The Fugitive Son (6 page)

“Well then, listen up. I want you to head out and scout around the Green River, makin’ sure the cavalry from Fort Laramie ain’t plannin’ on sneakin’ in to join up with Buchanan’s Utah Expedition. Take plenty of provisions, and plan on being back here in a fortnight. Most of the Indians are gone for the summer, so you shouldn’t run into trouble with them. The Utes and Shoshoni are on good terms with us Mormons, anyhow. They’ve learned that we treat ‘em good and pay ‘em well.” He cast a knowing look at some of his cohorts and grinned.

“The prophet, in his wisdom, is friendin’ the Indians hereabouts. You’d be surprised what a redskin will do for a herd of horses!” Rockwell winked.

Andy winced. Maybe those stories he’d heard about Indians killing government officials headed for Deseret at the behest of Mormon leaders weren’t so far-fetched. Was Brother Brigham paying the Indians to do his dirty work?

Andy packed light, knowing from past experience that the Green River provided plenty of wild game for a hungry hunter. The Indians fared well off the abundant antelope, plus the small game like rabbit, sage grouse, ducks, and geese. It should be a small matter for him to shoot a grouse or rabbit when he got hungry. And, of course, the river teemed with fish. His mouth began to water as he remembered some of the delicious trout he’d roasted over an open fire in his days of scouting for the wagon trains.

How Brother Brigham had praised him on his first trout catch all those years ago, when as just a young boy, he had been allowed to fish alongside the prophet and, miraculously, pulled in a huge trout. Andy smiled, remembering the look on the prophet’s face as he smacked his lips after his first bite. “Best trout I ever ate!” he had declared. “This young’un has got what it takes! He’s going to be a real man!”

“It’s almost as if I were his own son,” Andy reflected. “He was always so proud of me, bragging on me.” The thought warmed Andy and made him regret some of his recent musings. How could he be so critical of the prophet now? What had happened to his faith? Andy paused in his packing to pray for deliverance from the wicked thoughts that kept invading his mind.

Heading southeast early the next morning, Andy left behind the men of the Nauvoo Legion, who were busy preparing for a lengthy billet at the rundown fort. Anticipating the cool, beautiful canyons along the Green River, Andy grinned widely.
Think I got the best of this deal
, he mused.
I’ll take the river over this scrub ground any day!

Hours later, he was still considering his good luck as he left behind the rocks, dust, and dirt and headed into the thick forests of evergreens, pinyon pine, and juniper that grew all the way down to the clear waters of the Green River. With no one to talk to but himself and his horse, Andy continued musing.
Wonder why they call it ‘Green’ River? Looks mighty blue to me. These trees are so dense, no army in its right mind would try to come through here. Of course, that doesn’t mean they might not send out a lone scout like me to check up on things.

Ever watchful for movement in the trees, Andy occasionally interrupted his reverie to watch a passing deer or a rabbit skitter from its hiding place among the thick underbrush. He stopped at a small clearing along the river and lapped some delightfully cold, fresh water from his hands. “Delicious,” he spoke aloud.

Careful, man
, he admonished himself.
You’re starting to talk to yourself
. Feeling in high spirits, he spoke again, “I wonder… if a man speaks in a forest, does he make a sound?”

He laughed out loud. A sudden noise checked his laughter. Two Indians, dressed in full war regalia, stepped out from behind a copse of trees, their bows at the ready, arrows pointed in his direction.

A quick survey of his situation showed Andy this was not the place to draw his gun. He figured the Indians were from the Bannock Tribe, not the friendly Utes or Shoshones Old Port had told him about. And a more thorough look through the trees revealed something he had missed before – a small camping village downstream across the river. Apparently the Bannock had made a hunting excursion into Shoshone territory and were prepared for war in case the sometimes-friendly, sometimes-not Shoshones didn’t like the intrusion.

Thinking his goose was cooked for sure, Andy looked hopelessly for a way out. He chided himself for his stupidity and carelessness in not being more alert. Some scout he was! Wordlessly he held up his arms in a sign of surrender and offered himself as their prisoner. The warriors lashed his wrists together and motioned toward the hunting camp across the river.

Marching in front of them, Andy’s mind was awhirl with possibilities. Should he make a break for it? Dive into the river? Try to reason with his captors? He dismissed all the ideas as foolhardy and decided, instead, to let the situation take its course. Maybe Heavenly Father wasn’t too angry with him yet and would help make a way of escape.

At the riverbank, their arrows still aimed at him, Andy’s captors untied his wrists and motioned for him to swim across to their camp. Andy dived into the icy cold water, swam across the narrow river, and climbed up the other bank. The clearing was large but surrounded by steep, forested mountain bluffs that didn’t offer much of an opening for escape from the small valley. Obviously, the river was the only way in and out of the camp.

The villagers stopped their activities and rushed over to see what their two warriors had brought. They pulled and tugged on Andy’s wet clothes, laughed as his boots sloshed with river water, and were especially curious as they checked out his abundant freckles. The center of attention, Andy took advantage of the opportunity to survey his surroundings. He was pleased to see they had brought his horse and duffel across the river but dismayed that they had taken charge of his rifle and ammunition. Now what?

A man Andy assumed was the chief, or at least the head of the hunting party, approached his captors, thoroughly looking him over. “You spy on us?” he asked in broken English.

Surprised, Andy replied, “No. Not a spy.” He shook his head. “Looking for Army.”

The chief immediately signaled for the men to put down their arrows. “Army come tomorrow. See if you lie.” He rattled off a series of instructions to the men who had captured Andy and went back inside his tipi. Andy had no idea what the chief had said to the men, but they immediately bound his wrists again, led him to a nearby tree, and lashed him to the trunk.

