He stepped back as the man sitting next to Lemuel Redd got to his feet and came forward. Tugging at his mother’s sleeve, Mitch leaned in and whispered, “That’s Kumen Jones?”
She shrugged. “How would I know?”
Everyone watched the man who came to the podium. He was the youngest of the three men. Probably a third the age of Jens Nielson, and maybe half the age of Lemuel Redd. He was a handsome man, with a full head of dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard of the same color. He wasn’t in Sunday dress, but it was obvious that he had changed from his work clothes and taken off the muddy boots he had worn earlier as he worked among them.
“He’s Bishop Nielson’s son-in-law. He was the one who drove the first wagon down the Hole in the Rock,” he added in awe. “And they say he’s amazing with the Indians.”
She put a finger to her lips, but nodded.
Mitch was euphoric. I am in the same room with Jens Nielson and Kumen Jones. Here was one more reason to stay. Who wouldn’t want to rub shoulders with men like these?
Kumen jumped in without preamble. “As a bishopric, we fully understand how stretched our resources are at the moment. And we also realize that our new arrivals have barely had time to unpack. So what I ask for now, I do with great reluctance. But we have a problem almost as urgent as cleaning up the flood damage and replanting our fields. The full heat of summer will soon be upon us. What grass there is left in the valley and in the washes will soon wither away. We have to take our cattle into the mountains and find them a summer range.
“We have a range in mind,” Kumen went on with a nod. “It’s up on Elk Mountain, northwest of here. You followed right along its base. From below, Elk Mountain looks like a high mesa with steep red cliffs that stretch for miles.”
There were nods all around. Mitch remembered them clearly.
“Last spring, three of our brethren set out to find a way to drive cattle up through those cliffs. Unfortunately, it is a favorite hunting ground for the Utes and Piutes, and they are not eager to share with us. When they met a group of the natives, these three brethren tried to negotiate an arrangement but were met with only stony silence.
“So they rode on for miles with no success. Finally, they left their horses and scrambled up the impossibly steep hillsides. Once on top, they found what they were looking for. Here was a region with an abundance of good timber, grass tall enough to tickle a horse’s belly, and wild flowers everywhere. When they came back, they were both elated and discouraged. We had found the place, but we had no way to get our cattle up to it.”
He stopped, letting his eyes sweep across the group. “Brethren, as you know, our cattle are critical to our survival. So we are ready to try again. Brother Redd is taking a party back to Elk Mountain. Brother Hyrum Perkins and I will be going with him. Our purpose will be to find that trail. We know there is one, for the natives take their stock up there. This must happen.”
Lemuel Redd leaned forward. “We have no choice.”
Kumen nodded and then went on. “We hope to avoid any confrontation with the Indians, but we must also show that we are strong when we negotiate with them. So we feel that it is important for a fourth and possibly a fifth man to accompany us.”
That caused a stir, and he gave it a minute to roll out.
“The problem is, every man is needed down here as well. So, as your bishopric, we have decided to select one or two brethren who could leave their families for a week, maybe a little longer. We would leave at first light Monday morning.”
Mitch’s hand was up before Kumen had even stopped speaking. “I’ll go,” he sang out.
He heard his mother gasp and saw his father’s head snap around. Then, to his surprise, his father raised his hand too.
“No!” his mother cried. She grabbed Mitch’s arm and yanked it downward. Then she gave his father a look that made him drop his arm too. She turned back to Brother Jones. “He’s just a foolish boy.”
Kumen was trying not to smile, but he did manage to respond with appropriate gravity. “How old are you, son?” he asked.
“I’m sixteen.”
Bishop Nielson stood and joined Kumen at the pulpit. “Brother Vestland, I belief you brought cattle vit you. Is that correct?”
Arthur Westland got to his feet, hat in hand. “Yes, Bishop. We have about a dozen head. So this is of particular interest to us.”
“And your son has helped vit the cattle, no?”
