The Undaunted Page 18

  While this was going on, Jacob deliberately straightened his body enough that his head bumped against the holster of the pistol he had hung there earlier. He looked up, feigning surprise, then said to the interpreter, “These are in the way. What shall I do with them?”

  As the interpreter translated that for the Navajos, Jacob didn’t wait. Careful not to touch the pistols themselves, which might have looked like he was making a threatening move, he handed two of the guns back to the miners. “Keep them close at hand,” he whispered, “but make no move of any kind unless we are obliged to do so.” As casually as if they were putting away a piece of clothing, they took their weapons and slid them out of sight behind their legs. The young bucks were now in a heated discussion with the four chiefs, and if any of them noticed the action, they did not react to it. Jacob let out his breath in a long, slow sigh.

  The discussion raged on for some time, the interpreter standing back and translating nothing for the white men. The Navajo way was that only the grey-haired chiefs formed the actual council, but all present were allowed to speak. And the young bucks had much to say.

  After half an hour of heated discussion, the eldest chief finally cut it off, gesturing to Jacob Hamblin. The interpreter said, “You speak.”

  Jacob unfolded his legs, then got stiffly to his feet. For a long moment, he let his eyes move from man to man, resting just a little longer on each of the chiefs. It was important for them to see that his eyes held no fear, no guilt.

  “My brothers of the Navajo nation. I thank you for letting me speak to this council.” He took a deep breath while that was translated. “I have long been acquainted with your people. I have a great love for your people and the Navajo culture. It is well known that I have labored many days to bring peace between us.”

  Again he waited. The murmuring among the braves was rising again.

  “I know of your anger. I know of your sorrow. A great and terrible wrong has been done to your sons. My heart understands and weeps for them. My heart understands why you seek revenge and say that someone must die to make this right.”

  He laid his hand over his heart. “But I also weep many tears inside my heart to think that my Navajo brothers, who know I do not speak with forked tongue, have decided that I must die. It was belagana who did this terrible deed,” Jacob said softly, letting his voice drop to little more than a whisper. It quieted them more effectively than if he had shouted at them. “But those belagana were not Mormons. My people had nothing to do with this terrible act. I give you my word of honor that this is true.” He sat down again.

  Po-ee-kon leaped to his feet and said something to the senior chief. The chief thought for a moment, then nodded.

  Po-ee-kon was heavily muscled and fierce of face. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and the war paint had started to run a little in the heat. He didn’t look at Jacob or his two companions, or even at his own companions. He spoke directly to the four chiefs. They were the ones who would decide what happened this day.

  The interpreter moved quietly over to stand beside Jacob. His eyes were wary and filled with anxiety. And rightly so. As Po-ee-kon poured out a torrent of angry words, the others who had accompanied him cried out in support, or turned and gave Jacob dark looks. Most alarming, in response to what he was saying, the new chief kept drawing his hand across his throat.

  The interpreter listened for a full two or three minutes without saying a word. Finally, he leaned over and spoke very softly. “The young men are afraid that the council will not allow justice to be done. Po-ee-kon says that the blood of his three brothers cries from the ground for vengeance. There is only one thing that can bring them and their families justice.”

  Jacob guessed. “And that is the blood of Jacob Hamblin.” It wasn’t a question. It was the Indian way, blood for blood, suffering for suffering, life for life.

  Suddenly Po-ee-kon strode to the door, pulled back the blanket, and barked something. Then he stepped back and let another person enter. It was a young brave, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

  “Oh-oh,” Jacob murmured. “That must be the boy who was wounded.” This was not good.

  Po-ee-kon motioned with his hand. The boy dropped to one knee facing the others. In one swift motion, Po-ee-kon pulled the buckskin shirt up and over the boy’s head and flung it aside.

  Jacob heard the gasps of his two companions, but they were quickly drowned out by the shouts of the Navajos. High on the youth’s left shoulder was a bright scar the size of a half-dollar. This was where the bullet had entered. The skin was pinched together by its initial healing, but it was still an ugly, angry crimson.

