Only the Brave: The Continuing Saga of the San Juan Pioneers Read online

  “Thank you,” she said, tipping her head way back and looking at him.

  The swing seat was wide enough for two adults, and for a split second Mitch considered asking if she wanted him to sit beside her. But he shook it off. It was one thing to be bold, but quite another to be insanely bold. He stepped around behind her, grabbed the ropes, and began to pull her back.

  “Higher,” she said.

  He backed up another three feet.

  “Higher!”

  Arching his back, he pulled her up until her feet were nearly level with his eyes and then gave her a mighty shove. She squealed in delight as she shot away from him. Laughing merrily, she stuck her feet straight out, tipped her head back until she was almost laid out flat and her hair was flying out behind her, and began to pump.

  He moved away and sat down where he could watch her face, now pale and ghostly in the moonlight. And, to his surprise, he found himself totally content.

  She swung back and forth, her eyes closed, for six or seven minutes. At about five minutes she asked if he wanted to trade places, but he said no. He was enjoying just watching her too much, though of course he didn’t tell her that.

  Finally she stopped pumping and let the swing begin to slow, the arcs growing shorter and shorter until she was nearly stopped. Then she hopped down and came over and dropped down beside him on the sand.

  “It is a perfect night. This is so beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  “I love it.” She lay back on the sand, cupping her hands beneath her head.

  He turned to face her. “So,” he said, “your grandparents were converted in Germany?”

  “Yes. Missionaries came to Mannheim about the time my father was ten years old. His family was pretty disillusioned with the Lutheran Church, and when they heard that some missionaries from America were going to preach one night, they decided to go. Grandpa connected immediately. Grandma was a little more stubborn.” A dimple showed in her left cheek as she smiled. “But Opa convinced her to pray with him, and that was it.”

  “So then they came to America?”

  “Not at first. They didn’t have the money. But Grandpa and some others got sick somehow at the factory where he worked. I’m not sure what happened, but I guess it was pretty bad. The factory refused to do anything to make it safer or to pay for their doctor bills, so Grandpa and three or four other workers got a lawyer and sued the factory. And they won. Each of them got a pretty decent settlement. And with that, Grandma and Grandpa had enough to come to Zion, and so they did.”

  “And ended up in Richfield. Did they learn English then?”

  “No. Well, just a few words. But they spoke German in the home.”

  “What about your father? You say he was ten when they came here.”

  “Yes, but he was the opposite. The kids in school made fun of him. Called him the ‘dumb German.’ So he learned to speak English without an accent and still refuses to speak German, except with his mother, which irritates Oma greatly. She received her patriarchal blessing a few years after they arrived in America, and it says that through her posterity, her family lines and Grandpa’s family lines will receive the gospel. So she’s determined that her children and grandchildren will speak at least some German so they’ll be ready for their mission calls when they come.”

  Again that bewitching smile flashed at him. “Papa says that’s why he tried to forget German. He doesn’t want to go to Germany on a mission.”

  Mitch leaned in, surprised at all she was sharing. “So do you speak German?”

  “Quite a bit, actually.”

  Mitch sat back, marveling. “Wow.”

  Edie sat up, brushing the sand off as best she could. “Wow what?”

  “Just, wow. I’m impressed.”

  “I’m afraid I have been thoroughly indoctrinated by Grandma. I plan to teach German to all of my children.”

  “Your grandmother must be quite the woman. I hope I can meet her someday.”

  “You will, next spring, I hope. If not next year, Papa says we’ll bring her out the next. I wrote her and told her she has to come because I am barely using my German at all.”

  “Wow,” he said again. “I’ve never had a girlfriend who spoke German before.”

  She hooted and then slapped him playfully. “You’ve never had a girlfriend, period. Remember, I have my sources on that.” Then suddenly she sobered and looked away.

  “What?”

  “Are you saying I’m your girlfriend?”