It took Andy a few minutes to realize what had just happened. The chief had mistaken his explanation, apparently thinking he was a soldier separated from his company. Tomorrow, when the soldiers arrived, they would verify he was one of theirs. Or not. “What if whoever comes tomorrow recognizes me as a Mormon?” Andy wondered. Could the Bannock be friends with both the Mormons and the Army? He wished he had listened closer when Old Port explained to him the Green River Indian alliances.

Was it the Shoshone and the Utes who were related, or the Bannock and the Shoshone? He knew the Shoshone dominated most of the region, but it was a borderland for the three tribes, with each tribe clearly defining its own territory. When relations between the three were cordial, the tribes were neighborly and hunted on each other’s lands. But at other times, they were armed rivals. Andy sincerely hoped this was one of the neighborly times.

Just as the sun began its descent behind the towering cliffs, a young girl brought Andy a flask of water and set a meal down in front of him. She proceeded to feed him a bite at a time, aware of his bound hands. Andy accepted the food and drink with thanks, grateful that this was a sign the hunters must be on friendly terms with the Army, or they wouldn’t be feeding him.

He slowly ate what he recognized as biscuit root, a long tubular that tasted like a seasoned potato. When he finished it with a wide smile of appreciation, the girl popped a handful of buffalo berries into his mouth. “Rest now,” she urged, gracefully picking up her utensils and heading into the camp.

It was a long night, as Andy tried to get comfortable under the tree. The sound of the fast-flowing river rippling over the rocks failed to lull him to sleep as he again questioned his fate. If the soldiers realized he was a Mormon, what would they do to him? Or if the chief thought he had lied, what would be his punishment?

He groaned aloud. He was a liar, prepared to lie to both his father and the prophet about Ammie and Ingrid. Was this God’s way of exacting justice?

What little sleep he managed to get was interrupted by bad dreams – dreams of Indians tying him to a stake and leaving him to die in the hot sun; dreams of the Army marching him off to be hanged or shot. Whatever fate befell him in the morning, it wouldn’t be good.

The Ohio River

The loud blast of the steam whistle wakened Elsie from her slumber. Jumping from her berth, she rushed to the window and looked out. Morning already? The steamboat was slowly moving away from the island and maneuvering out into the main channel of the river. Several other boats were already in the channel.

Chagrinned that she had slept so late, Elsie hurried through her morning routine, taming her unruly curls with a comb and pins, and pulling several petticoats over her head. How she missed Angel, the spritely girl who had always been at her side to help her dress. While she had no regrets about freeing Angel several weeks ago, she did miss her help and cheerful company.

Elsie grabbed one of the food packages she had brought along for Isaac and prepared to find him in time for breakfast. Rushing toward the stairs to the cargo deck, she nearly bumped into the steward.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked, as he reached out a hand to steady her.

“I’m taking Isaac his breakfast,” she replied, politely pulling away from his hand.

“The cargo deck is no place for a young, unaccompanied lady,” he told her.

“When I bought our passage, I was told I had to provide our meals for this part of the trip,” she said.

“You can send it down with the chambermaid. She also can give your boy any messages you might have. But it’s not appropriate for you to go down there until it’s time to disembark.” The steward blocked her path.

“I insist on speaking with the captain.” When the steward started to turn away, Elsie grabbed his sleeve. “Now!” she demanded.

“I told you before that it won’t do you any good,” he said. “But he’s right over there if you feel so obliged.”

As Elsie approached the steamboat captain, she sized him up. He looked like a cordial enough gentleman; maybe she could use her feminine wiles on him. They always worked on Papa. “Sir, I have a big problem,” she began in her most winsome voice.

“Oh? And what could be such a big problem for a lovely young lass like yourself?” The captain’s voice was rich and deep, giving Elsie hope that he would understand.

“Well, you see, sir,” she answered, batting her eyes just a little. “I bought a full-price ticket for my man – my bodyguard – so he could take care of me and protect me while I’m traveling alone, all across this big country of ours.”

“So what’s the problem?” the captain asked. “Isn’t he taking good care of you?”

“He can’t. The steward refused to give him the cabin I paid for and is making him stay on the cargo deck. And he won’t let me go down to speak with Isaac.”

The captain hesitated. “This Isaac – he’s a slave?”

Elsie nodded her head slightly, trying not to lie. “The steward put him with the slaves.”

“Then we do have a problem,” he replied kindly. “As I’m sure the steward told you, slaves must stay in their master’s cabin or with the cargo. Obviously, this Isaac can’t stay with you.”

The pilot approached the captain, who excused himself. “I’m needed elsewhere.” As he turned away, the captain said over his shoulder, “I’m sorry, but rules are rules. You’ll be safe if you keep to the upper deck. As for your slave, he’ll be just fine.”

Elsie wanted to throw the carefully packed breakfast she was holding at the captain’s retreating back.
Rules are rules, my eye
, she thought. She was half tempted to make a run for the stairs, but she was afraid the captain or steward might take her disobedience out on Isaac. She didn’t want to do anything that could endanger him. Her cheeks burning with helpless anger, she flounced onto a bench along the deck rail.

“My, my, it appears someone has surely ruffled your feathers.”

Elsie looked up as Mary Montgomery sat down alongside her.

“Who has you so angry this morning?” Mary asked.

Knowing the Montgomerys were from upstate New York, Elsie considered it to likely be safe to share her disgust with how Isaac was being treated. Still cautious, however, about discussing the touchy subject of slavery with her new friend, she focused primarily on the fact that, although she had paid for a full-price ticket for Isaac, the captain insisted on treating him as a slave.

“We never considered our workers slaves,” she explained. “They were more like family. Papa would not allow them to be sold.”

Mary looked at her intently. “I could never understand how one person could own another, no matter how well they treated them. It seems immoral.”