He stepped back and walked over to where Abby stood by Belle Smith and her children. Belle had baby George, who was six months old, under one arm. Ada, who had celebrated her sixth birthday just two days before, and Roy, who was not yet four, stood beside her, looking anxious. That only deepened Patrick’s sense of foreboding and discouragement. There were three wagons left up here—their two, and Stanford Smith’s. Everyone else was either down or on their way down. Those from Fifty Mile Camp wouldn’t start arriving until about noon tomorrow, and the thought of spending the night up here alone was not acceptable. The wind was still from the south, promising rain or snow by tomorrow. They simply had to go. And if they waited much longer, it would be dark before they reached the bottom—another unacceptable option.
“We don’t have anyone to hold us back,” Abby said, feeling a hollowness in her stomach. She clearly remembered how David’s wagon had almost shot down that pitch, and that had been with several men hauling on ropes to hold it back.
“We’ll just have to make do,” her father said. With his mind made up, he sprang into action. “Abby, bring your wagon up to the notch. I’ll bring mine up behind it. We’ll rough-lock the wheels there. I’m going to drive yours down that first stretch, then I’ll come back up for mine.”
He turned to Belle. “I’m sorry to leave you, Sister Smith, but I don’t see how you can drive a wagon with your children, and I’m not sure we should put them in one of the wagons.”
She shuddered. Her head snapped back and forth in quick jerks. “I can barely drive a team on level ground. No, we’ll wait here for Stanford. I’m sure he’s coming.”
“We’ll find him the moment we get down,” Patrick promised. “And we’ll come back too.”
“Thank you.” She pulled the two little ones closer to her. “Let’s go back to the wagon, children. It’s starting to get a little cold out here.”
Abby rushed to her and gave her a hug. “We’ll be back.” Then she dropped to one knee. “Ada. Roy. You help your Mama now, okay?”
“Yes, Sister Abby,” Ada said. “We will.”
Once again Abby stared down at what looked like five miles of sheer drop-off, and she felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. Her father touched her shoulder. “Ready?”
She nodded grimly. “David said you have to be careful that the wagon doesn’t overrun the team and break their legs.”
“Thanks,” he grunted with heavy irony. “Just what I need.” He gripped the reins tightly in one hand and lifted the buggy whip in his other. He gave one last glance, took a deep breath, then yelled at the mules. They balked at the sight of the steep incline, of course, but with no one to push them from behind, Patrick had no choice but to make them go forward. He grabbed the whip, screaming at them as he lashed it across the rump of the nearest one. It lunged forward, dragging its partner with it. It was just enough that they dropped over the crest of the hill, and then they no longer had a choice. Down the hill they went. The wagon careened back and forth, nearly smashing against the side walls. But the logging chains on the back wheels dug into the rock, screeching like a tortured animal in pain, holding the wagon back enough to let the mules stay ahead of it.
To Abby, it felt like they were rocketing downward. Once again she was nearly standing up in the wagon seat, hanging on for dear life. She was nearly thrown free when they reached the pile of soft dirt at the bottom and came to an abrupt halt.
They sat there for a moment, chests heaving, her hands still gripping the wagon seat. Patrick turned to her, face grim. “One down, one to go.” He took a breath. “The rest of the way isn’t so bad. Are you all right to go on alone?”
“I want to wait here and make sure you make it down safely.”
He shook his head. “You can’t. This has to be clear before I can start down.” He leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. “You’ll be all right.” He handed her the reins and hopped down.
“I’ll wait for you at the dugway,” she said. “Be careful, Daddy.”
Back on top, Patrick checked the chains around his two back wheels one last time before climbing up into the wagon seat. He turned. Belle was on the ridge near her wagon, a solitary, forlorn figure. She waved, and he waved back. “Godspeed,” she called.
He waved again, then bowed his head. “O Father,” he whispered. “Please watch over this good woman and her children until we can return for her. And help us get down safely.”
