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_ Long before daylight the camp at Nephi was astir. The cattle were
driven out to water and pasture. While the men unchained the wheels
and drew the wagons apart and clear for yoking in, the women cooked
forty breakfasts over forty fires. The children, in the chill of
dawn, clustered about the fires, sharing places, here and there,
with the last relief of the night-watch waiting sleepily for coffee.
It requires time to get a large train such as ours under way, for
its speed is the speed of the slowest. So the sun was an hour high
and the day was already uncomfortably hot when we rolled out of
Nephi and on into the sandy barrens. No inhabitant of the place saw
us off. All chose to remain indoors, thus making our departure as
ominous as they had made our arrival the night before.
Again it was long hours of parching heat and biting dust, sage-brush
and sand, and a land accursed. No dwellings of men, neither cattle
nor fences, nor any sign of human kind, did we encounter all that
day; and at night we made our wagon-circle beside an empty stream,
in the damp sand of which we dug many holes that filled slowly with
water seepage.
Our subsequent journey is always a broken experience to me. We made
camp so many times, always with the wagons drawn in circle, that to
my child mind a weary long time passed after Nephi. But always,
strong upon all of us, was that sense of drifting to an impending
and certain doom.
We averaged about fifteen miles a day. I know, for my father had
said it was sixty miles to Fillmore, the next Mormon settlement, and
we made three camps on the way. This meant four days of travel.
From Nephi to the last camp of which I have any memory we must have
taken two weeks or a little less.
At Fillmore the inhabitants were hostile, as all had been since Salt
Lake. They laughed at us when we tried to buy food, and were not
above taunting us with being Missourians.
When we entered the place, hitched before the largest house of the
dozen houses that composed the settlement were two saddle-horses,
dusty, streaked with sweat, and drooping. The old man I have
mentioned, the one with long, sunburnt hair and buckskin shirt and
who seemed a sort of aide or lieutenant to father, rode close to our
wagon and indicated the jaded saddle-animals with a cock of his
head.
"Not sparin' horseflesh, Captain," he muttered in a low voice. "An'
what in the name of Sam Hill are they hard-riding for if it ain't
for us?"
But my father had already noted the condition of the two animals,
and my eager eyes had seen him. And I had seen his eyes flash, his
lips tighten, and haggard lines form for a moment on his dusty face.
That was all. But I put two and two together, and knew that the two
tired saddle-horses were just one more added touch of ominousness to
the situation.
"I guess they're keeping an eye on us, Laban," was my father's sole
comment.
It was at Fillmore that I saw a man that I was to see again. He was
a tall, broad-shouldered man, well on in middle age, with all the
evidence of good health and immense strength--strength not alone of
body but of will. Unlike most men I was accustomed to about me, he
was smooth-shaven. Several days' growth of beard showed that he was
already well-grayed. His mouth was unusually wide, with thin lips
tightly compressed as if he had lost many of his front teeth. His
nose was large, square, and thick. So was his face square, wide
between the cheekbones, underhung with massive jaws, and topped with
a broad, intelligent forehead. And the eyes, rather small, a little
more than the width of an eye apart, were the bluest blue I had ever
seen.
It was at the flour-mill at Fillmore that I first saw this man.
Father, with several of our company, had gone there to try to buy
flour, and I, disobeying my mother in my curiosity to see more of
our enemies, had tagged along unperceived. This man was one of four
or five who stood in a group with the miller during the interview.
"You seen that smooth-faced old cuss?" Laban said to father, after
we had got outside and were returning to camp.
Father nodded.
"Well, that's Lee," Laban continued. "I seen'm in Salt Lake. He's
a regular son-of-a-gun. Got nineteen wives and fifty children, they
all say. An' he's rank crazy on religion. Now, what's he followin'
us up for through this God-forsaken country?"
Our weary, doomed drifting went on. The little settlements,
wherever water and soil permitted, were from twenty to fifty miles
apart. Between stretched the barrenness of sand and alkali and
drought. And at every settlement our peaceful attempts to buy food
were vain. They denied us harshly, and wanted to know who of us had
sold them food when we drove them from Missouri. It was useless on
our part to tell them we were from Arkansas. From Arkansas we truly
were, but they insisted on our being Missourians.
At Beaver, five days' journey south from Fillmore, we saw Lee again.
And again we saw hard-ridden horses tethered before the houses. But
we did not see Lee at Parowan.
Cedar City was the last settlement. Laban, who had ridden on ahead,
came back and reported to father. His first news was significant.
"I seen that Lee skedaddling out as I rid in, Captain. An' there's
more men-folk an' horses in Cedar City than the size of the place 'd
warrant."
But we had no trouble at the settlement. Beyond refusing to sell us
food, they left us to ourselves. The women and children stayed in
the houses, and though some of the men appeared in sight they did
not, as on former occasions, enter our camp and taunt us.
It was at Cedar City that the Wainwright baby died. I remember Mrs.
Wainwright weeping and pleading with Laban to try to get some cow's
milk.
"It may save the baby's life," she said. "And they've got cow's
milk. I saw fresh cows with my own eyes. Go on, please, Laban. It
won't hurt you to try. They can only refuse. But they won't. Tell
them it's for a baby, a wee little baby. Mormon women have mother's
hearts. They couldn't refuse a cup of milk for a wee little baby."
