As Olivia turned and went slowly back up to the landing, shooting one last glance over her shoulder, the front door opened. Will came rushing in, with Obadiah Cornwell right behind him. Will was to her in three long steps and dropped to one knee in front of her.
“Mother, are you all right?”
She felt a flash of anger. She had hoped that word of the confrontation would not get out, especially to her own family. She had instinctively known that it was a futile expectation, but she had hoped it nevertheless. Then her mouth softened, and she looked squarely into her son’s face. Will would turn fifteen in a few months. He was no longer a boy. He was doing a man’s work at the freight yard, and since Joshua had been called into the militia Will had been the man of the house. She reached out and laid a hand on his. “Yes, Will, I’m fine.”
Joshua’s partner had come to stand over her, looking down at her with some anxiety. She took a quick breath and looked up at him. He motioned with his head, then looked at Will.
Caroline stood up and saw that Olivia had stopped on the landing above her and was watching now too, fear clouding her face. “Will, Savannah is starting to wake up from her nap. I want you and Olivia to go up and watch her while I talk to Obadiah.”
“Mama, I—”
“Please, Will,” she said firmly. “Don’t fight me. Not now.”
“All right,” he said dejectedly. He turned and went up the stairs three at a time. “Come on, Livvy,” he said.
When they heard the door shut, Obadiah turned back to Caroline. “I heard what happened.”
The anger came back in a wave, darkening the green eyes and drawing her mouth into a tight line. “What infuriates me the most, Obadiah, is that this wasn’t riffraff from the saloons. This wasn’t the stable hands that sweep the horse droppings out of the barns. These were”—her voice became heavy with sarcasm—“some of Jackson County’s finest women.”
She was starting to tremble again. “They’ve been to my house for tea. They’ve sat around this very room, smiling and fawning up to me because my husband is the richest man in Independence. But when he leaves . . .”
She couldn’t finish, and turned away, dropping her head.
Cornwell reached out and tentatively touched her shoulder. “Caroline, I need to tell you something.”
She bit her lip, fighting to maintain her control, then slowly turned back to face him.
“That day Joshua was here last, when he only had a couple of hours before he had to get back to Richmond?”
“Yes?”
“He came and talked with me after he left you.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “He did?”
“He was afraid something like this might happen. He had me get some things together. A wagon. Supplies. A good team. He said he wanted them ready at any moment.”
She was looking at him incredulously. He went on doggedly. “Maybe you ought to consider going to St. Louis for a time, until—”
“No!” she said sharply.
“Caroline, this is only the beginning.”
“No, Obadiah! This is my home. If they think they can drive me away, they’re wrong.”
He was shaking his head at her, getting a little angry himself. “Caroline, listen to me. Everyone’s talking about this. There’s a lot of emotion building. They know about Joshua’s family. They know he asked to be on General Atchison’s staff so he didn’t have to ride against them.”
He hesitated, trying to decide how to explain it to her. “You don’t understand. When the trouble with the Mormons started here in Jackson County, Joshua was one of the leaders. He was in the forefront. No one did more to drive them out of here than Joshua, even though his wife was one of them. And now . . .”
“I know that, but that has all changed now.”
“Exactly!” he shot back. “Joshua was a hero. Now they see him as a traitor. A coward.” Her head snapped up, but he hurried on. “You know and I know what’s really happened, but the town doesn’t. The whole county is talking about this, Caroline. I think you ought to seriously consider—”
“I won’t go, Obadiah.”
He caught his breath, staring at her, exasperation twisting his face. Then finally he nodded. “I understand. But just know, that wagon is packed and ready. The team is stabled right next door. Anytime, day or night—”
“I won’t go!” she said again in a fierce whisper. “I won’t go!”
* * *
Many fourteen-year-olds were interested in possessing things. But Peter Ingalls had never been one to take pride in what he owned. What he wore. Where he lived. What belonged to him. They made little difference to him.
And then Derek and Rebecca had received a horse as a wedding present. And all of that changed.
