“Yes. We thought they were ahead of us, but now we know they’re coming behind.” He took a quick breath, and plunged into the reason he had come. “Mr. Bordeaux, I’ve decided that it is not wise for my wife to keep going. I’m wondering if I could leave her here with you until our people come. It would be only two or three weeks.”
Bordeaux was nodding. “I would be very pleased to help you out, Mr. Ingalls, but you have Mormons coming up the trail right now.”
Peter’s head came up with a sharp jerk. “What?”
“A rider came in from Fort Bernard late yesterday. He says there is a small group—fifteen or twenty wagons maybe—coming up the trail. They should reach Fort Bernard later today.”
“Fort Bernard? That’s the one downriver a ways?”
Bordeaux nodded. “About eight miles.” He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice over the railing and into the dust of the courtyard. “John Baptiste Reshaw is trying to take away our business, but it will do him no good.”
Peter wasn’t interested in this local competition. “And he said it was a company of Mormons?”
“That’s what he said. Before you leave your wife here to stay, best you go downstream and find out for yourself, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Peter said, grateful now. “Thank you, Mr. Bordeaux. I shall do just that.”
Fort Bernard was nothing like Fort Laramie in either size or activity. Only two sides of what was to eventually become a log quadrangle were completed, with small buildings attached to the inside of each wall. There were a few Indian lodges round about and half a dozen wagons camped between the river and the fort, but after Fort Laramie it seemed pitifully small, almost deserted. Peter dismounted at the largest of the buildings, went to the nearest door, and knocked.
“Come in,” someone growled.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom he found there. The room was about ten feet square, and both the walls and the floor were made of black mud. The roof was made of rough-hewn timbers covered with sod. There was a huge fireplace made from four flat stones laid on top of each other to form the firebox. A hole had been cut in the ceiling to allow the smoke to escape. In one corner there were several rifles stacked together. From nails driven through the mud daubing into the log walls hung various Indian paraphernalia—a pipe and tobacco pouch, what looked like some kind of medicine bag adorned with dyed porcupine quills, an Indian bow and otter-skin quiver. The only furniture in the room was a rough settee covered with buffalo robes on which lounged a tall Indian brave. In the light from the door Peter saw that his hair was plastered down against his temples with a thick vermillion paste. Beyond him, two or three mountain men sat cross-legged on the floor smoking pipes.
“I was looking for Mr. Reshaw,” Peter said.
“Ain’t here right now,” one of the mountain men grunted.
“It’s important that I see him immediately. Could you tell me where I might find him?”
Another of the heavily bearded men stirred. “Goshen Hole. Went down to trade some robes with an incoming emigrant company.”
Peter swung to face him. “And where is that?”
“Downstream a few miles. Just follow the river.”
“Thank you.” He retreated, shutting the door behind him, then strode to his horse.
Chapter 11
The sun was nearing its zenith when Peter topped a small knoll and saw the white tops of wagons in the distance. He counted quickly. Nineteen. Bordeaux had said there were about twenty. They were not moving, which meant they were nooning. He had no doubt but what this was the company for which he was looking. With a surge of elation, he slapped his horse with the reins and sent it into a running lope.
At the sound of his horse, the camp came to a standstill and several people gathered at a spot near the lead wagon. He slowed as he approached them, feeling the euphoria dashed as quickly as it had come. He recognized no one. There was no Brigham Young. No Heber C. Kimball or John Taylor. He searched the faces quickly as he reined to a stop. Then came the most bitter disappointment of all. There was not one Steed family face in the crowd.
Two men stepped out in front of the gathering. The shorter of the two, Peter immediately guessed, was Reshaw. Though not tall, he had a slender, athletic build and appeared to be strong. He was a dark, swarthy-looking man with long black hair that was parted in the middle of his head and fell in thick curls over both shoulders. He was dressed in buckskins, and his frock was richly adorned with bead and quill work. Long fringes lined the seams of his sleeves and leggings.