  The warrior touched the boy’s bare shoulder and turned him around. The exit wound was even more shocking—two to three inches in diameter and jagged and torn.

  Jacob grabbed the Paiute’s arm. “I want to hear every word. Understand?”

  The interpreter nodded, looking as if he might be sick. If the mood had been bitter before, the sight of this young boy had turned it downright ugly. The boy began to speak, slowly at first, then with more animation as he continued.

  And it all came out. Their success in trading with the Mormons, the snowstorm, how the Holy People had brought them food. He stopped now and looked directly at Jacob. His face was impassive, but Jacob could see his jawline tighten and his skin stretch more tightly across his high cheekbones. The silence in the hogan was utterly complete. No one moved. Some hardly seemed to breathe.

  As the youth started again, the interpreter just looked at him in horror. Jacob grabbed his arm. “Translate!” he commanded.

  In an animated voice, the boy told how the riders had come, how Kacheenay’s older son had refused to take the rifle, how he had stepped outside with arms outstretched to show he was not armed. At that point, Po-ee-kon cut in with a question. Jacob heard the word “Mohr-mohn” and knew what had just been asked. Were these men Mormons?

  The boy’s head bobbed emphatically. “Ouu’!” Several of the young bucks shot to their feet, yelling and shouting. Above the rest Po-ee-kon screamed something at the four chiefs.

  “Po-ee-kon say Hamblin lies,” the interpreter said, his voice so tight now it was hard to understand him. “He say Hamblin took life of his brothers. Only Hamblin’s death will pay.”

  Jacob wanted to close his eyes and be sick too, but he could not. He had to show nothing. Behind him, one of the Smith brothers moved. His hand was stealing toward the butt of his pistol. “No,” Jacob hissed, “do not make the first move.”

  And then an impression came to him, clear and pure and sweet. “If we do nothing, they will not be able to agree on what to do. They will make no move against us.”

  The two miners stared at him in astonishment. “But—”

  Jacob gave a quick shake of his head and turned to the interpreter. “I wish to speak.”

  The man had backed into a corner and was staring at the bedlam around him. His eyes were wide with terror and he was visibly trembling. It was not unknown for the Navajos to kill an interpreter if they didn’t like what they were hearing. “Tell them!” Jacob barked. But the man just shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Jacob turned to the chiefs and lifted both hands in an imploring gesture. The young braves sensed that something was up and ceased their shouting. The eldest chief said something, and one of the young men stood up and led the interpreter out. A minute or two later, he returned with another Paiute. This man looked almost as frightened as the first, but the chief spoke some soothing words to him and he finally nodded. Then the oldest chief gestured for Jacob to speak.

  It took every ounce of his willpower, but Jacob got slowly to his feet, as calm and unruffled as if he were getting up from the table after supper. He stood fully erect, his shoulders thrown back, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Not a muscle in his face twitched. His eyes were fixed on the four chiefs and never flickered away, not even for an instant. The chiefs had been swayed by the testimony of the young boy. They were
being swayed by the passion of the young bucks. Now they must hear another voice.

  “I would remind my Navajo brothers,” he said quietly, “that you have known Jacob Hamblin for many winters. He has worked without tiring for peace between his people and your people.”

  He stopped and let the translator get that all out. The braves were still muttering and whispering among themselves, but the four chieftains had given him their full attention.

  He went on. “I ask that Po-ee-kon bring one person forward who can say that I have cheated them. I ask that he bring one person forward who can prove I speak with a forked tongue.”

  Again he waited. He felt a quick thrill of elation shoot through him as he saw the eldest of the chiefs bob his head in a tiny movement. Jacob strode forward boldly into the circle and dropped to one knee. He started drawing in the dirt as he spoke. “Here are the great rivers that form the northern boundaries of your homeland.” He pressed his finger into the dust to make a small circle. “We are here, at Black Mesa.” He made another circle. “Here is the crossing of John Lee, who is also a friend to your people.” Now his finger moved far to the left before it pressed down again. “And here is the hogan of Jacob Hamblin. It is four days’ ride.”