Peter had always been fascinated with horses—the muscular and powerful dray teams that brought the huge bales of cotton to the textile mills; the leaner and finer carriage horses that carried the gentry and their ladies around town; or, most exciting because he had seen them only once or twice, the sleek mounts used in England by the wealthy as they hunted fox across the open countryside.
The horse that Rebecca and Derek had received was not that fine a breed. He was a sorrel gelding, about seven or eight years old. His winter hair was thick and shaggy, and he was not particularly swift. But Peter didn’t care. He adored the horse, and brushed and curried it every morning. He begged the neighbors for every scrap of carrots or even their apple cores to feed to him.
So on the evening of October twenty-seventh, when Peter walked out to the small paddock behind their sod hut and saw that the horse was gone, it was instant catastrophe. For a moment, he stared in disbelief, then with a howl he turned and ran for the house.
* * *
“Peter,” Rebecca said sternly. “You stay here until I can find Derek.”
“Then hurry,” he pleaded. “We’ve got to find the horse before it gets dark.”
“I mean it, Peter,” she warned as she pulled on her coat. “I’ll get Derek, but you’re not to go off looking alone.” She wanted to say more but didn’t; she just gave him one last severe look and left.
Peter waited for over five minutes at the window, holding the blanket back so he could see the road that led to Lyman Wight’s place, where Derek was meeting with some of the brethren. His eyes kept lifting to scan the sky, which seemed to be growing darker at an alarming pace.
Finally he could bear it no longer. He checked to make sure his pocketknife was in his pocket, then pulled on his coat and went out the door and around to the corral. It took only a minute to find the problem. At one corner the rail was shoved away from it’s supporting post. It didn’t look to be a big enough opening for a horse to squeeze through, but as he looked more closely he could see tufts of red hair wedged in the grain of the wood. He stepped through the opening. They were faint, but they were there—the impression of hooves in the soft, grassy earth.
Head down, peering intently in the fading light, Peter began to follow the prints up the hillside toward the top of the bluff.
* * *
It would be some time before word of Governor Boggs’s extermination order would reach Far West, but Joseph Smith didn’t need any formal notice to know that the incident at Crooked River was a major turning point for the Saints. After returning from Stephen Winchester’s home with the body of David Patten, he called a meeting of all major priesthood leaders and each of the captains responsible for home defense.
They started with prayer at Joseph’s home, but immediately after that, Joseph took them out for a walking tour of the city. As they went they were besieged by anxious residents and the numerous refugees that filled every vacant lot and empty spot in the city. Rumor had now become a major combatant in the struggle, and anxieties were running high. The governor was activating every militia group within a hundred miles. Two thousand armed men were gathering at Richmond. Night riders were sweeping across the countryside in murderous revenge. Governor Boggs was out of the state and could not be reached to stop the coming carnage. The troops had mutinied against General Parks and were on their way northward.
Joseph seemed indefatigable in his patience. He soothed without being patronizing, encouraged without building false hope, chided where necessary but without giving offense. He was Brother Joseph, the prophet and seer. His people loved him, but more, they trusted him. It was as though the party were on a boat moving through roiling waters, but with their passage the waters smoothed and became calm again.
“I want two wagons ready to go in there,” Joseph said, pointing to where there was an empty space between some cabins. George Robinson, the clerk of the Far West City Council, nodded, writing swiftly in a ledger book. Joseph turned to Brigham. “We may need some barricades there as well.”
“I agree, Brother Joseph,” Brigham said. “I’ve got some of the brethren gathering materials right now.”
“Good.” Joseph turned to Hyrum and Sidney. “What about the men we sent out to gather the last of the people in? Any reports?”
“Yes, Joseph,” Hyrum answered. “We haven’t heard how the gathering to Di-Ahman is going yet, but as you can see, they’re coming into Far West in droves. I think they’re finally convinced it’s too dangerous out there.”
“It’s about time,” Joseph growled. “What about Haun’s Mill?”
Hyrum shook his head. “I don’t think we’ve seen anyone yet from there.”
Joseph threw up his hands. “What does it take? I guess I’m going to have to ride out and talk to Jacob Haun myself.”