And Laban tried. But, as he told father afterward, he did not get
to see any Mormon women. He saw only the Mormon men, who turned him
away.
This was the last Mormon outpost. Beyond lay the vast desert, with,
on the other side of it, the dream land, ay, the myth land, of
California. As our wagons rolled out of the place in the early
morning I, sitting beside my father on the driver's seat, saw Laban
give expression to his feelings. We had gone perhaps half a mile,
and were topping a low rise that would sink Cedar City from view,
when Laban turned his horse around, halted it, and stood up in the
stirrups. Where he had halted was a new-made grave, and I knew it
for the Wainwright baby's--not the first of our graves since we had
crossed the Wasatch mountains.
He was a weird figure of a man. Aged and lean, long-faced, hollow-
checked, with matted, sunburnt hair that fell below the shoulders of
his buckskin shirt, his face was distorted with hatred and helpless
rage. Holding his long rifle in his bridle-hand, he shook his free
fist at Cedar City.
"God's curse on all of you!" he cried out. "On your children, and
on your babes unborn. May drought destroy your crops. May you eat
sand seasoned with the venom of rattlesnakes. May the sweet water
of your springs turn to bitter alkali. May . . ."
Here his words became indistinct as our wagons rattled on; but his
heaving shoulders and brandishing fist attested that he had only
begun to lay the curse. That he expressed the general feeling in
our train was evidenced by the many women who leaned from the
wagons, thrusting out gaunt forearms and shaking bony, labour-
malformed fists at the last of Mormondom. A man, who walked in the
sand and goaded the oxen of the wagon behind ours, laughed and waved
his goad. It was unusual, that laugh, for there had been no
laughter in our train for many days.
"Give 'm hell, Laban," he encouraged. "Them's my sentiments."
And as our train rolled on I continued to look back at Laban,
standing in his stirrups by the baby's grave. Truly he was a weird
figure, with his long hair, his moccasins, and fringed leggings. So
old and weather-beaten was his buckskin shirt that ragged filaments,
here and there, showed where proud fringes once had been. He was a
man of flying tatters. I remember, at his waist, dangled dirty
tufts of hair that, far back in the journey, after a shower of rain,
were wont to show glossy black. These I knew were Indian scalps,
and the sight of them always thrilled me.
"It will do him good," father commended, more to himself than to me.
"I've been looking for days for him to blow up."
"I wish he'd go back and take a couple of scalps," I volunteered.
My father regarded me quizzically.
"Don't like the Mormons, eh, son?"
I shook my head and felt myself swelling with the inarticulate hate
that possessed me.
"When I grow up," I said, after a minute, "I'm goin' gunning for
them."
"You, Jesse!" came my mother's voice from inside the wagon. "Shut
your mouth instanter." And to my father: "You ought to be ashamed
letting the boy talk on like that."
Two days' journey brought us to Mountain Meadows, and here, well
beyond the last settlement, for the first time we did not form the
wagon-circle. The wagons were roughly in a circle, but there were
many gaps, and the wheels were not chained. Preparations were made
to stop a week. The cattle must be rested for the real desert,
though this was desert enough in all seeming. The same low hills of
sand were about us, but sparsely covered with scrub brush. The flat
was sandy, but there was some grass--more than we had encountered in
many days. Not more than a hundred feet from camp was a weak spring
that barely supplied human needs. But farther along the bottom
various other weak springs emerged from the hillsides, and it was at
these that the cattle watered.
We made camp early that day, and, because of the programme to stay a
week, there was a general overhauling of soiled clothes by the
women, who planned to start washing on the morrow. Everybody worked
till nightfall. While some of the men mended harness others
repaired the frames and ironwork of the wagons. Them was much
heating and hammering of iron and tightening of bolts and nuts. And
I remember coming upon Laban, sitting cross-legged in the shade of a
wagon and sewing away till nightfall on a new pair of moccasins. He
was the only man in our train who wore moccasins and buckskin, and I
have an impression that he had not belonged to our company when it
left Arkansas. Also, he had neither wife, nor family, nor wagon of
his own. All he possessed was his horse, his rifle, the clothes he
stood up in, and a couple of blankets that were hauled in the Mason
wagon.
Next morning it was that our doom fell. Two days' journey beyond
the last Mormon outpost, knowing that no Indians were about and
apprehending nothing from the Indians on any count, for the first
time we had not chained our wagons in the solid circle, placed
guards on the cattle, nor set a night-watch.
My awakening was like a nightmare. It came as a sudden blast of
sound. I was only stupidly awake for the first moments and did
nothing except to try to analyze and identify the various noises
that went to compose the blast that continued without let up. I
could hear near and distant explosions of rifles, shouts and curses
of men, women screaming, and children bawling. Then I could make
out the thuds and squeals of bullets that hit wood and iron in the
wheels and under-construction of the wagon. Whoever it was that was
shooting, the aim was too low. When I started to rise, my mother,
evidently just in the act of dressing, pressed me down with her
hand. Father, already up and about, at this stage erupted into the
wagon.
"Out of it!" he shouted. "Quick! To the ground!"
