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

  “Yes, Bishop.” She turned and leaped off the porch, cutting to the right so she could take a back way that would skirt the store. As she ran, she was thinking about Mitch’s mother. Mitch had told her about Gwendolyn’s deep, even irrational, fear of Indians, and Edie could only imagine what must be going through her mind right now.

  Aunt Mary remained where she was on the porch of the store. She stared up the street toward her father’s house, looking bored, while she listened to the muttering going on right beside her. She had picked up a pretty good smattering of Navajo from Kumen, so while she couldn’t understand it all, she was getting enough that she wanted to bolt and run to warn her father.

  From what they were saying, it was clear they had come to fight. They were going to present their demands to the Big Chief, which they knew he wouldn’t accept, and then use that to whip themselves into a fury.

  A cry of relief escaped her throat when she saw two figures come around the corner. She looked up. “Big Chief is coming now. You talk.”

  The Indians all turned and went quiet. Mary turned back, her heart feeling like it was beating in her throat. Then fear turned to surprise and surprise gave way to a warm rush of pride. Her father and husband were coming up the street at a steady but measured pace. They glanced up at the band of Indians in front of them as casually as if they had spotted a passing bird and then went on with their conversation, completely calm and unruffled. With his crippled foot, Bishop Nielson’s gait was more like a roll than a walk. It made him seem all the more regal.

  “Look,” the young Navajo who was next to his leader said. “There is no fear in the old one’s heart.”

  “It is the White-Haired Chief,” another said with evident respect.

  “Old Crooked Foot,” said another. “He has the heart of a warrior.”

  Tears came to Aunt Mary’s eyes. She had never been as proud of her father as she was right then.

  “Yah-ah-tay, my brodders,” her father said, raising his arm in greeting.

  “Yah-ah-tay,” Kumen echoed, doing the same.

  There was not even a flicker of softening in the leader’s stony expression. “We talk now,” the leader grunted. “I am Bidzil. We come in anger. We come for justice. We—”

  Kumen held up his hand and stopped the torrent of words. “The Wise Chief does not speak the Diné tongue, my brother,” he said in Navajo. “May I translate for you?”

  He grunted and nodded. Kumen turned to the bishop and spoke slowly and distinctly. Aunt Mary knew why. Though most Navajo did not speak much English, they often understood more than they let on. Kumen wanted them to see that he was translating accurately.

  “This is Bidzil. His name means ‘He who is strong.’”

  The Indian nodded and thumped his chest once. “I am Bidzil.”

  “Bidzil has come for justice. They are angry.”

  Another torrent of Navajo. Kumen calmly translated. “One of the Mormon brothers killed one of our people, the one you called Old Eye. Blood was shed, and blood must be shed to make it right.”

  Bishop Nielson was nodding gravely as Kumen spoke. Then speaking directly to Bidzil, he said calmly and without rancor, “I vill speak vith Bidzil and his brodders as friends. But friends do not hold their guns vhile they talk.”

  Mary was staring at him. He spoke calmly and yet firmly. From his tone, you would think he had asked them if they would refrain from frowning. Kumen continued translating as the bishop went on.

  “Vee have no guns,” the bishop said. He lifted his arms so they could see he didn’t have a pistol in his belt. Kumen did the same. “If Bidzil vants to talk, let him and his brodders get off their horses and stand their guns against the store.” He motioned with his hand. “Vee vill sit in a circle as friends do.”

  Mary held her breath as Kumen translated. As he did, there were angry cries. One brave shook his rifle at her father and shouted, “Never!” But none of that mattered. What mattered was how Bidzil would react.

  For a long moment, Bidzil sat there, looking down at her father. Then he grunted something. He swung off his horse and stepped over to the store, propping his rifle against the wall. When he did this, Bishop Nielson moved into the street and sat down in the dust, not watching to see what any of the others did. Bidzil moved over and sat down beside him.

  There were more angry mutters, but one by one the Navajo began to dismount and stack their rifles against the store. A dozen or more refused to move, sitting on their horses, rifles in hand, glaring down at the Mormon chief and their own leader. It looked as though Bidzil might have a mutiny on his hands. But again her father intervened.

  With almost lazy indifference, he looked up at them and said. “My people do not fight our Navajo brodders. Our captains sent us here to share the vays of peace. But if vee must fight to protect our women and our children, then vee hire our fighters. Our fighters are the blue coats who live toward the rising sun.” He pointed to the east.

  That got a strong reaction even before Kumen finished the translation. “No! No! Not the blue coats.” Many lifted upraised hands, a sign of great alarm. Several still on their horses lowered their rifles and dismounted.

  Bishop Nielson went right on. “Your Mormon brodders do not vant to fight. Vee do not vant to call the blue coats to do our fighting. Vee vant to be at peace vith the Diné.”

  When Kumen finished that, Bidzil jumped to his feet and started yelling at the ones still mounted. It came out in such a rush that Aunt Mary didn’t catch much of it. But they obviously did. One by one they dismounted and put their weapons in the growing pile by the door.

