Bishop Jens Nielson had started out from Cedar City with a yoke of oxen to pull one wagon, a pair of mules to pull the second, and four steers to pull the third. In the grueling two months since leaving the Colorado River, one of his oxen and two of the steers had died. He had made his way along by hitching up a mule and an ox to pull one wagon, a single mule to pull another, and two steers to pull the third.
“Need some help, Bishop?” David asked as they came up. He couldn’t help but shake his head. The bishop had every draft animal he owned hitched to his wagon. The front team was made up of a huge old ox named Buck and one of the Nielson’s mules. The two steers were next, looking small compared to Buck. Finally, the bishop had borrowed one of Joe’s horses and had it harnessed with his second mule. It was a ragtag collection and it looked pitifully inadequate, but David tried not to show that as he looked up at the old Dane.
“Yah, and vee be very grateful for it, Brodder David and Brodder John.”
Joe’s head appeared on the other side of his horse. He had been checking the tugs. “We sure do,” Joe said. Joe had an ox goad in one hand and tossed it to David. “David, why don’t you walk alongside Old Buck, and maybe John and I can worry about the steers and the mules.”
“Be kind to Buck,” Bishop Nielson said. “He be very much like dis ole, tired Dane. Vee don’t haf many more miles left in us.”
David turned and looked at the beast. He was massive, probably weighing close to a ton before he had started on the trip. Now he looked exactly as the bishop had said. His head was down. Ribs were visible on his side. His eyes were half closed. His tail barely twitched. Unlike horses and mules, you didn’t drive oxen with reins. Someone had to walk alongside and urge them along. Usually, verbal commands were sufficient, but on a pull like this, an occasional jab with the ox goad might prove necessary.
“Sure,” David said, moving up to stand beside the ox.
Joe reached up in the seat beside his father and retrieved a short whip. “Sure you don’t want me to drive, Dad?”
“Yah,” the old Dane said. “Vaht vood the neighbors tink if I let a boy do a man’s verk?”
“Yah,” David chortled. “Vee can’t have dat, Joe.”
Joe, pretending to be hurt, ignored them both. He turned and looked up the hill. Kumen was now a good two hundred yards above them and the men up there were waving them on. It was time. Bishop Nielson raised the whip and gave it a sharp crack over the heads of the hodgepodge of animals. “Ha!” he shouted. “Gee up!”
They had to stop and rest the teams three times. Now, at the bottom of the last and steepest pitch, they stopped again. The wagons were bunching up here, and Kumen had just started his ascent. They watched as the twelve horses lunged upward, jerking the wagon forward. What made this final stretch of road so challenging was not just the pitch but also the footing. Much of it crossed rough rock pans with several patches of smooth, slippery rock.
Kumen’s team was magnificent, and he was rightly proud of them. They hit the first rock surface, snorting and blowing as their feet fought for some kind of grip. Then, even as those below watched in horror, both horses in the fourth span slipped and crashed to their knees. Kumen was up in an instant, lashing the whip, screaming like a madman. Two men standing nearby leaped in and grabbed the bridles of the lead team, pulling them forward. For a moment, the two downed horses were dragged along on their knees, shrieking in pain, but the forward movement of the lead teams finally pulled them up again. A moment later the wagon went over the top and disappeared.
“All right, Joe,” Bishop Nielson said softly. “I tink it be our turn.” His face was pale as he reached down and took out a bullwhip from its holder.
David moved over and laid a hand on Buck’s massive flanks. “Okay, old boy. Here we go. One last time, then it’s downhill from there.”
They didn’t have the teams to power the wagon up that slope like Kumen had done, but to David’s amazement, the animals threw their weight against the harnessing and started up the hill. As they moved steadily upward, all four men were cracking the whips and shouting their encouragement. Buck began to falter about a third of the way up, and David jabbed him hard in the rump with the ox goad. He bellowed in pain but leaned forward, grunting as he tried to keep up with the mule beside him.