He wasted no time. With a hook-like clutch that was almost a blow,
so swift was it, he flung me bodily out of the rear end of the
wagon. I had barely time to crawl out from under when father,
mother, and the baby came down pell-mell where I had been.
"Here, Jesse!" father shouted to me, and I joined him in scooping
out sand behind the shelter of a wagon-wheel. We worked bare-handed
and wildly. Mother joined in.
"Go ahead and make it deeper, Jesse," father ordered,
He stood up and rushed away in the gray light, shouting commands as
he ran. (I had learned by now my surname. I was Jesse Fancher. My
father was Captain Fancher).
"Lie down!" I could hear him. "Get behind the wagon wheels and
burrow in the sand! Family men, get the women and children out of
the wagons! Hold your fire! No more shooting! Hold your fire and
be ready for the rush when it comes! Single men, join Laban at the
right, Cochrane at the left, and me in the centre! Don't stand up!
Crawl for it!"
But no rush came. For a quarter of an hour the heavy and irregular
firing continued. Our damage had come in the first moments of
surprise when a number of the early-rising men were caught exposed
in the light of the campfires they were building. The Indians--for
Indians Laban declared them to be--had attacked us from the open,
and were lying down and firing at us. In the growing light father
made ready for them. His position was near to where I lay in the
burrow with mother so that I heard him when he cried out:
"Now! all together!"
From left, right, and centre our rifles loosed in a volley. I had
popped my head up to see, and I could make out more than one
stricken Indian. Their fire immediately ceased, and I could see
them scampering back on foot across the open, dragging their dead
and wounded with them.
All was work with us on the instant. While the wagons were being
dragged and chained into the circle with tongues inside--I saw women
and little boys and girls flinging their strength on the wheel
spokes to help--we took toll of our losses. First, and gravest of
all, our last animal had been run off. Next, lying about the fires
they had been building, were seven of our men. Four were dead, and
three were dying. Other men, wounded, were being cared for by the
women. Little Rish Hardacre had been struck in the arm by a heavy
ball. He was no more than six, and I remember looking on with mouth
agape while his mother held him on her lap and his father set about
bandaging the wound. Little Rish had stopped crying. I could see
the tears on his cheeks while he stared wonderingly at a sliver of
broken bone sticking out of his forearm.
Granny White was found dead in the Foxwell wagon. She was a fat and
helpless old woman who never did anything but sit down all the time
and smoke a pipe. She was the mother of Abby Foxwell. And Mrs.
Grant had been killed. Her husband sat beside her body. He was
very quiet. There were no tears in his eyes. He just sat there,
his rifle across his knees, and everybody left him alone.
Under father's directions the company was working like so many
beavers. The men dug a big rifle pit in the centre of the corral,
forming a breastwork out of the displaced sand. Into this pit the
women dragged bedding, food, and all sorts of necessaries from the
wagons. All the children helped. There was no whimpering, and
little or no excitement. There was work to be done, and all of us
were folks born to work.
The big rifle pit was for the women and children. Under the wagons,
completely around the circle, a shallow trench was dug and an
earthwork thrown up. This was for the fighting men.
Laban returned from a scout. He reported that the Indians had
withdrawn the matter of half a mile, and were holding a powwow.
Also he had seen them carry six of their number off the field, three
of which, he said, were deaders.
From time to time, during the morning of that first day, we observed
clouds of dust that advertised the movements of considerable bodies
of mounted men. These clouds of dust came toward us, hemming us in
on all sides. But we saw no living creature. One cloud of dirt
only moved away from us. It was a large cloud, and everybody said
it was our cattle being driven off. And our forty great wagons that
had rolled over the Rockies and half across the continent stood in a
helpless circle. Without cattle they could roll no farther.
At noon Laban came in from another scout. He had seen fresh Indians
arriving from the south, showing that we were being closed in. It
was at this time that we saw a dozen white men ride out on the crest
of a low hill to the east and look down on us.
"That settles it," Laban said to father. "The Indians have been put
up to it."
"They're white like us," I heard Abby Foxwell complain to mother.
"Why don't they come in to us?"
"They ain't whites," I piped up, with a wary eye for the swoop of
mother's hand. "They're Mormons."
That night, after dark, three of our young men stole out of camp. I
saw them go. They were Will Aden, Abel Milliken, and Timothy Grant.
"They are heading for Cedar City to get help," father told mother
while he was snatching a hasty bite of supper.
Mother shook her head.
"There's plenty of Mormons within calling distance of camp," she
said. "If they won't help, and they haven't shown any signs, then
the Cedar City ones won't either."
"But there are good Mormons and bad Mormons--" father began.
"We haven't found any good ones so far," she shut him off.
Not until morning did I hear of the return of Abel Milliken and
Timothy Grant, but I was not long in learning. The whole camp was
downcast by reason of their report. The three had gone only a few
miles when they were challenged by white men. As soon as Will Aden
spoke up, telling that they were from the Fancher Company, going to
Cedar City for help, he was shot down. Milliken and Grant escaped
back with the news, and the news settled the last hope in the hearts
of our company. The whites were behind the Indians, and the doom so
long apprehended was upon us.
This morning of the second day our men, going for water, were fired
upon. The spring was only a hundred feet outside our circle, but
the way to it was commanded by the Indians who now occupied the low
hill to the east. It was close range, for the hill could not have
been more than fifteen rods away. But the Indians were not good
shots, evidently, for our men brought in the water without being
hit.