  In one instant he went about four shades of purple. In the moonlight, his face almost looked black. “No! I didn’t mean that.” He was stammering and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Edie. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  He looked away and just shook his head. “You are so stupid, Westland,” he muttered to himself.

  She leaned in and smiled sweetly. “The German word is dummkopf, if that helps.”

  He lumbered to his feet. “It’s getting late. I’d better get you home before your father comes looking for you.”

  She got to her feet now too, sorry she had teased him. Then she jerked her head up. “Wait a minute,” she said, giving him a sharp look.

  “What?”

  “Is this your way of trying to get out of signing my dance card?”

  Instantly he was red all over again and stammering protestations. She reached out and took his hand. “Mitch, it’s all right. I’m only teasing you.”

  “I didn’t forget. I just . . .”

  She reached in the pocket of her sweater and drew out the card and a short pencil. “Mr. Westland,” she said solemnly. “Would you like to sign up for a dance with me on Saturday?”

  He smiled faintly. “I would.”

  Handing him the card and the pencil, she went on. “Very good. I would like that too.” She stepped closer and pointed to the card. “You’ll notice that I still have four places that are not yet signed. You can choose any one you like.”

  “Four out of fifteen?” he drawled, “and the dance is still three days away. Whatever shall you do?”

  She poked him hard. “Don’t be sassy. Do you want to sign it or not?”

  He nodded and turned the card a little so it caught the moonlight fully. “I see dance number three is open, so I’ll take that one.” He laid it on the back of his hand and signed it and then held it out for her. She folded her arms without taking it and moved back a step.

  Taken aback, he stared at her for a moment. Her face was unreadable. “What’s wrong?”

  That impish, teasing smile appeared again. “I said you could sign any dance you like.”

  Now he got it. “Hmm.” He looked at the card again. “Then I think I will also take number seven.” He signed it with a flourish and again held out the card. She stepped back another step, still smiling.

  “And perhaps, numbers thirteen and fourteen as well.”

  Laughing merrily, she came forward. “I think you’d better leave fourteen for someone else or my father will wonder just who you are.”

  “Done,” he said, feeling a little lightheaded at what had just happened. He signed number thirteen and handed her the card.

  As she slipped it back into her pocket, she smiled demurely at him. “Thank you, Mr. Westland. I look forward to Saturday evening.”

  “Not nearly as much I do,” he said gallantly. “And now, I think I’d better take you home.”

  When he entered the cabin, the first thing Mitch looked at was the clock. It was twenty past eight. Then he looked at his mother and father, who were seated together reading a book. Martha and Johnny were already asleep in the corner bed. His mother didn’t even glance at him. Instead she turned to his father and said, “Well, I certainly didn’t think it would take two hours to apologize for calling her a skinny little freckle-faced kid.”

  His father grunted. “You know Mitch. He probably gummed it up and will have to do it again tomorrow night.”

  Mitch fought the urge to laugh. “It’s warmer tonigh
t. I think I’ll sleep in the wagon.”

  “Good night, dear,” she said, waving him away.

  Chuckling, he grabbed his bedroll from beneath the bed and went to the door. “Good night, Mama. Good night, Papa.”

  His mother looked up and smiled at him. “Sweet dreams, dear.”

  Notes

  Ida Evelyn Lyman Nielson, Bluff’s first schoolteacher, came across the Hole-in-the-Rock Trail with the original company of San Juan pioneers. She was a sister of Platte D. Lyman, who led the company. She took great pride in telling people that she drove a span of mules down the Hole in the Rock when she was only twenty-one. It was on that trip that she met Hans Joseph Nielson, commonly called Joe, who was the son of Bishop Jens Nielson. Eighteen months after their arrival, Joe and Ida took a wagon back to St. George, where they were married in the temple in November 1881. Her first payment for teaching was an old cow named Blue (Saga, 321).