The man beside him was an American and dressed for the trail. He was taller than Peter by an inch or two, probably over six feet, Peter guessed. He had a full head of hair and a thick dark beard. As he looked more closely, Peter was surprised. This was clearly the leader of the wagon company, and yet he was not much older than Peter was, perhaps no more than three or four years. Not only that, the man did seem familiar to him.
Peter swung down as the two men came forward. “Mornin’,” the leader said, extending his hand. “John Brown here.”
Peter took it and immediately liked the firmness of his grip. “Peter Ingalls,” he answered.
Brown’s eyes widened perceptibly. “Ingalls? But you’re the Mormon. You’re the one Mr. Clyman told us about.”
Thoroughly astonished, Peter nodded. “Yes. You met Mr. Clyman?”
“We did. He camped with us at Ash Hollow. We asked him if there were any companies of Mormons on the trail ahead of us and he said no, but then he told us that he had met a Mormon couple with one of the California trains.”
“That was my wife and I,” Peter said eagerly. “So are you Latter-day Saints, then?”
“All but Mr. Reshaw here.” He turned. “This is John Baptiste Reshaw. He and some other men run a fort a short way upriver.”
Peter shook hands with the mountain man. “I was just at Fort Bernard an hour or so ago,” he said. “Some of your companions told me where I could find you.”
“Good. I was going downriver to do some trading when I met Mr. Brown. I think that has brought a change of plans for both of us.” He turned to Brown. “I think this young man and his mount need a rest. Why don’t you tarry here a little longer? I will go on to the fort and have things in readiness for when you arrive tonight.”
Brown nodded, then smiled at Peter. “You look like getting out of that saddle for a time might be good for you.”
“I left Beaver Creek five days ago.”
“Whew!” Reshaw cried. “No wonder you are tired.” He looked at Brown one last time. “Discuss what I have suggested. I am confident this is your best course of action. We shall decide tonight.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”
They watched as Reshaw walked toward the horses, and then Brown laid a hand on Peter’s shoulders. “Come. We have just finished eating. There’s still plenty left.”
“Are you just an advance company, then?” Peter asked as they started for the nearest wagon, again searching the faces around him that smiled their welcome. “Where’s Brother Brigham?”
John Brown’s mouth pulled into a tight line and he was suddenly grim. “That’s what we would like to know.”
Brown watched Peter eat the thick slices of bread with cheese and drink down a small mug of warm milk. Only when Peter was nearly done did Brown straighten. “I think the easiest thing will be to start from the beginning and tell you the whole story. Though you haven’t found your family, as you hoped, I think maybe we have a solution for your problem.”
“I’m listening.”
Brown leaned back against the wagon, pulling thoughtfully on his lip. “I joined the Church in Perry County, Illinois, in eighteen forty-one and shortly thereafter gathered to Nauvoo.”
“That’s why you look familiar to me.”
He nodded. “I wasn’t there for long. Brother Hyrum Smith ordained me an elder and I was called on a mission to the southern states.”
“My brother and my brother-in-law were in the southern states,” Peter spoke up. “Derek Ingalls and Matthew Steed. They were in Arkansas.”
He shook his head. “I went to Tennessee and Alabama, but mostly I labored in Mississippi. We had great success and organized several branches of the Church there. I was there for over two years, then returned to Nauvoo in the spring of eighteen forty-five.”
Peter snapped his fingers. “You worked on the temple, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I’ve seen you.”
“Probably so. Anyway, in January of this year, as everyone was preparing to leave Nauvoo, President Young called me to his office. He wanted me to return to Mississippi and organize a wagon company to go west. We were instructed to leave our families there and take only those families that were outfitted and ready to go. Instead of having us return to Nauvoo, which would have been way out of the way, Brother Brigham told us to go directly to Independence and then continue along the Oregon Trail until we caught up with him.”
“That was our plan exactly,” Peter said. “They left Nauvoo so much earlier than we did, we were afraid we would never catch up with them.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I assume Mr. Clyman told you that there is no one out ahead of us.”
“He did,” Brown said. “We weren’t able to leave Mississippi until the eighth of April, so we also assumed we would be far behind. Some were worried that we wouldn’t catch them until we reached the Rocky Mountains, but I was optimistic. We are a small company and are making good time. I really thought we would overtake them, once we reached the Platte.”