  They sat in that “circle of friends” for some time, Bidzil and her father talking back and forth with Kumen translating. After nearly half an hour, Bidzil nodded and got to his feet. “Thank you, my brothers,” he said to the two white men sitting in the circle with him. “We shall go back and tell our people that we found not enemies but friends among the Mormons.”

  Bishop Nielson got to his feet and extended his hand to the young leader. “That is good. But stay vith us this night. You have come far and are tired. Vee shall kill a fat steer and put it over the fire. Vee shall get you flour and other things from the store to take back vith you. Eat and rest, and then you can return to your people on the morrow.”

  As Kumen translated all of that to the astonished natives, Bishop Nielson turned to his daughter. “Mary, spread the word among our sisters. It is safe to come out now. Vee are going to feast tonight. Kumen, you and a couple of the men go pick out the fattest steer you can find. Vee shall be eating vith our brothers this night.”

  The Zimmers and the Westlands walked slowly along, passing the campfires of the Navajo that lined the streets. Children ran out to hold their hands. Women shyly smiled at them and waved. The men bowed their heads briefly as a sign of honor.

  Gwen stepped up beside Edie and nudged her with her elbow. “I guess this gives us both something to write to Mitch about, right?”

  “I was just thinking that,” Edie exclaimed. “This was astonishing. Is astonishing. I thought we were facing a bloodbath.”

  “So did I,” Gwen said in a low voice. Then she brightened. “Platte said he’s sending a man up to Elk Mountain with supplies tomorrow. Would you like to put your letter in the same envelope as mine?”

  “Yes. I would like that very much.” Then suddenly her countenance fell. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why ever not?”

  Embarrassed now, she kind of shrugged. “You know . . .”

  “Ah,” Gwen said after a moment. “You’re worried that he might think there’s a conspiracy going on between the two of us.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Edie laughed.

  Gwen slipped her arm through the younger girl’s and pulled her close. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear. I think he figured that out some time ago.”

  As they laughed together, a man’s voice spoke behind them. “Excuse me, sisters.”

  They both tur
ned. It was President Hammond, president of the stake.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Is it your son Mitch that you are speaking about?”

  Surprised, they both nodded.

  “Well, I was just thinking that I needed to send him a note too. Perhaps I could impose on one of you to share some news with him.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Edie said immediately.

  “Of course,” Gwen said at the same time.

  “Kumen tells me that Mitch has an interest in being one of those called to the Blue Mountain Mission.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said, “it’s much more than an interest. It will break his heart if he isn’t called.”

  “Good. That’s what we’re looking for.” He drew in a breath. “But will you tell him that any plans for doing that this year have been taken off the table?”

  Edie’s head came up. “Really?”

  “Yes. First there were the rumors about turning our county into a reservation for the Utes. Now we have this tension with the Navajo, which, I hope, we have resolved this day. But this is not a good time to be sending people out that far from any other settlements. So tell him we plan to send some men next spring as soon as they can get up there to get things ready. Then about this time next year, we’ll start sending up the first families.”

  As he walked away, Gwen and Edie exchanged glances. Edie’s mother stepped up beside them. “That’s going to break his heart,” she said.

  Edie nodded solemnly. “I have mixed feelings about it too.”

  “You do?” Gwen asked in surprise.

  “Yes.” She giggled softly. “Joy and elation.”

  Notes

  As indicated, Amasa Barton died exactly one week after being shot. He was the only Mormon in Bluff ever to be killed by Indians.

  In the anger that followed the shooting at the trading post, tensions between the pioneers and the Navajo were high. A day or two after the trouble, the Mormons were suddenly alarmed to see a large, powerfully built Navajo coming toward the trading post from the south. It turned out to be a member of the Navajo Tribal Council, whose name was Tom Holiday. He said that the council had learned of the trouble and that he wanted to learn for himself what had happened. After hearing Feenie’s account, which was substantiated by Cheepoots and other Utes, he said that he believed them. He promised to tell his people that what they had heard was not true and to go home. When he left and crossed the river, he spoke to the angry crowd, and soon they were dispersed. The Mormons believed the situation had been defused and sent their men back out to their various responsibilities.

  So when this group of angry braves rode into Bluff, not only were the Saints stunned, but they quickly realized that should the situation turn ugly, they were in grave danger (see Indians and Outlaws, 92–93; History of San Juan County, 60).

  The sources give no names of the Indians involved. One of the band that came to Bluff that day acted as the leader and spokesman for the group as they interacted with Bishop Nielson. There is also record that this group consisted mostly of young men who were spoiling for a fight.

  Obviously, no sources give a full transcript of the dialogue that went on that day. However, the substantive conversation between Bishop Nielson and the leader of the band of Navajos is reported in some detail in those sources, and that was followed closely in this chapter. Also, the roles of “Aunt Mary,” her husband, Kumen Jones, and her father, Bishop Jens Nielson, are accurately portrayed here (see Indians and Outlaws, 95–100; History of San Juan County, 60–61).

  Albert R. Lyman, son of Platte D. Lyman, is the author of both of these works. He was born in 1880 while those first pioneers were making their way to Bluff. He was a seven-year-old boy when this encounter happened and was present that day.

