The Fugitive Son

by Adell Harvey

  Remembering that the prophet had told Pa and him that the Indians had been given to him to use “as the battle axe of the Lord,” Andy feared the worse. Brother Brigham must have entered some kind of agreement with the Indians to attack the train with the cattle as their prize. But did he intend for them to slaughter the party as well? Or had he depended on the southern settlers to do the dirty work? Flashes of their conversation came back to Andy. Hadn’t the prophet said they needed to “use up” this train load of Arkansans? And hadn’t Pa quoted Major John Higbee’s words to the ward in Parowan that all the immigrants must be put out of the way on orders of the prophet?

  If Brother Brigham truly had given such terrible orders to the settlers, how could he stop them? No one would listen to a half-baked kid over the orders of the prophet. He remembered trying to calm down some of the settlers just a few days ago. It was a miracle he had managed to escape with his throat intact.

  Turning his horse toward Parowan, Andy begged Heavenly Father for wisdom. Riding alone in the moonlight, he felt a deep sense of foreboding. The evil was so pervasive throughout the area, he could almost taste it.

  When he arrived at Aunt Hettie’s, he saw that Pa was already there, sleeping soundly in the lean-to. He tried to sneak into bed quietly so as not to awaken Pa, but the elder Rasmussen grunted and rolled over. “Where in tarnation have you been? Should have been in bed hours ago,” he growled.

  Andy mumbled something inaudible about “out riding.”

  “Don’t you have any sense at all, boy?” Pa scolded. “This is no time to be going out for a joy ride! There’s a lot of mischief afoot tonight, and you’d best not be seen out there.”

  Andy wondered if Pa knew about the siege already taking place but decided he’d be better off not to show any knowledge of it. Instead, he asked innocently, “What kind of mischief?”

  “Just some of the brethren taking care of some scum,” Pa replied. “Now get some sleep. We’ve got to do our duty tomorrow.”

  “Our duty?”

  “Don’t you remember anything?” Pa asked angrily. “The prophet assigned us to keep an eye on the immigrant train and to take care of things down here for the church. Said that was the important job he had planned for you.”

  Andy climbed into his bed roll of animal skins and simply said, “Goodnight, Pa.”

  Early the next morning, Andy and Pa rode to the lookout above the Mountain Meadows encampment. The weary immigrants were again under siege. This time, the attackers seemed more plentiful.

  “Who’s doing this, Pa?” Andy dared to ask. “Kanosh and his men left yesterday.”

  Pa studied Andy intently, as if to determine how much his son knew about what was happening. “Best not to ask too many questions, son,” he finally replied. “The less you know about this business, the better off you’ll be.”

  “But can’t we do something? Those people have nothing to eat or drink…”

  “We are doing something,” Pa replied. “We’re watching, and that’s exactly what the prophet instructed us to do.”

  “But how can we just sit here and watch people being killed without trying to help them?”

  Pa sighed, almost in resignation. “My boy, you have so much to learn about life as a Saint. Our ways are not the ways of others. It’s a hard life to be a Saint of the everlasting kingdom. This has all been set in motion by the Lord’s own prophet, and it’s not ours to question. We do as we’re told. Our blessings come from obedience to the prophet, and while his decisions don’t always match what we think to be right and good, they come from Heavenly Father himself. Always remember, when the leaders speak, the thinking’s already been done.”

  Andy pondered Pa’s reply. He wanted desperately to believe Pa, to exercise the faith to believe that Brother Brigham really did know best, that his decisions came directly from God. The faith of his childhood had been so easy, so comforting. But this? Ambushing and killing innocent travelers? Shooting little children as they ate their breakfast? Heavenly Father might somehow allow those things, but he certainly wouldn’t instigate them or tell his prophet to set them in motion, would he?

