The Sister Wife (27 page)

River Road near Carthage, Illinois

A
grizzled, bearded man pushed open the inn's double doors. “Did y'all hear?” Each heavy-booted step and jangle of spurs punctuated his words as he pushed aside a poker game and clambered onto the table. “Old Joe Smith has been arrested! Him and his brother Hyrum. Taken right over to Carthage to be tried for treason. Me'n some others are gettin' together a posse, gonna string 'em up before the trial.”

The smoke-clouded room exploded into a cacophony of hoots and whistles. Chairs scooted back as at least a dozen men jumped up to take part.

“It's about time,” shouted another man from across the room. “But you can bet yer old boots he won't last out the night. Let's get going. We'll string 'em both up on the spot.”

Enid Livingstone's heartbeat increased. She looked across the table at the German immigrants she'd fallen in with on the river
road to Nauvoo. She lowered her voice and said to the one sitting next to her, “They talkin' about the Mormon Prophet?”

“Who you talkin' about?” her companion yelled to the grizzled man still standing on the card table. “The one they call the Prophet?”

“Who wants to know?”

“The man sitting next to me.”

Everyone in the inn, mostly a motley bunch, turned to look at Enid. She narrowed her eyes in a fixed stare at the man who'd asked the question, lowered her voice, and in an American accent said, “Who cares who wants to know?”

Someone behind him let out a coarse guffaw. “Hey, buddy, no offense. Just thought we might have some Saints among us. Can't be too careful.”

Since heading into frontier country, Enid had taken to wearing a disguise: worn and greasy buckskin trousers, homespun shirt, a cloth vest, and a hunter's coat as greasy as the trousers. She wore a wide sash around her waist in the style of a trapper and kept a wide knife, both for protection and show, tucked in the sash, a shooting pouch at her shoulder, and a rifle at her side when riding Sadie. She tucked her flame-colored hair underneath a slouch hat that she kept pulled down to her eyes.

This was one of those times she was glad she'd traded a buckboard for the clothes at a trading post just outside St. Louis. She'd found since leaving the riverboat and heading north on the river road that the West was no place for a lady traveling alone.

Her beloved Foxfire had died before they reached Boston, the voyage proving too arduous. When the horse could no longer stand, Enid had lain down beside her in the small enclosure, cuddling close while she took her last breaths, speaking softly, and even singing, to calm her during the beautiful horse's last hours of life. Enid pulled strings to arrange for a rather unusual burial at sea, with the ship's captain—a man who had known Hosea—officiating at a service that Enid wrote.

She had hitched Sadie to the buckboard she'd brought from Prince Edward Island, but once she reached St. Louis and assessed her options, she traded the buckboard for a saddle, her spinning wheel for the trapper's clothes and a pair of moccasins. In her saddlebag, she'd made room for a woolen skirt and a shawl, which she was saving for the day she'd see Gabe in Nauvoo.

“Who's with us? Who's agin us?” the grizzled man on the table yelled. “You there with all the questions”—Griz pointed to Enid—“you comin' with us?”

Enid swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “Yeah, why not? Nothin' better t' do, I s'pose.”

“I got coal outside,” someone shouted out. “Yeehaw—let the fun begin.”

“I say we tar 'n' feather 'em first off,” someone else said.

“Nah, been done to 'em before. I say we string 'em up at the nearest tree, use 'em fer target practice before we slap the hosses out from under 'em.”

Enid felt her stomach roil, and swallowed again to keep from losing the jerky she'd eaten the hour before. All she wanted was to get to Nauvoo and the safety of Gabe's arms. She stood, hoping to slip away and get to Sadie at the livery unnoticed, but in their excitement the men seemed to go wild, jostling her as they all tried to get out the inn door at once. Instead of staying at the edge of the mob, she found herself at its center. Her heart thudded harder and she found it difficult to breathe. Not just because she seemed blocked from every direction, but because of the body stench of men who'd gone too long without bathing or taking care of other grooming needs. She grimaced, shuddered, and, holding her breath, stared at the ground for a few moments, trying to get a handle on her fear and her loathing for the mob mentality.