They were no more than fifty feet from the top when Buck suddenly went down. The mule brayed loudly as it was nearly pulled off its feet by the weight of the ox. David leaped in, jabbing the goad again and again, drawing blood now. He saw a flash as Joe came up and grabbed the mule’s bridle. The whip flashed, and there was a sharp crack. With a squeal, the mule lunged forward. It was to no avail. Buck’s dead weight brought the wagon to a halt. Then, to David’s horror, he saw it begin to inch back down the hill.
The steers were bawling, the mules and horse squealing or braying, the men screaming at the top of their lungs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, David realized that the bishop was shouting in Danish now. The animals who were still on their feet were pawing at the rock, trying to stop the backward slide, their necks white with lather, nostrils flaring, drool falling from their mouths.
David kicked the ox as hard as he could. “Get up, Buck!” He hammered on his back with the ox goad. “Ha, Buck! Ha!” he shouted with every blow. Great shudders ran through the ox’s body, and one knee came up, but the animal couldn’t do it. Buck raised his head and gave a great roar of pain. The sound echoed off the cliffs above them and sent chills up and down David’s back.
“We’re rolling back!” Joe screamed. “Get him up! Get him up!”
David didn’t have to be told. Buck was now being dragged slowly backwards, and the momentum of that slide was increasing. David knew that if they didn’t stop that backward slide, not only would all the animals be dragged to their death, but Jens Nielson, with his twisted and crippled legs, would not likely survive a jump.
David forgot about Buck. He leaped back to the team of mules, grabbed the nearest one by the ear, and dragged him forward, yelling at him at the top of his lungs. Across from him, his father was doing the same. That did it. The other animals, desperate to get away from the torrent of blows, lunged forward, and that was enough to drag old Buck to his feet.
David heard himself shouting. “Go! Go! Go!” They were moving.
And finally, they crested the ridge. Buck and the mule beside him went first, followed by the steers, then the mules and the horse, and, at last, the wagon. David dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for air. Across from him, his father and Joe collapsed, lying on their backs, heaving in air in hungry gulps. David turned as Jens clambered awkwardly down from his wagon. As he hobbled forward, David saw that tears were streaming down his cheeks.
David got slowly to his feet as the grizzled old Dane hobbled forward past the exhausted animals. Their heads were down, noses almost touching the ground. Lather dripped from their necks. Their legs were trembling so violently that David thought they were going to spasm or even collapse where they stood.
“Help me git him loose,” the bishop said as he reached Buck.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” David said over and over, between sobs, as they unhooked the chains and led Buck off to one side. The bishop motioned for Joe and John to take the wagon forward out of the way, then turned back and began to stroke Buck’s nose. “You gave your all, ole boy,” he whispered. “Vee tank you for your courage.”
David came over to see if there was anything he could do, but just as he reached the ox, Buck gave a low moan and dropped to his knees. As both men watched helplessly, his hind legs folded as well. Buck grunted as that big body of his finally rested on the ground. There was one last groan, and then the animal rolled over on his side, gave one last weary sigh, and died.1
As David reached the line of wagons back down at the bottom, Patrick and a couple of other men were just finishing hitching the extra teams to the McKennas’ second two wagons. “Ah, there you are,” Patrick said as David came up. “How is it going up
there? From here it looks like the teams are struggling, especially over that last hump.”
“They’re too spent,” David said. “Two months of too little grass and hard pulls have taken their toll. It’s not very pretty,” he added soberly.
“Where’s John?”
“He’s helping up top. He’ll come down when it’s our turn.”
At that moment, Abby came around the wagon. She pulled up. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were here. I thought you were going to help up above.”
“I was, but . . .” He glanced quickly at Patrick, then back to her. “I don’t think you should drive this one, Abby.”
Her head came up sharply. “Why not?”
“I just think it’s better if you don’t.”
“I’ve driven worse than this,” she said. “Sometimes, even without your careful help.”
