The Undaunted

by Gerald N. Lund

  There should have been an air of excitement, but excitement didn’t come cheaply anymore. They had been gone too long and come too far and endured too many things to really care that much. As the wagons began to congregate beneath the shade of the cottonwood trees along the river—some of the families too weary to even climb down—word came back that they would noon here. Up front, Platte Lyman and Jens Nielson walked off to one side and conferred quietly. Ten minutes later, they called for a meeting of all the men present.

  Platte waited until the last man joined them, then began without preamble. “Brethren, we don’t need to tell you that our little company has reached the end of its tether. It is now the fifth day of April. We had hoped to have our crops in weeks ago. We had hoped to be building houses, barns, and corrals by now. And here we are, still another day from our destination. Maybe two, at the rate we are now going.”

  Bishop Nielson spoke. “Wit our animals, it may as well be a hundred.”

  “What are you saying, Dad?” Joe Nielson asked.

  “We are saying,” Platte came in smoothly, “that perhaps we have come far enough.”

  Heads jerked up and there were soft exclamations of surprise.

  Platte looked around. “This is not a big valley, but it is a pleasant one. There is an abundance of water. The land is flat and easily plowed. We can quarry stone from the hills.”

  “Are you saying,” George Hobbs broke in, “that we’re not going on to Montezuma Creek? If so, I object. We have people waiting for us there.”

  “Thank you, George,” Platte said. “We know that, and we know that one of them is your sister. Those families will undoubtedly be disappointed, but they will know we are here. And from the beginning, we’ve known that not everyone could settle right there around them. There have to be other settlements. Especially as others follow in our path.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve already made the decision,” George grumbled.

  Platte nodded thoughtfully. “It is settled in our minds. Now we put it to you.”

  “Well,” Ben Perkins said in a loud, booming voice, “Ah be tellin’ ya what me wife said as we pulled up a little while ago. She said, ‘Ben, ya can go as fur as ya lek, but me? Ah naw be gittin’ up in that wagon agin.’”

  “Hear, hear,” someone in the back called.

  “Brodders,” Bishop Nielson said. “Dat is our recommendation to you. Cud vee see by show of hands, how many vill support the idee to make dis our home?”

  David’s hand came up, as did Patrick’s and his father’s. As he looked around, virtually every other hand was up except for George’s. Platte nodded in satisfaction. “We’ll not be asking for a negative vote, because no one is required to stay. Those who want to continue to Montezuma are welcome to do so.” He took in a deep breath. “Well, that’s it, then. Welcome home.”

  The word spread like wildfire through the camp and was met with a few expressions of shock and dismay, but mostly it was joy and enormous relief that swept through the company. David told his father and Patrick that he needed to speak briefly with Platte, but would join them at the wagons.

  As he walked slowly back about five minutes later, he couldn’t help but overhear the reaction going on all around him. Margaret Nielson, teenage daughter of Bishop Nielson, was still sitting up in her wagon. “Does that mean we’re staying here, Papa?” A broad smile wreathed the bishop’s face. “Why yes, my dear Maggie, where did you want to go?”

  Arabelle Smith, wife of Stanford Smith, the woman who had “crow-hopped” down the Hole in the Rock, was best friends with Mary Jones, wife of Kumen Jones. As David passed, the two women were talking excitedly to each other. “Oh, Mary,” Belle cried, “Now we can build our houses side by side and be neighbors, like we were back in Cedar City. Let’s build us houses of these pretty pink stones.”

  Farther down, a husband and wife were arguing. She too was up in the wagon seat. He was by the team, looking up at her. “This is the end of the trail,” he said, clearly losing his patience. “This is the San Juan. We are here.”

  “But it can’t be,” his wife protested. “The whole valley is no bigger than our backyard. Where is the fort? Where are the Indians? Where are our own people?”

  He sighed. “We are not at Montezuma Creek, but it has been decided that we will stay here.”

  She harrumphed and folded her arms. “I am not getting down here,” she declared.