  As they watched the tragedy taking place below, Pa began telling Andy about the meetings he had attended the previous week, priesthood meetings in Cedar City and Parowan. Andy relished the rare moment spent with his father actually speaking to him father to son, sharing confidences. He could almost feel the closeness he had enjoyed as a boy, looking to Pa with adulation and trust. It seemed Pa was trying extra hard to help him understand, so he listened with his whole heart.

  “I think the original intent was for the Indians to steal some of the cattle as a warning that we didn’t want foreigners coming into Deseret,” Pa was saying. “But when the gentiles started threatening war on us, and Buchanan decided to replace Brother Brigham with his own governor, it turned into much more than that. The prophet himself wrote to Buchanan and said we’d turn the Indians loose on any immigrants who tried to pass through here.”

  “We used to treat strangers with such great hospitality and kindness,” Andy said. “Whatever happened to cause such a terrible change in our attitudes toward outsiders?”

  “Buchanan is what happened!” Pa thundered. “All the talk of secession back East has caused him no end of trouble, so he turned on us Mormons as a likely scapegoat. Nobody likes us anyway, so if he can get all the newspapers stirring up people against us, they’ll likely forget that he can’t handle the slavery problem.”

  “So the Saints are going to be the sacrificial animals again?” Andy asked, half jokingly.

  “You could say that. We’ve been persecuted and run out of so many places. Buchanan’s got the country all agreeing with him that we’re a bad lot. Brother John Hawley came down from Salt Lake for the priesthood meetings last week and tried to tone things down a bit, but the local fellows have heard so much about the war, they’re raving mad and wanting to spill some blood.

  “Brother Harrison Pearce was there, too. Did you ever meet him? He’s the captain of the local Nauvoo Legion. Now there’s a fiery orator!” Pa said. “As the biggest military authority at the meetings, Pearce’s talk set fire to the flame. He said he’d like to see all the gentiles stripped naked and lashed on their backs and have the sun scorch them to death by inches!

  “Not everybody was totally enthusiastic – some men of conscience, myself included, resisted any orders to assault civilian Americans. Hawley argued against killing immigrants, saying he would have to be convinced his own life was in danger before he would take another’s life.” Pa shook his head as he watched the ongoing battle below.

  “That’s when all hell broke loose at the meeting,” Pa continued. “Some of them accused the Fanchers of murdering Joseph Smith, and others yelled they were guilty of killing Apostle Pratt.” Pa lifted up his hat and brushed the sweat off his forehead. “And that’s when most agreed that the oath of vengeance we all swear in the temple demands that we slay those who persecuted us.

  “But Hawley charged that none of us had any proof or assurance that anybody in the Fancher Party had participated in the murder of either Smith or Pratt. ‘You only have rumors,’ Hawley insisted. ‘And that will not do for me.’”

  “Sounds like they had a real set-to in the priesthood meeting,” Andy said quietly.

  “Worse than a set-to! Captain Pearce called a secret council and tried to get Hawley sentenced to blood atonement for not obeying, but others pleaded his case. He was let go the next day and told to be more guarded and to quit opposing authority.”

  Pa turned toward his son, a pleading look in his eye. “So you see, son, it’s too dangerous to try to stop this. Let’s just do what the prophet told us to do. We’ll go along with whatever they’re doing down there, and then do our best to keep any shame from coming to the Saints.”

  Another volley of rifle fire rang across the once peaceful meadow. Andy heard women and children screaming. A return volley shattered the air. Overwhelmed with fear for the imm
igrants, despair for Pa, and helplessness to stop the massacre, Andy once more turned his horse back toward Parowan. September 8, 1857, he calculated. Two days into the siege. How much longer could the immigrants hold out without water? And how long would their ammunition last?

  Santa Fe Trail

  Captain Reed called Elsie, Trip, and the heads of each family unit together immediately after breakfast the next morning. “I have a change of plans,” he announced. “Originally, we were going to follow the Cimarron for a few more days to just outside Santa Fe where the trail connects with the Pecos River. Then we were going to follow the Pecos south to our land grants.”