  He waited for them to grasp that. Most were craning their necks. Those who were farthest from him stood up and came closer. He moved his hand more than a foot higher and made a fifth circle. It was as far above his house as his house was from Black Mesa. He tapped the spot slowly. “And here is where your young braves were murdered.”

  He looked up. He had their full attention now. “Grass Valley is over a hundred of our miles from my hogan. It takes me three suns to get there. I have no cattle there. I do not live there.”

  He straightened, coming up so his face was just inches from Po-ee-kon’s. “Why then does Po-ee-kon say that Jacob Hamblin killed his brothers? He says it in anger, but reason tells you that it cannot be so.”

  When Po-ee-kon heard that, he leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. Jacob neither flinched nor blinked. One of the chiefs barked sharply. Po-ee-kon glared at Jacob for another moment, but finally stepped back. Jacob returned to his seat as the four chiefs moved closer together and began to talk.

  It was almost an hour before the chiefs agreed. The oldest one waved the interpreter forward and spoke quickly, with the others speaking up as well from time to time. The interpreter listened intently, and Jacob thought he could see a touch of relief on his face. When he came over, he spoke loudly so the Navajos would not think he was favoring the white men.

  “The chiefs have decided. They believe the words of Jacob Hamblin. They believe that he did not shed the blood of their sons. But they do not believe that Mormons had nothing to do with this.”

  Jacob sighed, but the man went on quickly. “So, instead of blood revenge on you or your people, you will pay the Navajo people one hundred head of cattle for each of the three boys. And fifty more for the boy who was wounded. This will also pay for the things that were stolen from them. You must give the chiefs a writing that you agree.”

  There was a deep intake of breath, then Jacob slowly exhaled. They had passed the crisis. Here was a way out. He could sign the writing, and they could walk away. But . . .

  His head lifted. To sign would be an admission of guilt, to say nothing of obligating the Church to pay out three hundred and fifty head of cattle. That was a minor fortune.

  He stood again and shook his head. “I thank the great chiefs for believing the words of Jacob Hamblin. It gave me great sorrow that they thought I would kill my Navajo brothers. But I cannot sign the writing. That would say that my people are murderers, and this is not true! I will not do it.”

  Before the translator had finished putting that into Navajo, Po-ee-kon was in his face again, screaming invectives. He pointed to the fire in the center of the hogan and screamed something else. The Paiute blanched.

  “What did he say?” Jacob asked. “It’s all right. I must know.”

  “He said . . .” The man took a quick breath. “He said if they stretch Jacob Hamblin over this bed of fire, he will sign the writing.”

  Jacob stood calmly, knowing every eye in the hogan was on him. “You tell Po-ee-kon that Jacob Hamblin does not lie. The Mormons did not kill those braves, those sons, and it is not right that they should pay for what the other belagana did. Let the family of Kacheenay go to the ranchers in Grass Valley. He will learn that they are not Mormons. They are evil, cruel men. Let them pay. I will not sign the writing, fire or no fire.”

  “Imme-cotch-navaggi!” Po-ee-kon shouted into his face.

  The interpreter audibly gulped. “Are you not afraid?” he translated.

  Jacob turned away and looked around the circle, again letting his gaze stop at the chiefs. “Why should I be afraid of my friends?” He seemed perplexed. “If I were, why would I come and put my life into your hands? What is there to frighten me?” he concluded.

  “The Diné,” Po-ee-kon spluttered, half in disbelief.

  Jacob understood that word. “I am not afraid of my friends,” he answered softly.

  Now the Paiute blanched. He turned and spoke to Jacob in great interest. “Jacob Hamblin. You do not have a single friend in the Navajo nation. Navajo blood has been spilled on Mormon land. You have caused a whole nation to mourn. Are you not the least afraid?”

  Jacob peered deeply into his eyes. “No. My heart never has known fear.” He gestured toward the chiefs. “Tell them what you just said. And tell them my answer.”