  David wasn’t able to hear what the answer to that was, but when he turned back a minute later, her husband was helping her down from the wagon.1

  In the McKenna camp it was a similar thing. To David’s surprise, it was Molly who protested. “But I thought we would be going to live by Jim and Mary.”

  “We?” Abby asked pointedly.

  That flustered her. “Well, I meant our family.” Then she pouted a little. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Live wherever you like.”

  “You mean we’re staying right here?” Billy Joe crowed. “Great! Can we build our house right by the river? Nate and me saw some great big fish there a few minutes ago.”

  Sarah put an arm around him and hugged him. “Oh, to have your love of life, Billy Joe.”

  “How do you feel about it?” Patrick asked her.

  She paused and looked around. Then she nodded, somewhat tentatively. That was followed by a second nod, much more emphatic. “I like it. I am so ready to be done with this trip.”

  “Abby?”

  “I’m home,” she said simply.

  Patrick turned to the Drapers. “And what of you two?” he asked.

  David deferred to his father with a nod. “What do you say, Dad?”

  “That be simple. Ah came ’ere ta be wit David. Whare ’e goes, Ah go. If’n he’ll have me.”

  “Being together is what all of this is about, Dad,” came the quiet reply. Then he looked back at Patrick. “We hope to start a ranch someday, maybe up by the Blue Mountains. But for now, we’ll be here to help the company get established.” He hesitated, then went on. “However, I’ll be riding on now.”

  “What?” Molly and Sarah cried together.

  “I talked to Platte for a minute after the meeting. I’m going on with George to Montezuma. Check on the Davises. Let them know we’re here.”

  “No, David,” Abby exclaimed. “Can’t that wait at least until tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He looked to Patrick again. “I may spend a day or two with them. Then I think I’ll ride north.”

  “North?” Molly cried. “Where are you going?”

  “This valley isn’t big enough for cattle. I want to check things out up around the Blue Mountains, take a look at the rangeland, before everyone else starts making claims.”

  “Without your father?” Molly was clearly close to bawling.

  “Ah think it be wise fur David ta go noow,” John said quietly. “And alone.”

  “Platte’s also concerned about our lack of cash money right now,” David went on softly. “Some of the single men are talking about heading over into Colorado and seeing if they can find work in the mines.”

  “Ya be goin’ back ta minin’?” his father blurted.

  “No, no. I was just saying that as an example. Actually, while we were in Escalante, I heard that they’re looking for mail riders for a circuit between Green River and Ouray, Colorado.”

  Now his father was even more dismayed. “An’ they also said it be one of the most dangerous routes to ride. The Utes are on the warpath, and there are rustlers and ’ighwaymen everywhere.”

  “Oh, David, no,” Sarah cried.

  He smiled briefly. “That’s why the pay is half again what it is for other routes.”

  “But Daddy’s paying you,” Molly said. “Why do you need to go off somewhere?”

  “I haven’t been paying David for some time now,” Patrick murmured. “Nor his father. They both decided they wanted to do this on their own, just like the rest of us.”

  That stunned even Sarah. David wa
lked over to her. “I’m not saying I’m going to do that. Only that it’s an option. I’m coming back.”

  She threw her arms around him. “Thank you, David,” she whispered. “Thank you for bringing us here safely.”

  “It has been the best thing that ever happened to me, Sarah. Thank you for letting me be a part of your family.”

  “You can’t go,” Molly wailed. “Not now. When will you be back?”

  Sarah stepped back, still looking at him. “Your father’s right. It’s best if you go.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the family stood together, waving as David rode away. He turned in the saddle and waved once, then disappeared into the trees.

  Molly was sobbing. “I’ll probably be gone before he gets back. He didn’t even say good-bye.”

  “Oh yes he did,” Abby said quietly. “Yes he did.”

  Patrick turned and watched his two daughters for a moment—Molly weeping openly, Abby weeping inwardly. “Know what tomorrow is?” he finally asked.

  It was such a strange question in the context of the conversation that everyone turned to him in surprise. “It’s April sixth.”

  “The anniversary of the organization of the Church,” Sarah said, her eyes widening.

