was near tears. “But why won’t he write?”

  Abby got up and went over and lay beside her sister. She laid one hand on her arm. “Molly, you know the answer to that. You tell me.”

  “Because I told him it was over between us.”

  “Yes. I’m guessing that’s got quite a bit to do with it.”

  “I know. But I thought he would at least write and tell us he’s all right.”

  “When you basically asked him not to?” she chided. “He’s too proud for that.”

  “I would have written to him if I thought a letter could have caught up with him.”

  “And what would you have said? That you were wrong? That you are sorry for what you said? That everything is all right between you now? All is forgiven?”

  Molly turned over onto her side to look at Abby directly. She studied her for several moments, and then her lips pulled into a pout. “I was hoping for a little sympathy here,” she finally said. “I’m not going to find it, am I?”

  “I’m sorry, Molly,” Abby replied. “I’m not trying to be cruel, I’m just trying to be . . .”

  As she searched for a word, Molly finished it for her. “Realistic?”

  “Well, yes.” She sat up, pulled her knees up, and folded her arms around them. “There’s something you need to consider, if you haven’t already, Molly. I think it’s important in understanding what’s going on.”

  Molly sat up as well and scooted around so she was facing her sister. “What?”

  Abby’s shoulders lifted and fell. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  Molly’s look answered that.

  “All right. I want you to think about all of this from David’s point of view.”

  “You don’t think I have?” she exclaimed. “I know how I hurt him. I know that the timing was awful, coming right after that whole thing with his father as it did, but—”

  “Why was it awful?”

  That took her aback. “Why? Because he was already angry that his father was going away. After all David had done to get him down here, I’m sure he felt betrayed.”

  “By whom?” Abby asked softly.

  Her irritation was rising. “By his father, of course. And then by me. What are you trying to say, Abby?”

  Abby got off the bed and went over to her dresser. She pulled out a piece of paper and came back to stand over Molly. “Here’s the note David wrote to me just before he left. I want to read you one part of it.” She held it up and began, “‘Yesterday, for the first time in a very long time, I said a prayer. Well, Molly actually said it, but I stood with her. And my heart was with her. She prayed that the Lord would bless our relationship so that we could be brought closer together, so we could resolve our differences. And here I am, less than twenty-four hours later, with my father leaving for three years, and my relationship with Molly ended. I will be anxious to hear your explanation of that when I return.’”

  “Why didn’t you ever let me read that note before?” Molly asked.

  Abby gave her an incredulous look. “I did. Right after you read me his note to you.”

  “Oh, yeah. I wasn’t very coherent at that point, was I?”

  “No, you weren’t,” she said, her voice a mixture of exasperation and love.

  Molly took the note and read it again slowly. “Okay, now ask me your question again.”

  “You said he felt betrayed. I asked you by whom.”

  Molly lifted it again, reading more slowly now. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and shining with tears. “He feels betrayed by God.”

  Abby retrieved the note, folded it up, and returned it to its place. “Remember what he said about crying to God when his mother was dying? What happened then?”

  “God didn’t hear him. Or at least tha
t’s how he saw it.”

  “So, after many years, when he finally cries out to God again, what happens?”

  Molly stared at her sister for a long moment, then dropped her face into her hands. “He didn’t answer him.”

  “Oh,” Abby said quietly, “I think it was much worse than that. God didn’t just ignore David. It’s like He jerked the rug out from under him. Hit him when he was down. Rubbed his nose in his own foolishness.” She gave Molly a faint smile. “I’m speaking as if I were David now.”

  “Oh, Abby. No wonder he ran.”

  “But that’s the real question, Molly. Don’t you find it strange where he ran to?”

  “What?”

  “After that kind of a betrayal, why not throw up his hands, say to heck with the Church and us Mormons, and head for California or Wyoming or anywhere people wouldn’t be trying to get him to be a believer. Of all places he could have gone, why join the exploring party?”

