“That is good. Navajo are sheep people too, like me. I will be safe with them.”
That satisfied Mitch. “All right, then. Be safe. But watch your back.”
They shook hands and Juan replaced his hat. “You are a good friend, Señor Mitch. Gracias. Muchas gracias.”
November 29, 1914, 7:35 a.m.—EDW Ranch
When the knock sounded on the front door, Edie was at the sink washing up the breakfast dishes. She looked up in surprise. Visitors at this hour of the morning? The knock sounded again, more urgently now.
Wiping the soap suds off of her hands and drying them on her apron, she went to the front door. When she opened it, George Adams was standing there, hat in hand.
“Mornin’, Sister Edie,” he said, nodding gravely.
“Morning, Bishop. You’re out early.”
“Yes, I am. Is Mitch around?”
“He’s out in the barn. Come in, and I’ll go get him.”
“That’s all right.” He replaced his hat and stepped off the porch. “I’ll find him.”
He waved a hand and headed for the barn.
She watched him go, her curiosity piqued. George and Evelyn Adams had been one of the first families to come north to the Blue Mountain Mission in 1887. Their friendship with the Westlands now covered over thirty years. Edie considered Evelyn one of her dearest friends. And now George was also their bishop.
As she watched him walk across the yard toward the barn, she sensed that he was here as bishop and not just as a longtime friend. And that left her feeling uneasy. So instead of going back to doing the dishes, she moved to the window and watched as he disappeared into the barn. Then to her further surprise, both men came out a moment later and Mitch gestured toward the house. They started toward her at a swift walk. Something in their facial expressions sent a little shiver through her. She moved to the door and opened it.
As the bishop removed his hat again, Mitch laid a hand on her shoulder. “The bishop has some bad news. I thought you ought to hear it too.”
“What is it?” she asked as they moved into the living room. “Is it something with the family?”
Bishop Adams shook his head. “No, Edie. It’s about Juan Chacón.”
Her hand shot out and clutched at Mitch’s arm. The bishop cleared his throat and then went on in a subdued voice. “I got a call from the sheriff in Cortez about half an hour ago. He got word that Tse-ne-gat was back in Yellow Jacket. He had two new horses with him and was waving a fistful of cash.”
Edie felt hot tears spring to her eyes. “No!” she whispered.
George nodded, his mouth a pinched line. “The sheriff immediately rode north and confronted Tse-ne-gat about it. The horses were Chacón’s, and the sheriff found some letters and checks in the saddlebags with Chacón’s name on them. But Tse-ne-gat swore that he had won all of it from Chacón in a poker game.”
“That’s a lie!” Edie cried.
“Of course it is,” Bishop Adams said. “But Old Poke, Tse-ne-gat’s father, backed his son up, claiming he was with him. So the sheriff had to leave.”
“Can’t they do anything?”
Bishop Adams went on. “The sheriff went to Durango and told the U.S. Marshal there what he had found. The marshal got a warrant for Tse-ne-gat’s arrest and returned with the sheriff. But by then Tse-ne-gat and Poke and their entire band had disappeared. The tribe, of course, claims not to know where they went.”
“No surprise there,” Mitch grunted. “Even though they hate Poke and his band, the tribe won’t turn on its own people, especially not to help the white man.”
“Well, gratefully, a U.S. Marshal is a federal officer and can deal with crimes among the Indians if they’re serious enough. Which this was. But he has to have solid proof. So the next day the sheriff and the marshal rode out to the sheep camp and talked to the sheepherder that replaced Juan. He was shocked and highly distraught at the news. He said that Tse-ne-gat had come to the camp the morning after Chacón had left for home, demanding to know where he was. The other herder told Tse-ne-gat that Juan had left two or three days before and was probably back in New Mexico by now. But that crafty young Paiute erupted in fury. He said that he had seen the tracks of two horses going down the canyon and threatened to kill the herder if he didn’t tell him which way Chacón had gone. He refused, swearing that he was telling the truth. Finally Tse-ne-gat left, going down the canyon the same way Chacón had gone. Fortunately, the marshal was determined not to let the issue go. He and the sheriff went back to Cortez, got a few men and some supplies, and went back out, determined to either find Chacón’s body or go all the way to New Mexico to see if he was still alive.”
