Redeye (27 page)

 

It was from atop Mesa Largo that Abel Merriwether first beheld Eagle City in the year 1888. Cobb Pittman, Zack Paulson, Bumpy Copeland, and Andrew Collier first beheld it in 1891, and Star Copeland in 1892—she, along with those very first tourists to make the trek. There were twelve of them in all. But alas,
NOT ALL WOULD RETURN!
And therein lies the story of

THE EAGLE CITY SHOOTOUT OF
'92

Those fair tourists came from various and varied aspects of life. There were among them, departing on the morning of Monday, April 18th,1892, several gentle ladies, a Negress, a blind man, two Mormons, an Englishman, plus qualified guides, and a cook. They were headed toward their destiny of destinies along the Bright Owl River on up toward the Mormon ferry, where they were joined by said Bishop Thorpe and son, Hiram Thorpe, both having signed up as tourists. Unbeknownst to all except Bishop Thorpe and a group of savage Indians, Thorpe had contrived an evil plot (unknown even to the Bishop's own son) . . .

As we move out, the mighty and proud Mesa Largo appears before us in the first morning light, and the sunlight touches the
top of the mighty bulwark and then slowly descends—crawls its way down the mesa wall to the floor of this golden red western landscape. It is a glorious and fine April day that we have set out for the first trip of the Blankenship-Merriwether Exploring Expedition. I am so happy to be a part of this adventurous experiment.

We so tried to get Mr. Merriwether to come with us, but he has declared that he will not support any “tourist business” except in name only. He has allowed use of his name (Blankenship-Merriwether Tourist Company) and wagons and equipment in exchange for a portion of profits from this venture. Libby encouraged him to join forces with Mr. Blankenship for purposes of covering ranch expenses. Time will tell if this venture pays off.

Andrew is soon to write a
book
about the cliff dwellers of Mesa Largo, also called the Anasazi, or Ancient Ones, who inhabited this mighty mesa perhaps a thousand years ago, at least four or five hundred years ago (tree-ring technique).

We have along with us, by the way, a bathtub, carried in the first wagon, along on this trip for the benefit of one Mrs. Thurgood D. Clarkston, a wealthy woman with the Denver Historical Society. I am most interested to see how the cowboys on the trip respond to her need for hot water. She has joined us of course to demonstrate to any future prospects the ease with which one may take this trip onto the mesa. Business. Her own reasons include the need to collect some data to carry back to the Denver Historical Society, which is a potential donor to Mr. Merriwether.

———

When we reached the ferry I told Bishop Thorpe that I have corresponded with my aunt Sallie and discussed the issue with my uncle P.J. and aunt Ann. “Consequently, sir,” I said, “I am unable to accept your proposal of marriage.” That's what Aunt Sallie said to say, those exact words, “I am unable,” and to stick with those words. My mind was firm and Bishop Thorpe seemed far less agitated than I had expected he might. In fact, he seemed preoccupied with the trip onto the mesa. Someone even said he'd had a vision and Jesus told him to go to Eagle City. During the trip from the ferry to our first overnight camp he spoke to me not once, and around the big campfire, singing cowboy songs with the others, I sat beside dear Andrew.

———

We have now arrived at our base camp, a place called White Rock Campsite, a gently sloping hill near the base of the mesa wall with large trees all about for shelter and for anchors for our tarps and tents. My Andrew helped us set up camp. He is a true cowboy. He has been transformed from an English gentleman to a rough-neck cowboy, but, I hasten to add, in appearance only, for in manners he is still gentle and ever courteous. He and Bumpy now get along better than they did.

Zack pays little attention to the tourists. He is busy giving orders to the Mexicans and helping Pete set up the kitchen, which I gather will consist of nothing more than a table with canvas tarp above, a fire, box of cooking ware, some fire hooks,
and the very handsome chuck wagon Uncle P.J. built, with its numerous pots, pans, and Dutch ovens.

The women are allowed to rest. Mrs. Clarkston has had her Negress set up a room made of four walls of canvas from the ground to head height around her bathtub—with wardrobe trunk, folding table, and chair also inside. Andrew helped erect this bath enclosure, and has secured for himself the role of host for the tourists, explaining whats, hows, and whys of camping and excavating. Mrs. Clarkston seems interested in nothing more than a bath and has dispatched Bumpy with a wagon, barrel, and bucket to the spring for bath water. She was prepared to use drinking water from one of the barrels we brought in a wagon, but Zack, using his prerogative as leader, established drinking water as off-limits for bathwater. As for her part, Mrs. Clarkston simply ordered Bumpy to the spring.