  Molly’s eyes were wide as she considered the implications of that. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I don’t know either,” Abby said after a moment. “But if you can figure that out, maybe you’ll know what to do when he comes back here in another four months.”

  “If he comes back,” Molly said, suddenly desolate.

  “Oh, he’ll be back,” Abby said with great conviction. “I’m just not sure why.”

  Notes

  ^1. Nielson Dalley’s journal places this on May 15th, but the camp record shows it as happening on May 26th (Miller, Hole, 25, 150).

  ^2. The name of the hostile Navajo is variously spelled in the journals and histories as Peokon, Peocorn, Peoquan, and other variations (ibid., 23, 149, 152). I have gone with the earlier spelling used when Po-ee-kon was a principal player in the Jacob Hamblin settlement of the Grass Valley incident.

  ^3. Nielson Dalley is the only one who mentions this incident and places it at the Po-ee-kon ranch—which he spells as Peokon (see ibid., 149–50). Albert R. Lyman’s account of this incident, from which we get the most details, states that they dug “several wells” and found water at a shallow depth (in ibid., 22). Though the camp record makes no mention of the sandstone ledge, it does say they “dug out some good springs” that day (ibid., 23).

  Chapter 41

  Tuesday, June 17, 1879

  David Draper rapped sharply on the side of the wagon box. “Silas? You in there?”

  “I am,” came the immediate answer. “That you, David?”

  “It is.” He walked around to the back of the wagon and pulled the flap back. Silas Smith was sitting cross-legged on a quilt with a flat box on his lap. Using it as a lapboard, he was writing a letter. Beads of perspiration were visible on his forehead beneath his hatband.

  “Pretty hot to be sitting inside a wagon, even if it is in the shade,” David observed.

  Silas wiped at the sweat with the sleeve of his shirt. “You got that right, but I’m almost done.”

  “Go ahead and finish. I’ll be outside here.”

  “Okay. Give me two minutes. I want to send this off tomorrow.”

  David moved over to one of the many cottonwood trees, smoothed out a place in the dirt under its sheltering branches, and sat down. True to his word, Silas appeared a short time later and came over to join him.

  “Whew!” he said, removing his hat, “that does feel better.”

  David had to smile. Silas was going bald—or, as he liked to put it, his hairline was creeping over the top of his head looking for his ears. The lower two-thirds of his face was a deep brown, but just above his eyes, where the hat brim came, his skin was white as a sheet of paper. “I can hardly wait until July and August,” David noted. “This place must be an oven by then.”

  “I hope we’re on our way back by August,” Silas said. “I’m sure the folks back in Cedar and Parowan are most anxious to hear from us.”

  “Are you thinking of going back the same way we came?” David asked.

  He shook his head emphatically. “Water will be in even shorter supply by then. The Navajos won’t stand for it.”

  David was pleased to hear that. He had been worried about that very issue.

  Silas sat down and leaned back against the tree, putting his hands behind his head. “No, I’m afraid our trip has been basically for nothing. I can’t go back and recommend the route we took to the brethren. There is just no way it will work.”

  “I wouldn’t say for nothing,” David said. “At least we know what our destination is now. And we’ve started a dam, built homes for the two families, and gotten a few crops planted.”

  “And I do take satisfaction in that. However, one major purpose was to find a route and build a road—which we did, but it looks like we’ll never use it.” He exhaled wearily. “This is not going to be received as good news back home. In fact, the letter I was writing is for Elder Snow. I’m recommending he send out another scouting party to find a central, shorter route.”

  “How in the world are you ever going to get mail out of here?”

  “Now that things are getting established here, my boys are going to take a wagon and go upriver a ways. We’ll see what the possibilities are for other settlements; then we’ll go on into southern Colorado and purchase some supplies. I’ll post the letter there. Hopefully it’ll make it back to St. George in about a month.”