There was a deep, pain-filled sigh as George looked at Mitch and Edie. “They were out two weeks and just returned to Cortez yesterday.”
“And did they find Juan?” Edie cried.
Another grim nod. “That’s why the sheriff called me this morning. They found Chacón’s body buried in a shallow grave. He had been shot in the back three times.”
“So have they found Tse-ne-gat yet?” Mitch asked.
“No. He and his father and their band are somewhere in Utah now, out in the canyons east of Bluff, they think. And that’s not all. Posey and his band are gone too, and we assume they are with Poke. If so, that’s two bands with at least a hundred braves between them, and they’re almost certainly armed and ready for a fight.”
“So that murderer gets away with it?” Edie whispered.
George frowned and then shrugged. “It’s a tough knot to untie. Anyway,” he went on, “I knew that you were close friends, so I wanted you to know. I’ve got to get back now. The sheriff has asked that I call a meeting today and tell our people about this so we can be on the lookout for them.”
“Has someone told his wife?” Edie asked, stepping back and wiping at her tears.
“The marshal sent off a telegram this morning to New Mexico asking the marshal there to send someone out with the news.” George laid a hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mitch. I know that you were good friends.”
Mitch nodded numbly. “I can’t count the number of times he’s helped me pull one of my steers out of a mudhole or that I’ve helped him find stray sheep. He was a good man.”
The bishop nodded, briefly touched Edie’s hand, and put on his hat and went out the door. As it shut behind him, Edie fell into Mitch’s arms and completely broke down. “Why, Mitch?” she sobbed. “Why? Why? Why?”
April 4, 1920, 7:48 p.m.—EDW Ranch
Mitch stopped his narrative, looking at his son. “Am I going too fast?”
Frank didn’t look up, but he held up one finger and continued to write. “Okay,” Frank said a few moments later. “I’m ready.” He looked at the paper and read from the bottom. “Mom fell into your arms when Bishop Adams brought news that Chacón was dead.” He looked up. “So what happened next?”
It was his mother who answered. “Nothing,” Edie said in disgust. “Nothing at all.”
“Nothing?” Rowland and Rena exclaimed at the same time.
Mitch shook his head. “After Bishop Adams came, we heard nothing for several weeks. Oh, we heard rumors from time to time. But none of them panned out. This went on into mid-February. Then the bishop got another call from a different U.S. Marshal, Marshal Nebeker. He said he had a confirmed report that Poke’s band was camped in upper Cottonwood Wash a few miles west of Bluff. He said he had formed a posse made up of about thirty men. He said he was aware of the Mormons’ commitment not to fight with the Indians, so he was hoping he wouldn’t need us, but he wanted us to be ready just in case things went wrong.
“Two or three days went by, and we heard nothing. But that wasn’t surprising. It would take the posse that long to come over from Colorado. But then one night, Bishop Adams and Dan Perkins came out to see us again.”
“
Dan was a counselor in the bishopric,” Edie explained.
“To our surprise, Marshal Nebeker was in Blanding,” Mitch said. “Nebeker told George that he had decided his face was so well known in these parts that people would recognize him and tell Poke and that he would disappear again. So the marshal decided to outsmart him. He told his men to wait until dark and then slip into Bluff two or three at a time and to stay hidden, but then he came up to Blanding where he could direct the action by telephone. He called Bishop Adams to let him know what was happening and asked that we bring half our men down to Blanding to join him but leave the rest up here in case the Indians came this way.”
“Wait,” Frank said. “I thought you said he wanted to keep the Mormons out of the fight if possible.”
“He did, but he wanted half of us to come down to Blanding because that put us within twenty-five miles of Bluff instead of fifty. But he still planned to hold us back unless things with the main posse turned bad.”
