A Thrilling Experience on the Plains.—The Stampede.
In 1863, I was living in southern Utah. It was believed the Mormon immigration would be unusually heavy that year; hence great exertions were put forth by the people, to bring the season's gathering to a successful termination. Cooperation was the power which, under the wise guidance of Brigham Young, made it possible to build up a prosperous commonwealth in that isolated desert.
Teams were raised in all parts of the territory, organized into companies of fifty wagons each, four yoke of cattle to each wagon, and placed under the care of experienced men. These were sent to the Missouri river, fourteen hundred miles, to haul back the luggage of the immigrants. The people were required to walk.
Rules of government were established in each camp, and firmly carried out. No swearing was allowed; all assembled for prayers at the call of the chaplain, morning and night; usually at nine o'clock all retired for rest; and at five all arose. These camps were practical training schools of great value.
It fell to my lot to drive a team in Captain John R. Murdock's train. Upon arriving at Omaha, I was selected to take charge of an independent company; people who had means to immigrate themselves to Utah. On the 8th of August, I commenced the task (mission, we called it, for we all served without pay) of leading these people, who were Scandinavians, from Omaha to Salt Lake City. When it is remembered that these people spoke a language that I did not understand; that they were not accustomed to driving teams; that I had to teach them even how to yoke their cattle, and hitch on to their wagons, it will be easy to imagine the magnitude of the task I had undertaken.
For the first week we made only from five to ten miles a day; but at the end of two weeks, we could make twenty-five. At Wood River centre, the western line of civilization, and the last telegraph station, I received a dispatch from our immigration agent, Feramorz Little, telling me that the Sioux were on the war-path, and that we must be watchful or they would run off our cattle. As a word of encouragement, he added that Captain Preston would overtake me in a few days, and would give me four mounted Utah men to aid me as scouts and night guard for my cattle.
Thus cheered, I pushed boldly out into the hunting grounds of the Sioux. But day after day passed, and Captain Preston did not come. At last I reached Ash Hollow, where there was a stockade and five Utah men guarding supplies left by the down-going trains. Leaving early the next morning, we made a drive of twenty-five miles, across the big bend of the Platte. In the evening a squad of U. S. troops camped on the opposite side of the river, and helloed across to us to look out, for "the devil was let loose"—meaning that "Sitting Bull" was on the war-path.
In the morning they were gone, and when we brought up our cattle, one of our best oxen was missing. It belonged to a Swede, who had only a light wagon and one yoke of oxen. Selecting a large cow from the herd, I yoked her in, and started the train in charge of the interpreter. I then circled the night herd-ground; and being a good trailer, I soon found the track of the ox going back and caught him at Ash Hollow twenty-five miles from camp.
Giving my horse a feed of grain, and taking lunch with the men, I started with the ox to overtake my train. The long, weary day went by, the sun was near setting, and I had just passed the night camp ground, I had left in the morning, when a small cloud of dust coming from the foothills attracted my attention. Just as I was entering a gorge, I drove the ox into the wash, then turned back up the hill, until I could see the dust again.
With the aid of my telescope I made out four Indians rapidly driving a herd of horses toward a patch of timber on the river. A careful inspection convinced me that the loose animals were American horses, and I soon recognized them as Captain Preston's. It now flashed through my mind why he had not overtaken us: The Indians had stolen his horses and crippled his movements.
Well, there I was, twenty miles from camp, alone, with no weapon but my revolver, and almost face to face with the robbers who had stolen my friend's horses. I stood and watched until they reached the timber. Selecting a large tree for a camping place, they threw down their traps, and three of them bunched the horses, while the fourth caught and hobbled them. Then they cut poles, and started down the river, evidently to catch fish for their supper.
I saw that the arroya, that I was in, emptied into the river near their camp; and knowing that the moon would not rise until a few minutes after dark, I instantly formed a plan, and went to work to put it into execution. I was averse to shedding blood, having always been taught to avoid it except in self defense. I resolved, however, to recapture the horses, and then, if followed, I would fight.
Leaving the ox, I moved cautiously down the ravine, and reached the mouth of it just as the gloom of night settled over the plain. The Indians had returned and built a large fire. One of them walked out and bunched the horses, and their movements attracted the attention of my mare. She threw up heir head and started to neigh, but I gave the bit a jerk in time to check her. The movement, slight as it was, showed me how dangerous was the enterprise I had undertaken.