Beyond an occasional shot into camp the morning passed quietly. We
had settled down in the rifle pit, and, being used to rough living,
were comfortable enough. Of course it was bad for the families of
those who had been killed, and there was the taking care of the
wounded. I was for ever stealing away from mother in my insatiable
curiosity to see everything that was going on, and I managed to see
pretty much of everything. Inside the corral, to the south of the
big rifle pit, the men dug a hole and buried the seven men and two
women all together. Only Mrs. Hastings, who had lost her husband
and father, made much trouble. She cried and screamed out, and it
took the other women a long time to quiet her.
On the low hill to the east the Indians kept up a tremendous
powwowing and yelling. But beyond an occasional harmless shot they
did nothing.
"What's the matter with the ornery cusses?" Laban impatiently wanted
to know. "Can't they make up their minds what they're goin' to do,
an' then do it?"
It was hot in the corral that afternoon. The sun blazed down out of
a cloudless sky, and there was no wind. The men, lying with their
rifles in the trench under the wagons, were partly shaded; but the
big rifle pit, in which were over a hundred women and children, was
exposed to the full power of the sun. Here, too, were the wounded
men, over whom we erected awnings of blankets. It was crowded and
stifling in the pit, and I was for ever stealing out of it to the
firing-line, and making a great to-do at carrying messages for
father.
Our grave mistake had been in not forming the wagon-circle so as to
inclose the spring. This had been due to the excitement of the
first attack, when we did not know how quickly it might be followed
by a second one. And now it was too late. At fifteen rods'
distance from the Indian position on the hill we did not dare
unchain our wagons. Inside the corral, south of the graves, we
constructed a latrine, and, north of the rifle pit in the centre, a
couple of men were told off by father to dig a well for water.
In the mid-afternoon of that day, which was the second day, we saw
Lee again. He was on foot, crossing diagonally over the meadow to
the north-west just out of rifle-shot from us. Father hoisted one
of mother's sheets on a couple of ox-goads lashed together. This
was our white flag. But Lee took no notice of it, continuing on his
way.
Laban was for trying a long shot at him, but father stopped him,
saying that it was evident the whites had not made up their minds
what they were going to do with us, and that a shot at Lee might
hurry them into making up their minds the wrong way.
"Here, Jesse," father said to me, tearing a strip from the sheet and
fastening it to an ox-goad. "Take this and go out and try to talk
to that man. Don't tell him anything about what's happened to us.
Just try to get him to come in and talk with us."
As I started to obey, my chest swelling with pride in my mission,
Jed Dunham cried out that he wanted to go with me. Jed was about my
own age.
"Dunham, can your boy go along with Jesse?" father asked Jed's
father. "Two's better than one. They'll keep each other out of
mischief."
So Jed and I, two youngsters of nine, went out under the white flag
to talk with the leader of our enemies. But Lee would not talk.
When he saw us coming he started to sneak away. We never got within
calling distance of him, and after a while he must have hidden in
the brush; for we never laid eyes on him again, and we knew he
couldn't have got clear away.
Jed and I beat up the brush for hundreds of yards all around. They
hadn't told us how long we were to be gone, and since the Indians
did not fire on us we kept on going. We were away over two hours,
though had either of us been alone he would have been back in a
quarter of the time. But Jed was bound to outbrave me, and I was
equally bound to outbrave him.
Our foolishness was not without profit. We walked, boldly about
under our white flag, and learned how thoroughly our camp was
beleaguered. To the south of our train, not more than half a mile
away, we made out a large Indian camp. Beyond, on the meadow, we
could see Indian boys riding hard on their horses.
Then there was the Indian position on the hill to the east. We
managed to climb a low hill so as to look into this position. Jed
and I spent half an hour trying to count them, and concluded, with
much guessing, that there must be at least a couple of hundred.
Also, we saw white men with them and doing a great deal of talking.
North-east of our train, not more than four hundred yards from it,
we discovered a large camp of whites behind a low rise of ground.
And beyond we could see fifty or sixty saddle-horses grazing. And a
mile or so away, to the north, we saw a tiny cloud of dust
approaching. Jed and I waited until we saw a single man, riding
fast, gallop into the camp of the whites.
When we got back into the corral the first thing that happened to me
was a smack from mother for having stayed away so long; but father
praised Jed and me when we gave our report.
"Watch for an attack now maybe, Captain," Aaron Cochrane said to
father. "That man the boys seen has rid in for a purpose. The
whites are holding the Indians till they get orders from higher up.
Maybe that man brung the orders one way or the other. They ain't
sparing horseflesh, that's one thing sure."
Half an hour after our return Laban attempted a scout under a white
flag. But he had not gone twenty feet outside the circle when the
Indians opened fire on him and sent him back on the run.
Just before sundown I was in the rifle pit holding the baby, while
mother was spreading the blankets for a bed. There were so many of
us that we were packed and jammed. So little room was there that
many of the women the night before had sat up and slept with their
heads bowed on their knees. Right alongside of me, so near that
when he tossed his arms about he struck me on the shoulder, Silas
Dunlap was dying. He had been shot in the head in the first attack,
and all the second day was out of his head and raving and singing
doggerel. One of his songs, that he sang over and over, until it
made mother frantic nervous, was:
"Said the first little devil to the second little devil,
'Give me some tobaccy from your old tobaccy box.'
