The Rock Child

by Win Blevins

  Anyway, maps said the next water was Deep Creek, twenty-five miles on, two days the way most wagons traveled. We knew we could make it—well, sort of knew. We all wondered when we would weaken, and Porter Rockwell would descend on us, singly or together, and perform a quiet act of murder. Would he even scavenge our bodies?

  Finally the sky hinted at getting light behind us, just barely hinted. “I sleep,” said Sun Moon. She turned and started scrambling up the steep mountainside. We watched. After a little I saw what she was headed for, a crevice. Those were the places she liked to slip into for rest. The shadowy pockets in the rock stayed cool even in the middle of a summer day. Sir Richard and I followed. We took turns sleeping and standing guard with the rifle all day. We never saw Porter Rockwell. Even he had scarce chance of sneaking up on us there. He’d want to get our weapons before we could use them. He’d want to catch us unawares.

  I’m sure he knew where we were. He was watching and waiting and biding his time.

  2

  Sir Richard shook me. I woke up quick, edgy. He spoke to Sun Moon. He’d let her sleep all day, without a turn at standing watch. He pointed toward the mouth of the canyon.

  Out on the flat beyond I saw the road, the cut-off from Great Salt Lake City to the California Trail. Sir Richard handed me his Dolland. In its magnification I saw tents. One light wagon. Horses and mules hobbled. Men staking canvas over gear, some repairing equipment. Some gathering sage, one building a fire, one filling a pot with something to cook. A dozen men, maybe.

  “We must go down there.” So he’d been watching them set up camp for a while. It was his way to figure things out and then simply announce what we were going to do next.

  “We stay alone,” said Sun Moon.

  Both of us jerked our heads toward her. We hadn’t realized she was either awake or feeling feisty.

  Annoyance flashed across Sir Richard’s face—he wasn’t used to being disputed by a woman, or by a heathen, and he didn’t hardly care for that. I wondered how his uppitiness would augur for the future, since I was a wog and Sun Moon was both wog and woman. But Sir Richard had other parts to him, too—he was ever unpredictable. Sun Moon was a nun, and that meant something special to him.

  “Sister,” he said gently, “we are in an untenable position.” I guessed what that big word meant. “If Rockwell wants to pull a sneak attack on us, he’ll eventually catch us unawares. But he won’t have to. He will get a weapon from some one of the groups passing on the trail, whether a stage, a freighter, miners, emigrants, or whatever. He’ll steal it if he has to. Then he’ll kill us one by one from a distance.”

  This argument made an impression on Sun Moon, I could see. It sure as hell impressed me—here came that cold lightning flickering up and down my spine again. It made me put my back flat up against a rock. Suddenly all the shadows laid by all the rocks on that mountain seemed longer and darker.

  “So what we do with them?” asked Sun Moon. She didn’t give a damn if Sir Richard was white, or male, or more’n twice as big as her.

  “Come and we’ll see so what,” he said, half to himself. I could see his intellect at work. As I learned over and over that summer and fall, it was one wadee-doo of an intellect. Then, he spoke all saucy with confidence to Sun Moon, “Yes, come and I’ll show you.”

  I felt a little queasy. It’s all well and good to decide you’re done with one way of life and ready to start another, like I did. But when you see the wagons and horses ready to leave for unknown places, your stomach wobbles a little.

  Where were those wagons going? Washo? California? Who knew?

  Where were we going to go?

  “Hallo the camp!” The light was almost gone, and we didn’t know how the guard would treat us.

  “White men?” called a voice.

  “Friends,” boomed Sir Richard, evading the question.

  “Come on in.”

  We walked close to the fire.

  “May we join you?” asked Sir Richard. “We’re in some distress.”

  “White men, my ass,” said one fellow. “A John Bull and two dirty Injuns.”

  I wondered why he called us dirty. Sun Moon is the cleanest, neatest person I’ve known in this lifetime. I hadn’t yet learned how white folk’s minds work about people of color—they don’t view, they pre-view.