She tried to sidle toward the livery, but a tall man who was missing most of his teeth blocked her way. He grinned as he
handed her a chunk of coal. Aware she was being watched, she liberally covered her hands and face, just as the others did.

“Gotta get movin',” Griz said. He'd apparently appointed himself leader, and no one else seemed to mind. “The trial's tomorry. We gotta get to 'em tonight.”

Within minutes, Enid had saddled up Sadie, who sensed the tension and nickered nervously. Enid bent low to whisper and calm her.

“Love yer hoss, little boy?” Griz mocked in a high voice, then cursed and laughed as others joined in with the taunt.

Her heart racing for fear of being found out, Enid slouched in her saddle, shrugged, and growled that they ought to get moving before dark.

The posse rode out, at least two dozen strong, and picked up others along the way. Griz goaded the laggers as he rode around the group like a captain of a cattle drive. “We're gonna wipe 'em all from the face of the earth,” he said. “This here's just the beginnin'.”

“I hear tell we even got the governor on our side this time,” someone close to Enid hollered. “First time in history, a governor's thinkin' about ordering the extermination of folks livin' in his state.”

It wasn't far to Carthage, but by the time they arrived the mob had grown to some two hundred or more.

Enid sidled Sadie to the back of the group, hoping to take cover in a stand of trees. Her heart beat wildly as the mob chanted outside the jail, below the second-story window where it was said that Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were being kept.

“Whatcha doin' way back here, little boy,” Griz said, riding up beside her.

Enid's breath caught in her throat.

“I think yer a greenhorn and need to get some experience under that belt. You come on up here now. Once we git the
Smiths and string 'em up, I'm gonna give you the honor of firing the first shot.”

He grabbed for Sadie's reins, but the horse reared and kicked.

Griz pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Sadie's head. “I think this here hoss you love so much needs to be taught a lesson in manners.”

Enid grabbed her skinning knife, and before the man could take another breath, she moved Sadie close to him with just the pressure of her thighs—and touched the point of the knife to his ribs.

“You so much as cock that weapon, Griz, and you bend over and kiss your horse goodbye,” she snarled. “And it won't be yer horse that's headin' to the great beyond, it'll be you.” She pressed the knife just deep enough to draw a drop of blood. “Now, I suggest you git up there with yer mob and start doin' yer duty to God and yer country. Ain't that why we're here? To string up the Saints? You better go git started or we'll lose our best opportunity. Go…now!” She slapped the rump of Griz's horse, which caused it to leap into the crowd.

Enid sat back in the saddle, stuck the knife back in her sash, and swallowed a smile…until she saw what was happening at the front of the mob. The sheriff had come out to try to calm them, but a few surged past him into the jailhouse. She heard their hoots as they raced up the stairs.

“I hope there's more of the vermin in there than just old Joe and Hyrum,” someone laughed beside her. “There're likely bodyguards, maybe the top leaders…”

“Or,” mocked another, “their a-postles. They got twelve of 'em just like in the Bible times.”

“Whoever's in there, we'll teach 'em all a lesson they'll not soon ferget,” Griz called out from somewhere in the crowd.

“What'd they do?” asked a newcomer.

“Destroyed a printing press that dared write a criticizin' word
or two about the Prophet.” The speaker drew out the last word with a sneer. “Freedom of the press, that's what all this is about.”

Darkness had fallen and, still on horseback, several of the men had lit torches. Their horses whinnied with fear and nervously sidestepped, making the glow from the torches seem alive, moving the men's shadows across the brick jailhouse like they were monsters from a child's fairy-tale book.

Enid's fears grew by the minute. What if Gabe was inside trying to protect his Prophet? What if he was an apostle? She had no way of knowing how far he'd risen within the ranks of Mormonism.

She stared up at the window where the Prophet and his brother were caged. She bit back the urge to cry out that justice should be done, that the trial should be held. Wasn't that the American way?

Shots rang out from inside the building.

“The vermin is shootin' at us,” someone within the mob called out. “They got guns. The durn sheriff and his deputies give the Smiths firearms.”