Said the second little devil to the first little devil,
'Stick close to your money and close to your rocks,
An' you'll always have tobaccy in your old tobaccy box.'"
I was sitting directly alongside of him, holding the baby, when the
attack burst on us. It was sundown, and I was staring with all my
eyes at Silas Dunlap who was just in the final act of dying. His
wife, Sarah, had one hand resting on his forehead. Both she and her
Aunt Martha were crying softly. And then it came--explosions and
bullets from hundreds of rifles. Clear around from east to west, by
way of the north, they had strung out in half a circle and were
pumping lead in our position. Everybody in the rifle pit flattened
down. Lots of the younger children set up a-squalling, and it kept
the women busy hushing them. Some of the women screamed at first,
but not many.
Thousands of shots must haven rained in on us in the next few
minutes. How I wanted to crawl out to the trench under the wagons
where our men were keeping up a steady but irregular fire! Each was
shooting on his own whenever he saw a man to pull trigger on. But
mother suspected me, for she made me crouch down and keep right on
holding the baby.
I was just taking a look at Silas Dunlap--he was still quivering--
when the little Castleton baby was killed. Dorothy Castleton,
herself only about ten, was holding it, so that it was killed in her
arms. She was not hurt at all. I heard them talking about it, and
they conjectured that the bullet must have struck high on one of the
wagons and been deflected down into the rifle pit. It was just an
accident, they said, and that except for such accidents we were safe
where we were.
When I looked again Silas Dunlap was dead, and I suffered distinct
disappointment in being cheated out of witnessing that particular
event. I had never been lucky enough to see a man actually die
before my eyes.
Dorothy Castleton got hysterics over what had happened, and yelled
and screamed for a long time and she set Mrs. Hastings going again.
Altogether such a row was raised that father sent Watt Cummings
crawling back to us to find out what was the matter.
Well along into twilight the heavy firing ceased, although there
were scattering shots during the night. Two of our men were wounded
in this second attack, and were brought into the rifle pit. Bill
Tyler was killed instantly, and they buried him, Silas Dunlap, and
the Castleton baby, in the dark alongside of the others.
All during the night men relieved one another at sinking the well
deeper; but the only sign of water they got was damp sand. Some of
the men fetched a few pails of water from the spring, but were fired
upon, and they gave it up when Jeremy Hopkins had his left hand shot
off at the wrist.
Next morning, the third day, it was hotter and dryer than ever. We
awoke thirsty, and there was no cooking. So dry were our mouths
that we could not eat. I tried a piece of stale bread mother gave
me, but had to give it up. The firing rose and fell. Sometimes
there were hundreds shooting into the camp. At other times came
lulls in which not a shot was fired. Father was continually
cautioning our men not to waste shots because we were running short
of ammunition.
And all the time the men went on digging the well. It was so deep
that they were hoisting the sand up in buckets. The men who hoisted
were exposed, and one of them was wounded in the shoulder. He was
Peter Bromley, who drove oxen for the Bloodgood wagon, and he was
engaged to marry Jane Bloodgood. She jumped out of the rifle pit
and ran right to him while the bullets were flying and led him back
into shelter. About midday the well caved in, and there was lively
work digging out the couple who were buried in the sand. Amos
Wentworth did not come to for an hour. After that they timbered the
well with bottom boards from the wagons and wagon tongues, and the
digging went on. But all they could get, and they were twenty feet
down, was damp sand. The water would not seep.
By this time the conditions in the rifle pit were terrible. The
children were complaining for water, and the babies, hoarse from
much crying, went on crying. Robert Carr, another wounded man, lay
about ten feet from mother and me. He was out of his head, and kept
thrashing his arms about and calling for water. And some of the
women were almost as bad, and kept raving against the Mormons and
Indians. Some of the women prayed a great deal, and the three grown
Demdike sisters, with their mother, sang gospel hymns. Other women
got damp sand that was hoisted out of the bottom of the well, and
packed it against the bare bodies of the babies to try to cool and
soothe them.
The two Fairfax brothers couldn't stand it any longer, and, with
pails in their hands, crawled out under a wagon and made a dash for
the spring. Giles never got half way, when he went down. Roger
made it there and back without being hit. He brought two pails
part-full, for some splashed out when he ran. Giles crawled back,
and when they helped him into the rifle pit he was bleeding at the
mouth and coughing.
Two part-pails of water could not go far among over a hundred of us,
not counting the, men. Only the babies, and the very little
children, and the wounded men, got any. I did not get a sip,
although mother dipped a bit of cloth into the several spoonfuls she
got for the baby and wiped my mouth out. She did not even do that
for herself, for she left me the bit of damp rag to chew.
The situation grew unspeakably worse in the afternoon. The quiet
sun blazed down through the clear windless air and made a furnace of
our hole in the sand. And all about us were the explosions of
rifles and yells of the Indians. Only once in a while did father
permit a single shot from the trench, and at that only by our best
marksmen, such as Laban and Timothy Grant. But a steady stream of
lead poured into our position all the time. There were no more
disastrous ricochets, however; and our men in the trench, no longer
firing, lay low and escaped damage. Only four were wounded, and
only one of them very badly.