  “What trouble you got?” The speaker came forward, evidently the leader. He was about thirty, spade-bearded, tall, strong-looking, half-bald.

  “We were set upon and robbed,” said Sir Richard. The man was quicker with a lie than anyone I ever knew, and juicier.

  “Dirty Injuns,” said the previous voice in a high whine, like a screechy fiddle. I saw now it belonged to a fat fellow of about forty. His hair was wild, his clothes messed up, his lower pant legs caked with mud. His belly hung in folds big enough for wings. Fat even drooped over his ankles. No one in Utah Territory, I’d bet, could beat him for being dirty.

  Sir Richard wisely made no comment on Fat Dirty’s supposition that we were Indians. “If we could travel with you for safety,” he said.

  Half-Bald Leader nodded. “It won’t hurt nothing,” he said definitely but without any particular friendliness, and lowered himself onto a rock. “Set.”

  So there it was. We were bound for wherever the Californy Trail and the luck of the draw took us. I hoped it was the Washo diggings, which might be near where I came from.

  All three of us moved closer to the fire, though the night was warm without it.

  I studied the dozen men. Miners, for sure, though I didn’t know enough yet to spot the pans, rockers, shovels, picks, red flannel shirts, and pants of jean or osnaburg as sure signs. They were no different from most others I’d seen heading for the diggings.

  Then I noticed that Sun Moon acted like she was hiding behind me. I turned my head to her.

  “Hs-s-st!” she whispered, spinning a finger to tell me to turn my head back to the front.

  I did, but I murmured, “What’s the matter?”

  “Miners!” she whispered impatiently.

  Then I understood. To her that meant Hard Rock City. Or at least men who thought of “Chinee” women strictly as hundred-men’s-wives. What if they wanted to flip her straight onto her back? What if they’d heard about Tarim’s reward? Would they want to haul her back for whatever reward Tarim put up? Easier to turn in a Chinee than pan for gold, they’d think, and more fun.

  I got Sir Richard’s eye and held it warningly.

  He nodded in understanding. “Where do you boys hail from?” he asked. He could talk like ordinary folks when he wanted to. He didn’t sound like he was pretending, either. He had the knack of talking just like anybody. Even the way he held his body and used his hands changed when he did it. Afterwards I found out from his books that he’d disguised himself as a Hindoo, a Persian, a Tibetan, and other such as that. Which musta been how he got good at it.

  Well, the miners, they loosed their tongues. They were ready to talk like a cloud is ready to rain.

  “Mostly we been in Californy,” said Half-Bald Leader.

  “Northern camps,” said another.

  “’Bout went broke,” put in a third.

  “We seed the elephant, though,” said Fat Dirty.

  Sun Moon slipped from my back to my side. While she talked but little, Sun Moon, she noticed everything.

  They went on and on about the diggings. Having been raised a Mormon, I didn’t much care for stories of gold. Brigham taught his people that looking for the earth to throw up gold for you is damn foolishness. I picked that up, and keep it still.

  Learned a lot sitting at that campfire that night. Learned what happens to white people when the subject is money. They told how there were too many miners for the gold, no matter if it was a bonanza. They told how the big companies with lots of money to buy machinery for digging and hoses for washing could get rich, but a common man couldn’t make a living. Two of them told how they got beat out of a good claim. They told how prices ran
high, “so high they push your balls up into your stomach,” said one. Every two or three minutes, Fat Dirty would pitch in with, “We seed the elephant, though.” Which sounded like it made things OK with him.

  What I remember mainly is that the talk of gold made these men’s faces get red, their teeth show a lot, their eyes gleam like candles with those mirrors behind ’em, and their bodies throw off heat like fire. It’s a whoopteedoo of a reaction. Someone ought to study it and explain it. Or put it in tins and heat houses with it. Indian people lived around all that gold and silver in the Washo District for centuries and never gave a hoot about it. Still don’t.