  “The fiftieth anniversary of the organization of the Church,” Patrick emphasized. “And why is that important?”

  Sarah was nodding. “Because every fifty years is what was known in Israel as a jubilee year.”

  “A jubidee what?” Billy Joe asked.

  “A jubilee year,” his father explained. “It comes from the Old Testament. Do you know what happened in a jubilee year?”

  Again it was his wife who answered. “Land that had been taken away from or sold by a family, reverted back to the family. Isn’t that interesting? Tomorrow, on the start of a jubilee year, we will begin the process of giving this land to the people.”

  “Slaves were also freed,” Abby said with a touch of wonder. She understood exactly what her father was doing. “Bondservants were loosed. Debts were forgiven.”

  “Ah, yes,” her father said with a soft smile. “Debts were forgiven.”

  John Draper turned slowly. “Thank ya fur remindin’ us of that, Patrick. What a wonderful way ta begin a new life.”

  Friday, April 9, 1880

  “Patrick?”

  The wagon creaked as someone moved inside it. A moment later, the flap opened and Patrick McKenna stuck his head out. “Good morning, John.”

  “Mornin’.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “Ah ’ave a big favor ta ask of ya.”

  “Anything, John. You know that.”

  “Ah’d like to borrow Paint and maybe yur ridin’ ’orse fur the day. An’ your oldest daughter as well. Ah know thare be a lot goin’ on t’day, but . . .” His shoulders lifted and fell. “We probably won’t be back ’til after dark.”

  Suddenly Sarah appeared beside her husband. She was buttoning the sleeves on her dress. “The answer is yes, John. How soon do you want to go?”

  “Aboot ’alf an ’our ago.”

  There was a brisk nod. “Patrick, you go find her. I know she’s up because I heard her earlier. I’ll get them some food.”

  When they crossed Butler Wash, Abby spoke for the first time in over an hour. “You’re taking me back to the river camp?”

  John shook his head. “Close, but naw close e’nuff.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re not taking me back to those Indian ruins, are you? Because if you are, I’m turning around right now.”

  “Ah naw be tekin’ ya anywhare agin yur will, Abby gurl. Ah promise ya that.”

  “I don’t want to talk about David, either. I mean it, John.”

  “Ah naw be talkin’ aboot anythin’ ya dunna want ta talk aboot.”

  “And that’s all you’re going to say?”

  “That be e’nuff fur now.”

  When David’s father stopped his horse at the top of San Juan Hill and swung stiffly down, Abby gave him a questioning look. “This is it?”

  “Yah.”

  “I’ve not forgotten what you taught me here, if that’s it,” she said quietly.

  There was a short laugh. “Ya be bustin’ yur bootons tryin’ ta guess what we be doin’, but it be gettin’ ya nowhare. Do ya want ta eat first, or do ya want me ta git it over wit?”

  She finally smiled, and her smile was warm and open. How could you stay angry at this man? “Show me what you want me to see.”

  “’Ow ya know Ah got sumthin’ ta show ya?”

  She gave him a chiding look. “It’s a long way to come for just a talk.” He chuckled, but said nothing. Abby dismounted and came over and put her arm through his. “Awl reet, ya old Tyke, lead on. I’m ready.”

  To her surprise, he led her to a large, flat rock that jutted out of the ground just a short distance from the horses. She sat down, and he squatted down in front of her. His brown eyes were dark and thoughtful as he studied her face. Then he began.

  “Ah dunna know what ’appened b’tween ya an’ David that night at the ruins, Abby, an’—” He waved a hand, cutting off her protest. “An’ Ah dunna wanna know. Let me joost say a few things that need sayin’.”

  “All right,” she said meekly, relieved that he wasn’t going to question her on that.

  “When Davee cum back frum Montezuma Creek this last time, ’e tole me that ’e an’ Sister Davis ’ad a long talk aboot you.”

  “About me?”

  He nodded. “David came back reddy ta tell Molly that ’e cud naw marry ’er noow.”

  She straightened. “John, there are some things that you don’t—”

  “Ya be bustin’ yur bootons agin, gurl,” he growled.