  He stooped to spread a new map on the ground. “Here’s the latest map that shows a newer trail.” He looked up at the men who had crouched around him. “Actually, it’s not a new trail, but a new map! The trail has been in use for years, but no one put it on a map before.”

  As the group studied the map, Captain Reed continued, “Since Trip came along to escort Miss Elsie to Santa Fe, we no longer have to go that far west. If we pick up the Comanche Trail just a few hours’ drive from here, we can head south right away and probably cut a few days off our trip.”

  “How about water and grazing?” Abe Morton asked.

  Another pointed to the map. “Looks like there’s springs here… and here.”

  “And the mapmaker drew in some forests here and there, so there must be grass for the cattle,” someone chimed in.

  The men reviewed the map at length and agreed it looked like a good idea to change their route. Captain Reed stood up to address the group. “Well then, it looks like we’re in agreement. We should reach the Comanche cutoff in about five hours. We’ll noon there and then head south to Big Spring before tacking southwest over to the Pecos. Any objections or questions?”

  He turned toward Elsie and Trip. “So we’ll be saying goodbye to you around noon. If you need anything extra for the remainder of your trip into Santa Fe, feel free to take whatever you need.”

  Elsie thanked him profusely for letting her accompany the train and for providing protection. Inwardly, the thought of being a burden to the train once again rankled her. While she was grateful for Captain Reed’s concern and willingness to go out of his way for her, the independent woman inside her resented having to be dependent on anyone. “Just because I’m a female, everyone thinks I’m helpless,” she fumed silently, remembering the many times her father and brothers had insisted on looking out for her.

  She could have made it on her own. She wasn’t some blathering, giggly female who had to have a man to take care of her. Giving action to her thoughts, she followed the men to the supply wagon and grabbed a jar of thick, black grease. Like a woman on a mission, she tied down any loose objects that were not secure, attacked the job of greasing all the wheel hubs and axles, and thoroughly checked the wagon floor for wood rot.

  As she came out from under the wagon, her hair dangling across her dirty face, she heard applause. Trip stood nearby, clapping his hands in approval. “Good job! You’ve crossed the line!”

  “Line? What line?”

  “This journey across the country has changed you from a Southern belle into a bona fide pioneer!” Trip laughed, a look of approval on his face.

  Elsie pondered his comment. It was true. She was a pioneer. Trip’s statement sunk deep into her heart. Ever since the beginning of this journey, she had experienced a sense of adventure, of being on the edge of something big. But now, for the first time, she had a strong realization of that role and what it actually meant. It gave her a sense of pride and dignity, along with a far greater sense of purpose.

  She brushed the loose curls from her face and headed for a wash basin to scrub the grease off her hands. “I may be a pioneer,” she tossed over her shoulder, “but I still have my Kentucky manners and clean habits!”

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness and all that folderol?” Trip teased.

  Elsie went to find her driver and helped guide her wagon for the last time into the wagon train. “If you don’t need me, I think I’ll walk alongside with Cindy and Sara for a final gab session,” she told the driver.

  As usual, the girls’ conversation immediately turned to men and the lack thereof. “That new fella who came in last night – Trip? I think he’s sweet on you,” Sara confided to Elsie. “Why else would he have tried so hard to catch up with us?”

  Elsie blushed and shook her head. “He’s just a nice man, another one of those guys who think it’s his duty to look after a damsel in distress. Besides, he’s not my type.”

  “Not your type?” Cindy fairly squealed. “Tall, dark, handsome, cowboy, charming? Whatever else could you want?”

  “Don’t forget thoughtful, considerate, and did you say handsome?” Sara added.

  “But don’t you think he might be too old for me?” Elsie asked. “He must be at least thirty.”

  “That just means he’s mature and settled,” Cindy said. “Owns his own business and is probably well-situated.”

