But the very next day, George Hobbs met the wagons. After spending almost three weeks with his sister and her family in Montezuma Creek, he was heading back to Cheese Camp to get the wagon he had left there back in February. David didn’t appreciate what happened next.
Hobbs reported that while he was at Montezuma Creek, a cowboy had come in with news of an Indian massacre in Colorado. Some renegade Utes had ambushed a column of U.S. Cavalry and killed ten men, including all of their officers. They had then gone to an Indian agency run by a man named Meeker, where they massacred eight men, including Meeker. Most terrifying to the sisters in the camp was the report that several women had been carried off as hostages.
This was something every woman on the frontier dreaded hearing, for it was part of their own worst imaginings. When someone pointed out that Meeker, Colorado, was nearly three hundred miles away from where they were, and that this had happened several months before, Hobbs told them the renegade band had been seen heading in this direction.
Their encounter the night before now took on a sinister significance, especially in the minds of the women. Was the little band they had seen connected with the renegade group? Had they been sent to spy out the defenses of the Mormons? Though Platte Lyman and Jens Nielson openly scoffed at either idea, it didn’t do much to calm the camp. Extra guards were posted for several nights, and many of the women, including Molly and Abby, took rifles to bed with them.
The next morning, Sarah quietly told David that during the night, Molly had had a bad dream. Then she told him something that Molly had never shared with him. When David had returned from the exploring expedition and told the family the story of Po-ee-kon and Mary Davis, Molly had experienced terrible nightmares for weeks after. The very thought of an Indian attack filled her with such enormous dread, it made her physically sick. David wasn’t sure whether to kick himself for sharing so much detail about their experience with Po-ee-kon, or to kick George for telling the company that the Utes might even now be coming toward them.
They had one additional Indian experience, but this one turned out to be good for a laugh. As the caravan was making its way slowly through the great forest of cedar trees, an old Ute Indian on horseback happened upon them. He was so utterly stunned by the sight of a wagon train that he sat speechless, watching them roll slowly by. “Where you come from?” he asked the nearest driver in broken English.
“From across the Colorado River,” came the answer. “We are Mormons.”
“Where you cross big canyon?” the old man demanded.
“At a place called Hole in the Rock. It is like a great crack in the cliff.”
The Indian snorted in disgust and rode on, muttering about it not being possible to make a wagon road through this country and insisting that they were lying to him.
That night, at evening prayers, the story brought a great deal of merriment. That turned into a roar of delight when wry old Bishop Nielson raised his hand. “Ven he say it not possible to build a road troo dis country, vee shood haf said, ‘Yah, vee know dat now.’”3
Wednesday, March 31, 1880
One unmistakable landmark for the pioneers was Comb Ridge, a massive upthrust from the valley floor that ran for over a hundred miles north and south. Its jagged peaks formed a serrated edge that looked very much like the teeth of a comb, and thus its name.
When the company finally dropped out of the upland around Elk Ridge into the great dry wash that ran at the base of Comb Ridge, there was a surge of jubilation. Montezuma Creek lay just twenty-five or thirty miles to the east of the ridge. Their journey was finally nearly over.
But as they made their way slowly down Comb Wash, jubilation died and despair flooded in. Comb Ridge was a thousand-foot-high barrier with no gaps, no canyons capable of taking wagons up and over. And although the wash provided a ready-made and virtually level road to the south, like all of the desert washes, it was an endless sand pit, sometimes deep enough to sink a wheel up to the axles. It quickly proved to be almost more demanding on the teams than the steep dugways, the clay hills, and the thick stands of cedar they had already crossed.
On the morning of the last day of March, Platte Lyman called for three of his scouts—George Hobbs, Kumen Jones, and David Draper. His instructions were terse but clear. The San Juan River was to the south of them. From their previous expedition with Silas Smith, they knew that the river went through Comb Ridge, but by that time, they were too exhausted to see if wagons could be taken through the gap. Their assignment now was to ride south as quickly as possible, find the river, and see if they could make a road through. If for some reason they couldn’t follow the river, then the scouts were to find some way to get up and over this last, heartbreaking obstacle. “If the river hasn’t made us a road,” Platte said, “then you find us a place, and we will have to make our own.”
They found the river just ten miles south of where the company was camped in the wash. Normally only forty or fifty yards across, the San Juan River was in the midst of spring runoff, and was near flood stage. The current was swift and filled with debris. They found a large, almost perfectly flat area on the north bank that would provide a good camp for the company. The grass was sparse, but they could see that across the river there was ample forage.
They decided to split up. George and Kumen rode downstream to look for a possible fording place. David turned upstream to find the answer to the more important question: Could they get wagons through the great gap in Comb Ridge carved out by the river?
As he and Tillie made their way up through the willows and cottonwood trees, David also watched for possible fording places. But he quickly lost hope. The channel was narrow here, still squeezed in somewhat by the high ridges on both sides. As he turned and examined the great rise of rock that marked the southern end of this part of Comb Ridge, something caught his eye. He turned the reins and headed in that direction.