  She sat back. “Sorry. But I get to talk when you’re finished.”

  “Agreed. But Ah naw be finished quite yet. So David came back determined ta talk ta Molly an’ tell ’er that ’e cud naw be marryin’ ’er b’cuz ’e ’ad feelin’s fur ’er older sister.”

  She started to retort, but at his look, bit it back. “Go on.”

  “But Molly beat ’im ta it. She blurted oot that she was naw goin’ ta stay, an’ that it be over fur the two of them. Well, Davee was so chuffed—delighted—that this meant ’e naw be havin’ ta break ’er ’eart, that ’e joost stood thare an’ said nothin’.”

  “And kissed her good-bye,” she said dryly. “That does sound pretty chuffed to me.”

  If he heard, John gave no sign. “So anyway, Molly comes back an’ tells ’er big sister awl aboot what ’appened, but she still be thinkin’ that David ’ad cum oot ta propose marriage ta ’er.” He stood up, looking down on her, his eyes piercing now in their intensity. “But it naw be true, Abby. It naw be true.”

  He went on quickly. “Noow, Ah naw be askin’ fur ya ta respond ta that, gurl. Ah naw be tellin’ ya what ta think or ’ow to feel. Cum. It’s time ya see what we cum up ’ere fur.”

  He started down the road they had traversed just a few days before. As she followed, she averted her eyes from the dark stains on the rocks beneath their feet. He stopped a short distance below the crest. Seeing nothing unusual, she gave him a questioning look.

  “When David came up ’ere on the moontain that night after ’e spoke wit ya, Ah be quite worried. Ah cud naw ’elp but wonder if’n ’e might naw turn awl bitter aboot God awl over agin, what wit ’im tryin’ ta do what’s reet, an’ it blowin’ up in ’is face like a black-powder rifle.” He looked away. “Ah be real worried aboot that, Abby.”

  “I didn’t do it to hurt him, John.”

  One eyebrow lifted, but he said nothing. He took her elbow and turned her so she was facing east toward the rock face of the sandstone escarpment that ran from here to the bottom. “Walk over thare, Abby, an’ tell me what ya see.”

  Completely baffled now, she pointed. “Over there?” He nodded. As she picked her way across the rocky ground, her eyes began searching the flat wall of pink rock. And then she stopped. Moving slowly now, she veered r
ight and stopped in front of an inscription that had been carved into the stone.

  As she read it, John came over to join her. Her fingers were gently tracing the outline of the block letters cut neatly into the sandstone. WE THANK THEE OH GOD.2 Finally, she turned. “And David carved this?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Ah canna say fur sure. ’E never said anythin’ aboot it. But before ’e left, ’e asked me if me tool bag be up ’ere. Ah thought ’e joost wanted it fur workin’ on the road. But that next day, joost befur we started doon the t’other side, Ah went lookin’ aroond. An’ Ah found this.” He looked away. “An’ when Ah did, Ah knew me son was gonna be awl reet.”

  Without another word, he climbed back to the top of the ridge and sat down to wait for her.

  When Abby rejoined him five minutes later, he had their lunch spread out on the rock. “So let’s be eatin’,” he said gruffly. “An’ then we best be startin’ back. It be a long ride.”

  “And that’s all you’re going to say.” Her voice was soft, and her eyes were still red.

  “Ah tole ya, Aw naw be tellin’ ya what ta do. An’ Ah be in naw mood ta be talkin’ aboot this anymore. Naw on the way back, ya ’ear? Ah don’t want ya all blubbery an’ stuff.”

  She took a deep breath. “Awl reet,” she said, in a near perfect imitation of his accent. “But only if you promise me one thing, John Draper.”

  “An’ what might that be?”

  “I would like you to tell me about your wife, John. Tell me about your Annie, and what it was like for the two of you in Yorkshire. Will ya do that for me?”

  “Then ya be gettin’ me awl blubbery.”

  She laughed aloud, slipped her arm through his, and laid her head against his shoulder. “I doubt that. I doubt that very much.”