Garrick Harris, Joshua’s wagon master, came striding up to him, tapping the big bullwhip against his leg as he walked. “All set, Mr. Steed. We’re ready to roll.”
Turning, Joshua surveyed the line of eight wagons. He squinted a little, feeling a great sense of satisfaction. It was still early April, and the Missouri River was at near-flood stage. But once the waters subsided a little, the steamboats would be coming upriver and taking the furs at a cheaper rate than he could haul them. But until then, he would roll them all the way into St. Louis and get a premium price for the first furs of the season. He had learned that trick almost seven years before, and it had been a profitable venture for him every year since.
He puffed on the cigar once, then grabbed the reins of the sorrel stallion that he was riding and swung up. “All right. Get ’em movin’.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joshua reined the horse around, holding him in. He was dancing beneath him, eager to be started. “When you get to Independence, send someone round to my wife and tell her I’ll be no more than a day or two behind you.”
“Yes, sir.” Harris was a man as hard as the rutted roads that stretched out across the prairie before them. He squinted up at his boss with a look of disgust. “You really ridin’ through Mormon country?”
Joshua laughed. “Worried that I won’t be safe?”
The teamster spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “No, that you’ll be converted.” He hooted raucously at his own joke.
“Think they could keep my cigar dry while they baptized me?” Joshua asked straight-faced.
Harris roared, slapping his knee and causing a tiny puff of dust to spurt out from his trouser leg. “Now, there’d be a sight to see. You underwater with just your nose and a cigar sticking up.” He guffawed again, pleased with the image. Then after a moment he sobered a little. “What do you want me to tell your wife if she asks where you are?”
The smile instantly disappeared from Joshua’s face. He considered the question for a moment. He had almost said something to Caroline before he left, but then decided against it. First of all, he hasn’t been sure if circumstances would be such that he would have to accompany the wagons back. Second, he hadn’t been sure exactly what he was going to do, or if he was going to do anything. Even now he wasn’t sure of that. And yet it would please her to know.
He looked down at his wagon master. “Just tell her I’m comin’ home by way of Far West. She’ll understand.”
* * *
“And how’s Lydia doing?”
Nathan smiled in satisfaction. “Fine. She swears she’s big enough to deliver two full-size colts, but all in all, she came through the journey very well. We were really blessed to get steamboat passage most of the way.”
Oliver Cowdery nodded. “That’s good. Give her my regards and Elizabeth’s as well.”
“I will, thank you.”
“By the way, who was that stranger who was looking for your family?”
Nathan had leaned down to pull at a blade of prairie grass. He straightened and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “What stranger is that?”
Oliver shrugged. “I never saw him. David just said there was a man in town this morning asking questions about several things, but particularly about your family.”
“Your brother-in-law David, or David Patten?” Nathan asked. Oliver had married Elizabeth Ann Whitmer, youngest sister of David Whitmer. David Patten was one of the Twelve Apostles and was in the presidency of the Far West Stake.
Oliver frowned. “Not David Patten,” he said shortly.
Nathan winced a little at his error. David Patten was a very sensitive issue with Oliver right now. In February, just before Nathan and Lydia had arrived in Far West, the high council of the Far West Stake had charged two members of the stake presidency, John Whitmer and W. W. Phelps, with misusing Church funds. According to the charges, they were once again trying to sell Church lands and pocket the profit. David Whitmer was accused of willfully violating the Word of Wisdom. Oliver and others were also cited as being in contempt of Church principles and in opposition to the Prophet Joseph. John Whitmer and W. W. Phelps had been excommunicated and David Patten and Thomas B. Marsh put in as acting presidents until Joseph could arrive from Kirtland. It was also decided to wait until Joseph came to press the charges against Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer. The Church court date for Oliver had been set for the twelfth of April, which was tomorrow morning; David Whitmer’s case would be considered on the thirteenth. David Patten, a man whom Nathan found to be of the highest integrity, would be pivotal in the proceedings, and Oliver and the Whitmers held intensely bitter feelings against him.
Nathan decided to move on quickly. “What did David say about this man?”
Oliver’s mind had gone elsewhere, probably to David Patten, for his face had now darkened. “What man?”