The Indian soon returned to camp, and threw some more wood on the fire, which in the still night flamed high in air, rendering objects visible for some distance round, and greatly assisted my movements. I felt that now was my time to act. Approaching carefully the outer circle of horses, and dropping my bridle reins, I moved quietly from horse to horse, cutting their hobbles, then regaining my own horse, moved the band slowly until they found they were unfettered, when I leaped into my saddle, and started them on a run.
The wild yell that rang out on the night air curdled my blood, and made my hair stand on end. For a moment I was quite unnerved, but soon recovered, and lashed the horses at a wild rate across the plain. By the time I reached the ox the moon had risen, and it seemed as light as day. I drove the horses and the ox across the gully, and then wheeled back and stood in the darkness at the bottom of it, waiting for my pursuers.
Soon the pattering of feet reached my ears; and holding my breath until two dark forms came into view, I opened fire. The quick somersault and rapid retreat convinced me that Mr. Indian had been twice surprised by the white man. Emptying my revolver to give the idea that there were several of us, I sent the stock hurrying toward my camp. The road was tolerably straight and free from hill and hollow, so I was not much afraid of being ambushed. Yet I was keenly alert, and the fluttering of a bird or starting of a hare would rouse me.
As several hours passed, however, without interruption, I concluded that my shots had taken effect, at least so far as to discourage the Indians from following me. But I was suddenly aroused from this feeling of security by another danger I had not counted on. It was the low distant howl of a wolf. Soon an answer came, then another, and another. I smiled, for I had a contempt for the whole wolf tribe, believing them to be cunning and cruel, but cowardly. I turned the cylinder of my pistol to see if it was properly reloaded, and finding it all right, calmly awaited the gathering of the howling pack.
With lolling tongues and fiery eyes they came galloping up, falling into small groups, snapping, snarling, and fighting. I hesitated to shoot for fear the smell of blood would whet their ferocious appetites. My hesitation ceased, however, as a large grey wolf trotted up to my side and crouched to spring at me. Instinctively I put a bullet through his shoulder and he fell backward with a yell. In an instant a score of hungry brutes sprang on to him, and tore him to pieces.
At the same moment, a fresh pack came sweeping across the road in front, enclosing us in a circle. The frightened horses recoiled back upon me, and I began shooting right and left. One of the excited ponies suddenly bolted from the herd, and ran wildly across the plain. Instantly every wolf joined in pursuit. For a moment, there was a rushing sound, which gradually died out in the distance, then I was left alone with my trembling ponies, and my heart wildly beating.
At four a.m. I reached the camp in safety. The Danes had put the children to bed; but the men and women were sitting around a fire in the centre of a corral formed by the wagons. When I rode up they greeted me with four hurrahs, and strong hands lifted me from my saddle and bore me triumphantly to the watch fire.
When the joy had somewhat subsided, I said: "Brethren, that ox has traveled one hundred miles, and I have ridden seventy-five. These horses are Captain Preston's.[B] I took them from the Indians who had stolen them. Now, double the guards around the camp and cattle, put out your fire; and let me sleep until sunrise."
[Footnote B: The horses were not Captain Preston's; they belonged to a small company of men who were returning from Oregon.]
It is strange how susceptible of impression the mind of man is. As the first glint of sunshine rested upon my face, I awoke. The camp was bustling with activity. The Danes, though naturally a slow, stolid people, yet when aroused to enthusiasm are like a deep stream almost irresistible in force. And present conditions were such that the deepest feelings of their hearts were enlisted. Their faith, begotten of new convictions, was leading them to gather to Utah. It was their Mecca, their Zion upon earth; and every possible effort was cheerfully put forth to bring them to that haven of rest. Hence, camp rules and regulations were willingly adopted. Even the children seemed to vie with one another in carrying them out.
And needful it was that such faith should exist, for the journey before them was beset with trials and dangers; and no one could tell how or when trouble would come. The first day after my adventure passed pleasantly. We made a good drive and camped on a small clear stream—and the usual horse-shoe corral was formed. At dusk, the horses were placed on the inside, and guards placed at the ends of the corral.
In the morning it was reported that the horses had been restless. I circled the camp; and near the mouth of the creek I found where two Indians had jumped across. I knew that mischief was intended. That night I was cautious in selecting a camp ground, and careful in forming the corral; being sure that no gaps were left.
Before our company left Omaha, two American families joined us. They were rough Nebraskan farmers; and one of the men, whom I will call Jerry, was of great service to me. He was good-natured, strong and fearless. A younger brother of mine was also with me. He, too, was quiet and reliable. At prayer time I told the people that I feared the Indians were following us, and that they would try to stampede our stock, which I dreaded above all things.
