The Undaunted

by Gerald N. Lund

  Closer, lining the banks of the river, were the dozens of small white squares that marked the wagon camp. As he squinted, he could see tiny figures moving in and around them. There were about sixty-five of the eighty-two wagons in camp now. He suspected it could be days before the last of the stragglers came in.

  “So,” his father grunted, interrupting his thoughts. “Did ya spek ta Molly, then?”

  “I did. We’re going to go for a walk after supper tomorrow night.”

  “Gud. Does she know what it’s aboot?”

  “I said it was time for us to talk. She seemed eager to finally have it come.”

  “Aye, Ah wud think so.”

  “Any advice, Dad?”

  He pulled at his beard thoughtfully for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Naw, Son. Ya be knowin’ what needs to be said, better than me.”

  “I hope you’re right, Dad. I really hope you’re right.”

  Notes

  ^1. The quote from Platte Lyman about the coldest night of his life was recorded in his journal under entry of March 15, 1880 (see Miller, Hole, 168).

  ^2. Descriptions of how the wagon train fared after Clay Hill Pass are found in several sources (see Miller, Hole, 136; Reay, Incredible Passage, 71–72; Redd, “Short Cut,” 21–22). The “giant accordion” analogy comes from Redd. The vivid descriptions of the “teams” used to pull the wagons come from George Hobbs’s narrative (in Miller, Hole, 212).

  ^3. Only Redd talks about meeting the small band of Utes and giving them food. He also says that it was the very next day that George Hobbs rode into camp and reported the Meeker Massacre, and Redd describes how that news affected the camp (Redd, “Short Cut,” 23). Several mention the story of the old Ute and his incredulity at seeing a wagon train in that country (see Redd, “Short Cut,” 22–23; Reay, Incredible Passage, 71–72; Miller, Hole, 136). Bishop Nielson’s comment on the incident with the old Ute is the author’s creation.

  ^4. While nearly a hundred and thirty years of erosion have washed away much of the road up San Juan Hill, from the bottom, the track up the mountainside is clearly discernible. Along the way, one can see—and stand on—the masonry walls put in by those pioneer builders, which are still as strong and solid as they were more than a century ago (see Miller, Hole, 138; Redd, “Short Cut,” 23; Reay, Incredible Passage, 74–75).

  Chapter 69

  Thursday, April 1, 1880

  The next evening, as John, David, and Patrick returned from the hill, Molly quietly slipped a note into David’s hand. It was three lines, unsigned.

  Don’t want anyone to know of our talk. At least not yet. Rather not leave together. After supper meet me at the river where the women do the laundry.

  David crumpled it and tossed it in the fire. When their eyes met next, he nodded briefly.

  As he waited beneath the trees just a few yards from where many items of clothing were still spread across rocks and bushes to dry, David was both elated and filled with dread. The cliff dwelling was just half a mile upriver from the laundry site. It would be the perfect place to talk, and he was happy she had suggested a place that made it easily accessible. They would still be visible from below if anyone happened by, therefore maintaining propriety, but they would be alone, where they could talk things out without interruption.

  On the other hand, his stomach was fluttering worse than on that first day he had ridden down the mine shaft with his father. He was already stumbling over how to try to say what had to be said without crushing her. He didn’t want to hurt her any more—he had surely done enough of that. This was a woman he had come to admire, respect, cherish, and love. He had watched her change over these last eighteen months from a flirtatious and mischievous girl with an impish smile into a remarkable woman of grace, charm, and faith.

  He heard the snap of a twig and lifted his head. She was coming swiftly along the path, searching the trees for him. “I’m over here,” he called, stepping into view.

  She increased her pace and rushed to him. “Oh, David,” she whispered, “Hold me.”

  He did, taking her gently in his arms, letting her head rest against his chest. They stood there for almost a minute, neither moving nor speaking. Finally she looked up at him, her grey eyes wide and glistening with tears. “It seems like so long since you’ve done that.”