As one of the captains in the army of Israel, Benjamin Steed was part of the group making the rounds. He raised one hand to catch Joseph’s eye. “But Jacob Haun is in town right now,” he said.
Joseph stopped. “Are you sure?”
“I saw him not half an hour ago down by the courthouse. He came in last night to get some supplies.”
“Haun’s Mill is especially vulnerable,” Joseph said gravely. “They’re small—fifteen or twenty families—and they’re right in the path of any force coming up from the south.” He turned to his brother. “Hyrum, you finish with the brethren. Brother Ben and I will go find Jacob Haun. I want to talk to him personally.”
* * *
Jacob Haun was a man of German stock—stubborn, hardheaded, independent. When the Church was first looking to come north to the mostly unsettled areas of northern Missouri, he had been one of the first to move. He founded a settlement on Shoal Creek in 1836 and built a small gristmill, hoping to provide milling service to the old settlers as well as the swelling population of Mormons.
Joseph and Benjamin found him at the store putting into the back of his wagon the last of some things he had purchased. Without preamble, Joseph laced into him, his voice showing some of his exasperation. But it made no difference. As Joseph spoke, Haun’s jaw set and his eyes took on a hooded look. “Brother Joseph,” he finally said, not unlike a father speaking to a child who didn’t listen well, “I understand your worry, but we are fine. The local people have agreed that if we promise not to take arms against them, they’ll leave us alone.”
Joseph looked heavenward and rolled his eyes. “Brother Haun, after what happened at Crooked River we’ve got men gathering against us from a dozen counties. It is not just the locals we’re worried about. Your settlement is not safe.”
“We will be fine,” Haun said obstinately. “We will post sentries and guards. We can use the blacksmith shop as a fort in case something does happen. It is made of logs. Very solid. But I don’t think we will need it.”
“Brother Haun,” Joseph started, “I beseech you, for your safety and the safety of your community—”
But Haun cut him off. “I have worked very hard for these past two years to build a home on Shoal Creek. I have valuable property there. I will not abandon it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get started so I can be back before dark.”
As he climbed up in his wagon and snapped the reins, Joseph and Benjamin stepped back. They watched him swing the wagon around and head it eastward. Joseph said nothing, just watched Haun until he was gone, his blue eyes now almost gray with worry and sadness. Finally, he turned to Benjamin. “We’d better keep moving, Brother Ben. There is much to do.”
* * *
“Brother Joseph?” Benjamin said.
The Prophet was deeply preoccupied as they walked back toward the group of brethren they had left earlier. He spoke without looking up. “Yes?”
Benjamin hesitated for a moment. Then, in spite of his reservations about bringing it up, he plunged in. “Why is all this happening to us?”
Joseph’s step slowed, but he continued to keep his eyes on the ground.
“I know we haven’t always been perfectly obedient,” Benjamin continued, “but there are a great many of the Saints who are earnestly striving to do what God asks of them.”
“Yes there are, Ben. A good many.”
Benjamin shook his head slowly. “And if all of this trouble is punishment for our not being better people, what about those who are rising up against us? Compared to them, are we so bad?”
Joseph Smith stopped completely now, looking at Benjamin straight on, the wide blue eyes open and probing, the features laced with touches of pain. Finally, he gestured toward a rail fence. “Let’s talk for a moment, Ben.”
As they moved over and leaned on the split rails, Benjamin had second thoughts. “I’m sorry, Joseph. You have so much to worry about right now. Just ignore the ramblings of a worried old man.”
Joseph chuckled. “How old are you now, Brother Ben?”
“I was fifty-three in May.”
“Well, I’m just coming up on thirty-three in another couple of months. If I’m in as good a shape as you in twenty years, I’ll be happy.”
Benjamin did not smile back. He felt very old at the moment. More like he was seventy-three. Worry could do that to you.
One of Joseph’s hands came up and removed his hat. The other followed, smoothing back his hair. He was staring out across the fields. To the south, about twenty-five miles, lay Richmond, where the armies were gathering. From the way Joseph’s brow furrowed, it was as if he could see them coming. Finally, he put his hat back on, though he still kept staring out across the countryside.