I had seen the effects of stampedes in my first trip across the plains. A tornado is but little more to be dreaded than the rush of a large herd of crazy, frightened cattle. I have seen wagons smashed to stove-wood, and strong men trampled to death. I therefore requested Jerry and my brother to spread their blankets near me, and I kept my best horse saddled ready for any emergency.
And the emergency came about three o'clock in the morning. A wild yell like an Indian war-whoop rang out on the air, followed by a rush of cattle. In an instant, all was confusion; women and children tumbled pell-mell out of the wagons in their night clothes, screaming and fainting. The men, guns in hand, formed bands and, rushing in front of the cattle, fought desperately to keep them from bolting; and caused the crazy beasts to run in a circle. Every round brought them nearer the wagons; and I knew if they struck them that we were ruined.
Grasping my two trusted men, I urged them to mount their horses and throw themselves between the cattle and the wagons, and force the cattle, if possible, to bolt from us. I seconded their efforts by mounting my horse, and getting my interpreter, hurried to the men who were fighting the cattle, and led them to where I could hear Jerry and my brother's voices vainly trying at each returning surge of the dark mass, to force the cattle farther from the wagons.
Massing my men at the most exposed angle of the corral, I ordered them, on the return of the cattle, to fire a volley into the air. The sheet of flame from the guns seemed for a moment to paralyze the stock; and then with a rush that shook the ground beneath our feet, away they thundered toward the foothills on the north.
I lay flat on my horse, and crowding him into the jam, was swept along with the herd for about three miles, until I was satisfied no Indians were following; then I straightened up and commenced talking to them. This had the effect of quieting them. They slowed up, began lowing, as if calling to each other, and finally stopped. I was soon joined by my brother; but Jerry's horse, being slow, was soon distanced and lost, and he did not find us. Nor did he reach camp until the next day.
As soon as it was light, we moved the cattle back to camp; but they were nervous, and great care had to be taken in yoking them up. About nine o'clock we broke camp. I put my brother's team in the lead, and told him to drive briskly as I wanted to keep the wagons some distance apart. I strung out the teams and instructed the drivers to not close up. I purposed to drive fast until we should reach Goose Creek, fifteen miles away, and then camp.
All went as I desired, until we reached the summit of the last ridge. From there we had a mile of downhill grade to the creek. I glanced back, and could see the line of white covered wagons following each other like birds of passage, moving in orderly columns to a warmer clime. A feeling of joy filled my bosom, for I felt that the labors of the day would end in peace. I spurred my horse and galloped rapidly to the front to select the best spot on which to form my camp.
Crossing the creek and ascending the bench a few rods to the west, I turned and looked back just in time to see two Indians ride from the head of a hollow on our left. As they rushed past the rear of the train, they gave their wild, blood-curdling war-whoop. As quick as lightning an alarm seemed to flash from one end of the train to the other, and every team rushed wildly down the hill.
My pen is too weak to describe the heart-rending scene that followed the fearful rushing of the wild, stampeded cattle. Wagons were jolted against wagons with such force that the inmates were thrown out, to be run over and trampled under foot by other mad teams following in their rear. On they came, tearing blindly in any direction that their crazy fear led them. Wagons were embedded in the mire of the creek, and the tongues jerked out. At last they began to scatter, and then stopped.
Children ran instinctively to their parents for protection. In groups they wandered from their teams, avoiding them as though they had become beasts of terror to them. I rode to my brother, and directed him to the selected camping place. He unhitched his team, and driving the oxen some distance away, unyoked the right ox and turned its head toward the off one's tail, then yoked it again. In this shape, as long as yoke and bows held, there was no danger of stampeding.
The movement was like a revelation to the people, and they took new hope. I rode from wagon to wagon directing their movements, and checking noise and confusion. By sundown, the camp was formed, the cattle secured, the guards placed, and fires lighted. Then I turned my attention to the wounded ones. I had but little knowledge of surgery; but all eyes were turned to me. With a prayer for God's blessings to attend my efforts, I sewed up gaping flesh wounds. Providentially no bones were broken but there were two lovely women and one man who needed no help of mine. Loving hands smoothed the tangled hair and closed the eyes of the dead, and loving lips kissed the pale brows. Then white sheets were spread over them, and they were left to rest. On the morrow, on the near hillside, we dug their graves, and of the dear old family chests, coffins were made. Then a venerable man, in workman's garb, spoke sweet words of comfort:
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."
And whether they rest on prairie wild, or sleep in the city's polished sepulchres, it matters not, so God's will is done. In the resurrection morn, they shall come forth clothed with life and immortality.