He picked up the reins and once again took the whip from its holder. “Hee-yah!” he yelled, and cracked the whip twice in rapid succession, nipping both of the animals on their backsides. Startled, they leaped forward, and over the crest they plunged.
About halfway down that hundred-and-fifty-foot stretch of slickrock, Patrick heard a loud snap, then the sound of steel clanging on rock. The wagon lurched forward, nearly throwing him out, and the back end started swinging wildly back and forth, the hubs of the wheels cracking against the sidewall. In that instant, he knew that the wagon was going to overrun the mules, for they were digging in their hooves to stop their precipitous plunge. He laid the whip across their backs, screaming and shouting at them. They leaped forward, and for a moment he thought they were going to make it. The wagon tongue was pushed out ahead of them by three or four feet, dragging them with it. Then suddenly the off mule lost its footing and went down. For a horrifying moment, Patrick thought he was going to go right up and over the both of them, killing him and them both. But the tongue and double trees held. The fallen animal screamed with pain as it was dragged roughly along the sandstone roadway.
Then something jerked the wagon sharply backward, almost as roughly as when it had lurched forward. A screech that nearly split his eardrum exploded from beneath the wagon. The sudden loss of momentum yanked the wagon tongue upward, pulling the downed mule back to its feet again. Seconds later they reached the bottom and the soft soil and lurched to a stop.
Trembling violently, Patrick climbed down and went to the mule. It stood with its head down, chest heaving, body shaking in great spasms. He patted its neck, talking softly, then bent down. All along its left side, raw patches of flesh were oozing blood.
Patrick watched the mule stomp its feet, trying to shake off the pain, and he momentarily closed his eyes in thanks. No legs were broken. The poor beast was battered and bruised, but still able to stand.
Baffled by what had just happened, he walked slowly around to the back of his wagon, feeling the shakiness in his legs. As he bent down to examine the chain, he saw, as he had expected, that one link had snapped, freeing up one of the wheels. He inhaled sharply. The loose end, which he had heard clanging on the stone, had caught in one of the spokes and wrapped itself twice around the felloe of the wheel, tangling up and locking tight again. He leaned in closer, touching it with his fingers. One loop had crossed over the top of another and the links had bit into the wood. That was what had caused the wagon to slow so abruptly, which had saved the life of his mule.
He pulled on it a couple of times to make sure it was secure, then backed out. He glanced up at heaven. “Thank you,” he breathed.
Molly had gone as far as the dugway with her mother and Billy Joe, but then refused to go farther. She was going to wait for Abby and her father, and nothing her mother could say would change her mind. When the next wagon came by and offered Sarah and Billy Joe a ride the rest of the way down, they hugged Molly quickly and left her alone.
Now she had moved back up the trail enough that she could see up into the Hole. She found shelter from the rising wind beneath a large boulder, pulled her coat tightly around her, and settled down to wait. Time after time, she would leap to her feet as one wagon after another appeared out of the canyon. Time after time she sat back as she saw it was neither Abby nor her father. For the last hour, there had been no one.
She got to her feet, stretched, and moved to the edge of the roadway. From here she had a clear view all the way to the river. She could see the line of white canvas tops waiting thei
r turn for the ferry.
“Where are you, David?” she cried into the wind. “You promised.” And then she dropped her head and began to sob.
When she finally raised her head and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, a movement caught her eye. About halfway up the road, wending its way through the foothills that formed the base of the Hole, a solitary figure was trudging steadily along. For a moment, her heart leaped, but then, as she looked more closely, her hopes were dashed. She could see that the man was wearing a dark coat and a black cowboy hat. David wore a light-colored sheepskin coat and his hat was a light tan. She turned, bitter disappointment swelling up again.
A noise above her pulled her around with a jerk. The crackling sounds of wagon wheels crossing rock came floating down the crevasse. She turned and sprinted up the trail to where the road turned sharply up the canyon. “Please, Lord. Let it be them.”
A minute later, a wagon appeared for a moment, then disappeared again behind the cliff. But it was enough. She saw that it was being pulled by two mules and driven by a woman in a dark dress and battered old hat. It was Abby. Molly gave a low cry and sank to the ground, putting her face in her hands.