“Abby,” her father started, but she whirled and stomped back to her wagon.
The two men looked at each other. As David started to say something, Patrick cut him off. “Look, David, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but you’re in charge here. You do what you think is best.”
“Thank you.” He turned and walked back. Abby was at the back of her wagon, reaching inside for something. When he came around, she swung on him. “Why, David? Why now? Earlier, you said you wanted me to drive.”
“Because it’s not earlier, Abby. Things have changed.”
“I know what’s changed,” she said tightly, “but I didn’t think you’d be so petty as to punish me for what happened last night.”
He was too weary, too sick at heart to fight with her. “I passed your Mom and Molly going up. I sent Billy Joe with them. They said they’ll wait for you on top.”
Suddenly she was pleading. “I want to drive it, David. You know I can do it.”
“Yes, I do. But the answer is no.”
He turned and went forward to begin checking the harnessing on the teams. When he reached the lead team—Tillie and Paint—he came around in front of them and stroked their noses, talking softly to them. He didn’t look up as she stalked past him, nor when she muttered something to her father and started up the hill.
“Abby, gurl,” John called as he saw her coming up the road toward him, “Ah was joost cumin’ doon ta see if yur Pa an’ David needed sum help doon thare.”
She nearly swept past him without speaking, but then she changed her mind and stopped, planting her feet. “Ohhh! That son of yours is impossible.”
He grinned. “Ahre ya joost learnin’ that, me gurl? Ah cud ’ave tole ya that when he be six years old.”
“It’s not funny, John. Not funny at all.”
He sobered. “Sorry. What be the trouble?”
“Ask him. He’s the one who won’t let me drive.” With a jerk, she flounced up the road.
For several seconds, John watched her go, pulling at his beard thoughtfully. Then his jaw set, and he broke into a trot after her. She turned when she heard him and stopped, preparing for battle. But all he said was, “Cum wit me, gurl.” He took her by the elbow, not with a lot of gentleness, and guided her up the hill.
When they reached the bottom of the last pitch, he stopped. A wagon was fighting its way to the top, its fourteen horses and mules just starting to clear the ridge. He waited until it disappeared, then turned and looked back the other way. The next wagon was still about fifty yards behind them, making its way slowly upward.
He took her arm again. “Cum. An’ keep yur eyes open. Maybe ya can learn sumthin’.”
Surprised by his anger, and puzzled by the odd command, she fell in beside him, not speaking. Just what was she supposed to look for? But before they had gone twenty steps, she had her answer. Her stomach lurched and she felt a sudden urge to gag. On the rock pan directly in front of her was a six-inch streak of fresh blood, like some wounded thing had been downed here, then dragged along the stone. To the left, there was a splattering of bright red drops. Above that another smear, this one twice as long.
Her hand flew to her mouth and she had to stop. She felt a nudge and turned. John was pointing to a rock just off the road. Here the blood was almost dried, making the patch of matted black hair look all the more grotesque. “That be from the knee of one of our own mules.”
Abby wanted to run, but John wouldn’t let her. He held her arm. If she missed something, he pointed it out. If she tried to hurry past, he made her slow her step. Finally, he began to speak in a low voice. “The animals be at their end, Abby. Joost as we are. But thare be no choice. If we cahrn’t git these wagons up an’ over ’ere t’day, we awl be done fur. The ’ole purpose of our mission be fur naught.”
“I understand,” she murmured, feeling sick to her stomach.
“Do ya, gurl? Do ya unnerstand ’ow a good man feels aboot his animals, especially his teams? They be lek ’is own fam’ly. I’ve seen grown men weep ’ere t’day, Abby, b’cuz they ’ad naw choice but ta lash and whip these poor starving beasts up the ’ill. Ah’ve watched ’orses and mules go into violent spasms—near convulsions—befur they reached the top. Ah’ve seen six an’ seven span of ’orses go ten feet, then ’ave ta stop befur they can go the next ten feet.”