The mob roared and moved forward. Sadie danced sideways and nickered, swishing her tail. Enid tried to calm her with pats and whispers, leaning low to avoid being seen, especially by Griz.

More shots rang out.

“Winged 'im,” a mobster yelled from inside the jailhouse. “Winged Old Joe hisself.”

Another shot. Then another.

Enid imagined the carnage inside and blinked to keep her tears in check.

“Gabe,” she breathed. “I hope you're far away from this evil place.”

The mob gasped as new movement took place upstairs. More shots. Shattered glass. A body fell backward toward the window.

No, it wasn't a body, she realized. It was someone…alive!
Reaching…to get out of the window…climbing…hanging there, facing the mob, as if waiting. To jump? Or to be shot?

“It's Old Joe, sure 'nuff,” shouted Griz. “Fancy that, just hangin' there waitin' to be picked off.”

The mob jeered. “Let's see how long he lasts,” someone called out.

Enid stared. Every fiber inside her wanted to help the man. She was trained to heal the injured, to care for the dying. It didn't matter who he was or what he'd done, whether he was a prophet or an imposter. All she knew was that she had to get to him.

She pressed Sadie gently with her thighs and the horse responded, slowly making her way forward.

But before Sadie had moved more than a few steps, a rifle shot rang out. The man they called the Prophet dropped with a thud to the ground.

“He ain't dead, that son of a gun,” someone else yelled. “He's still a-movin'!”

Enid heard the sounds of a body being dragged across the ground. Again, she tried to make her way through the mob, though overcome with a sick feeling that it was too late anyway.

More shots sounded. And still more. Until she thought they would never end.

Finally, silence reigned…until one last voice called out: “We ain't stoppin' with these two. We're headin' out to Nauvoo to kill the rest of the vermin. And we won't stop until every last Saint is dead.”

She turned Sadie away from the crowd with their bright torches, nudging the horse slowly so they wouldn't be noticed. When they reached the outer edge of the mob and moved into the cover of darkness, she urged Sadie to a trot, almost afraid to breathe until they were a safe distance from the crowd.

They reached a small rise where she halted the mare and
looked back. The torches glowed against the black velvet night. But even from this distance, she heard the triumphant cheers of the mob.

Enid slid from Sadie's saddle and bent low over the ground. She retched until nothing remained in her stomach.

 

Enid stopped at a creek outside Nauvoo to scrub the coal dust from her face and hands. She quickly pulled off her buckskins and donned the long wool skirt and slipped the shawl over the trapper's homespun shirt. She retied the sash around her waist and tucked in the long-bladed knife for protection, then shook her hair loose from the slouch hat and tossed the hat in the brush. She had no shoes but the beaded moccasins, but gave no thought to the strange apparel. She had one goal: to carry the news of what she'd witnessed to the people of Nauvoo and ask them how to find Gabe.

 

It was nearly midnight when Gabe woke to the sound of horse hooves pounding the road leading to the farmhouse. Raids had picked up in recent days, and his heartbeat increased as the rider came closer. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his rifle, and hurried to the window, pulling back the curtain to peer into the moonlit night.

“Is there trouble, Gabe?” Mary Rose whispered as she sat up in bed. She reached for her duster and, slipping it on, came over to stand beside him.

“Looks like a single rider. But more may be approaching from behind.”

The figure was closer now, and Gabe could see both rider and horse more clearly. He frowned. “It appears to be a woman.”

Mary Rose stepped closer to the window and followed his gaze. “She must be in trouble—out alone at this time of night.”

He nodded as the rider halted her horse in front of the house
and slid from the saddle. He didn't let go of the rifle. In these days of unrest, he trusted no one.

Mary Rose had picked up a lamp, and he nodded for her to follow. They stepped into the hallway just as a loud pounding sounded at the front door. Lights immediately glowed down the row of bedrooms. Bronwyn stepped out, holding Little Grace.

Coal and the twins tumbled into the hallway, rubbing their eyes. “What's happened, Papa?” Ruby said, running to Gabe.