A quarter of an hour later, Molly helped Abby and her father remove the heavy logging chain from Abby’s wagon wheels. They put it into her wagon, then went back to their father’s. “Come here,” Patrick said. “I want to show you something.”
He led them around to the back of the wagon. There he described his experience, how the wagon had suddenly leaped forward, knocking one of the mules down, then almost instantly was pulled back again. With a voice filled with soft humility, he showed them how the loose chain had wound around the wheel and locked. He straightened. “I couldn’t have fastened it in there any better myself.”2
Abby stared at the battered chain, and then at her father. And she thought her ride had been exciting. She turned to Molly. “Still no word from David or John?”
Molly looked away. “Nothing.” Then it burst out of her: “What could he be doing that is so important?”
Abby said nothing, just looked away. Was he so embarrassed by what had happened near this very spot that he had decided not to come? She found that hard to believe, but whatever it was, it made her angry. Not only for her and her father—Belle Smith was up on top with three young children, all alone, with dark soon coming on.
Patrick turned, searching the camp below. “Something’s happened,” he said. “I’m really worried.”
“Well,” Molly snapped. “He’d better have a broken leg, or I’m going to break it for him.”
Just then, the figure that Molly had seen earlier appeared on the far end of the dugway. “Hey!” he called, and broke into a run.
“It’s Stanford,” Patrick said.
As Stanford reached them, his face twisted angrily when he saw that neither wagon was his, and that his family was not with the McKennas. “Where’s David?” he said. “Is he bringing Belle down?”
“We haven’t seen David,” Abby said. “We were hoping that you had.”
He straightened, the shock of that hitting him hard. “But . . .” His face darkened. “I saw him about three hours ago. He and his Dad took their wagons across. He said he was coming right back across, then heading up top to help you. I never saw him again, so I thought that I had just missed him.” One hand came up, and he rubbed at his eyes. “He gave me his word that he would bring Belle down too.”
“He gave us his word too,” Molly murmured.
“Something may have happened,” Patrick said. “We’re getting worried.”
Stanford didn’t hear that. He turned and looked up the nearly vertical canyon that rose so majestically above them. “Oh, Belle,” he whispered.
The anguish on his face touched Abby, and she pushed her frustrations with David aside. “They were fine when we left them, Stanford,” she said. “You have a remarkable wife.”
“I know.” He removed his hat and slapped it against his leg, sending little puffs of dust shooting outward. “And I’m mad. Everybody promised me they’d bring her down, including your David, and nothing.”
As he replaced his hat, still grumping, Patrick spoke. “I’ll let Abby and Molly take the one wagon on down. I can leave my wagon here for now and go back up with you.”
He shook his head immediately. “Not a good idea to leave animals up here. No, you go on ahead. I’ll bring them down.”
He turned, looking down at the checkerboard pattern of white-topped wagons scattered along the riverbank. “But when I get back down,” he said, his voice tight, “I’m going to give somebody what for. Can you imagine? When I couldn’t find her, I asked those who had promised to bring her down why she wasn’t there. They got all red-faced and embarrassed and said they were so busy with their own outfits, they just plumb forgot.”
Then he softened. “But thank you for staying with her. I’m much obliged.”
When Patrick and his two daughters finally reached the bottom of the hill, Sarah and Billy Joe were waiting for them. With a low cry, Sarah came running. Billy outran her, legs and arms pumping, hair flying. The three of them clambered down from the wagons, and for a long, sweet moment, they all just held each other.
Finally, Molly looked at her mother. “Where’s David? Have you seen him? I want to give him a piece of my mind.”
Her mother looked up in surprise. “What?”
“He never came, Mother,” Abby said. “He promised, but he never came.”
Billy Joe stepped in front of her and planted his feet, hands on his hips. His lower lip jutted out. “David couldn’t come.”
“What?” Molly cried. “Why not?”