  Chapter 16

  _____________________

  March 9, 1887—Bluff City, Utah Territory

  Edie lowered the book and set it in her lap. “Mitchell?”

  He cracked one eye open and sat up straight. “Yes?”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “No.”

  “Yes you were.”

  “All right, maybe just for a couple of seconds.” Seeing her look, he moaned. “I’m sorry. I was up at four this morning trying to get everything packed.” Then he straightened even more. “Wait. Did you just call me Mitchell?”

  “I did.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Uh-oh? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You only call me Mitchell when I’m in trouble or it’s something really serious.”

  “I see.” She sniffed loftily and then opened the book again and pretended to read.

  He reached out, took the book from her, closed it, and set it on the table. Then he turned fully to face her. “All right, what is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Edie,” he said, chiding her. “What is it?’

  Clearly, that was all she had been waiting for. She got up, went across to the room to a large dish cabinet between two rocking chairs, and opened a drawer. Curious, Mitch started to get up.

  “No. You stay there.”

  When she turned back, he saw that she had two packages in her hands. Both were wrapped in brown paper, and both were tied with string. One was flat and almost certainly was a book. The other was rectangular, about six inches long, but only a couple of inches wide. He gave her a quirky smile. “Aw, you got me my own copy of Pride and Prejudice so I don’t have to keep borrowing yours all the time.”

  “Very funny, Westland. You’re trying my patience tonight.” She sat down beside him. “All right now, before you open these, you have to promise me that you will use them.”

  “Of course I’ll use them. What are they?”

  “I’m serious, Mitch. And I would appreciate it if you would be too.”

  “Sorry,” he said contritely. “Yes, I promise to use them to the best of my ability. And also to read the book, whatever it is.”

  “Good.” She handed him the flat package.

  He untied the string and the paper came loose. It was a book, about six inches by eight inches. But strangely enough, it had no title on the cover. He opened it and then gave her a long look. All of the pages were blank.

  “It’s a diary, Mitch. A journal.” She handed him the other box.

  A moment later he was looking at a quill pen, a bottle of black ink, and six extra quills.

  “Do you know how much I would love to be doing what you’re doing?” she said quietly. “Going up to a new place and creating a new settlement?” She pulled a face. “But they don’t let single girls do that, so I want you to write in this every day. Describe for me what’s happening, what you’re doing. The challenges. The problems. The successes. Then I can share in it with you, at least to some small degree.”

  Mitch began to say something and was surprised that his voice suddenly caught. She had never once let on that she felt that way, and it touched him in a way he hadn’t experienced before. He set the packages on the table beside them and then took both of her hands. “I will,” he said simply. “I will do that for you.”

  “Thank you.” He could tell her emotions were pretty close to the surface too. “Tell me again, who all is going?”

  “The mature men—that’s President Hammond’s phrase—are Frederick Jones and Charles Walton Sr. Then there are three younger families—Alvin Decker and his wife, Emma; George Adams and his wife, whose name is . . .” He pulled a face.

  “Evelyn.”

  “Yeah, Evelyn. And Parley and Ency Butt. Between them all I think they have ten children.”

  “Eleven if you count the baby Evelyn’s carrying now.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “I assumed you didn’t. And are you the only single man?”

  “No. George has a younger brother named Fred. He’s about my age. And Charles Jr. is going too. But the families aren’t going with us now. You know that, right?”

  “This is Bl
uff,” she said. “We know everything about everyone.”

  “The families will come up in a few months, once the weather has turned.”

  “Do you think you’ll hit snow now? Down here, the weather is quite pleasant.”

  “Almost guaranteed. Remember, the area around North Montezuma Creek is over 7,000 feet in elevation.”

  She poked him gently. “I know that too.”

  Then, quite abruptly, she slid closer and snuggled in against him. She slid his hand in both of hers and lifted it to touch her cheek. “Why is it that we’re always saying good-bye?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do!” she exclaimed. “You’re the one that’s always leaving. Not me.”

  “I know, but that’s just the way it is with women and men.”

  She pulled a face at him. “And that’s your answer?”

  “Yup.” He glanced across the hall to the kitchen. Her father was at the table, supposedly doing his accounts, but in actuality he had dozed off. Mitch pulled her closer. “I am really going to miss you, Edie.”

  “When will you be home?”

  “Well, you heard President Hammond. We’ll come home for the winter and go back up next spring permanently.”

  “So, October?”

  “Perhaps. More likely November.”

  “I like October better.”

  Just then Mitch heard footsteps. He looked up and saw Brother Zimmer standing at the kitchen door. “Edie?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Mitch has to leave early in the morning. I think you’d better say good-bye soon.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  They both got up. To Mitch’s surprise, her father came over and shook his hand. “Good luck, Mitch. It’s an important thing you’re doing.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He bent down and kissed Edie on the cheek. “Five minutes,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Please don’t stay! Please don’t stay! Mitch crossed his fingers as Brother Zimmer went back into the kitchen. When he saw him bend down and blow out the kitchen lamp and then disappear into the bedroom, it was almost all he could do not to punch the air with his fist and shout aloud.