Demon's Pass (26 page)

“He's not dead yet,” Parker said. He raised his pistol to shoot again.

“No, wait,” Jason said, holding out his hand to stop him. “Let's don't waste any more ammunition on the son of a bitch. Pick up a club somewhere. We can finish him off that way.”

“Good idea,” Parker agreed.

The two boys looked around until each of them found a large branch they could use. Thus armed, they moved cautiously toward the bear. Parker raised his club and the bear looked at him. For a moment Parker hesitated. He felt a sense of guilt. Like him, the bear was just trying to survive the winter. It was one thing to shoot him when he was charging . . . quite another to club him to death when he was down.

Jason had no such reservations. While the bear was looking at Parker, Jason hit him a blow, spattering more blood onto the snow. The bear jerked his head toward Jason then, and Parker, recovering from his moment of indecision, took his own swing. The bear roared again, a terrible, frightening bellow, but Parker knew that it was its death knell, for there was no challenge left in its cry—only fear and pain.

Finally, exhausted and exhilarated, the two boys stopped clubbing it, realizing at last that it was dead. They stood there looking down at its still form for a long moment, the vapor clouds from their gasping breaths curling around their heads.

“What do you think he'll weigh?” Jason asked.

“Easily five or six hundred pounds,” Parker replied.

“Think we got a pot big enough to cook 'im in?” Jason asked.

They laughed until their sides hurt.

Chapter 17

When Elizabeth's horse went lame on her, she had no idea what to do. She looked at its foot and rubbed its leg, but the horse's limp got so bad that she couldn't bring herself to add to the poor beast's misery by riding.

“I think people shoot horses when they are like this,” Elizabeth said to the animal. “But I don't have a gun. And, even if I did, I don't know if I could bring myself to shoot you. So, I'll just turn you out on your own.”

Elizabeth disconnected the buffalo hide bridle, then swatted the horse on its rump. It tried to run, but the injured leg buckled and it nearly went down. The horse recovered enough to move off, though with such a severe limp that Elizabeth felt bad for having ridden it as long as she had.

It had been two weeks since the raid on the Indian village, and during that two weeks, Elizabeth had seen no one. She had eaten the last of the food Standing Bear had given her on the previous day. Now she had neither food nor water. She did have a buffalo robe which protected her from the cold, and she was very thankful for that, for without it she would have surely frozen to death. She continued to walk west for the rest of the day, having no idea where she was going.

 

Fred Sargent stopped the team and set the brakes on the wagon. Beside him was his wife Mary and their infant child, Timmy. Behind were three other children: Becky, who was three, Billy, who was five, and Sara, seven.

The baby was crying.

“He's hungry,” Mary said, opening her dress to free her breast. Timmy took to the nipple immediately.

“I'm hungry too, Mama,” Billy said. “When are we going to eat supper?”

“As soon as we get home.”

“Come on, Papa. Make the team go, so we can get home faster.”

“We've just come up a long hill,” Fred said. “If I don't give the team a few minutes to rest, they'll fall down in their traces and we'll never get home.”

“Mama, can I get down and walk around a little?” Sara asked.

“Yes,” Mary replied, “but don't wander too far.”

“I won't.”

Sara climbed down from the wagon, then began singing a little song, skipping in time.

“You need someone to help you with the house, Mary,” Fred said. “You know you do.” It was the continuation of a discussion they had been having all during the long drive back from the meeting at Elder Ben Malcolm's house. “You saw how well Elder Malcolm's wives got on, didn't you?”

There had been many people at the meeting, but Elder Malcolm's three wives worked together as a team to make sure things went quite smoothly.

“Fred, our religion says that a man can take on more wives. You certainly don't need my permission to do so, so don't make excuses by saying I need someone to help around the house.”

“You know you would always be my first wife,” Fred said. “No matter who else I might take into the house, she could never take your place.”

“I know that,” Mary said. She smiled at her husband. “And, it might be nice to have a sister.”

“Eeeeeek!!!”

Sara's scream interrupted whatever reply Fred might have made. Reacting quickly, he grabbed his rifle and jumped down from the wagon. “Sara!” he called.

Sara came running over the top of a small rise. “Papa, there's an Indian back there! An Indian!”

“Just one?”

Sara nodded. “She's the only one I saw.”

“
She
? You saw an Indian woman? Where?”

“She was sleeping,” Sara said, pointing toward the rise. “But I saw her get up when she heard me. There she is!”

Fred raised his rifle and pointed it at the woman who was just now coming toward them. “That's far enough!” he called.

“Fred, she's no Indian. She has blond hair,” Mary said.

“Who are you?” Fred asked, lowering his rifle.

Before the blond woman in the Indian dress could answer, she passed out.

 

When Elizabeth came to, she was in bed. It was the first time she had seen a real bed, room, or house in nearly a year.

“Here, try to drink some of this,” a woman said, holding a cup toward her.

Elizabeth took it, realized at once that it was a clear broth of some sort, and began to drink it eagerly. She could almost feel the strength returning with each sip of the soothing broth.

“Thank you,” she said. As she sipped the broth, she looked around the room. Curtains hung at the windows. On the wall a sampler read, “God Bless This Home.”

A man came into the room. “How is she?” he asked.

Elizabeth gasped and jerked back, spilling some of the broth. “You!” she said, glaring at the man. “You were going to shoot me.”

“I'm sorry about that,” the man said. “We thought you were an Indian.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “You gave us quite a scare, first because you were dressed like a wild Indian, and secondly because you passed out. We didn't know if you were going to live or die.”

“It's been a while since I've had anything to eat,” Elizabeth said. “I guess I was weak with hunger.”

