Tuesday, May 6, 1879
It took the company five more days to reach Willow Spring, just forty miles south of Lee’s Ferry. In those five days, they learned for themselves the challenges and hazards of desert travel. Hour after hour, they plodded along through the thick, choking dust, bonnets and hats pulled low to shade their eyes from the blinding glare and searing heat. They learned what it means to make a dry camp. It starts with going all day on nothing but an occasional sip of water to ease the pain of cracked and bleeding lips. That night each person gets another sip or two, but none for cooking or washing. The next morning it’s up and at it again for another ten to twelve hours.
The dry washes seemed to come every mile or so, the sand soft enough and deep enough that the wagon wheels sank in over the fellowes.s Teams already weakening with thirst exhausted themselves trying to pull the wagons through. In the deeper washes—which proved to be pure hell—several men would have to get behind the wagons and push until they were up and out the other side. Otherwise the teams would just grind to a halt. The animals’ necks were often snow-white with lather. As the miles wore on, they moved more and more slowly.
Even though they left the livestock with the drovers at Bitter Spring to wait until a wagon could refill the barrels at Willow Spring and return for them, they still lost twenty head of cattle. As they moved south, they left a trail strewn with carcasses that would soon be stripped by the coyotes and the ravens, the bones left to bleach in the sun.
It was hot, backbreaking, exhausting work, made worse by the ravenous thirst, the deepening sunburns, and the pasty grit that filled every wrinkle in their bodies. To add to the joy, any metal on the wagons or harnessing got hot enough to blister if you accidentally leaned your hand against it.
When they finally pulled into Willow Spring, the company was too exhausted to go on. Even though Moenkopi, the first settlement in over a hundred miles, was just a few miles away, the unanimous decision was to stop and rest for the night.
The Davis family gathered together near the small creek below the springs. They had drunk their fill earlier, but the children lined up, cupping their hands and drinking deeply. Again. That finished, Mary announced it was time for a little personal hygiene. She took out a rag, dipped it in the water, and began to sponge off the grit and grime from Emmy’s neck.
“Oooh,” the little girl said. “That feels so good, Mama.”
“I’m next,” Jimmie declared.
His mother looked shocked. “Say that again, young man. Did I just hear Jimmie Davis ask to take a bath?”
“How about taking a real bath?” David said.
Mary whirled. “Don’t you be saying that unless you really mean it, young man.”
“I do mean it. Tomorrow we will be in civilization again.”
“Sivel what?” Emmy asked, looking up at him with those enormous green eyes.
He bent down. “Civilization. That means a big city.”
“Moenkopi is a big city?” the elder James asked skeptically.
“Absolutely. Silas thinks there are at least a hundred people there. Maybe even a hundred and one.”
“Oh,” Eddie said, disappointment clearly written on his face.
“Scoff if you will,” David said, waggling his finger back and forth in front of their noses, “but Silas says they have one of the largest bathtubs in the world.”
Emmy’s eyes grew very large. “A bathtub.”
Mary stepped in front of him. “David, I’m warning you. If you’re just pulling our leg, you will being calling down the famous Davis wrath upon your head.”
“I’m just telling you what Silas told us. It’s called the Moenkopi Reservoir. It’s no more than a hundred yards wide, but—” He held up a finger as a slow smile stole across his face. “It’s nearly three miles long. Just like some great, giant bathtub.”
Notes
^1. Lee’s Ferry and the Lonely Dell Ranch, located about seven miles south of Page, Arizona, are now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Emma Lee continued to run the ferry for some years after her husband’s death. The ferry finally stopped operating in 1928 when Navajo Bridge was built over Marble Canyon a few miles downstream (see Wikipedia, “Lee’s Ferry, Utah,” and Land Use History of North America: Colorado Plateau, “Lee’s Ferry,” http://cpluhna.nau.edu/Places/lees_ferry.htm).
^2. The exploring company journal for May 1, 1879, records: “Silas S. Smith having a small bunch of horses did not want to pay $1.00 per head for their being ferried over, so drove them into the river to swim them across. The river was one-fourth mile across and the horses struck below the landing and had to swim back nearly losing one over the rapids” (see Miller, Hole, 19).
^s.The inner portion of the wheel rim where the spokes are attached. Usually the fellowes were about two inches thick.
Chapter 39
Wednesday, May 7, 1879
It was early in 1874 that Jacob Hamblin and two non-Mormon prospectors rode into the heart of the Navajo nation to confront a tribe on the verge of war. When they left the next day, Hamblin had been able to convince the chiefs that the Mormons had nothing to do with the murder of three Navajo braves in Grass Valley. That led to an eventual treaty, and war was averted. Once it was evident that the treaty would hold, Brigham Young called numerous people to move into northern Arizona and establish new settlements.
One of the locations chosen was a Hopi village in Moenkopi Wash. The Hopis, or Moquis, as the Navajos derisively called them, were a peace-loving people who received the Mormon missionaries much more warmly than the other tribes. Many had been baptized, including their chief, the greatly beloved Chief Tuba. He and his wife had later been taken to St. George by the missionaries, where they were sealed together in the temple.