“I had no idea,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“It naw be me that needs an apology, Abby. Just know this. Bishop Nielson’s ox almost dinna mek it ta the top. When ’e collapsed in the shafts, we thought we’d lost ’im and the other animals. If that wagon ’ad been allowed to roll back, Ah naw be sure the bishop wud ’ave survived. Ah watched David fall on that ox, beatin’ on ’im lek a man possessed, tryin’ ta get the poor thing back on its feet.”
She looked away, blinded by the sudden tears.
“An’ that ole noble animal finally got back up an’ went awl the way ta the top. Then, ’e joost rolled over an’ died. And we watched Bishop Nielson bawl lek a baby over ’is body.”
His head came up, and she saw his eyes were glistening too. “Ah ’ave naw idee what be goin’ on b’tween ya an’ David, Abby. But Ah know this. ’E went back doon b’cuz ’e dinna want ya ’avin’ ta be part of this.” He looked away, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob. “’E went back doon b’cuz ’e cud naw bear the thought of anyone layin’ a whip across the back of Paint, or ’is own Lady Tilburn, unless it were ’im.”
She felt a shudder as she tried to suppress the sob rising up from within her.
“Ya go on up top noow,” he said, his voice filled with gentleness. “Yur mum and Molly and Billy Joe be waitin’ fur ya.”
As she nodded, he looked her squarely in the eye. “Ah think it wud be better if yur fam’ly were naw waitin’ at the top, watchin’ Patrick an’ David bring those last two wagons up.”2
When Abby left her family and came back to the top of the ridge, David and his father had their wagon pulled to one side. Tillie and Paint were out of the harness, standing to one side. David was bent over, applying some kind of ointment to Tillie’s knees. Abby had to look away. Both legs were raw and bleeding.
When John saw her coming, he took both horses by the bridles. “Ah’ll tek ’em forward an’ git ’em saddled,” he said to David, and without waiting for an answer, he led them away. David had his back to Abby and hadn’t seen her. He moved to the mules, who were still wheezing, their entire bodies shaking, their necks and flanks white with lather. He moved to the closest one and began stroking its nose, talking quietly to it.
“David?”
She saw his body tense, but he didn’t turn around.
Coming up right behind him, she stopped. She swallowed once, then again, trying to gain control of her voice. “I am so sorry, David.”
He turned slowly. The haunted look on his face made her gasp, and that brought the tears, in spite of her determination to hold them back. “Thank you for sparing me this,” she said in a strangled whisper. “I was such a fool. I’m sorry.”
“This trip has made fools of all of us, Abby,” he finally said. “But it’s almost over.”
He turned back and began checking the harnessing.
She stood there for another minute, watching him, making no effort to wipe the tears away. Then she turned and started slowly away.
“Abby?”
She turned back. “Yes?”
He stood there, shoulders slumped, face lined, eyes filled with pain. “I’ve seen you cry more in the last two days than in the previous eighteen months. I’m sorry. But it’s almost over.”
Notes
^1.The description of Jens Nielson’s “team” as he made that last pull up and over San Juan Hill comes from the family’s history, though no name is given for the ox. But when it reached the top, it sank to the ground and died (see Carpenter, Jens Nielson, 43, 49).
^2. It is Charles M. Redd, whose father went on the Hole in the Rock expedition, who gives us the details of that last terrible climb over San Juan Hill:
“Here again seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they. By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams. My father was a strong man, and reluctant to display emotion; but, whenever in later years the full pathos of San Juan Hill was recalled either by himself or by someone else, the memory of such bitter struggles was too much for him and he wept” (Redd, “Short Cut,” 23–24).
Chapter 71
Monday, April 5, 1880
In the end, they were simply too exhausted to go any farther.
After the brutal climb up San Juan Hill, the wagons went north along the top of Comb Ridge for a couple of miles before they found a wash that would allow them to descend to the flat land below. They camped at the bottom, too utterly spent to go further.