  The negotiations went on all through the rest of the day and into the night, but by midnight an agreement had been made. Jacob would return to Lee’s Ferry in twenty-five days to meet a delegation of Navajo chieftains. He would then escort them to Grass Valley, where they could learn for themselves who had killed their sons. A few other particulars were worked out; then suddenly the old chief clapped his hands three times.

  Immediately women appeared with a roasted sheep on a large clay plate. As they set it down near the fire, the chief motioned with his hand and spoke.

  The interpreter smiled broadly. “The chief says Jacob Hamblin is to have the first rib.”

  Jacob started to bow, but suddenly the smell of the meat, the effects of sitting cross-legged for nearly twelve hours, and the tension they had endured was too much. “I am sick,” he blurted.

  He made it to the door in three strides, pulling the blanket back. He didn’t want to offend the Navajos. Not now, for sure. So he didn’t go out. He just stood there, half in and half out, gulping in huge breaths of the cold night air, fighting down the bitter taste in his throat.

  Finally, he straightened and returned to join the circle. The chiefs were watching him closely, but it was the younger Smith brother who spoke. “Are you all right?”

  “I am now.”2

  Notes

  ^1. In his brief account, Hamblin does not say how President Brigham Young was informed, only that “when President Young heard of it, he requested me to visit the Navahos [sic] and satisfy them that our people were not concerned in it” (Hamblin, Journals and Letters, 99). A runner was sent from Kanab to Grass Valley to learn more details of the murders. Once the runner returned, confirming that Mormons were not involved, and Jacob received word from Brigham Young, he says that he “left at once” (ibid.).

  ^2. We have two firsthand accounts of this dramatic Navajo council meeting that was to have such significant consequences for the Mormons. One is Hamblin’s own report (see ibid., 99–106). The other is the firsthand account of “J.E.S.,” one of the two Smith brothers present through it all (we have only his initials, no first name). He wrote a report for a local newspaper just a few days after the council had occurred. Jacob included that article in the narrative account of his life (see ibid., 107–13). Corbett (348–57) has done the best work on Hamblin’s life and particularly this event. He conducted many interviews with Jacob’s family and other settlers, and so provides details not found in either
of the eyewitness accounts. Even so, there are still a few discrepancies between the accounts.

  It should be noted that later, two other Mormons, Ira Hatch and John L. Blythe, were also taken by the Navajos and underwent a similar harrowing experience. They also demonstrated great courage, as Hamblin and the Smiths did, and were also eventually freed (see Kumen Jones, “Navajo Peace,” 215). Ignoring their experience in this narrative is not meant to diminish their efforts in any way.

  It took many more months for the situation to eventually resolve itself, but finally Chief Hastele, considered the great chief of the Navajos, went with Hamblin to Grass Valley. There they met with Mormon leaders and Hastele was convinced that the Mormons were not involved. He returned to his people and spread the word that Jacob Hamblin and the Mormons spoke the truth. Finally, on August 21, 1874, an agreement was signed by the Navajos formally declaring that they had been satisfied, and war was averted.

  ^o.Near present-day Tuba City, Arizona.

  Book III

  Book III

  The Call 1878

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday, August 13, 1878

  David Draper reined his horse to a stop, then stood up in the stirrups and stretched. He yawned mightily, glancing up at the sun. It was low in the sky. Dropping back in the saddle, he guessed it was about half past six, which meant he had been on the road for over fourteen hours. No wonder he was numb from the waist down.

  He snapped the reins. “All right, Tillie. That’s Coalville. We’re almost there. And guess what, girl. Coalville has gotten a little more respectable since I was last here.” He reached down and patted the mare’s neck. “Of course, it has been six years.”

  “Excuse me,” David said. He was leading Tillie now, moving slowly up the street, marveling at how much the town had grown. Just ahead, a young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, was approaching. He saw that she was watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He doffed his hat. “Excuse me, miss. I’m looking for the home of Mister—Brother—John Draper. It used to be right here, but . . .” The house he was looking for had been converted to a shoemaker’s shop. He pulled a face. “This place has really changed since I was here last.”