  Another item I learned: If a man of color keeps his mouth shut, white folks think he’s dumb, or ignorant, or the like. I’d never had this experience. I’d lived entirely with white people my whole life and had always been part of the family, so to speak. Mormons treat Indians OK—it’s Brigham’s policy. Since these white men didn’t know me, though, and to them I was only an Injun, they talked in front of me like I was one of the mules. That’s handy to know. Fellow could learn a lot of secrets sitting there looking half-human. Matter of fact, over the years I have.

  “There any calico in Salt Lake?”

  It was Fat Dirty, addressing Sir Richard, who shook his head no. “All the women in Salt Lake are spoken for, and kept close. It’s the only city I’ve ever been where a man can’t buy a woman.”

  Then I knew what “calico” meant. Sun Moon squirmed next to me, and her agitation felt like prickly heat.

  Fat Dirty grunted, wiggled his behind, and broke wind loudly. “We’re loco,” he whined in the direction of Half-Bald Leader.

  “We’ve done talked about this,” said the leader. He glanced sideways at Sir Richard. “I’m going to Salt Lake to sell my outfit and catch the stage east. The others are gonna sniff the wind for gold awhile longer.”

  “There are new strikes in Idaho,” Sir Richard said.

  I took a deep breath, and Sun Moon claw-gripped my wrist.

  “We want somep’n brand-new,” whined Fat Dirty.

  Sir Richard nodded wisely, and nodded again. I wanted to ask him, “What the hell is going on?”

  Then another spoke up. “All gold is fool’s gold,” said a high, soft old man’s voice.

  I’d scarce noticed him before. He was skinny, crooked as a twig, and looked frail, except for his long silver hair and beard. This hair was spectacular, so long you could have tied the ends between his legs, and flowing and handsome. He looked like a picture of a wizard I saw in a book.

  “Did you ever hear,” he began, “about the gang of miners that went to heaven?”

  “Yeah, Zach, we done heard it,” put in Fat Dirty. “Twenty times.”

  “When they got to the Pearly Gates,” this Zach went on unheeding, “St. Peter told them, ‘Sorry, you can’t come in—no more room.’

  “The head miner took thought and asked, ‘Any miners in there?’

  “‘Of course!’ replied St. Peter.

  “‘Ifn I clear some out, can we get in?’

  “St. Peter pulled at his beard a moment. ‘I guess so,’ he answered.

  “‘Back in a minute,’ said the head miner.

  “Ten minutes later out came a passel of men through the Pearly Gates, pushing and jostling to get gone. They charged right on past St. Peter, waving picks and shovels and shouting in excitement, and stampeded straight down to the Other Place. The miners waiting to get in looked at each other, cocked their heads, nodded, and headed right after ’em.

  “The head miner come out of the gates and stopped by St. Peter’s side. They were looking at the empty spot where his compañeros had stood a moment before.

  “‘Well,’ said St. Peter, ‘there’s room enough now. But how did you work that?’

  “The head miner grinned. ‘Spread some tales,’ he said. ‘Said color was spotted in the River Styx.’

  “‘My, my,’ said St. Peter. ‘Those men will endure hell for a mere rumor of fortune.’

  “‘Yep,’ said the head miner, nodding sagely and still grinning.

  “‘You may go on in,’ said St. Peter, and spread one arm wide toward the Gates.

  “The head miner shuffled his feet and wagged his head. After a while he said, ‘Naw, I guess not.’ He shouldered his gear.

  “‘Wait!’ cried St. Peter. ‘You spread those tales yourself. They’re false.’

  “‘Yep,’ said the head miner, ‘but you never know.’ And started for the place below.”

  When everyone got ready to spread their blankets, Sun Moon put her face right into Sir Richard’s. “These men go Salt Lake. We go other way. You know all time?”

  “Yes,” he said with aplomb. “I knew which direction they’re going.”

  “Why?” She shook the sleeve of his shirt. “Not safe! Porter Rockwell there, many Mormons, much help for him, much danger for us.”

  “I have a friend who will protect us, I’m confident,” said Sir Richard. He laid his blankets on one side of Sun Moon’s and nodded me toward the opposite side.

  “What friend?” insisted Sun Moon. She didn’t take to putting her welfare in someone else’s hands, particularly not a man, and more particularly not a white man.