  “I know.” And he was surprised at how good it felt.

  Her head tipped back and her lips parted slightly. For a moment, he thought she was inviting him to kiss her—the one thing he had vowed he must not do—and he felt a little spurt of panic. But she quickly stepped back, and the lips softened into a smile. “Where shall we go? I’m afraid some of the sisters may be coming back here for their clothes.”

  “I know just the place.”

  She nodded and fell in beside him. They strolled slowly along, enjoying the first of the evening breezes that were starting to push back the heat of the day. After a time, he spoke. “You look especially lovely tonight, Molly.”

  She tipped back her head and laughed. “It’s an absolute wonder what bathing and washing one’s hair does for a girl. It feels so good to be clean again.”

  “Your mother and Abby looked like new women too.”

  “The whole camp is different; can’t you feel it? We’re worn out and ready to stop, but if we have to go on, let us wash our hair and do the laundry first.”

  David nodded and offered a silent thank you to his father for suggesting that he wait until tonight to do this.

  Her step slowed as they approached the cliff face that loomed over them and she saw the ruins. “Oh, David. You didn’t tell me these were here.”

  “Come on. It’s a bit of a climb, but they’re even more lovely up close.”

  To his surprise, she shook her head. “No. Let’s just talk here.” She looked around, found a fallen cottonwood log, and went over and sat down. As he went to sit beside her, she shook her head. “You sit there.” She pointed to a flat rock about ten feet away. “I want to be able to see you, and you me, as we talk.”

  A little taken aback by this sudden decisiveness, he followed her instructions and sat down across from her. He waited a moment, then decided it wasn’t going to get any easier. “Molly, I have some things I need to say to you.”

  “I know,” she said softly, “but do you mind if I go first?”

  “I . . . well sure, if that’s what you want.”

  “It is.” She drew in a breath, and he could see that she was ready to cry again, and he wasn’t sure why. Did she sense somehow what was coming? Was she going to try to deflect him before he could say it was over? Was she—

  “David, the last thing in the world that I want to do is hurt you.”

  That cut off his thoughts in a hurry. “And I feel the same—”

  “Please. This is going to be hard enough. Let me just talk, and then you can ask questions in a moment if you wish.”

  “All right.”

  “First of all, let me say something about you.” Her eyes softened and were filled with love. “What you have done over this past year has been truly remarkable. I feel ashamed that I once said that you would never change. Now look at you. No more doubts. No more questions.”

  “That’s a little optimistic,” he objected. “I’ve still got a hundred questions.”

  “Protest all you wish, David, but I know better. And so does everyone else.” She drew in her breath. “You have become all that I hoped and prayed you would become. I need to say that so you’ll know that what I am about to say has nothing to do with that. Your faith is no longer an issue between us in my mind.”

  David was baffled by that. This was not at all what he had expected.

  “But I’ve made a decision, David, and I wanted you to be the first to know about it. Even Mama and Daddy don’t know this yet.”

  Even more surprised, he leaned forward. “What decision?”

  She inhaled deeply, as if she was searching for inner strength. “As you know, some of the people
in our company are here not because they were called to this mission, but only to help family members get settled. Jim Decker’s brother, George; Bishop Sevy’s son; Amasa Lyman, Platte’s brother; and Ben Perkins’s brother-in-law, Thomas Williams, just to name a few.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that.”

  “They plan to return to their homes as soon as their families are settled.”

  “Yes, I knew that, too.”

  Her head came up now, and her eyes held his. “I plan to go with them.”

  David’s jaw fell open. “What?”

  There was a fleeting smile. “I plan to go with them, David. Back to Cedar City. As soon as they are ready to leave.”

  “But . . .” His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He was absolutely flabbergasted.

  Now the smile broadened, though it was filled with sadness. “That makes me feel better, that I was able to hide it from you all this time.”

  “But why, Molly? What about your family? What about . . . what about us?”