“Except for Dan Perkins and your dad,” Edie added.
“Why you and Brother Perkins?” Frank asked.
“Both of us were familiar with the country around Bluff because we had run cattle there. He needed us for guides.”
“Ah. Got it.” Frank wrote some more and then waved. “Okay, I’m ready. So you rode off to Bluff.”
“Not at that point,” Mitch said. “In fact, about the time our men arrived in Monticello, the whole thing looked like it was going to turn into a circus.”
“Like how?” Rowland asked, as engrossed in the story as Frank was.
“Well, our group arrived in Blanding about ten o’clock the next morning. We and the Blanding group were in the schoolhouse with the marshal, who was anxiously waiting for word from his men on how the attack on Poke’s camp had gone. Then suddenly, we heard all these riders coming up the street.”
Frank’s head jerked up. “Was it the Indians?”
“No,” Mitch said in disgust. “It was the posse.”
“What?” Rowland cried.
“That’s right. The sheriff had told them to attack the camp at first light, but I guess the man he left in charge lost his nerve or something. Instead, he decided they’d come up to Blanding and get further instructions.” Mitch chuckled with the memory. “Oh, my word. Marshal Nebeker was spitting horseshoe nails when he heard. He started yelling and cussing. But there was nothing to be done for it. So he decided to give his men a couple of hours to rest their horses and then go back to Bluff with them.”
“But surely the Indians had guards out by then,” Rowland said. “Wouldn’t they recognize the marshal?”
“It was late enough by then that they couldn’t make it back to Bluff before dark, but Nebeker was still worried about being spotted. But fortunately, the weather turned in our favor. About mid-afternoon a pretty serious snowstorm rolled in. It made for a cold ride but was perfect for our needs, because by the time we approached Bluff, the snow was six inches deep and completely muffled the sounds of our horses. We slipped into Bluff undetected.”
Rena spoke to her father. “By ‘we,’ I assume you mean you and Dan went with them?”
“That’s right. Not anyone else at that point, just Dan and me.”
“Which,” Edie said softly, “I did not learn about until later, or I would have been sick with worry.”
“Hang on,” Frank cried. He tossed his dull pencil aside and grabbed another. After a minute or so, he called for Mitch to proceed.
“Well,” Mitch replied, “we snuck into Bluff under cover of darkness and the snowstorm, and we bedded down for the night.” His face was suddenly grim. “And that next morning was when the real fun started.”
February 25, 1915, 5:07 a.m.—Cottonwood Wash, about two miles west of Bluff
Keeping his head low, Mitch slithered back down from the top of the ridge, careful to avoid making any noise. Nebeker was waiting for him in the bottom of the narrow side wash. The others gathered in around him to hear what he had learned.
“Well?” Nebeker growled softly.
“There’s a camp there, all right. Through the binoculars I could make out the coals of a couple of campfires, and you can smell wood smoke.”
“How far?”
“They’re on the other side of Cottonwood Wash. Three or four hundred yards, I’d reckon.”
Nebeker grunted, and Mitch couldn’t tell if he was pleased or displeased with that news. “How many?”
“Too dark yet to tell for sure. Poke’s no fool. He’s camped in a thicket of cedars with lots of sagebrush around, so they’re going to be hard to spot even when it’s light. And that also gives them the high ground, especially as we cross the wash to get to them.”
“Then we’ve got to get right up to them before we attack,” Nebeker said. Turning, he motioned the men in closer. The snow had stopped and the skies were mostly clear now. A pale half-moon was low in the western sky. Here, the storm had left only four or five inches on the ground, but as the clouds moved eastward, the temperature had plummeted. Mitch guessed it was down close to twenty degrees, and their breath hung in the air for several seconds before dissipating. In the faint moonlight, he could see the men were shivering. Several were stomping their feet to try to keep warm. Some had removed their gloves and were blowing on their hands. Mitch felt it too. The cold had penetrated through his cowboy boots and thick woolen stockings, and even through the sheepskin-lined gloves, his fingers felt numb.