Thus, in 1875, a group of families from southern Utah Territory came to Moenkopi Wash and started a settlement there. Not surprisingly, they called it Moenkopi.
When the exploring party came over a slight rise about midday on May seventh, they stopped in wonder. There, about a mile ahead of them, stood a collection of buildings—a square stone fort, some adobe and mud huts, and several Indian hogans. Small patches of green by the houses were clearly vegetable gardens. Larger patches of deeper green marked fields of corn—or maize, as the Indians called it—and alfalfa. But the most stunning sight was David’s “bathtub.” To see that much water in this vast desolation was absolutely astonishing. For a long moment, the group just gaped, wondering if it was a mirage. Then suddenly someone whooped out a single word: “Water!” A great cheer exploded spontaneously from up and down the line.
It was a time for rejoicing. The desert stretch had been crossed without any serious accidents or loss of human life. No wagons had been lost and no critical supplies had been abandoned. The loss of twenty head of cattle was a serious one, but one of the reasons they had brought such a large herd was to cover just such losses. What Moenkopi meant for the company was rest, fresh vegetables, roast lamb, cornmeal, and, most importantly, water—water enough for cooking, water enough for the stock, water enough to do laundry, and water enough to bathe in.
And there was something more. This was a Mormon settlement. The astonishment of the townspeople when they saw a whole company of fellow Church members coming up the main street of the village was nearly as great as the company’s joy when they saw the Moenkopi Reservoir.
That night the two groups gathered together in a joyous celebration of the company’s arrival.1
Thursday, May 8, 1879
The next morning a meeting was called for the men in the company and the leadership of the Moenkopi settlement. When David and Jim returned to the wagons it was almost noon. Mary was waiting with three-year-old John playing nearby, but the other children were gone, down at the reservoir playing in the water with the Harrimans. “There you are,” she said when she saw them. “I about gave you two up.”
Jim blew out his breath. “Turns out the settlers here assumed we had come to join them,
that our mission was here in Moenkopi. When Silas started asking them about the roads east of here and about perhaps getting a guide to help us cross the Navajo Reservation, they were dumbfounded.”
“Oh dear.”
“They were not at all happy when we told them we were moving on,” David added. “Silas had to remind President Brown three different times before they finally accepted that we are under call to explore a route to the San Juan.” He looked around. “Do I smell corn bread?”
She laughed. “Actually, Emily saved you both a great big piece. It’s in the Dutch oven there by the fire. I’ll get the honey.”
Once they had their bread, Mary sat down beside Jim and immediately pressed them for more information. David waved a fork at Jim, signaling him to begin because David’s mouth was full.
“Well, there is some good news. The company’s going to stay here for about a week.”
“Really!” she exclaimed. “A whole week?”
“Well, maybe a little less. We’ll just have to see. The teams are exhausted—”
“As are we,” David cut in.
“As are we,” Jim agreed. “They’ve got a good blacksmith here. The wagons are in need of some work. Brother Silas wants every horse and mule in the remuda checked to make sure their shoes are good. There’ll be harnessing to fix, tools to sharpen—”
Mary broke in. “Clothes to wash, shoes to repair, dresses to mend.”
“Exactly.”
David picked it up from there so Jim could take a bite. “Four scouts—George Hobbs, Bob Bullock, Kumen Jones, and myself—will leave day after tomorrow to scout out a road, at least for the first fifty or sixty miles. The settlers have sent for a man by the name of Tanner to guide us.”
He speared another piece of bread, so Jim picked it up again. “There’s also the not-so-good news. We’ve seen the last of any wagon roads.”
David said nothing. When Jim called it not-so-good news, he was softening it for his wife, and David wasn’t about to correct him. What he didn’t say was that the leaders of the Moenkopi settlement had flat out told them that what they were thinking was impossible. “There is no way we can take wagons beyond here, according to them,” Jim said, quoting President Brown. “The only paths east of here are sheep trails and goat tracks. They say you need an experienced guide to even find your way from village to village.”
David didn’t add what the counselor in the presidency had said next. He had jumped to his feet, almost spluttering in his astonishment. “Water is everything out here, and there is precious little of that. During the winter, natural rock tanks and potholes hold rainwater and snowmelt, but that will be mostly gone now. You can’t just take twelve wagons, forty people, and a couple of hundred head of stock across Navajo lands. Listen, these people fight each other over water. What few springs there are have been protected and guarded for generations. There is simply no way. You have to stay here with us.”
“It took Silas some time to convince them,” Jim soothed, “but they finally agreed that we have to fulfill the mission we were given. So they’ve sent for this Brother Tanner, who they say knows this country better than any white man alive. He’ll guide our scouts.2 In the meantime, we’ll stay here and rest up. Oh, another good thing is, they have work for our men.”
“Work?”
“Yes, they’re building a mill here to help process the wool they purchase from the Navajos and Hopis. It will provide work for the settlers and a market for the Indians. They want our men to help with the construction while we wait for the scouts to return. They’ll pay us in cornmeal.”
“Wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Manna in the wilderness, as it were, eh?”