  David nodded. “Wish there was better news, but I completely agree with you.” He frowned. “In fact, I’m worried about bringing the cattle we have back at Moenkopi across the route even now. How is Po-ee-kon going to react to two hundred head?”

  “That weighs heavy on my mind,” Silas said. “It was a good decision to leave them, considering Sister Davis’s delicate condition, but the sooner we get them here, the better I’ll feel.”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about,” David said. “Joe tells me that you are sending some men back for the family and the cattle.”

  “Four, actually. Jim Decker—I’ve asked him to be in charge—Niels Dalley, Ham Wallace, and Parley Butt.”1

  “How about making it five?”

  One eyebrow cocked up. “Meaning you?”

  “Yep.”

  “We’re sending out other parties, too. Me and my boys will go east for supplies. I want another group to explore the country up north around the Blue Mountains. I was thinking of sending you out with that one. Knowing your interest in becoming a rancher—”

  “I’d really like to go back to Moenkopi.”

  Silas gave him a searching look. “You got kinda close to those children, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I also came to have great regard for Jim Davis and his wife. I promised them I’d come back for them.”

  Silas replaced his hat and tugged it into place. “All right. Knowing Po-ee-kon, it won’t hurt to have another gun. And I hate to have a man break his word, especially to one as cute as that little Emily. Get your things together. They plan to cross the river this afternoon. You’ll be taking only one pack horse. I want you out of Navajo country as quickly as possible.”

  Sunday, June 22, 1879

  James Davis had his wagon parked behind the home of Brother Brown, president of the Indian Mission in northern Arizona. It was nearly sundown and Jim was building a fire that Mary would use to cook dinner and the family would use to keep warm. For all of the blistering heat of the day, when night came on in the desert, it could rapidly get quite chilly. He wouldn’t light the fire until dark, but—

  “Look, Pa!”

  He turned. Eddie had gone inside the wagon for something. Now he was standing on the wagon seat, pointing to the east.

  Mary straightened and hurried over to stand beside her husband. “Indians?” she asked.

  “No,” Eddie cried. “They’re wearing hats. I think it’s them.”

  Jim climbed up beside his son and squinted up the road. Since the riders were coming through the thick stands of greasewood on both sides of the road, it was a little hard to make out how many there we
re. At least five. Maybe six. Just then a shout went up from the village. Others had seen them too, and were running forward. He looked down at his wife, grinning like a kid. “I think Eddie’s right, Mary. I think it is them.”

  David searched the faces of the group streaming down the road toward them. They were whooping and hollering, waving their hats, running. With the sun at their backs, it was hard to make out individuals, but then suddenly a tiny figure broke free of the rest.

  “David! David! David!” She was waving both arms high above her head.

  He reined Tillie to a stop and was out of the saddle in one swift leap. The other four pulled in their horses and started to dismount too, but David didn’t wait for them. He broke into a run. As he and Emily met, he swooped her up in his arms and swung her around and around. She squealed in delight, then threw her arms around his neck and planted a huge kiss on his cheek.

  When he finally lowered her, he bent down. “Hi,” he said solemnly.

  She looked up at him, her eyes enormous and filled with joy. Then, very gravely, she reached up, took his face in both of her hands, and pulled him closer, peering into his eyes. “I knew you would come,” she whispered. And then she kissed him again on the cheek, only this time very gently.

  Thursday, June 26, 1879

  Though the plan had been to get the herd rounded up, the Davises packed, and the group on the road the next day, things didn’t work out quite that way. That night, two horses came up missing. After searching for them for a couple of days, Jim Decker decided they couldn’t delay any longer. Mary was now just a few weeks from delivery. If they didn’t start soon, she was going to have this baby somewhere out on the Navajo Reservation, and that thought left them all very nervous. Leaving two men to look for the horses, the rest of them, along with the Davises, started east.

  It was a tearful farewell for the family. The family had been there for about six weeks now and had quickly been adopted by the community. The children had made several good friends, as had Mary. However, nothing could dampen the euphoria of finally being under way.