A Squaw Fight.
The coming of our people to Utah in 1847 brought us into contact with the powerful intermountain tribe of Utes. Up till then, these Indians had had but little association with the white man; consequently in their social life, they were following exclusively the customs and traditions of their savage ancestors. Many of their practices were horrifying. The law of "an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth" was born and bred in them; hence, if a white man killed an Indian, the tribe took revenge by killing the first white man who chanced to fall into their hands, though he might have been perfectly innocent, having never harmed them. They also took great delight in torturing helpless victims.
At our coming, the notorious Chief Walker was at the zenith of his power. Not only was he a scourge to the Spaniards in California, but he remained also a terror to the weaker bands of Indians inhabiting the intermountain country, from whom he exacted a yearly tribute of children, to sell into slavery to the Spaniards. It was Governor Brigham Young's prohibiting of this child-slave traffic in the territory that led to the Walker war.
Next in brutality to child-slavery was what we termed "squaw fights." They came about in this way: If a brave saw a maiden that he desired, he would go to her father, who, according to their laws, had a right to sell her, and bargain for her, usually paying from one to five ponies for her. If it happened that the girl had a lover, and he would put up as much purchase money as had the first applicant, then the lovers would settle it by a fist fight.
Sometimes conditions would be such that every warrior in the tribe would be allowed, nay, would be honor-bound—to take part in the melee, and aid his tribesman to win his wife. It would then be a national war, and would be conducted on long-established rules and ceremonies which the Indians hold in deep reverence.
In 1861, at the frontier town of Santa Clara, in southern Utah, I witnessed one of these tribal fights. A young, slender, delicate-looking girl, evidently the belle of Tutsegovett's band, was purchased by a brave of Coal Creek John's band; but a brave of the Santa Clara tribe was the girl's accepted lover.
The aspirants were men of influence in their respective bands, though they were unequal in physical ability. The man from Cedar, whom I will call Ankawakeets, was a large, muscular, well-matured man of commanding personality—a warrior tried and proven, while Panimeto, the Clara man, was only a stripling; a youth of fine features and an eagle eye, bespeaking pride and ambition, but fifty pounds lighter in weight than Ankawakeets.
By the rules of the contest, this physical difference made it impossible for the lovers to settle it by single combat; hence, it was arranged by tribal agreement, that twenty warriors on each side should participate in the struggle. The ground selected was a flat just west of the old Clara fort. A square was marked off, the creek being chosen for the south line; a line drawn in the sand marked the east, west, and north boundaries.
East of the east line was Ankawakeets' goal, which, if he could reach with the girl, she was his; contra, west of the west line was Panimeto's goal, claiming the same concessions. On opposite sides of a line running north and south through the center of this square where the braves, lined up, stripped to the skin save for the indispensable gee-string.
At the tap of the Indian drum, with bowed heads, and arms wildly beating the air, the two files rushed like angry bullocks upon each other. The air-hitting was fierce and rapid for a few minutes, until a second tap of the drum, when the warriors clinched, and the mass became a seething, whirling, cyclone of dark figures, cheered on by the squaw, and by an occasional war-whoop from some interested, on-looking warrior.
To vanquish an opponent you had to throw him and hold him flat on his back for the supposed time it would take to scalp an actual enemy. At the end of an hour's exciting struggle, a few warriors on each side had been vanquished; but the forces remaining were equal in number, so neither party had gained any advantage.
They now changed the procedure. The father led the maiden to the central line. She looked terrified; and well she might, for the ordeal through which she was to pass was a fearful one; one of brutal pain that would test her powers of endurance to the uttermost. The champions ran to the girl, and seizing her by the wrists undertook to force her to their respective goals. Soon it became a "tug-of-war" with fifteen strapping warriors on each side. The flesh of the trembling maiden quivered under the strain of thirty brutal demons struggling and yelling to accomplish their aims.
Gyrating from one side of the field to the other they came, in one of their wild swirls, to the banks of the creek and fell into the water pell-mell up to their necks. The girl, evidently in a swoon, was entirely submerged, only her mass of glossy tresses floating on the surface of the water.
Andrew Gibbons, one of the Indian missionaries, flung himself on the bank; and seizing the girl's hair, he raised her head above the water. Instantly every brave broke his hold, and scrambled on to the bank; and Ankawakeets angrily demanded that Gibbons should fight him for having interfered.