  “I don’t know anything about him. He may be married with a passel of kids, for all I know,” Elsie mused.

  “You have a point,” Sara said, a thoughtful frown on her face. “Or maybe he’s one of those Mormons we keep hearing about, looking for another pretty girl to add to his harem.”

  The conversation headed downhill from there, with the trio laughing and joking about what life would be like as a plural wife to a Mormon man. They shared some of the stories they had read in the newspapers and ladies’ magazines.

  “Just before we left Arkansas, it was in all our papers about that Mormon ‘apostle’ – What was his name? Pratt? – that got himself killed over by the Crawford County jail. Seems he was preaching in California, where he converted a woman, who then left her husband and became his twelfth wife.” Cindy and Sara took turns telling the sad story.

  “Yeah, then when the two of them kidnapped her kids from their grandparents in New Orleans and were heading back to Utah Territory, the police arrested Pratt along the Arkansas-Oklahoma border. They eventually let him off. But when he was leaving the jail, his new wife’s first husband chased him to Alma, Arkansas, and stabbed him to death. Guess he didn’t take too well to his wife and kids being hauled off to Mormon country.”

  The girls shook their heads in disbelief. “How could a woman leave her husband to join such a group?” Elsie wondered. “Imagine sharing your husband with eleven other women.”

  “It might make sense if you grew up being taught that way,” Sara said. “But for a grown woman to leave everything and deliberately join that lifestyle…”

  “She’d have to be batty!” Cindy finished Sara’s sentence.

  “Or deceived,” Elsie said quietly.

  The morning passed much too swiftly. Almost before she realized the sun had climbed high into the sky, Elsie heard Captain Reed calling a halt. While the women scurried around preparing the nooning, the captain sent out water and wood details to stock up for the rest of the journey. Off the trail to the north was a beautiful wooded area that provided welcome shade for the hot, weary travelers. Some of the hunting detail carried lunch with them as they entered the deep woods to search out small game.

  Elsie noticed the trail ruts heading west, obviously the main route to Santa Fe. A much fainter set of wagon tracks headed south toward towering buttes, cutting a swath through the tall grasses and cactus plants. Captain Reed indicated that she should pull her wagon out of the train to head west.

  Elsie looked around for her driver before it dawned on her that from this point on, she was the driver. Trip would be busy with his freight wagon, so it would be up to her to drive her wagon and look after her stock. She grimaced. Maybe it would be nice to have a man along!

  After the midday rest, she said her tearful farewells to Cindy and Sara and the rest of her friends, checked her reins and hitches, and swallowed hard. This was it. Like it or not, she was now a real pioneer.

  Chapter 13

  Mou
ntain Meadows

  Utah Territory

  THE NIGHT had not been kind to Andy. He felt like he’d been tarred and feathered, then dragged behind a wild stallion. He had fought with his bed of animal skins all night, restless and unable to sleep, thinking of what lay ahead for the immigrants. He considered one scenario after another, trying to figure out a way to get them safely out of Deseret with the provisions they needed to survive the last leg of their journey.

  Surely the worst fate would be for them to be robbed of their possessions and left to struggle on to California with no cattle, horses, or supplies. Could he somehow manage to provide enough supplies for their travel across the desert?

  Andy glanced over to where his father lay peacefully sleeping, snoring like a buzz saw, no worries keeping him awake. Anger stirred deep within his soul. How could Pa look so innocent, not a care in the world, with total unconcern for people who were being persecuted simply because they happened to come from Arkansas? Andy remembered some of the terror and hardships his people had suffered when they were driven out of Missouri and Nauvoo. Having experienced that as a little boy, how could he inflict the same terror on other small children? And why didn’t the other Saints feel the same compassion that he did?

  Pa snarfled, then rolled over and let out a huge, noisy breath. Sitting up, he said, “Looks like it’s getting light outside. At the meeting last night, the brethren said the situation would be resolved today. We’d best get on down there and see what’s happening.”