  The Old Swing Tree is mentioned in most of the histories of San Juan County. Situated right on the banks of the San Juan River, it quickly became a favorite gathering spot for individuals and groups. Sometime in the 1890s a flood tore out the tree, taking the swing with it (see the Hole-in-the-Rock Foundation’s brief article on the swing and their efforts to pinpoint its exact location at http://www.hirf.org/Newsletters/News_12.pdf).

  Regarding nicknames, it is clear women and girls as well as men and boys commonly took on nicknames in those days, just as they do today. Some of these are what you would expect—“Becca” for Rebecca, “Liz” or “Lizzy” for Elizabeth, “Lem” for Lemuel, and so on. Some readers might think that Edie would not be a natural nickname for Edna because there is no long ee sound in Edna. But back then, several women had nicknames that were obviously derived from their formal name but altered the sounds a little. Some examples are “Sally” for Sarah, “Feenie” for Parthenia, and “Nean” for Cornelia.

  Chapter 13

  _____________________

  May 13, 1886—Bluff City, Utah Territory

  Mitch reached out and took Edie’s hand. She squeezed it but didn’t look up. “Is this going to make your father mad at me?”

  Her head lifted in surprise. “What?”

  “Me holding your hand when they’re right in the next room and can see us.”

  That won him a fleeting smile. “No. I’ve told you. Mama and Papa really like you. They really like your family.”

  “How is he able to hide it so well?” he whispered.

  She poked him, but this time there wasn’t even a hint of a smile.

  He pulled her so she was half facing him. “What’s wrong, Edie? Why so down tonight?”

  She looked at him in dismay. “You have to ask?”

  Mitch let out a long sigh and then another. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go.”

  “I know. I know you have to, but . . .”

  He put his arm around her, stealing a quick glance to see if her father was watching. He wasn’t, so he pulled her closer. “Now that I’ve got my own herd, it’s different. If I don’t get them plenty of grass, I could lose everything I’ve worked for.”

  “I know that, Mitch,” she said with some exasperation, “but that doesn’t make it easier.”

  “I’ll only be out in Butler Wash for the first ten days. I’ll come back here before I take them up to Elk Mountain.”

  “And then you’ll be gone all summer.”

  He nodded, not happy with that thought either. “Unless President Hammond decides to send us up to the Blue Mountains this summer. Then I’ll take the herd north and meet them there.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “But I’ll come back and see you before we take them to the high country.”

  “You’d better.”

  He grinned. “You think I’d risk the wrath of you and my mother? I’m not that much of a dummkopf.”

  And that finally won him an actual laugh. She laid her head on his shoulder and snuggled in against him. “I’m sorry to be so sour on our last night together. It’s bad enough that you’re leaving tomorrow, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing.”

  He turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his. “No, tell me, Edie. What?”

  Suddenly her eyes were glistening. “You just picked a really bad day to leave.”

  “What do you mean? Why is this a particularly bad day?”

  She wiped angrily at her eyes. “Sorry. I hate it when I cry.”

  He leaned closer. “Why is this a particularly bad day?”

  “Because it’s my birthday,” she murmured.

  For several seconds he just stared at her in horror, and then he slowly shook his head. “Oh, Edie, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She sniffed back the tears. “Because I’m not supposed to have to tell you. You’re supposed to just know.”

  “That’s not fair,” he said in dismay.

  “I know. But a girl can hope, can’t she?”

  “Aw, Edie. What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Stay home.”

  He got to his feet. “I wish I could.” He sighed. “I’d better go.”

  She started to cry. “Now I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”

  “No.” Then he touched her arm. “Look, there’s something I have to tell your mother.”

  Her eyes widened. “My mother? Right now?”

  “Yes.” He touched her cheek. He turned and looked across the hall into the kitchen. Her mother was already getting to her feet. “Now?” Edie heard her ask.

  Mitch nodded.

  Her mother turned and left the room, going into their bedroom. Mitch came back in and rejoined Edie. She was staring at him, completely mystified. “What are you doing?”