To my surprise, Gibbons accepted the challenge, flung aside his hat, and stepped into the ring. Tutse gave the signal, and Ankawakeets sprang to the fray, only to measure his length backward on the sand. Three times in succession his stalwart body kissed the earth. Then, moving with more caution, the Indian dodged a blow, and succeeded in grappling with Gibbons, but again the white man's skill was superior to the savage's strength. Ankawakeets was flung to the ground and held until the imagined scalping was performed. Then Gibbons stepped back and folded his arms. His vanquished opponent arose, and with a majestic air, that a white man could not imitate, he stepped to the maiden, spoke a few low words that seemed to have a magical effect, and taking the unresisting hand, led her to the victor and presented her as a bridal trophy for the white man's valor and skill.
Gibbons, with a face glowing with satisfaction at the happy turn of the combat, accepted the maiden, and leading her to Panimeto, gave her to him—a mistake wherein the white man's sympathy for the weak overruled his judgment. The presentation was followed by a war-whoop from Ankawakeets, and his braves. Rushing to their camps they returned with guns in hand, and forming a circle around the girl, ordered her to march.
This fight gave me a deeper insight into the nobility and sterling character of our Indian missionary boys. What fearless men they were, ready for any emergency!
At this crisis it looked as if Ankawakeets would triumph by armed force; yet the whites felt that his cause was not just; but an unsuspected champion, a veritable lion, stood in the path. This time it was Thales Haskell, another Indian missionary, of whom it was said, "His cheeks never paled, and his voice never trembled." He sprang in front of Ankawakeets and said,
"I called you a chief, but I see you are a boy, and a coward at that. Put up your gun, and be a man."
Then Tutsegavit's voice was heard, commanding the father to lead the girl to the center of the field, and told the warriors that they might go on with the fight until the sun should hide its face behind the mountain. If neither party won by that time, the girl should be released from' the father's vows.
Each band of warriors withdrew by themselves for a few minutes' consultation; then, with firmness depicted on every countenance, they took their places, the champions grasping again the wrists of the trembling young squaw. A look of despair deepened the pallor of her face, as if the terror of death was resting upon her; and a death-like silence reigned as both sides waited the signal to begin the encounter.
At this critical moment, the girl's young brother, who had stood aloof with folded arms and clouded brow during all the struggle, bounded to his sister's side and, drawing his knife from its sheath, he buried it in her bosom. She fell lifeless into her father's arms. The brother, holding the bloody knife on high, said:
"I loved my sister too well to see her suffer more. You call me a boy; but if there is a brave who thinks I have done wrong, let him take the knife and plunge it to my heart; so will I join my sister and lead her to the red man's happy hunting ground. I am not afraid to die."
Every warrior bowed his head, and turning, walked in silence to his camp.
On the morrow, our people aided in giving fitting burial to the lovely Indian girl, whose life had been sacrificed to the demands of a brutal custom. I will only add that shortly after this tragedy, Jacob Hamblin, the man whom the prophet Brigham Young ordained to be the "first, apostle to the Lamanites," gathered the Indians in a council and talked to them until they promised to give up the squaw fights. It was a step which marked an epoch in the life of the Indians; and incidentally it serves to illustrate the influence for good that this wonderful peace-maker held over our fallen brethren, the Lamanites.
Crusade Against Plural Marriage.
When the crusade against plural marriage commenced in Utah, I was not willing to give up my families; and being of a timid nature, I sought to avoid trouble. In my heart I felt justified in having more wives than one, believing plural marriage to be God's law; and therefore I resolved to cleave to my wives and children, let come what might. On the other hand, I did not court martyrdom; I was quite willing to retire and live in seclusion until the wave of prejudice should pass away.
Accordingly, I took up a ranch on the Boulder Mountain, at a place called Wild Cat, a lonely retreat twenty miles from any town. Here I took my wife Tamar, and began to run a dairy. Albina, my first wife, remained on the farm in Rabbit Valley.
I had learned that there was a warrant out for me in the hands of Deputy Marshal Armstrong, charging me with adultery—adultery, forsooth, with my own wife! On one occasion, I was in Nephi staying with Thomas Bowles. We were walking past Whitmore's store in the evening, when Brother Bowles suddenly caught my arm. "There's Armstrong!" said he, pointing to a man in front of the livery stable who was trying to hold a lantern, and at the same time to do some repair work on a buggy. I stepped forward, held the lantern, and chatted with him some fifteen minutes. He thanked me, and I knew Johnny Armstrong from that time onward.
