As the near panic swept up and down the line, Heber C. Kimball and Willard Richards came trotting back down the line on their horses. “It’s all right!” Heber shouted. “Don’t be alarmed!”
“What is it?” “Is it really Indians?” “How many?” “Are they armed?” The cries came at the two Apostles like a swarm of bees.
They reined up, just two wagons ahead of Nathan’s. “Calm down, folks,” Willard Richards said. “Listen.” After a moment it was quiet enough for him to continue. “There’s an Indian village ahead. They are evidently part of the Potawatomi tribe. There is no need for alarm. They are not hostile in any way.”
Heber was looking around. “Put your rifles away. Keep your pistols in their holsters. There’s not going to be any trouble. Just stay calm. We’ll pass right by them, but we want them to know we mean them no trouble either.”
“How many are there?” a woman called out.
“Two or three hundred,” came the answer from Heber. “But that includes women and children. Just stay calm. They are not hostile in any way.”
With that, they rode on to tell those farther down the line. “Do you really think it’s safe?” Emily asked her father, anxiety clouding her face.
“Yes, Emily,” Nathan answered easily. “President Young wouldn’t march us into any danger. Let’s just stay close together and be alert.”
After three months of nothing but mud and prairie and an occasional settlement of white men, the sight that awaited the Saints was marvelous indeed. The Indian village was set back a hundred yards or more from the trail on the far side of the east fork of the Nishnabotna River. Its wigwams—made of stripped elm bark held together by a framework of saplings—looked like a giant scattering of half walnut shells turned upside down. Plumes of smoke came from holes in the top of each wigwam. If the Mormons were curious about the Indians, the Indians were equally fascinated by the great company that was passing by. Several of the warriors came racing toward them on horseback, only to turn away again. They had seen plenty of white men before, but not like this, not one great company with wagons and oxen and a large herd of cattle, sheep, and milk cows. The village emptied as everyone came to stand alongside the trail and solemnly watch as Brigham and the lead wagon approached. The only sound was the furious barking of two or three dozen dogs that raced out to meet them. There were several sharp, guttural commands from the Indian men, a few well-placed kicks, and the dogs slunk away, totally cowed.
As the lead wagon neared the first of the Indians, a man stepped out into the center of the trail and planted his feet. Brigham raised a hand and the wagons came to a halt. He swung down from his horse. The Steeds were back about halfway in the train and were craning their necks to see. Joshua went up in his stirrups, then turned to Nathan. “I’ll go see what’s going on,” he said, and kicked his horse into a gentle canter.
As Brigham handed the reins of his horse to Heber Kimball, Heber frowned a little. “Careful, Brigham.” He dismounted too, handed the reins of both horses to another man, then turned to watch his leader. He kept his hands to his sides, but they were not far from the pistol strapped in a holster on his belt. Behind them, Albert Rockwood and Willard Richards edged a little closer to the wagons where their rifles lay on top of their bedding.
“It’s all right,” Brigham said over his shoulder. He raised one hand in the universal symbol of greeting and walked forward.
The man was large, almost as tall as Joshua’s six feet, and he was in superb physical shape. He wore a tanned skin shirt with no sleeves, and several necklaces of shells hung from his neck. He also wore two metal armbands and a wristband of some kind of animal hair, probably buffalo, fringed deerskin leggings, a leather breechclout, and soft-soled one-piece moccasins. Other men had their upper faces painted black with red around the eyes and looked terribly fierce, but his face was unmarked except for two diagonal red stripes on each cheekbone. His black hair was long and fell loose down his back. At the back of his head he wore a single eagle’s feather. He stood motionless now, not even his eyes flickering as he waited for Brigham to reach him.
“Hello,” Brigham said, stopping about ten yards short of the man.
There was a brief nod.
“Do you speak English? or any of your people?”
“I speak English.”
“Good.” He turned briefly, gesturing at what lay behind him. “We are Mormons, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We are your friends. We are your brothers.”
The deep brown, nearly black eyes lifted slightly, taking in what Brigham had included in his wave. Then they came back to Brigham. “You cross our land.”