Father came in from the trench during a lull in the firing. He sat
for a few minutes alongside mother and me without speaking. He
seemed to be listening to all the moaning and crying for water that
was going up. Once he climbed out of the rifle pit and went over to
investigate the well. He brought back only damp sand, which he
plastered thick on the chest and shoulders of Robert Carr. Then he
went to where Jed Dunham and his mother were, and sent for Jed's
father to come in from the trench. So closely packed were we that
when anybody moved about inside the rifle pit he had to crawl
carefully over the bodies of those lying down.
After a time father came crawling back to us.
"Jesse, he asked, "are you afraid of the Indians?"
I shook my head emphatically, guessing that I was to be seat on
another proud mission.
"Are you afraid of the damned Mormons?"
"Not of any damned Mormon," I answered, taking advantage of the
opportunity to curse our enemies without fear of the avenging back
of mother's hand.
I noted the little smile that curled his tired lips for the moment
when he heard my reply.
"Well, then, Jesse," he said, "will you go with Jed to the spring
for water?"
I was all eagerness.
"We're going to dress the two of you up as girls," he continued, "so
that maybe they won't fire on you."
I insisted on going as I was, as a male human that wore pants; but I
surrendered quickly enough when father suggested that he would find
some other boy to dress up and go along with Jed.
A chest was fetched in from the Chattox wagon. The Chattox girls
were twins and of about a size with Jed and me. Several of the
women got around to help. They were the Sunday dresses of the
Chattox twins, and had come in the chest all the way from Arkansas.
In her anxiety mother left the baby with Sarah Dunlap, and came as
far as the trench with me. There, under a wagon and behind the
little breast-work of sand, Jed and I received our last
instructions. Then we crawled out and stood up in the open. We
were dressed precisely alike--white stockings, white dresses, with
big blue sashes, and white sunbonnets. Jed's right and my left hand
were clasped together. In each of our free hands we carried two
small pails.
"Take it easy," father cautioned, as we began our advance. "Go
slow. Walk like girls."
Not a shot was fired. We made the spring safely, filled our pails,
and lay down and took a good drink ourselves. With a full pail in
each hand we made the return trip. And still not a shot was fired.
I cannot remember how many journeys we made--fully fifteen or
twenty. We walked slowly, always going out with hands clasped,
always coming back slowly with four pails of water. It was
astonishing how thirsty we were. We lay down several times and took
long drinks.
But it was too much for our enemies. I cannot imagine that the
Indians would have withheld their fire for so long, girls or no
girls, had they not obeyed instructions from the whites who were
with them. At any rate Jed and I were just starting on another trip
when a rifle went off from the Indian hill, and then another.
"Come back!" mother cried out.
I looked at Jed, and found him looking at me. I knew he was
stubborn and had made up his mind to be the last one in. So I
started to advance, and at the same instant he started.
"You!--Jesse!" cried my mother. And there was more than a smacking
in the way she said it.
Jed offered to clasp hands, but I shook my head.
"Run for it," I said.
And while we hotfooted it across the sand it seemed all the rifles
on Indian hill were turned loose on us. I got to the spring a
little ahead, so that Jed had to wait for me to fill my pails.
"Now run for it," he told me; and from the leisurely way he went
about filling his own pails I knew he was determined to be in last.
So I crouched down, and, while I waited, watched the puffs of dust
raised by the bullets. We began the return side by side and
running.
"Not so fast," I cautioned him, "or you'll spill half the water."
That stung him, and he slacked back perceptibly. Midway I stumbled
and fell headlong. A bullet, striking directly in front of me,
filled my eyes with sand. For the moment I thought I was shot.
"Done it a-purpose," Jed sneered as I scrambled to my feet. He had
stood and waited for me.
I caught his idea. He thought I had fallen deliberately in order to
spill my water and go back for more. This rivalry between us was a
serious matter--so serious, indeed, that I immediately took
advantage of what he had imputed and raced back to the spring. And
Jed Dunham, scornful of the bullets that were puffing dust all
around him, stood there upright in the open and waited for me. We
came in side by side, with honours even in our boys' foolhardiness.
But when we delivered the water Jed had only one pailful. A bullet
had gone through the other pail close to the bottom.
Mother took it out on me with a lecture on disobedience. She must
have known, after what I had done, that father wouldn't let her
smack me; for, while she was lecturing, father winked at me across
her shoulder. It was the first time he had ever winked at me.
Back in the rifle pit Jed and I were heroes. The women wept and
blessed us, and kissed us and mauled us. And I confess I was proud
of the demonstration, although, like Jed, I let on that I did not
like all such making-over. But Jeremy Hopkins, a great bandage
about the stump of his left wrist, said we were the stuff white men
were made out of--men like Daniel Boone, like Kit Carson, and Davy
Crockett. I was prouder of that than all the rest.
The remainder of the day I seem to have been bothered principally
with the pain of my right eye caused by the sand that had been
kicked into it by the bullet. The eye was bloodshot, mother said;
and to me it seemed to hurt just as much whether I kept it open or
closed. I tried both ways.