“We're the Sargents,” the woman said. “My name is Mary, and this is my husband, Fred. What is your name, dear?”

“Sun—” Elizabeth started to say, then caught herself. “Elizabeth Stanley.”

“Do you have people around here, Miss Stanley?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I have no people anywhere,” she replied. “My mother, father, and brother were killed by Indians.”

“Oh, my,” Mary replied, her hand covering her mouth. “Such a tragedy.”

“Did it happen near here?” Fred asked.

“I don't know. I don't know where ‘here' is.”

“This is Utah,” Fred said.

“Utah?” Elizabeth said in surprise. “My, I have come a long way.”

“Would you like some more broth, Elizabeth?” Mary asked.

“Yes, thank you. And if you have it, perhaps a piece of bread?”

“Of course, my dear.”

 

Several days of sunshine and above-freezing temperature had its effect. Although all the snow didn't melt, enough of it was cleared away to enable the men to make another try at the devilish pass.

Ironically, the enforced waiting had some beneficial effect. At the lower elevation where they had made their camp, the mules were able to forage quite easily. Food, water, and a prolonged period of rest enabled them to regain much of their strength. The bear provided an ample supply of food for the men so that on the day Clay pronounced the snow in the pass low enough to give it a try, men and animals were stronger than they had been on the day they had first arrived.

The wagons, too, had benefited from the delay. Further inspection of Pecorino's wagon showed that the popping noise he heard was, indeed, a cracked axle. They had brought some spare parts with them, so they used this opportunity to replace not only Pecorino's axle, but one of the wheels on Jason's wagon. Also, the last of the grease was used, and all bolts and fittings were tightened.

They began readying the wagons shortly after sunup, and by midmorning all the teams were in harness, the wagons brought into line, loads secured, and drivers seated. Clay and Parker moved to the front of the train, then Clay stood in his stirrups and looked up the trail in front of them. Although most of the trail was still white with snow, there were a number of areas where the ground showed through.

Tobin was in the front wagon, Jason was in the second, and Pecorino was bringing up the rear.

“All right, men, let's go,” Clay said.

“Hear, giddup!” Tobin called.

“Yah, now!” Jason yelled, snapping his reins.

“Avante!”
Pecorino shouted, then he whistled shrilly. The mules started forward, almost as if they were as anxious to leave this place as the men. The wagons rolled easily across the level ground where they were camped, then they started up the long, sloping rise leading to the pass.

Two-thirds of the way up the pass, Clay stopped the train to give the mules a rest. The snow was practically inconsequential, but here the grade steepened sharply.

Clay went on up to the top of the pass. When he did so, he let out a shout. “Hey! Come here, all of you! Look!”

Setting the brakes on the wagons, the others hurried up to the top of the pass. Parker was the first one there. When he looked in the direction Clay was pointing, he felt a sense of elation. There in the distance he saw a large body of water, shimmering in the sunlight.

“What is that?” Jason asked, joining them then. “Is that the ocean?”

“No, it's a lake,” Clay said. “But it's like the ocean, because the water is salty.”

“That's the Great Salt Lake, isn't it?” Parker asked, grinning wildly. “The one Marcus wanted to swim in.”

“Yes, it is,” Clay said. “And around on the other side of that lake is Salt Lake City, the Land of the Saints.”

“Why do they call it ‘Land of the Saints'?”

“Well, because that's what the Mormons call themselves,” Clay said. He laughed. “But believe me, they aren't all saints.”

“How far away you think that is?” Pecorino asked.

“I think we'll be there in another week,” Clay said. “Ten days at the most.”

Pecorino turned and started back down the trail.

“Where you goin'?” Tobin called.

“To get these mules moving,” Pecorino replied. “It may be ten more days before we make it to Salt Lake City, but I don't plan to spend one damn day more on this here mountain.”

 

Elizabeth was in the relative warmth of the barn, sitting on a small, three-legged stool with her head resting on a cow's flank. Streams of milk squirted into the bucket as her hands pulled rhythmically at the animal's teats. She had been raised on a farm, and this was an old, familiar chore that brought back memories that had lain dormant for the past year.

Because of her farming background, Elizabeth was able to move quickly and easily into the Sargent household, helping Mary with her chores: washing clothes, scrubbing floors, baking, and even tending to the baby. Of all her tasks, though, she liked milking the cow the best. Here, in the silence of the barn, with only the cows for company, she could bring some peace and order back to her life, and reflect over all that had happened to her.

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth, are you in here?” Sara called.

“Moo!” Elizabeth said in reply. Then, in a singsong voice she said, “Elizabeth isn't in here. There's nobody in here but us cows.”

Sara laughed. “You are, too, in here,” she said. “Cows can't talk.”

“Sure they can talk. They say ‘moo,' ” Elizabeth replied.

Laughing again, Sara skipped into the barn.

“Did you feed the chickens?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes.”

“Ah, good for you.”

“Elizabeth, what was it like with the Indians?”

“It wasn't like anything,” Elizabeth said.

“But weren't you scared all the time?”

“I was, in the beginning. But I got used to living with them.”

“I don't think I could ever get used to living with savages.”

“Not all of them are savages. There are some good Indians and there are some bad Indians.”

“Papa says the only good Indians are dead Indians,” Sara said. “And I think he's right.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because they are so cruel. They murder women and children and scalp them. Besides, they aren't like white people. They don't have feelings like we do.”

Elizabeth thought of the attack on Standing Bear's village, and the savage butchery of women and children. She remembered the tears of grief of the Indians, and the terrible anguish of those who mourned their loved ones.

“They have feelings,” she said without further explanation.

“Did you have any Indian friends?”

“Yes, I had many.”