“Yes,” Brigham said, as calm as though he were speaking to one of the Twelve.
“You must pay.”
“Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”
“Missionaries. Traders.” He dismissed that conversation with a shrug. “You must pay to pass through village. Your cattle eat our grass. You trample down the feed for our horses. You must pay.”
Brigham nodded soberly. “I understand, but we cannot pay. We are very poor. We have no money. We have been driven from our homes by bad men, just as your people have been driven from their homes near the Great Lakes to the land of the Sioux.”
He stopped but the Indian said nothing. He just waited, completely stoic.
“But we will not hurt your land. We will help it. We build bridges across the rivers and cut down the banks of the streams so they are crossed easily by your horses and their travois. This will help your people too as they travel. We ask permission to pass on your lands as brothers.”
As Brigham finished, the man turned and walked to where a small group of men stood together in a tight circle. Their faces were as stone, just as the spokesman’s was. One of the men was quite old. His hair, which hung past his waist, was streaked heavily with gray. Joshua suspected he was the chief of the village. The brave spoke quickly to the others in a soft, almost musical tongue. The men listened gravely, then turned to each other and consulted for a moment. Finally, the old man turned back and said a few words to the Indian brave. He nodded, and for the first time there was a softening in his features.
“What you say is good,” he said loudly. “We have heard of Mormons and know you are brothers. You will not tear down the bridges after you have passed?”
Brigham shook his head emphatically. “More of our people come behind us. We leave the bridges for them and for your people. Where we dig wells, your people will have water. We shall plant crops. If you are hungry when the snows come, we shall give you food.”
Again the brave turned back to his council and spoke rapidly. Now several, including the chief, nodded gravely. The old man spoke again, and the man inclined his head for a moment, then strode back to face Brigham. He raised his hand, then swept it outward in a smooth gesture of motion. “Pass through, my brother.”
Brigham bowed slightly. “Thank you, my brother.” He turned and walked back to where the others watched. “All right,” he said to Heber. “Let’s go on through, but tell the people to move slowly. Tell them to smile and be friendly. There is nothing to worry about here.”
Savannah was absolutely enthralled. She walked slowly alongside the wagon, her green eyes like huge saucers as she stared at the sight before her. For the most part, no one spoke—not Indian, not white man—though the Saints forced strained smiles and nodded at frequent intervals. But the Indian children had no such reservations. They stood like little sentinels lining a parade route, their black eyes more enormous than marbles. They hid their whispered astonishment behind cupped hands, as if that might keep them unnoticed. Someone would point, there would be the chattering of squirrels, and then they would erupt with peals of laughter or uncontrollable giggling. The smallest wore nothing but what the Lord had blessed them with at birth and were totally unabashed by it. A few raised tentative hands and waved shyly.
Behind them stood the women. Their dresses consisted of two pieces of soft deerskin, fastened at the shoulder and belted at the waist. They also wore knee-length leggings, fastened at the knees with leather strips adorned with quillwork. Like the men, they wore moccasins, only more of theirs had decorative trim on them. Their hair, like the men’s, was as black as a ball of pitch, and was worn in a single braid down the back. Pieces of ribbon and small beadwork were woven into the braids. The women were much more reserved than the children and would not look directly at the whites except for stealing surreptitious glances when they thought they were not observed.
In the rear were the braves, some on horseback, many standing behind their families. Unlike the one who confronted Brigham, many wore cotton shirts decorated with breastplates of beautiful and colorful beaded designs. Most were lean and hard, with flat stomachs and unreadable faces. The white slash of scars—evidence of some hunting accident or the wounds of war—could be seen here and there. There was interest in their eyes, but none of them spoke.
The dogs had come back to stand by their masters and watch, but only an occasional bark was heard as one of the dogs in the pioneer company rang out a challenge and they threw back their answer.
As Savannah started down the line of onlookers, the children went silent. Hands came up and their mouths formed into large O’s. The women too would glance at her, then whip back around to gape at her. They pointed and whispered urgently to each other, reaching up to pull at their hair, showing signs of utter astonishment.