“David was knocked off the ferry into the river by a spooked steer,” Sarah said quietly. “He has a six-inch gash on his leg and can barely hobble around.”
Notes
^1. Several report the incident with Al Barney being thrown overboard by an unruly ox, though not all report it quite the same way (see Miller, Hole, 120; “Life Sketch of Mary Jane Wilson,” 12).
^2. Both of the incidents depicted here as happening to Patrick and Abby McKenna actually happened to the pioneers. Here, in their own words, is what happened. The punctuation and spelling—or lack of it—is in the original.
Nathaniel Z. Decker wrote: “My father [Zechariah Bruyn Decker, Jr.] . . . hooked up his two wagons and six horses and mules and when he got to the hole there was none to help hold back with ropes tho some had promised to be there and would have been had they known he was there but no one showed up so he said there isn’t any chance for a wagon to tip over and the animals ought to out run the two locked wagons and putting mother and us five children out he seated himself on the front wagon and started. Down they went in a flash and landed in the soft ground at the end of the slick rock slide . . . but one big mule was dragged and seriously hurt” (cited in Miller, Hole, 115–16).
Joseph F. Barton, the man who furnished the blind horses for the Perkins wagon, was camped at Fifty Mile Camp. After helping some go down that first day, he hurried back to camp, and brought his outfit forward, hoping to go down with the first group. He writes: “[I] reached the dreaded road just at Sundown and knowing that if he waited for the ten men and rope he would camp on the rim that night after taking a Survey of the cavity & putting on ruff lock and urging his team considerable finally got them to face what seemed almost next to death. However, the next 1/2 minutes landed team wagon and driver at [the] first station about 300 ft. down [others say it was 150 feet] the hole in the rock right Side up, where upon examination he found that the chain to ruff lock had broken but through a providencial act the chain had flipped a lap around the felloe in Such a manner as to Serve for a lock (ibid., 115).
Miller’s entire chapter on going through the Hole is excellent (see ibid., pages 101–18; see also various reference in the Appendices, 184, 192–93, 200–201, 208. Others add other small, but important, details of interest. See Reay, Incredible Passage, 52–57; Redd
, “Short Cut,” 18–19; Carpenter, Jens Nielson, 46–48).
After reading the various accounts of taking that first, hair-raising drop into the Hole, the following summary by Miller is quite astonishing: “It is a credit to the skill and courage of the expedition that no major tragedy occurred; not a single wagon is reported to have tipped over or have been seriously damaged. Some animals were rather badly mauled, but all came through alive” (Hole, 116–17).
Chapter 63
Monday, January 26, 1880
Stanford Smith was in excellent shape, but he was puffing heavily as he made his way through the narrow cut near the top of the Hole in the Rock. He had come from bottom to top in just over half an hour—an impressive feat indeed. It was still daylight, but the sun, obscured by clouds all day long, was not long from setting now. Down in the crevasse of the Hole, it was dark and gloomy. If they waited much longer it would make their challenge much more difficult.
As he approached that last final, brutal grade, he stopped. David and his father had mentioned this, but he still could scarcely believe it. All the fill dirt was at the bottom, and there was nothing but very steep solid rock from there to the top. It was scratched and gouged and had many long metallic streaks from where wagon tires had slid across it. He gave a low whistle. Even walking up or down this was going to be treacherous.
Bending over to catch his breath, he felt the anger boil up again. They had left his Belle up here all day with three small children. He snorted in disgust. Too preoccupied with their own troubles? Straightening, he tipped his head back, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Belle? Arabelle Smith?”
After a moment the answer floated back, so softly that he almost didn’t hear it. “Stanford.” There was a sob of joy. “Is that you?” Out of breath or not, he sprinted forward, racing up the steep pitch as quickly as his rubbery legs would carry him.
What he saw there turned anger into rage. Off to one side of the road sat his wife. She had baby George cradled in her arms, heavily swaddled in blankets, and was sitting on a tattered quilt on top of a patch of dirty, crusted snow. “Oh, Stanford,” she cried, getting to her feet. “I thought you’d never come.”