  “I will miss my family terribly, and I plan to return to visit them once good roads are established. As for us, let me ask you just one question, David. Would you ever consider going back with me? Could you be happy living in Cedar City and becoming a banker or a hotel owner or some kind of clerk somewhere?”

  He just stared at her.

  “Thank you. That’s what I thought.”

  “Wait a minute, Molly. I’m still catching my breath from that first rock you dropped on my head. Don’t throw another one at me.”

  “No, David, the correct thing to do now is ask me a question. The question is, ‘Molly, if we were to be married, could you be happy living in San Juan as a rancher’s wife? Could you be happy knowing that I would have to leave you alone many times, sometimes for weeks? Could you live with the knowledge that someday Indians on the warpath might come to our little homestead while I am gone?”

  She looked away. “Remember, David. You asked me those very questions some time ago. Back then I thought the answer was yes. Back then I really believed that my love for you was strong enough to make it all work. But now . . .”

  Her voice was suddenly filled with a great sorrow. “Do you know when it was that I really knew this for sure?”

  He thought for a moment. “When George Hobbs talked about the Meeker Massacre? I was watching your face that night.”

  She shook her head. “That was just one more clincher, but no. It was the day that you left Cheese Camp and returned to San Juan to help Jim and Mary Davis.”

  “But I had to do that, Molly. I had to.”

  “I knew you had to. I wanted you to. I couldn’t bear to think of their children without food. But that’s exactly my point. As you rode away, I knew I was seeing my future. I knew that there would always be things that you had to do—and that I would want you to do. But I also knew that my heart would break every time you did.” She looked away. “Just as it did then.”

  The tears finally spilled over, but she seemed unaware of them. “I’m sorry I’m so weak, David. But I came to face what I am, and who I am. And once I did that, I finally realized that love wouldn’t be enough.”

  “Molly,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. “The last word in the world I would use to describe you is weak.”

  “Thank you, David.” She stood too, looking lost and forlorn. “Will you give me a few moments alone? Before I have to go back and face the family.”

  “Of course. When will you tell them?”

  “Tonight.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell me one thing, David. Did you really, truly love me?”

  “I did. More than I had ever loved a woman before. You are an easy woman to love, Molly Jean McKenna.”

  “Thank you. And one last question? Will you kiss me good-bye?”

  He hesitated not even one second. “Of course,” he said softly.

  That night in the wagon, Abby held Molly for a long time as she sobbed and sobbed. She had gotten through telling the family with only a few tears. Billy Joe was the hardest. He just looked at her like he had been whipped; then great tears welled up and streaked down his cheeks. That did it, and he and Molly cried together for several minutes. Patrick was stunned, but though Sarah also had a good cry with her daughter, she didn’t seem all that surprised.

  It was only when she was alone with Abby that the whole story came out and she completely fell apart. “He was going to ask me to marry him, Abby,” she cried. “The thing I’ve hoped for, and worked for, and prayed for, and longed for. And when he’s finally ready, I’m the one who says no. I think I broke his heart. He just stood there looking dazed, and hurt, and confused.”

  “You don’t have to say no,” Abby said, stroking her hair over and over.

  Her head jerked around, and she swiped angrily at the tears. “I do, Abby. You know I do. You know I’m right.”

  Abby said nothing.

  “Say it!” she demanded. “From the beginning you’ve said we were too different. So don’t waffle on me, Abby. Not when I need you to be strong. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  Abby slowly nodded. “Probably.”

  “That’s all, just probably?”

  Careful not to answer that too quickly, Abby took a moment, choosing her words carefully. “You could change, Molly. Look how much you’ve changed already. You drive a team, you sleep on a straw mattress. You go days without washing your hair and hardly get crabby at all.”

  Abby dodged the blow aimed at her shoulder, then went on. “We all have changed. Look at how David has changed. And Mother. And me and Daddy and John. This experience has changed all of us in some pretty profound ways.”