“The stranger.”
“Oh. Not much. He said he didn’t think he was a Mormon. He was tall, well dressed, wore a full beard. Rode a fine piece of horseflesh. David told him where both you and your father are living. I thought he would have sought you out.”
“No. At least I didn’t see him, and Pa didn’t say anything.”
Oliver nodded absently. After a moment he looked more closely at Nathan. “Are you going to vote against me, old friend?”
Nathan was startled, and yet he knew instantly what he had reference to. He took out the blade of grass and flipped it away. “I’m not on the high council, Oliver. You know that.”
Oliver Cowdery gave him a long and searching look. “I know. But are you going to vote against me?”
For a moment Nathan was puzzled, then he understood. From the first day he and Oliver had met in Harmony, Pennsylvania, back in the late spring of 1829, almost instantly there had developed a strong bond between them. From that time to this, their friendship had never waned. But in the past year it had been strained considerably as he and Oliver drew farther apart on the issues that were tearing Kirtland asunder. It had sickened Nathan to watch Oliver become more and more disillusioned with the Church and more and more bitter against Joseph Smith. And it had angered Oliver that Nathan would give no serious consideration to the evidence—“as obvious as the whiskers on a raccoon”—that Joseph had lost the prophetic gift and fallen out of favor with God. More than once they had talked late into the night, neither making a dent in the other’s position, but still grateful they could speak honestly.
Now Oliver was asking where Nathan’s vote was—not in priesthood council, but in his heart. Nathan wanted to look away. Oliver’s eyes were like a hot wind across his face. They were challenging, probing, demanding. Nathan decided to probe back a little. “Did you try and sell your land in Jackson County?” he finally asked softly.
“Jackson County is a dead issue anymore. We’re never going to redeem Zion. Not in our lifetime. Maybe never.”
“But in the revelations, God specifically said it was his will that we should hold claim on our properties and not sell them off to our enemies. People are saying that you and Frederick G. Williams and members of the stake presidency here in Far West tried to sell your land. Did you?”
Again Oliver ducked the question. “That’s only one of many charges against me,” he said wearily.
Nathan nodded. He had heard about the charges from Joseph—who was as sick at heart about the whole thing as Nathan was. The Church court was going to investigate Oliver Cowdery on the following accusations: bringing vexatious lawsuits against the brethren, trying to destroy the character of Joseph Smith, not attending his meetings in the Church, refusing to be governed by the revelations, selling his land in Jackson County, sending an insulting letter to the high council, leaving his holy calling to work for filthy lucre, and participating in business ventures of an unsavory nature.
There was little doubt in Nathan’s mind that some of the charges were unsubstantiated and probably the result of the heated emotions over Oliver’s defection. There was also little question but what there was sufficient truth to several of the accusations. By tomorrow at this time, Oliver Cowdery would very likely be excommunicated from the Church.
Nathan reached out and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “No matter what happens, Oliver,” he said softly, “I want you to know that your friendship is still important to me. Even if you leave the Church, I want it to continue.”
Touched, Oliver reached up and gripped Nathan’s arm. “Thank you, Nathan. That means a great deal to me as well.”
Nathan straightened. There was not much more to say after that. “Well, I’d better be getting on.”
“Thank you for stopping.” Oliver smiled warmly but ruefully. “Not many people stop by to say hello anymore.”
“Well, I will.” Nathan clapped him on the shoulder, then lifted a hand in farewell. “Good luck tomorrow.”
Oliver’s eyes were hooded, but he nodded, and Nathan turned and walked to the gate. “Nathan?”
He turned back around. “Yes?”
“The truth of modern revelation is not the issue here, Nathan. I want you to know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m challenging what Joseph is now, what he has become of late. But I have never questioned the reality of what he did in restoring the Church. I stood on the banks of the Susquehanna River and saw John the Baptist in broad daylight. I know that Peter, James, and John restored the priesthood of Melchizedek to Joseph. I saw the angel Moroni and heard the voice of God declare that the Book of Mormon was translated by the gift and power of God. Some people are saying I’m denying my testimony of those things. I want you to know that it absolutely is not true.”