Things were quieter in the rifle pit, because all had had water,
though strong upon us was the problem of how the next water was to
be procured. Coupled with this was the known fact that our
ammunition was almost exhausted. A thorough overhauling of the
wagons by father had resulted in finding five pounds of powder. A
very little more was in the flasks of the men.
I remembered the sundown attack of the night before, and anticipated
it this time by crawling to the trench before sunset. I crept into
a place alongside of Laban. He was busy chewing tobacco, and did
not notice me. For some time I watched him, fearing that when he
discovered me he would order me back. He would take a long squint
out between the wagon wheels, chew steadily a while, and then spit
carefully into a little depression he had made in the sand.
"How's tricks?" I asked finally. It was the way he always addressed
me.
"Fine," he answered. "Most remarkable fine, Jesse, now that I can
chew again. My mouth was that dry that I couldn't chew from sun-up
to when you brung the water."
Here a man showed head and shoulders over the top of the little hill
to the north-east occupied by the whites. Laban sighted his rifle
on him for a long minute. Then he shook his head.
"Four hundred yards. Nope, I don't risk it. I might get him, and
then again I mightn't, an' your dad is mighty anxious about the
powder."
"What do you think our chances are?" I asked, man-fashion, for,
after my water exploit, I was feeling very much the man.
Laban seemed to consider carefully for a space ere he replied.
"Jesse, I don't mind tellin' you we're in a damned bad hole. But
we'll get out, oh, we'll get out, you can bet your bottom dollar."
"Some of us ain't going to get out," I objected.
"Who, for instance?" he queried.
"Why, Bill Tyler, and Mrs. Grant, and Silas Dunlap, and all the
rest."
"Aw, shucks, Jesse--they're in the ground already. Don't you know
everybody has to bury their dead as they traipse along? They've ben
doin' it for thousands of years I reckon, and there's just as many
alive as ever they was. You see, Jesse, birth and death go hand-in-
hand. And they're born as fast as they die--faster, I reckon,
because they've increased and multiplied. Now you, you might a-got
killed this afternoon packin' water. But you're here, ain't you, a-
gassin' with me an' likely to grow up an' be the father of a fine
large family in Californy. They say everything grows large in
Californy."
This cheerful way of looking at the matter encouraged me to dare
sudden expression of a long covetousness.
"Say, Laban, supposin' you got killed here--"
"Who?--me?" he cried.
"I'm just sayin' supposin'," I explained.
"Oh, all right then. Go on. Supposin' I am killed?"
"Will you give me your scalps?"
"Your ma'll smack you if she catches you a-wearin' them," he
temporized.
"I don't have to wear them when she's around. Now if you got
killed, Laban, somebody'd have to get them scalps. Why not me?"
"Why not?" he repeated. "That's correct, and why not you? All
right, Jesse. I like you, and your pa. The minute I'm killed the
scalps is yourn, and the scalpin' knife, too. And there's Timothy
Grant for witness. Did you hear, Timothy?"
Timothy said he had heard, and I lay there speechless in the
stifling trench, too overcome by my greatness of good fortune to be
able to utter a word of gratitude.
I was rewarded for my foresight in going to the trench. Another
general attack was made at sundown, and thousands of shots were
fired into us. Nobody on our side was scratched. On the other
hand, although we fired barely thirty shots, I saw Laban and Timothy
Grant each get an Indian. Laban told me that from the first only
the Indians had done the shooting. He was certain that no white had
fired a shot. All of which sorely puzzled him. The whites neither
offered us aid nor attacked us, and all the while were on visiting
terms with the Indians who were attacking us.
Next morning found the thirst harsh upon us. I was out at the first
hint of light. There had been a heavy dew, and men, women, and
children were lapping it up with their tongues from off the wagon-
tongues, brake-blocks, and wheel-tyres.
There was talk that Laban had returned from a scout just before
daylight; that he had crept close to the position of the whites;
that they were already up; and that in the light of their camp-fires
he had seen them praying in a large circle. Also he reported from
what few words he caught that they were praying about us and what
was to be done with us.
"May God send them the light then," I heard one of the Demdike
sisters say to Abby Foxwell.
"And soon," said Abby Foxwell, "for I don't know what we'll do a
whole day without water, and our powder is about gone."
Nothing happened all morning. Not a shot was fired. Only the sun
blazed down through the quiet air. Our thirst grew, and soon the
babies were crying and the younger children whimpering and
complaining. At noon Will Hamilton took two large pails and started
for the spring. But before he could crawl under the wagon Ann
Demdike ran and got her arms around him and tried to hold him back.
But he talked to her, and kissed her, and went on. Not a shot was
fired, nor was any fired all the time he continued to go out and
bring back water.
"Praise God!" cried old Mrs. Demdike. "It is a sign. They have
relented."
This was the opinion of many of the women.
About two o'clock, after we had eaten and felt better, a white man
appeared, carrying a white flag. Will Hamilton went out and talked
to him, came back and talked with father and the rest of our men,
and then went out to the stranger again. Farther back we could see
a man standing and looking on, whom we recognized as Lee.
With us all was excitement. The women were so relieved that they
were crying and kissing one another, and old Mrs. Demdike and others
were hallelujahing and blessing God. The proposal, which our men
had accepted, was that we would put ourselves under the flag of
truce and be protected from the Indians.