Soon after my return to Wild Cat I received a communication from my brother Franklin, saying that Armstrong and McGary wanted to meet us, and try to make "terms" with us; pledging their word that we should not be arrested at the meeting. I declined to meet. I knew the marshals, and I didn't intend that by any such ruse they should make my acquaintance.
My brother met them, however, and agreed on terms; and when notified, he went to Beaver and surrendered himself; received as his "medicine" the full extent of the law—three years and three hundred dollars.
Before harvest time, it became necessary for me to go to the city for a reaper. My wife Albina was with me on my way home, and just as we reached the head of the long dugway overlooking Rabbit Valley, Armstrong drove up. I stopped and let him pass. He thanked me, and drove by. I knew him and rejoiced that he didn't know me.
Once I came up from Wild Cat to get a load of rock salt for my cattle. I called at the Co-op. store, but it had none. Hugh McClellan, the man that the deputies always stopped with, said, "Drive me home, and I will let you have a load."
"Am I safe?"
"Perfectly; there will be no one here for three or four days."
I went, and was loading the salt into my wagon when Lish Goff, a rough man, supposedly unfriendly to me, pulled my sleeve, and nodded toward a side lane. There came Armstrong and McGary! I felt I was a "goner." Surely I could not escape this time! However, I picked up my lines and drove off. McClellan was as white as death.
As I turned my back to the marshals, I was not ten rods in advance of them. Goff stepped out, and told them dinner was ready. They wanted to go to the store, but he persuaded them to wait until after dinner. Thanks to Goff and the "deps" not knowing me, I escaped again.
In the fall, I loaded up a four-horse outfit with cheese to take up to the valley. On Monday morning I sent my little boys to the pasture to bring up my horses. As they were gone rather long, I stepped a few rods in front of the house to look out for them, and I heard a voice distinctly say, "Don't go today."
I consequently told the boys to saddle me a riding pony, and turn the work horses out and let them go to the mountain. Going down the road about ten miles, I turned off to Giles' sheep camp. Just as I reached the camp, we were visited with a heavy rainstorm, and as one happy result all previous tracks in the road were obliterated. On my return home I saw a fresh buggy track, and looking ahead three hundred yards, I beheld my friends, the enemy! I followed leisurely until the road made a curve around the head of a hollow, when I cut across and came in ahead of them. They helloed, but of course I did not hear. McGary stood up with his gun in his hand, but as I quickened my pace, he sat down again. Presently we came to the forks of the road; the right-hand went to Wild Cat, the left to Brinkerhoff's ranch. I took the left, riding leisurely so the buggy might follow. When within a mile of the ranch, I rode rapidly ahead, found everybody gone, and the door locked. I next rode over the brow of a rock ridge,
Then from behind a treeI observed the enemy,
Then from behind a treeI observed the enemy,
until the shadow of night settled down upon us, and they had unharnessed, tied up, and gathered wood to keep fire until morning. Then I went home to a loving family and a warm supper.
In the morning the deputies hunted until discouraged, and were on the eve of leaving the mountain when they met a stockman who gave me away by directing them to Wild Cat. They came, got their breakfast, then subpoenaed Tamar, and her daughters Harriet and May, to appear in court on a certain day. When the time came, I sent Albina, my first wife, with my daughters Harriet and May; instructing them, when before the jury to speak the truth freely about me, and promising that all should be well with them. They did so, and the court treated them respectfully, Marshal Armstrong being a gentleman and a friend to them. Tamar's health was delicate, and I determined she should not be dragged into court to be cross-questioned by lawyers; and, as often happened, censured and lectured by a missionary judge.
My next meeting with the men who looked so kindly after the "cohabs" was at Thurber. My son Ferra had purchased a strong, nervous, though vicious horse, and we believed that, given a little start, there was nothing in our burg that could overtake him. I had again been for a load of salt, returning with a four-horse team, and had reached Thurber when my son William R. overtook me.
"Father," said he, "you had better ride Selim a little while, and be quick about it."
I had just mounted when Bishop Coleman and my brother Franklin W. met us. They turned across the canal and drove rapidly toward the river, the marshals being in sight and driving furiously toward us. I loitered near my team in hopes to draw the "deps" after me; but they could see Coleman's rig, and wheeled across the canal in pursuit of him.