Joshua smiled down at his daughter. “I think your red hair is what’s causing all the fuss.”
Her hand came up and touched her hair as she realized he was right.
“I’ll bet they’ve never seen red hair before,” Emily called to Savannah. “They can’t believe it.”
They were coming abreast of the man who had spoken to Brigham. He stood with a heavyset woman and four children—two young boys about ten and twelve, a girl about Savannah’s age, and another boy who wore nothing and was probably no more than two.
The girl watched Savannah approach, her jaw slack, her gaze fixed on Savannah. Then she turned and said something quickly to her mother. Her mother nodded, her eyes never leaving Savannah, then said something back to the girl. Savannah smiled broadly and waved at them gaily. The girl’s copper cheeks colored and she dropped her eyes. When they came back up, Savannah waved again. This time one hand rose slightly and moved in a tiny return greeting.
When Joshua had come back to rejoin his family, he dismounted and tied his horse to the wagon. Now he and Caroline were walking alongside the oxen. To his surprise the Indian father stepped forward as they came abreast of the family. Caroline stopped, clutching at Joshua’s shirtsleeve. Joshua whispered something to her, then spoke softly to the oxen, who stopped. Behind them, the rest of the family stopped too. Joshua came around the head of the oxen and raised his hand. “Hello.”
The man’s head bobbed once. Then he pointed to Savannah. “Daughter?”
“Yes, this is my daughter.”
“My daughter say her hair like fire.”
Joshua smiled. “And your daughter’s hair is like the raven’s feather. It is beautiful.”
There was almost a smile and the head inclined briefly in acknowledgment of the compliment. Savannah came up and stuck out her hand. “Hi,” she said brightly. “My name is Savannah.”
Startled, the man took her hand, not sure what to do with it. He held it briefly, then dropped it again.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The man half turned. His wife looked frightened. The three boys were huddled with some other boys, whispering and pointing. The man turned back, looking down at Savannah now. He touched his chest. “I am No-taw-kah, the Rattlesnake.”
“My name is Savannah.”
“Sa-van-nah,” he repeated.
“Yes.” She was elated. She turned and pointed to his daughter. “What is her name?”
Just then a man cantered up on a horse and the Indian moved back a little, clearly nervous. It was Heber Kimball, come back to see why the train had stopped. Joshua turned. “It’s all right,” he said.
When Heber saw what was taking place, he reined up and said nothing more.
“What is your daughter’s name?” Savannah asked again.
The father, seeing that Heber brought no threat, turned back to Savannah and uttered a guttural burst of sound that none of them understood. “It means Daughter of the Morning Mist.”
“What a beautiful name!” Savannah said smoothly, not wanting to embarrass him by asking him to repeat it.
He bowed his head gravely. “You have beautiful name too.”
“Thank you.”
Heber called out softly. “Joshua, we need to get the train rolling.”
“I know.” He spoke to Savannah. “We have to go now, Savannah.”
All a sudden her face, ever animated, came totally alive. She swung around to her mother. “Mama, can I give her my doll?”
Caroline was dumbfounded. “Your doll?”
“Yes. I want to give it to her.” She didn’t wait for an answer but ran around to the back of the wagon and started pawing through the packed bedding. In a moment she appeared again, holding up her doll in triumph. “Can I Mama, can I?”
“I . . . Savannah, are you sure? You already traded your big doll to Emma Smith back in Nauvoo, remember?”
“I know, Mama, but I want to.”
Joshua was watching her in wonder too. Would she never stop surprising them? But when he saw her eyes, luminous with excitement, he turned back to the father. “My daughter wants to give your daughter a gift.”
Rattlesnake, who had followed all of this with impassive eyes, searched Joshua’s face for a moment, then nodded at Savannah. “Come!”
As he started back toward his family, Savannah trotting after him, Caroline gasped. “Joshua!”
“It’s all right,” he called, walking swiftly to catch up.
A great silence went up and down the line of Saints and Indians as the warrior led Savannah and Joshua to his family. Savannah walked boldly up to the girl, who shrank back behind her mother’s dress. The woman smiled and gently pushed her forward again.