  He turned to her majestically. “His name,” he said, “is Brigham Young, known as the Lion of the Lord. We will ask him for sanctuary.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  1

  “Porter Rockwell is trying to kill us.” Burton watched most carefully for change in Brigham Young’s face. He could see none. “To our very faces he took an oath to torture, dismember, and kill us.”

  I cannot fail now. Burton had waited until the others left the room. It was high-handed, certainly, but he had gotten by with it. He had demanded to see the Lion of the Lord immediately, and then asked his courtiers and ministers to leave. It worked. To drive all before you with the wind of your self-certainty, that was in Burton’s blood.

  Still no change in the great man’s expression. For any statesman one key to handling great matters with aplomb, surely, was to be surprised by nothing. The Prophet’s eyes ran deliberately over Asie and Sun Moon. Suddenly the two looked unprepossessing to Burton, even disreputable. A leonine eyebrow raised in Burton’s direction. He had no idea what it meant.

  The story was quickly told. Sun Moon was a Buddhist nun, shanghaied to this country to work as a prostitute. She had been taken in bondage to Hard Rock City, where Porter Rockwell had won at gambling the right to be the first man to mount her. We are doing well. The Prophet despises both gambling and whoring. She fought for her honor, and managed to hold off Rockwell momentarily. He cut her, giving her that scar, and promised that if ever he saw her again, he would kill her.

  Burton listened to the sound of his own voice in the small office. It made his knees want to wiggle. This story was as strange as anything in A Thousand and One Nights, which he himself meant to bring into English as exotica. Yet their lives depended on it. In its defense plausibility could not be advanced, only truth.

  The Prophet merely regarded Sun Moon. Sir Richard’s ward—for so he perceived her—ran a forefinger along the rut of her scar, perhaps unconsciously. Would the great man have sympathy for a woman at hazard? Or contempt for a woman who refused to bear children? A minion of a heathen religion?

  Burton looked at Sun Moon and Asie and felt admiration. His face was open, American. Hers was hard with a half-successful attempt to hide her fear. Terror, Burton told himself. The young woman must have been awash in terror for a year or more. To them, this adventure was no game, but life and death.

  “Is this true, Sister?” asked the Prophet.

  “Just so,” said Sun Moon firmly.

  “Exactly true?” the Prophet pressed. His few words ran with huge energy. Burton had heard that sometimes in cases of adultery Brigham Young suspended a sentence of death in favor of a tongue-lashing. Burton would have hated to receive such a word-whipping.

  “Just so,” Sun Moon answered again.


  The Lion of the Lord turned to Burton. “Tell me once more what happened when you and Rockwell chanced on these two on the road.”

  Burton did. His account was deliberately simple and factual. He felt sure the Prophet would despise any exaggeration or fancifulness.

  When the brief tale ended, Brigham Young let the silence sit. He regarded each of the three of them in turn and let the silence grow steadily, as a hot and oppressive desert sun rises to zenith.

  Burton found himself jiggling with foolish hopes. Remember your back pain and think of me as your Androcles. He glanced sideways at his young companions. I have brought you into the Lion’s den, he thought. He could feel his own faith wavering. Presidents and potentates did not become great through sentiment. I have thrown us at this man’s mercy.

  Burton sighed. It was true, he admitted to himself, that only desperation had brought him here. Hiding from the leader of the infamous Danites in the sanctuary of Brigham Young—preposterous. Rockwell and the Danites were the instruments of the Church. Mothers probably used Porter Rockwell’s name to frighten their children into good behavior.

  Burton found himself perspiring. Hope seesawed with despair.

  “Please come with me,” said President Young.

  The Lion of the Lord rose stiffly—Burton noted that his back needed skilled fingers once more—and exited. Down a hall they all went, out into a garden, through flowers to another building.

  The Prophet mounted some stairs, opened a door, and left it to his visitors to follow his massive form. Burton gulped. Are we going into Lion House itself? Brigham Young’s residence was next to his office building.