I jumped my horse across the canal; and galloping around a block, came into the road just ahead of the officers. They called on me to stop; but I could not do it, as some dogs ran out from a house I was passing, and so frightened my horse that he broke into a dead run. I jerked back violently and broke one rein, virtually turning the vicious brute loose. He seemed to go crazy. A man by the name of Keel was working on a vacant rocky lot near by. The horse bolting in that direction, pitched at the man, who struck him over the head with a crowbar. This seemed to daze the animal for a minute, then he commenced bucking; and for a short time he made it mighty interesting for me, and the people who were looking on. Finally, he threw up his head and broke for home, and I was quite willing to let him go. The marshals turned and followed, whereby the other "cohabs" got away again. I took a skurry through the hills, and late in the evening brought up at my brother's, in Teasdale, where I found Willie R. Later still, Bishop Coleman and Franklin W. arrived safe and sound.
Brother C. L. Christensen was living on a ranch about half way between Wild Cat and the Valley. One day the marshals caught him. "Now," said they, "you are a poor man, and we don't want to make it hard on you. We will let you go now if you will promise to come when we want you. You can thus be at home in peace with your family until you are wanted in court." So he promised. "Now," they said, "we are going home, and we will write you about ten days before we come for you; so you will have time to be prepared."
As soon as they were gone. Brother Christensen kindly came over and told me of the bargain, adding, "Now you can stay at home and not worry; for when I get the letter, I will send you word." I was pleased; for staying at home in peace in those troublesome times was pleasant. It was getting cold on the mountain, so I moved down to my winter ranch on Pleasant Creek. One night I woke up, and a low voice said to me, "The marshals will not write to Christensen, and you had better get away from here."
In the morning I rode eight miles to Bishop Joseph H. Wright's ranch, told him of my impressions, and said: "Tomorrow morning, before light, I shall pull for Colorado." He replied, "I will be at your place tonight, prepared to go with you." The next morning, at three o'clock, we pulled out, without letting our neighbors know of it.
I had three horses and a big, snorty mule in my team, and my wagon carried three thousand pounds of freight. About two o'clock, while driving across a smooth clay flat running parallel with the Dirty Devil river, I had raised the cover and was looking at a ranch on the south side, when I heard a moan; and looking around I saw Tamar fall from the wagon on to the heels of the mule. The team, becoming frightened, ran two hundred yards before I could stop them. When I finally did so, there lay Tamar, the nigh front wheel on her breast. I sprang out, pulled the team back with one hand, and lifted the wheel with the other until I rolled it off her.
The mule backed until her feet struck Tamar, then she wanted to run again. I tried with one hand to pull Tamar's body from the road, but she said, "Don't, you hurt my hand." Then I saw that her hand was under the wheel. With one hand and my knee, I lifted the wheel and she drew her hand out; then she fainted.
All this time, little Ray, three years old, frightened nearly to death, was screaming and threatening to tumble out of the wagon. I lifted him down, then examined Tamar's hand, expecting to have to take my knife and cut off her fingers, for they looked, in the blood and dust, as if they were ground to pieces. I found the bones were not broken. Thus relieved, I thought of assistance; and called to Bishop Wright, who was some distance ahead. Luckily he heard me, and ran back. Tamar still lay as if dead. Brother Wright brought some water from the river; we bathed her face, and she revived.
We arranged a bed in the wagon, and placed her on it, then drove till after midnight before we reached a habitation. We finally got into a school-house and spent the rest of the night in administering to, and nursing my wife. Her breast bone was crushed in, and her hand badly lacerated; and I feared the nervous shock and the bruise would bring on premature child-birth and perhaps death. In the morning she felt so much better, however, that we moved on to Hanksville, about fifteen miles.
On the west side of town was a store, in care of Mrs. Dr. Jorgensen, an old acquaintance of ours. At the store the public road shot to the north and south. The latter led to Hall's Ferry, on the Colorado; the former crossed the Dirty Devil and went to Blake, on Green River. As we drove up, Sister Jorgensen ran out to see Tamar. I jumped from the wagon and stopped her, telling her she must not see her, as it would get her into trouble. She prepared some liniment, and told me how to nurse her; then I bade her good-bye.
We crossed the road, pulled through the town, down the river two miles, and stopped with William Bacon. They gave us their best room and bed, and Tamar rested comfortably for two days. Again in the night, an unseen power said to me, "Move on." Tamar's body was sore; but I knew the road was sandy and free from rocks, and she said she would rather go than be arrested. We crossed the river in Brother Bacon's field, and followed an old wood road up a sandy hollow, until we struck the main road.
Just before reaching it, we saw the tops of three wagons passing. They drove to the ford near the store, and camped. They had scarcely unharnessed when Armstrong and McGary drove up. The freighters assured them we were not on the road, as they were direct from Green River and had met no one.