The mountain sheared off sharply directly above him, rising a good five or six hundred feet. But sometime in the far-distant past—probably during a flood when the water undercut the cliff face—a huge mass of sandstone had broken free at its base, forming a massive overhang that extended out from the cliff at least thirty or forty feet and ran horizontally for three or four hundred feet. And there, in the deep shade beneath the roof, was what had caught his eye. Blending almost perfectly into the rock were the ruins of an ancient cliff dwelling.
He and the other scouts had seen one of these farther west on their earlier exploration. In fact, when they had climbed up to visit it, they had stumbled on an old trail made by these ancient pueblo dwellers and had then followed it for many miles. This ruin wasn’t as large as that one, but it seemed more elegant. There was one large building, at least two stories high, with square, empty windows. A tower of stone masonry—perhaps all that was left of another such building—stood like a solitary sentinel watching out over the river and the flood plain below. David could make out smaller structures, almost hidden in the shadows back farther under the cliff.
Strongly tempted to dismount and explore the ruins on foot, David finally shook his head and turned Tillie away. The group would surely camp not far from here, and when there was time, he promised himself he would come back and make an exploration. Then, as he turned east again, urging Tillie into a trot, he had an intriguing thought. Things had been so demanding since his return from Montezuma Creek these past two weeks, he had never found an appropriate time for his talk with Molly. Each night found all of them so physically exhausted and spiritually spent that they just ate supper and went to bed. He half turned in the saddle and looked back. That might just be the perfect place for their talk—quiet, isolated, serene.
Ten minutes later, he reined Tillie in again. And in that moment, he knew there was no hope for a wagon road through the gap. Here Comb Ridge closed in on both sides of the river, coming right down to the water’s edge in nearly vertical cliffs. Perhaps later in the summer, the water level might drop enough to allow passage, bu
t now it was swift, cold water from cliff to cliff.
“Ah, Tillie,” he murmured. “We didn’t need this.”
Thursday, April 1, 1880
Molly watched the people coming from their wagons toward the center of camp, heads down and faces grim. Then she glanced over at Jens Nielson’s tent. David, his father, and her father were there, talking quietly with several other men—Bishop Nielson, Kumen Jones, Joe Nielson, and the Perkins brothers. As she watched them, she couldn’t help but note the toll this last month had taken on these men she loved. Weariness lined their faces, and discouragement haunted their eyes.
How did Jens Nielson carry on through all of this? she wondered. He looked so utterly spent that she wanted to go over and take him by the elbow and make him sit down. He was over sixty now, and walked with crippled, frostbitten feet. And yet he did carry on. Platte Lyman was absent today. Night before last some of his horses had wandered away, and he had stayed behind to look for them. So even the burden of leadership was solely the bishop’s today.
She didn’t have to wonder what they were talking about. She didn’t have to wonder what was going to be said in the meeting. The news of David’s discovery had spread through the camp with the speed of a cholera epidemic, and with pretty much the same results. Ironic that it should be him to discover that there was to be yet another delay, yet another crushing setback.
Her family were also at the end of their tether. Abby stood with her hand resting lightly on Billy Joe’s shoulder; he stared at the ground, making patterns with the toe of his boot. That, more than any other thing, pierced Molly’s heart. Billy Joe was no longer Billy Joe. His excitement, his exuberance, his endless energy were finally spent. He dragged through the days like the rest of them did, head down, teeth gritted, shoulders hunched.
She turned and looked at her mother, and that too made her want to weep. To Molly, her mother had always been the epitome of graciousness and beauty and class. She stood there now, listless and vacant, her shoulders slumped, her beautiful hair with a patina of red dust, her apron worn in several places, her elegant boots scuffed and battered. The lines of exhaustion at the corners of her mother’s eyes looked like they had been penciled in. In a way, they had. The dust of Comb Wash had left its legacy on her face.
Molly laughed softly to herself. Speaking of hair! Hers was so gritty and greasy that she could barely pull a brush through it now. And what about her own face? In the past few days, summer in this south country had begun. The temperature was in the nineties nearly every afternoon now that they were down off of Elk Ridge. The sun not only beat down from above but it bounced upward off the sand and the rocks, radiating heat like the open door of an oven. Her face and arms, already deeply tanned, were now sunburned as well. The skin along the cheekbones beneath her eyes was bright red. Her nose was peeling, and where it had peeled it had sunburned again. Her lips looked like cracked leather. Good thing they had nothing to smile about, for when she did, her lips cracked and bled.
She closed her eyes.
When all but a few stragglers were clustered around the Nielsons’ tent, Bishop Nielson moved forward and raised his hands. “Brodders and sisters,” he said in a booming voice. “May vee haf yur attention, please.”
He paused to let them quiet, then went on, his volume only slightly lower. “As most of you know, Captain Lyman is still behind us. Vee expect he be here later today. But vee cannot vait. Vee must begin immediately. Vee know now dat vee cannot get troo to da Montezuma settlement by way of da river. Derfore, vee must build more road up and over dis.” He raised an arm and pointed to the north.