  He held up a finger. “Just a minute.”

  A moment later, her mother reappeared, holding one hand behind her back. But instead of sitting down, she kept coming toward them. To Edie’s further surprise, her father stood up and fell in behind her mother.

  “Mitch,” she hissed. “What’s going on?”

  Up came the finger again, this time accompanied by a sly grin. “Patience, Edie.”

  Caroline Zimmer crossed the hall, entered the small sitting room, came up to her daughter, and kissed her on the cheek. “Happy birthday, honey.” Out came the hand from behind her back, and Edie saw that she was holding a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.

  “But, Mama.” She was staring at the package. “You and Papa already gave me my dress.” But even as she said it, she reached for the box.

  Her mother jerked her hand away and then, smiling, turned and handed the box to Mitch. “But, my dear,” she said to her daughter, “this isn’t from us.”

  Mitch, grinning like a six-year-old on Christmas morning, stepped forward. He too bent in and kissed Edie on the cheek. Then he handed her the box. “Happy birthday, Edie.”

  Dumbfounded, for a moment she didn’t know what to say. Finally, she blurted, “This is from you?”

  “Yup,” he drawled.

  “You remembered?”

  “Yup.” He was having a hard time not laughing at her expression.

  With a squeal of joy, she threw her arms around him. “What is it?”

  She didn’t wait for his answer. She tugged at the string and then ripped the paper off and let it fall to the floor. What was left was a plain white box about twice the size of her hand. She looked at him again, her face radiant with joy. “What have you done?”

  “My goodness, Edna,” her father said. “Just open it and see for yourself.”

  She did. Inside was a small wooden box made of polished wood. Gingerly she took it out and examined it. It had a hinged lid, which she opened. A soft “Oh” followed as a tiny figure of a ballet dancer with her hands over her head started twirling around in graceful pirouettes. At the same moment, a soft sound, like a dozen tiny bells, began to play. It took her only three or four seconds to recognize the melody. She had playe
d it as a young girl when they were back in Richfield and had a piano. It was one of Stephen Foster’s most popular pieces, “Beautiful Dreamer.”

  When she finally looked up, tears were streaking her face. “Where did you ever find it?” she whispered.

  “When Ben Perkins made that run to Durango last month, I asked him to see if he could find a music box for me. I was hoping he could find one with a German song,” he said with a lopsided grin, “but he only had two choices. It was either ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ or ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm.’”

  “It’s beautiful, Mitch. Perfect in every way.”

  “Happy birthday, Edie.”

  Once again, she threw her arms around him. Mitch quickly glanced over at her father. He was not smiling. But as he looked closer, Mitch could see that he didn’t really look angry, either. So he hugged her back.

  June 6, 1886—Butler Wash

  Mitch was staring into the campfire, thinking of Edie, when he heard a voice call out. “Halloo the camp.”

  The men around the fire stood up. A few moments later, Joe Nielson came riding in, leading two pack mules. He swung down and came over to the fire. It had been a warm day, but night came on quickly in the desert, and with it, the temperature dropped surprisingly fast. Mitch guessed that it would be in the forties by morning, and most of the men had put on light jackets.

  “Evening, boys,” Joe said. “I got a load of grub for you. Beef and venison jerky, some canned peaches and apples, molasses, cracked wheat, sugar, and some freshly baked loaves of bread, courtesy of your sisters in the gospel.”

  There were murmurs of appreciation all around.

  “When are you headed for Elk Mountain?”

  Lem Redd spoke up. “First thing in the morning.”

  “That’s what I heard, so I thought I’d better get out here today.”

  He reached in the pocket of his shirt and looked at Mitch. “And, I also have a letter here for Mitch Westland. Anyone know if he’s in camp?”

  The men whistled and clapped as a red-faced Mitch stood up and walked over to Joe, who handed it to him. “There’s no return address,” Joe said sardonically, “but I’m guessing you’ve got a pretty good idea who it’s from, right?”