The officers then wheeled and took the road for Hall's Ferry. Twenty miles out they met Dan Dalton, who assured them we were not on that road. They then returned to the store and questioned Sister Jorgensen, threatening to arrest her unless she would tell them where we were; but she maintained stoutly that she had not seen Mrs. Young, and knew nothing of her whereabouts.
When the marshals first reached the store, twenty minutes' drive would have taken them to us; but when they came back from a forty-mile run, their team was exhausted. They offered fifty dollars for the use of a fresh team; but no one in. Hanksville wanted the money, and to this day I have a warm spot in my heart for those good people.
The day we left Brother Bacon's was full of painful anxiety to Bishop Wright and myself. The sand was deep, and our loads heavy; we had to move slowly, walking by the side of our teams and resting every few rods. These, however, were minor troubles; the atmosphere was full of apprehension and danger. From the top of every ridge we looked back, expecting to see our enemy coming; and I had determined that Tamar should not be dragged into court if I had power to prevent it.
Our wives were innocent of crime; they were virtuous, honest, bashful girls, unused to public life. In their innocence and spiritual devotion, they had trusted us for guidance and protection; and I was not going to see my wife slurred and brow-beaten by a profligate lawyer, nor humiliated by a missionary judge. We might suffer by flight—and we did suffer more than my pen can tell; as a matter of fact, Tamar suffered for years from the effect of the accident she met with—but we escaped arrest, and there was comfort in that. I had never felt that the road to exaltation was through the Utah penitentiary; I did not owe Uncle Sam a cent; and I certainly did not want to be honored by wearing the uniform of his boarding house. One more incident and then I am done with the marshals.
By appointment, I met my cousin Brigham in Rabbit Valley, and accompanied him across the desert to New Mexico. Below Hanksville, we met Dan Dalton, who was freighting from the Henry Mountain. He told us there were two marshals at the ferry evidently waiting for someone. We passed on, and when by ourselves, Brigham asked, "What shall we do?" I replied, "You are the captain; as you direct, I shall act." "Well," he said, "I'll tell you: if you will drive the team I will do the fighting, and there are no two deputy marshals living that can take me back to Utah."
When we reached the Colorado, we met Platte D. Lyman and L. H. Redd, the supposed marshals. They took our carriage apart and ferried us over the river in a small boat, swimming our horses. I went to Fruitland, New Mexico, with Brigham, then bought two scrub ponies and went back alone.
In a seven days' ride on the desert, I met but three persons. The first two were Bishop Allan Taylor and Bishop Franzen, who were on the "underground," and later on I met a deputy marshal on this wise: There being no one at the ferry, I swam the Colorado, pack-horse and all; and passing through Hanksville in the night, I rode out on to the desert about fifteen miles, hobbled my horses and went to sleep. As soon as it was light in the morning I was moving.
Presently I met two grey horses, hobbled, and evidently running away. Tying the greys to my pack-horse's tail I took them with me about three miles, when I met the owner. He was pleased with what I had done, and became communicative, telling me he was a deputy marshal; then, stopping suddenly, he asked my name.
"Brown," said I.
"What Brown?"
"John."
"Where are you from?"
"Kanab."
"What are you to Guernsey Brown?"
"Cousin."
That reassured him. He told me he had been to Kanab after "cohabs."
By this time we had reached his camp. I took breakfast with him, and he continued to interest me by telling me he was after a fellow by the name of Young. I asked him what Young. He said "John R." I told him I had heard of him; but had never met him. He said Young had gone to New Mexico to hunt him a home; but would soon return by way of Blake, and he was going to wait for him.
We rode together until we reached the San Rafael. There we parted, as I was going to the Iron Springs to look at a bunch of cattle I thought of buying. That night, about midnight, I reached my little home in Huntington, and found my wife Tamar very feeble. She had lost her babe, and was still suffering with her breast and mutilated hand, the result of her fainting and falling out of the wagon when fleeing to avoid arrest and imprisonment for having become a plural wife when there was no law making it a crime.
During the crusade, I suffered my family to become scattered. It was one of the errors of my life. The principle of plural marriage came from God; and when honestly lived up to, it purifies the life and enlarges the soul. On the same reasoning, since the Manifesto was adopted, it should be honored, because it came from God, for the temporal salvation of his people.
And now that plural marriage is barred by law, that does not justify men, when in power, in being cruel and oppressive, as some of the judges and many of the marshals were. The intent of the law is to render justice, tempered with mercy; but in this suppression of polygamy in Utah, the Roman idea, that to the "victor belongs the spoil" was adopted; and I felt then, as I do now, that it was unjust and cruel.