Nathan started to speak, but Oliver’s mouth softened and his eyes got a faraway look in them. “I stood on the pulpits there in the Kirtland Temple and saw the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” He held out one hand. “He was no further than this from me. It was an experience which words cannot describe.” He took a deep breath, then looked directly at Nathan. “I cannot now, nor will I ever, deny those experiences, Nathan.”
Nathan couldn’t help what he blurted out next. This was at the very core of his frustration with his friend. “Then how can you now turn against Joseph?” he cried.
Instantly Oliver’s face hardened and the light went out of his eyes. “Because Joseph Smith is a fallen prophet,” Oliver said. “I have no choice.”
* * *
Matthew Steed heaved the last gunnysack of wheat seed up into the wagon with a grunt. He pushed it into position, then stepped back, taking off the straw hat he wore. He dragged a piece of muslin from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Well, that’s it.”
Derek Ingalls eyed the wagonload of sacks dubiously. He was sweating as heavily as Matthew. “Is that really enough to plant five acres?”
“It is,” Matthew replied. “Probably with some to spare.” He walked around to the front of the wagon and climbed up onto the seat. Derek followed and climbed up beside him. As Matthew took the reins, he stopped and looked at Derek. “I was thinkin’.”
“What?”
“I’ll bet young Joshua would love to go to Haun’s Mill with us. He and Rachel are very close.”
“Rachel is your sister-in-law’s daughter?”
Matthew nodded. “Yes. Joshua also gets along very well with his two little stepcousins, Brother Griffith’s two boys.”
“Fine,” Derek said. “Let’s go see if Lydia will let him go with us.” He turned and looked around. Peter Ingalls was just inside the barn, still talking animatedly with the man who had sold them the wheat seed. “Peter,” Derek called. “Let’s go.”
As Peter came trotting out, Matthew grinned mischievously at Derek. “I’ll bet if we asked Lydia real nice she’d let Rebecca come with us too.”
Derek blushed instantly and furiously. There was only about three years’ difference between him and Matthew in age. Derek would be twenty-one in October; Matthew would turn eighteen in July. Physically they were in no way alike. Matthew was now an inch or two over six feet and lean as a weathered fence post. Derek was three or four inches shorter and heavier through the shoulders and body—the legacy of four years as a shoveler in the boiler rooms. Matthew was fair of skin, his hair was a lighter brown, and his eyes were blue and clear. Derek was darker in complexion, with almost black hair, and though his eyes were also blue, they were darker than Matthew’s, deeper and harder to fathom. They were just as different in their temperament and personality. Matthew had a natural cheerfulness and optimism that lifted all around him. He loved people and was open and friendly with everyone. Children adored him. Derek was of a more sober and reserved nature. In groups he usually sat back, speaking only when called upon or on those rare occasions when he felt that he had something to say.
But the differences between them made no difference. From the day Derek and Peter had arrived in Far West—cold, hungry, tattered, and with a letter from Nathan and Lydia—Derek and Matthew had become fast friends. The two brothers from En-gland were staying with Benjamin and Mary Ann, and Derek and Matthew shared a bedroom. Rebecca had opted to stay with Nathan and Lydia to help with the children and the housework until the baby was born. By then, Nathan would have his new cabin nearly completed. With it would be a smaller cabin out back where the two English boys would stay.
Matthew laughed and slugged Derek on the shoulder. “Is that all right with you, mate?”
Peter had climbed into the back of the wagon and was following the conversation now. “I’ll bet it’s all right with Rebecca,” he exclaimed.
Derek grinned, feeling foolish. “Yes,” he said, “I think that’s all right with me too.”
* * *
“Look, Matthew,” Rebecca said in a low voice. “It’s that man who passed us a while back.”
Matthew had already seen the man and the horse in the road about a hundred yards or so in front of them. The man had dismounted and was looking in their direction. He seemed to be waiting for them.
“Yep, it sure is,” Matthew said. He flipped the reins gently, keeping the team moving steadily toward the man. Peter and Joshua got up from their makeshift bed on the wheat sacks and stood behind the seat where Matthew, Derek, and Rebecca rode, peering over their shoulders at the stranger. Since they had left Far West they had not passed another person on the wide expanse of rolling grasslands, and so this provided a break in the monotony.