“Yes,” the two men said together. Then they shot a quick look at each other.
She picked up on it immediately. “What?”
Jim hurried and took another bite and waved his fork at David. “You tell her,” he mumbled.
Giving him a dark look, David took a quick breath, then turned to face Mary. “The council made another decision. Actually, I think it’s a blessing for you. Well, for the family,” he hastily amended. “They are recommending that you stay here, even after the rest of the company goes forward.” He rushed on as her mouth dropped and her eyes widened. “Not permanently,” he said. “Just until we find where we’re going. Then we’ll come back for you.”
Jim decided it was time to rescue David. “They have several concerns,” he said. “First, this last five or six days has been very hard on the cattle. You saw it for yourself. The younger heifers, and especially the calves, have sore and bleeding hooves.”
A shadow of pain crossed her face. “Yes.” She had been horrified to see bloody hoof marks when the animals crossed patches of rock pan. Emily had cried when she saw it.
“Well, those aren’t going to heal in a week. So Silas wants to leave all the loose stock here while the company presses forward. It’s also probably best not to have the stock trailing us while we’re wandering around trying to find the way through.”
“Go on,” she said slowly.
“So they want us to stay here with the cattle until they can come back for us.”
“Us?” she cried. “Does that mean you’ll stay too?”
He was startled by that. “Of course. I would never leave you and the children.”
The relief in her eyes was enormous. David saw her visibly relax. Then immediately her lips pressed together. “This is because of the baby, isn’t it?”
Jim winced. “Mary, I . . . we need to . . .” It trailed off as her eyes challenged his.
“You’re darn right this is because of the baby,” David blurted. “I keep thinking about us out there—limited water, no idea where we are, maybe facing some less than friendly Indians, and with only one other woman in the whole company to help you. It gives me nightmares. And if that’s how I feel, I can only imagine what’s going through Jim’s mind.”
To his utter surprise, she burst into a merry laugh. “You really worry about me?”
“I do,” David said. “More than you know.”
“As do I,” Jim said. He went to her and took her hands. “Mary, I’ve been just sick about it. If you lose another baby, I . . .” He couldn’t finish.
“I’m not going to lose this baby,” she said firmly. “I’m not.” She drew in a deep breath, and looked up at her husband. “But you’ll be here with us until they come back for us?”
“Yes.”
“Until I come back for you,” David affirmed. “If you stay, you have my word that I’ll be one of those that comes back to get you.”
She smiled at him. “I already knew that,” she said softly.
He felt a surge of elation. She was going for it. “Now maybe I can get some sleep again.”
“How long will it be before you will return, do you suppose?”
Jim looked away. David sighed. “Well, that’s the rub, Mary. As we already noted, we’re heading out into a trackless waste. Even with these guides they’re getting for us, it’s going to take a while to find the way. And once we’re in San Juan, we need to get some crops in. Silas is talking about building you and the Harrimans a house before we head back to Cedar City.” He paused. “It could be as long as two months.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Staying here does have its attractions,” she finally said. Then, as another thought came, “Are the Harrimans staying back with us?”
Jim slowly shook his head. “No, Silas recommended they do, but Henry said they’re going to push on. So it will just be us.”
To David’s surprise, she accepted that without a word. Her gaze moved back and forth between the two of them. “And you really think this is best?”
Jim’s head bobbed vigorously. “I do.”
“Absolutely,” David affirmed.
She abruptly stood, holding the roundness of her stomach with one hand. “Okay. Let’s go down and tell the children.”3
When David finished saying good night to the children and re
turned to the campfire, Jim and Mary Davis were seated on a half log in front of it, shoulders together and holding hands. He walked up to them and smiled. “You’re not having second thoughts, I hope,” he teased.
She shook her head emphatically. “Not in any way. In fact, it has lifted a burden off my mind to know we can stay here for a time.”
“Good. Mine too.” He started to turn away. “Well, I have to pack. We’re off at first light.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Mary said, pointing to another log. “I’ve seen what you’re carrying. You can pack everything you own in under a minute. So come and sit with us for a while.”
“Yes,” Jim said, “we won’t keep you up too late.”
He hesitated. Then, pleased that they would ask, he went around and took the seat opposite them.
As he got settled, Jim asked, “So there are four of you leaving tomorrow?”
“Six if you count Seth Tanner and the young Navajo he’s secured to help us. They’ll scout out a possible route for the first fifty or sixty miles; then a couple of us scouts will return to bring the rest of the company while the lead scouts press forward.”
“We’ll miss you, David,” Mary said quietly. “Emmy cried when I told her.”
“She made me cross my heart and hope to die when I promised I’d be back. Then she hugged me until I nearly lost my breath.” His eyes softened. “I’m going to miss all of you. You’ve come to mean a lot to me, but especially Emmy. She has really won my heart.”
“And she knows it,” Mary laughs. “You spoil her something awful.”
“Sorry, but I’m having a hard time feeling guilty about that.”
She nodded and they fell quiet for a time. Then Jim and David began discussing what the future now held—where they would finally settle, how soon the main company would come east to join them, how the children would adapt to a new and isolated home.