“Yes.” He turned as Mitch’s mother cried out and grabbed his hand. “No!” she hissed. But he went on anyway. “He’s very good on a horse. He’s a good boy. Very mature for his age.”
Gwendolyn Westland dropped back down on the bench and stared at her hands, which were clenching and unclenching in her lap. Bishop Nielson and Kumen Jones moved closer together and conferred briefly.
“Thank you for volunteering, young Brother Westland,” Kumen said. “We appreciate your willingness to serve and will take the matter under advisement with your parents.”
Mitch fell back. His mother reached out to take his hand, but he jerked it away angrily. Then he felt his father’s hand reach past her and find his shoulder. His fingers found the cord of muscles that run along the top of the shoulder and dug in hard. Mitch writhed in pain, but his father didn’t let go until Mitch apologized to his mother and put his hand in hers.
Kumen was sitting again, but Mitch saw that he had watched that whole interchange.
The bishopric came to the Westlands’ wagon about forty-five minutes after the meeting had ended. They invited Mitch’s mother and father to step outside to talk. Mitch shot his father an imploring look, but he ignored it as he climbed down and then helped his wife. Just as the wagon flap was closing again, Mitch was thrilled to hear Bishop Nielson ask, “Vould you haf any objections, Brodder Vestland, if your son vas vit us vhile vee talk?”
“No.”
Mitch shot up to a sitting position, craning to hear. His hopes were instantly dashed when the bishop spoke again. “Sister Vestland? How vould you feel about that?”
But then came the soft reply. “I have no objection.” And everything was all right again. He was out of the wagon in an instant and hugging his mother fiercely. She kissed him on his forehead. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” she whispered.
They moved a few yards away to where a young cottonwood tree had been uprooted by the flood. Bishop Nielson invited the Westlands to sit on the trunk while the three of them stood. “If it is all right vit you,” he began, “my counselors vould like to ask you and your son some questions.”
Lemuel Redd looked at the bishop, who nodded for him to continue. “Let us begin by assuring you, Sister Westland, that we will honor your wishes, whatever they turn out to be.”
The fact that he had spoken directly to her seemed to please her.
“Thank you.”
“Under normal circumstances, we would not consider taking a lad as young as your son into a situation where there might be danger.” As she started at that, he rushed on. “We are being straight with you. We do not expect trouble, but our native brothers can sometimes be quite unpredictable, especially some of the young, hotheaded braves. So we don’t want to mislead you. There is some risk here.”
Kumen Jones jumped in. “However, you should know that because of some remarkable experiences we have had with the Indians, they believe that if they kill a Mormon, they will bring down a curse upon their entire tribe. So we don’t want you to think that we are marching into the jaws of death, either.”
“I understand.” Then she turned to her husband and searched his face as she asked her next question. “My husband raised his hand too. Why is it that you are only interested in my son?”
“Oh, but vee are not,” Bishop Nielson said. “Vee haf another brodder from your company who vee decided vould be our first choice, but it turns out that his wife is vit child and—no one knows that yet, so please do not try to guess who it is. But anyvay, the other two volunteers are farmers, not ranchers,
and vee think it is best if they stay and help here. So we haf decided that vhat vee need is a Vestland. Whether that be your husband or your son, that is vhat vee are here to decide.”
Mitch swung on her. “Oh, Mama, please let me go. I’ll be all right. Really.”
She ignored him. “But you are determined to take one or the other?”
“Vee haf no other good alternative, Sister Vestland. We are sorry for that, for vee know you haf your own family to care for.”
“But the need is critical, both here and there,” Kumen added. “We are sorry to present you with such a difficult choice.”
Mitch was sitting beside his father. Now he leaned forward so he could watch his face. The decision was tearing at his insides; he could tell that for sure. Mitch sensed that his father wanted to go. It was really his duty, not his son’s. And if there was anything Arthur Westland felt deeply about, it was duty. But then, as Mitch watched, his father’s face relaxed and a quiet calm settled into his eyes. He half turned and took his wife’s hands in his. “Gwendolyn, my dearest, this is not a happy circumstance, but because it impacts you and the children directly, what would you have us do? Would you rather have me go and Mitch stay to help you, or the other way around?”