  “I know,” came the quiet but resolute reply. “I know I can learn to accept being a rancher’s wife, being a hundred miles from the nearest dry-goods store, being alone for much of the time. But I don’t know if I want to. I’m not sure I would ever truly be able to say I was happy here.”

  Abby pulled her close as a fresh burst of tears began. “Then you have done the right thing, Molly,” she whispered. “Painful as it is, you have done the right thing.”

  Friday, April 2, 1880

  With supper over and the dishes washed and put away, Molly excused herself and retired to her wagon. Billy Joe was seated on the wagon tongue of David’s and John’s wagon, and David was teaching him how to braid rawhide thongs into a bridle strap. Abby had a book, but her eyes kept lifting as she stared up at the mountain where now a road was clearly visible two-thirds of the way to the summit. Sarah and Patrick were seated beside the campfire talking quietly.

  John looked around at each of them in turn, then said, loudly enough for all to hear. “David. Ah got a hank’rin’ ta see them Indian ruins ya was tellin’ us aboot. How aboot you, Billy Joe? Wanna go see whare them ancients lived?”

  He was up in an instant. “Yeah. I’ve been asking David to take me there.”

  “Anyone else interested?” David said, laying the rawhide aside.

  Both Patrick and Sarah stood. “I’d love to see them,” Sarah said. “I find them just fascinating, how they built them up under the cliffs like they did.”

  Abby shook her head. “I’ll just read for a time.”

  John went to her, took the book out of her hand, and shut it. “Ya be no more readin’ that book than Ah am, Abby gurl. So set it aside. Yur cumin’ wit us.”

  Patrick touched his wife’s arm. “Why don’t you ask Molly if she would like to go.”

  Sarah nodded and walked around to the back of the wagon where Molly and Abby slept. A moment later she came back, shaking her head. “She says to go ahead. She’s not feeling well.”

  David reached down and offered his hand, then pulled Sarah up the last steep incline. She stopped, looking up. “Oh, David! This is incredible.”

  “I think so too.” He bent over again and offered his hand to Abby, but she was already clambering up and didn’t see it. But she too stopped, then drew
in her breath sharply.

  They waited until Patrick and John were up, and then David pointed. “Come. There are stairs over here.”

  “Oh, my,” Abby breathed. “What a place to build a staircase.”

  They were standing at the base of two gigantic boulders that had fallen from beneath the overhanging cliff, probably centuries or even millennia ago. Both of the great stones were twice the size of a wagon box. Between these there was a narrow gap, barely wide enough to accommodate a single person. In that gap, a set of stone stairs had been built, curving gently upwards, following the contours of the boulders. Abby was right. It looked like a staircase in a grand manor house.

  “It be a purfect place ta defend agin attackers,” John observed, as Abby and her mother ascended to the top. “Joost put one man up there wit a couple of fist-sized rocks, an’ cahrn’t no one be comin’ up ta bother ya.”

  David turned and looked both ways. “I hadn’t thought about that, Dad, but you’re right. Look all along here. The only way anyone could get up is by the stairs or with ladders, which are easily repelled.”

  “This really is something,” Patrick said. “Look at their mortar work. These people were excellent masons.”

  “Come over here,” Abby called. She was standing in the square doorway of the largest structure. It was the building David had seen earlier. It had three walls—the back wall being the cliff face—with several square windows at different levels. The roof—if there had ever been one—was gone, long ago collapsed. But what she was pointing at was the door. “Look how small it is,” she said. She stepped beside it, providing a measure.

  Abby was no more than five feet two or three inches tall, but the door came only to her neck. “They must have been tiny people.” She stooped and went inside.1

  They explored the ruins for nearly a quarter of an hour, calling out to one another to see this feature or that. Once again it was Abby’s sharp eye that spotted something the others hadn’t seen. Her head was tipped way back and she was looking almost straight up. “Look up there.”