I must not let Andrew know how forward I am inwardly, when we have yet to kiss or even hold hands, something that I can only hope will occur during this adventure so that my life will be more complete, more “western,” more “wild” than ever. I wonder if this can be happening to me.

I am now in my one-man army tent. I have just blown out my candle. I rest peacefully on my back, my eyes closed, sounds and sights drifting through my consciousness—sounds of a distant wolf howling, of Pete cleaning up our “kitchen,” and sights of mile upon mile of purple sage.

First day the tourists went up top, I stayed down bottom with the cook, Pete, to keep skunks and bears out of the food and to help fix a supper for when everybody got back at sundown. And to think. I wouldn't get near Thorpe until it was time. I would wait until it was time.

Night before, the Englishman and Thorpe had been arguing about Mountain Meadows. I didn't say nothing. I could wait.

We'd straightened up and settled down, Pete and me, after the tourists left that morning. I'd found a big rock, laid down on my back. It had chilled up some, so I had on my coat. I rolled me a smoke. Pete had just sat down beside me when we seen the little train of tourists finally moving along way up there above us, the whole crowd of them strung out along the canyon-wall trail which, judging from the speed they was going, was pretty narrow. The horses were pulling sleds up front, then some tourists were walking, then the pack mules with Jake bringing up their rear which he always does. Then some more tourists.

There'd been a slide at the main bend up there. The first of them stopped, and then the whole train of them stopped when the last ones finally caught up. The first few—one was Thorpe I think, Boyle—threw over some rocks that had been along the up side of the trail, stood there inspecting, and then threw over some more. Then they went ahead, and when it come Jake's time—and
see, I'm laying down there on my back watching, and they're way up there moving slow with the sun shining on that white-orange sandstone—old Jake takes a step to the side and back, right at that bend, like maybe his pack had scraped the rock, and both his hind feet come over the edge. He hung on with his front legs, but not long. Here he comes, all silent, hit the wall, knocked up dust and rocks, and when he was about halfway down this woman's little scream drifts down, and he hit the wall again, and then went right on out of sight with some rocks and stuff falling along beside him and behind him, on out of sight into the green cedars at the bottom where the canyon wall starts sloping outward.

I knew it was old Jake, and that if Merriwether'd been along he'd a wanted us to go over and put him out of his pain by some slim chance he'd been cushioned by a tree and won't all the way dead, and get the pack saddle and bring it back. So Pete shot his rifle twice to let Zack know we'd seen Jake fall and we'd take care of it.

We took out and found him. He was dead. Redeye bristled up at him like he was going to jump him. I told him to nevermind.

We had a hard time getting Jake's pack saddle off, but finally did. He'd been carrying shovels and empty crates—but they had divided everything up between mules and sleds so they wouldn't lose all of any one thing in case something dropped off. Zack did have that much sense.

Today after a death-defying trip up an extremely narrow ridge along a sheer cliff, our party reached the top of the mesa. On the way we lost one of the pack mules over the ledge and down the cliff. Old Jake. He was the most known-about, most popular, most stubborn, meanest, and smartest of all the pack mules. Uncle P.J. said he could kick the butter out of a biscuit. Poor Jake was behind me on the trail and so I was unable to observe. I'm so glad I didn't see it. He was such a colorful old mule. He reminded me of one of our mules back home—Cane.

We were all a bit shaky, so we rested and then made our way across the top of the mesa for a ways before we stopped. Though the weather was getting cold and cloudy (I was glad we brought warm winter coats) the view from atop the mesa was magnificent. As far as the eye could see, as far as the ear could hear, there was no sign of life, only distant, far-distant mesas, farther-distant mountains. Words cannot explain what was beginning to happen inside me. Andrew took me by the arm and escorted me to the edge of the gorge, under a big crooked tree, where I looked across a short way into the face of—all breath left me—a deserted little
city
of sandstone, carved into the face of a wall of rock. I grabbed Andrew's hand and squeezed, not thinking, for I was looking upon the most awe-inspiring sight I'd ever seen. Eagle City.

It was more than a city, more than a village or town, it was a magic place, a hidden jewel, a sanctuary. That people had
lived
there, perched in that magic city, hundreds and hundreds of years before, carried me away into deep realms of darkness, for it brought unto me the instant knowledge, given all that Andrew had told me about customs and ritual and religion and skeletons with cracked skulls and broken bones, that there, once, long ago—across that short distance and in that little city—was
mystery
and, yes,
violence
. I could feel it. A civilized—but—primitive society had inhabited those rooms.