If she was surprised by that, it didn’t show on her face. She studied him closely for several seconds before nodding thoughtfully. Looking up, she spoke to Bishop Nielson. “Does it really make no difference to you whether it is my husband or my son?”
“Vee vould rather take your son,” he answered without hesitation. One hand came up to cut off her protest. “Your son is large for his age, so he can do the vurk of a man. So he vill be of help either here or with them. But if your husband goes, then you haf no father to help you with the smaller children. For that reason alone, vee think it vould be more helpful to haf young Mitch go vit my brethren.”
Lem Redd and Kumen Jones were nodding their agreement. Finally, Mitch’s mother got to her feet. She reached down and pulled Mitch up to face her. She was only about five feet, three inches tall, so he towered over her. “And you really believe that a sixteen-year-old can do what you need done?” she asked, her eyes locking into his, even though she spoke to the two men.
Kumen Jones chose to answer. “If you stay very long in Bluff, Sister Westland, you’ll find that we judge a man more on his performance than on his age.”
She went up on tiptoes and kissed Mitch softly on the cheek. “Promise me, Mitch. Promise me that you will listen to these men and do whatever they tell you to do.”
“I promise,” he said. His voice was suddenly catching, but that was probably as much from excitement as any other emotion. He bent down and swept her up in his arms. “Thank you, Mama. Thank you.”
When they stepped apart, Lem Redd was there in her place. He stuck out a hand and gripped Mitch’s. “We leave at first light on Monday. If you need anything, let me know.”
Kumen’s grip was even stronger than Redd’s. “Glad to have you riding with us, son,” he said. And as if that wasn’t thrill enough, Mitch could see in his eyes that he really meant it.
Notes
Additional families were called to join the San Juan Mission from time to time after the original company arrived. The wagon company in this chapter, of which the Westlands were members, is a fictional group. But it is very typical of those who were called later.
Other than the fort itself, the old log schoolhouse and community center was the first public building in Bluff. The Hole-in-the-Rock Foundation and numerous family organizations of descendants of the original pioneers have led a marvelous effort to restore Bluff as it was in pioneer times. The old log schoolhouse was one of the first buildings reconstructed. One of the more recent completions is a replica of the co-op store and dance hall, a two-story stone building (see www.hirf.org).
Most accounts of the early history of San Juan County talk about the floods that came in May and June of 1884. One source says that the highest water occurred on the 18th of June. That same source says that only one house at Montezuma Creek survived and that many of the settlers there barely escaped with their lives (see History of San Juan County, 44–45). The description of what the Westland family found on their arrival comes from those accounts. Of those from Montezuma Creek, some moved to Bluff, but the majority returned to settlements in Utah or went to other places to start over again (ibid., 48).
The Saints in Bluff were so discouraged after the flooding that they too debated leaving. However, they decided to write to Church leadership in Salt Lake City to outline all of the challenges they were having and ask if they might be released. That letter was signed by almost all of those in the mission. As we shall see in future chapters, Church headquarters responded by sending prominent Church leaders down to Bluff to meet with the Saints (see Indians and Outlaws, 63–64; Portrait, 40; and Saga, 66).
Bishop Jens Nielson was not the first bishop of Bluff, but he was called about six months after their arrival. Lemuel H. Redd Sr. and Kumen Jones, who was a son-in-law of Bishop Nielson, were his counselors at this time. Bishop Nielson served in that position for twenty-six years. He died on April 24, 1906, at the age of 85. He is buried in the hilltop cemetery overlooking Bluff.
The search for a trail that would give the Saints access to the Elk Mountain summer range actually took place a year earlier than shown here, but the details of that initial search are as found in Indians and Outlaws, 56.
Chapter 3
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June 24, 1884—Second Valley, San Juan County, Utah Territory
“Hey! Westland!”