"We had to do it," I heard father tell mother.
He was sitting, droop-shouldered and dejected, on a wagon-tongue.
"But what if they intend treachery?" mother asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"We've got to take the chance that they don't," he said. "Our
ammunition is gone."
Some of our men were unchaining one of our wagons and rolling it out
of the way. I ran across to see what was happening. In came Lee
himself, followed by two empty wagons, each driven by one man.
Everybody crowded around Lee. He said that they had had a hard time
with the Indians keeping them off of us, and that Major Higbee, with
fifty of the Mormon militia, were ready to take us under their
charge.
But what made father and Laban and some of the men suspicious was
when Lee said that we must put all our rifles into one of the wagons
so as not to arouse the animosity of the Indians. By so doing we
would appear to be the prisoners of the Mormon militia.
Father straightened up and was about to refuse when he glanced to
Laban, who replied in an undertone. "They ain't no more use in our
hands than in the wagon, seein' as the powder's gone."
Two of our wounded men who could not walk were put into the wagons,
and along with them were put all the little children. Lee seemed to
be picking them out over eight and under eight. Jed and I were
large for our age, and we were nine besides; so Lee put us with the
older bunch and told us we were to march with the women on foot.
When he took our baby from mother and put it in a wagon she started
to object. Then I saw her lips draw tightly together, and she gave
in. She was a gray-eyed, strong-featured, middle-aged woman, large-
boned and fairly stout. But the long journey and hardship had told
on her, so that she was hollow-cheeked and gaunt, and like all the
women in the company she wore an expression of brooding, never-
ceasing anxiety.
It was when Lee described the order of march that Laban came to me.
Lee said that the women and the children that walked should go first
in the line, following behind the two wagons. Then the men, in
single file, should follow the women. When Laban heard this he came
to me, untied the scalps from his belt, and fastened them to my
waist.
"But you ain't killed yet," I protested.
"You bet your life I ain't," he answered lightly.
"I've just reformed, that's all. This scalp-wearin' is a vain thing
and heathen." He stopped a moment as if he had forgotten something,
then, as he turned abruptly on his heel to regain the men of our
company, he called over his shoulder, "Well, so long, Jesse."
I was wondering why he should say good-bye when a white man came
riding into the corral. He said Major Higbee had sent him to tell
us to hurry up, because the Indians might attack at any moment.
So the march began, the two wagons first. Lee kept along with the
women and walking children. Behind us, after waiting until we were
a couple of hundred feet in advance, came our men. As we emerged
from the corral we could see the militia just a short distance away.
They were leaning on their rifles and standing in a long line about
six feet apart. As we passed them I could not help noticing how
solemn-faced they were. They looked like men at a funeral. So did
the women notice this, and some of them began to cry.
I walked right behind my mother. I had chosen this position so that
she would not catch-sight of my scalps. Behind me came the three
Demdike sisters, two of them helping the old mother. I could hear
Lee calling all the time to the men who drove the wagons not to go
so fast. A man that one of the Demdike girls said must be Major
Higbee sat on a horse watching us go by. Not an Indian was in
sight.
By the time our men were just abreast of the militia--I had just
looked back to try to see where Jed Dunham was--the thing happened.
I heard Major Higbee cry out in a loud voice, "Do your duty!" All
the rifles of the militia seemed to go off at once, and our men were
falling over and sinking down. All the Demdike women went down at
one time. I turned quickly to see how mother was, and she was down.
Right alongside of us, out of the bushes, came hundreds of Indians,
all shooting. I saw the two Dunlap sisters start on the run across
the sand, and took after them, for whites and Indians were all
killing us. And as I ran I saw the driver of one of the wagons
shooting the two wounded men. The horses of the other wagon were
plunging and rearing and their driver was trying to hold them.
It was when the little boy that was I was running after the Dunlap
girls that blackness came upon him. All memory there ceases, for
Jesse Fancher there ceased, and, as Jesse Fancher, ceased for ever.
The form that was Jesse Fancher, the body that was his, being matter
and apparitional, like an apparition passed and was not. But the
imperishable spirit did not cease. It continued to exist, and, in
its next incarnation, became the residing spirit of that
apparitional body known as Darrell Standing's which soon is to be
taken out and hanged and sent into the nothingness whither all
apparitions go.
There is a lifer here in Folsom, Matthew Davies, of old pioneer
stock, who is trusty of the scaffold and execution chamber. He is
an old man, and his folks crossed the plains in the early days. I
have talked with him, and he has verified the massacre in which
Jesse Fancher was killed. When this old lifer was a child there was
much talk in his family of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. The
children in the wagons, he said, were saved, because they were too
young to tell tales.
All of which I submit. Never, in my life of Darrell Standing, have
I read a line or heard a word spoken of the Fancher Company that
perished at Mountain Meadows. Yet, in the jacket in San Quentin
prison, all this knowledge came to me. I could not create this
knowledge out of nothing, any more than could I create dynamite out
of nothing. This knowledge and these facts I have related have but
one explanation. They are out of the spirit content of me--the
spirit that, unlike matter, does not perish.
In closing this chapter I must state that Matthew Davies also told
me that some years after the massacre Lee was taken by United States
Government officials to the Mountain Meadows and there executed on
the site of our old corral. _
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