Every head turned to look where he was pointing, even though they had been staring balefully at it all morning. What they were seeing was not red rock cliffs, like so much of what they had passed through before, but it was daunting enough. Here, two ridges came together, forming a slight V. A gentle swale between them reached all the way to the top. To the right of the swale, there was a long, sloping spine of pink sandstone running nearly from bottom to top. To the left was a hillside strewn with a jumble of broken rocks, loose shale, and great slabs of stone. The crest was about a mile from where they stood, though half of that was level ground. The mountain itself was not much more than a quarter of a mile from bottom to top and no more than four or five hundred feet high. Compared to the Hole or Cottonwood Hill or Slickrock Hill or Clay Hill Pass, this was nothing. The lower slopes were somewhat gentle and would be no real challenge. The last hundred yards were noticeably steeper, but again, it was nothing compared to The Chute.
Bishop Nielson waited until they turned back to face him. “Vee are calling dis San Juan Hill. And vee haf no choice but to take our vagons up and over vaht you see der. Da goot news, especially for da vomen and children, is dat vee shall camp here by da river vile a road is built up and over da top. Vee tink dat vill take four to five days. Dis vill gif you goot chance to vash and bathe. Also to let our veary and jaded animals rest. Dis be goot. Dere is plenty of firewood and vater. You like dat, no?”
“Amen,” Molly murmured. Many other women actually smiled.
“A few of da men haf been asked to take da stock across da river for better grazing. Vee are asking all odders—except for our blacksmiths—to verk on da road. Da building of dis road is different matter from odder times. Vee haf no more blasting powder. Derfore, Brodder Perkins say vee must build dis road by hand, using pick and shovel, and making stone walls to hold in da dirt.”
He stopped and looked around. No one objected. No one said anything. There were a few nods, but that was it. He turned and looked at the Perkins brothers. “Anytink more I should be sayink?” They shook their heads. He turned back to the people. “Den let’s go to verk.”
David picked up the bag with his tools, water, and food and hefted it on his shoulder. “You ready, Dad?”
“Aye.”
But as he turned, David saw Molly walking by herself down toward the river. “You go ahead, Dad,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you.”
His father looked around, then grunted. “Aye, Son. It be time.”
“I know. I’m not going to talk to her now. I’ll just set a time. So she knows it’s coming.”
“Naw t’night, if’n ya be askin’ me,” he said. “Wait ’til t’morrow. Ev’rybody be more rested then. It be mooch better.”
David gave him an appraising look, then nodded. “Good idea.”
Jens Nielson had been right. From an engineering standpoint, this road was going to be much easier to build. Where there was soft soil, it was cut away with pick and shovel to make a road into the hillside. Where the hill sloped too sharply to allow a wagon to cross without tipping over, a track for the wagon wheels was cut—or chiseled out, if it was rock—then a masonry wall was built on the low side. This was made high enough to allow rocks, gravel, and dirt to be brought in until it made a level road. In other places the rock pan sloped in the same direction as wagons would be moving, but was steep and treacherous. Here striations were chiseled into the rock. Sand would be spread here to give the animals better traction.
It was backbreaking work. And the heat only made it worse. Fortunately, nature had made their task easier. Over the centuries, the sandstone that had fallen from the cliffs above or sloughed off the rock base underneath had broken off in angular chunks. These were not the smooth, round rocks of a creek bottom. The tops and bottoms of these slabs were almost perfectly flat. The men had no mortar, and neither the energy nor the time to cut the stone. This was what in England they had called dry masonry, stonework without mortar. And the sides of San Juan Hill provided the perfect natural quarry.
“Easy, easy,” Ben Perkins hissed. “Don’t break it.”
Four of them—Ben, Hyrum Perkins, David, and David’s father—were carrying a slab of rock that was two feet wide, four feet long, and eight inches thick and weighed at least two hundred pounds. The ground was rough, and they grunted as they walked the rock up the hill to where they were building another wa
ll. Gasping with every step, their backs feeling like they were going to break, they inched their way to the end of the wall.
“Okay,” Hy said. “Reet thare, just to me right. Ready. One. Two. Three. Swing!”
They swung it up and out away from their bodies, then lowered it into position with a solid thunk. Ben and Hy stood back, panting hard. John sat down on the wall they had already constructed. David bent over, putting his hands on his knees, and drew in great, hungry breaths.
This particular low spot they were filling in was twenty or thirty feet long, and here at its lowest point, the wall would have to be nearly five feet high. All of this was done with muscle and sweat. And it was a wonder. No two rocks were of the same size or shape. Some were nearly square, others only two or three inches thick but two and a half or three feet long. Some were rectangular; one looked like a giant wedge. But Ben and Hy and John had placed them one on top of the other, fitting them together like a jigsaw puzzle, filling in where needed with smaller stones. When it was done, the road would be nearly as solid as virgin rock itself and would carry the weight of eighty or more loaded wagons without a problem.4
“Ah be needin’ sum water,” Ben said. “Let’s tek a rest.”
David sank down on the rock wall beside his father as Ben and his brother moved over to where they had a porcelain jug of water.
“Ya ready fur a drink?” his father asked.
“In a minute. Let me get my breath first.”