Mitch’s head jerked up in alarm. Then he grabbed at the reins and yanked hard, pulling his horse to a stop just before it crashed into the rear end of Hyrum Perkins’s horse. Hy was turned in his saddle, watching him with a sardonic grin.
“Getting a little beauty rest, are we?” he asked dryly. His Welsh accent seemed especially heavy at the moment.
“Uh . . .” Confused, Mitch looked around. “Where are Lem and Kumen?”
“They rode ahead to find us a place to camp.”
“How long have I been . . . uh . . .” He shook his head, trying to knock loose the cobwebs in his mind. “What time is it?”
Hy turned back to the front and fished in his vest pocket. He came up with a silver pocket watch and flipped open the cover. “It’s nearly half seven.”
Mitch didn’t have to ask what that meant. Both of his parents were from the British Isles too, and “half seven” meant half past seven, or seven thirty. “Or at least, that’s what time it is here in Utah. Now, if we were back in New York, it would be half nine. In California, it’s only half six.”
Mitch stared at him. “Are you funning me?”
“I am that,” Hy said with a laugh. “You make kind of an easy target.” He kicked his horse into motion and started forward. Mitch moved in alongside him. “But on the subject of time, I’m serious. Haven’t you heard? We have what they call official ‘time zones’ in America now.”
“Time zones?”
“Yeah. The railroads are the ones who pushed for it.”
Mitch gave him a sidelong glance, still not sure whether Hy was pulling his leg. He was learning that this Welshman had a quick, wry humor and loved to tease, especially Mitch.
“I’m not kidding you, Mitch. We got word of it just a few weeks ago. Look, here’s how it always worked before: Time is determined by the sun. When it reaches its zenith, no matter where you are, that’s noon. Now in a country as small as Wales, or even all of the British Isles, it’s not a problem because there’s not that much difference from east to west. But in America, the country is so huge that when the sun is at its zenith in New York City, it’s only halfway up the sky in Utah. Since clocks were set by the sun, noon here and noon in New York were not happening at the same time. Clear?”
“Yes, that makes sense.”
“When we traveled from one city to another by horse and wagon or on foot, no one really not
iced the difference, and back then most people didn’t have watches. But when the railroads came along, and especially as they got faster and faster, it fouled up their schedules something awful. As a train goes east or west—north and south doesn’t affect it—its arrival times could be off by as much as an hour or more. So they created time zones.”
Hy gave Mitch a sleepy smile. “Just thought you ought to know that so you could . . . uh . . . keep up with the times.”
“Right,” Mitch said, keeping a straight face. “Thanks for the . . . timely advice.”
Hy laughed aloud as he nudged his horse into a trot. “You’re welcome. But right now I don’t need no clock to tell me that it’s dinner time.”
“Amen to that,” Mitch said as he snapped the reins and fell in behind him.
The four men—or, as some might say, the three men and a boy—had left Monday at first light and ridden until it was almost dark. Lem Redd figured they covered about forty miles. But by then they were approaching what was known as First Valley. That put them in the heart of Ute Indian hunting country, and Lem suggested they make camp so they wouldn’t be riding after dark.
This morning they were up at dawn and in their saddles half an hour later after a cold breakfast. By nine they were into First Valley. By two they had crossed into Second Valley. Everyone was on alert because they were deep in Ute territory by now.
Mitch finally decided they were following some kind of Indian trail, though he often wasn’t sure whether they were following anything at all. He didn’t ask. He had decided before they ever left that he wasn’t going to be this wide-eyed, greenhorn kid who kept bombarding his three older companions with questions. As much as he wanted to pepper them with questions, he forced himself to listen and to try to learn as much as he could from them.
Often an hour or more would pass with no one saying anything. But Mitch knew that this was the way of the cattleman. Long hours in the saddle. Often alone for days—or even weeks—at a time. It was part of the unwritten code of the cowboy that if you didn’t have anything of worth to say, it was better not to open your mouth and prove it. So he rode along, staying close enough to listen when they did talk but generally talking only when he was spoken to.