Peter was nodding vigorously. Brown could be telling his and Kathryn’s own story.
“As we pressed on and found no sign of them, some of our number became reluctant to continue farther. After considerable discussion we determined that there was nothing to do but to move on and see what developed.”
“It was Mr. Clyman who told us there were no Mormons ahead of us,” Peter said quietly. “That’s when we first knew for sure that something was wrong.”
“And it was Mr. Clyman who gave us the same news. As you will appreciate, this threw our company into great disarray. Some wanted to turn back immediately and either return to Independence or find our people. Others wanted to press on. It was finally decided to move on to Fort Laramie and then perhaps wait there for our people.” His eyes were dark and brooding. “Then, last night, we met Mr. Reshaw. He too confirmed that there were no Mormons out in front of us and told us that Fort Laramie is not a good place to winter over if that is what we are forced to do. He says it is bitterly cold there.”
Peter grunted, picturing what Fort Laramie would look like in winter. “It’s probably not the best place for a whole company.”
Brown brightened a little. “But Mr. Reshaw has given us a possible solution, and it may be the solution for you and your wife as well.”
“How is that?”
“Mr. Reshaw is leaving shortly to do some trading down south at Taos in Mexico. He claims that on the Arkansas River, at the eastern foot of the Rockies, there is a good place to winter over. It’s called Fort Pueblo. The temperature is mild and they are raising corn there. He thinks the mountaineers who winter there would gladly trade surplus grain for our labors.”
Peter was quiet, letting the implications of all that sink in.
“Once we get our people settled, those of us with families back in Mississippi could return there and bring them back out as well. Then come spring we’ll hopefully know where our brethren are and join up with them then.”
“So Kathryn could go with you?”
Brown nodded. “We would be most pleased to take her in and care for her until you can return from California.”
Peter’s shoulder’s sagged a little. It was as if someone had just removed a heavy pack from them. Here was a far better solution than what he had previously been thinking. Kathryn would be with a company of Mormons. True, it was a small company—only about sixty people, he guessed—but that was a lot better than leaving her alone at Fort Laramie. He looked up. “That would be wonderful. Have you decided for sure that that’s what you’re going to do?”
There was a brief nod. “As you heard, Mr. Reshaw is expecting our decision tonight, but I don’t think there is much question about it. We’re of one mind in the matter already. We view this as an answer to prayer.”
“As do I,” Peter breathed softly. “As do I. I’ll go for Kathryn right now.”
In the pre-dawn darkness, Peter knelt down beside the bed of his wife, felt for her face in the darkness, then leaned over and kissed her gently. He tasted the salt of her tears and reached up and wiped them from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Good-bye, my love,” he whispered.
“Good-bye, Peter. Godspeed.”
He kissed her again, straightened, and was gone. Kathryn sat up and hugged her knees, blinking rapidly to stop more tears from coming. She listened intently, following the soft crunch of his footsteps in the grass until they died away. For several minutes there was silence; then she heard the muffled sound of hooves as he rode away. Then again came the silence—this time total, deafening, all-encompassing. Though she fought it hard, she could no longer hold it back. Her shoulders began to shake and a great sob was torn from her throat. She turned, throwing herself onto her pillow, and began to cry as she had not allowed herself to cry while he was still with her.
Peter had been so excited when he returned late in the afternoon yesterday to tell her of this new development. And it was wonderful news. When he took her to the camp of the Mississippi Saints, they had welcomed her as if she were one of their own. So in that sense, her worries were gone. And she wanted Peter to know that. So even though they both shed some tears and clung together for a very long time before finally going to sleep, she had held her emotions in check so that Peter would not be troubled more than he already was. But now her whole body shuddered and shook. It would be six or seven months at best, perhaps even a year. There was a chance that she would even have to have the baby without him. She buried her face in the pillow.
O dear God, put thy sheltering hand over my dear husband. Watch over him and keep him from harm’s way. Only now do I fully realize the precious gift thou hast given me in this man. Help me to be strong, to be worthy of him, to be ready for that wonderful day when we shall be together again.