Knowing that the time had arrived, they were silent, waiting for directions. The griping about the cold had stopped, and now they were tight-lipped and grim, thinking about what was about to unfold. Since leaving Blanding yesterday, Mitch’s opinion of the men had risen. Taking everyone north to find their boss may have been a stupid thing for their leader to do, but these men were not stupid. They were tough range hands, men used to fighting for survival. They all had volunteered for posse duty so they could earn a few extra bucks. A few were married with families, but most were cowboys drawn from various ranches around Dolores and Cortez. Three sheriffs were in the group, and these were long-time lawmen with that look of confidence that was the mark of someone not afraid of getting mixed up in a fight.
“Okay,” Nebeker said in a low voice, “listen up. We’re going to split into three groups. Jingles and I will take the first group. We’ll head straight in for the camp. Wait for our signal. No one fires before I do.”
He turned to a tall, lanky man on his right with a ten-gallon hat and a long, handlebar mustache. “Sheriff Harrison will lead the second group,” Nebeker said. He pointed to their right. “I want you to work your way up this little wash until it peters out, then turn left and go straight over to the big wash. The Paiutes are on the opposite side.”
Harrison nodded without comment.
“Once we open fire, you cross the wash. Stay as quiet as you can. See if you can come in above them and catch them by surprise.”
“Got it.”
Mitch spoke up. “Remember, there aren’t just braves with Poke and Tse-ne-gat. They’ll have their women and children with them too. So don’t be shooting at anything that moves.”
“That’s right,” Nebeker affirmed. “We don’t want a massacre on our hands here. We’re after Tse-ne-gat and Poke. And any men that fire on us. That’s all.” He looked at Harrison. “You’ll need a head start on us. We’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
Harrison took off and his men fell in behind him, their boots making little more than soft crunches in the fresh snow.
Nebeker turned to two men on his left who also wore sheriffs’ badges. “Jim, you and Sheriff Waters do the same thing with a couple of your men, only you’re going to come at them from below. Go down about two hundred yards, then cut across to Cottonwood Wash. Be in place in fifteen minutes. You stay there until you hear gunfire, then come in fast and hard.”
The man named Jim g
ave a curt nod and moved out, with the others close behind.
As they moved out, Nebeker looked around at the ten or twelve men still gathered around him. “Which of you are staying with the horses?”
Two of the younger men in the group raised their hands.
“Okay. Stay alert. Don’t shoot at anything unless you know for sure it’s not one of us. And no smoking. They can smell cigarette smoke a mile away.”
“Do you want me to stay here?” Mitch asked.
“No. I want you to lead us up to the edge of Cottonwood Wash, then you’ll stay back. And keep out of sight. If they don’t see you, they won’t be coming after you or the Mormons later.”
“Fine by me.” In a way, that would be frustrating, but in another way, Mitch was glad. He had run cattle all up and down the county for years now, and he knew a lot of Indians. And they knew him. And for as well as he got along with them, even speaking their language pretty well by now, he knew that if he was seen with the posse, friendship wouldn’t stop them from coming after him or his family.
For a moment, Mitch was envious of Dan. Nebeker had designated him to be the posse’s liaison officer with the people of Bluff and left him back in town. By now Dan had probably gone back to bed and was sleeping soundly. Soundly and warmly. It was enough to make Mitch want to shoot him in the foot.
Mitch turned to Nebeker. “Marshal, I know we want to let those two groups get into place, but I’d recommend we move up to that little ridge I was on a few minutes ago. The first tinge of dawn is lighting those mountains to the east of us. Let’s go as far as we can under cover of darkness, because the light’s going to be behind us.”
“Lead out. We’ll follow.”
5:16 a.m.
Nebeker came up in a low crouch and then dropped to a prone position. Again, Mitch was grateful for the snow. He was certain that the Indians could not hear them, even though they were now only about three hundred yards from their position.
“Where are they?” Nebeker whispered.