T
he trail south from Great Salt Lake City wound through settled country, much of it irrigated. Skye marveled at how much the Saints had accomplished in ten years. The fields were bursting now with wheat and oats and barley as well as potatoes, corn, cabbages, and other vegetables. Emerald pastures nurtured sheep and a few cattle, poultry, and hogs. Some orderly young fruit orchards promised rich harvests soon. All of this was watered from ditches brimming with diverted river water flowing out of the Wasatch Mountains. This was their land of milk and honey, but its emerging abundance had been wrought from endless toil.
Skye's small party, just two wagons, one still drawn by oxen and the other with Hunsaker's well-fed mules, worked slowly south through mild weather that blistered them only during midafternoon, and cooled quickly in the evenings. They trailed through sleepy farm villages, with a few mercantiles huddled together, and always a temple dominating the village square or the center of the town. Sometimes bearded
farmers paused to watch them, their gaze guarded. Few women were in sight, but a row of identical frame houses here and there spoke of plural marriage; a man's several families all in an orderly line along a road. Many had clotheslines strung across their yards, from which dangled breeze-dancing union suits and petticoats and chambray shirts and stiff britches. These caught the attention of Victoria and Mary, who studied undergarments and outer garments with a fascination that puzzled Skye.
Once in a while they ran into traffic. This was Utah's great artery, connecting the villages in the south to the capital. These were sometimes high-sided freight wagons drawn by slobbering oxen, sometimes a spring wagon or a buggy drawn by trotters, occasionally horsemen. They stared at Skye's odd ensemble, the wagons and teams, his wives, his ponies and travois, Enoch Bright teamstering beside the oxen, the Jones brothers beside the mule team, the pale, sick young people sitting on the tailgates. They were oddly silent, sometimes stern, somehow recognizing at once that these were not Saints.
But then a bull-shouldered man with a jutting brown beard driving a black carriage hailed them.
“What you got there, stranger?” he asked of Skye.
“I'm Mister Skye, sir, and these are my wives, Mary and Victoria. We're taking some people to the desert.”
“Passing through to California, are you?”
“The desert out west.”
“You'll want to go to California and not stop. You'll not want to stop anywhere in Deseret.”
“We don't plan to.”
“Not for food, not for supplies. You will not talk to people.”
“We'll be looking for provisions. We hope to trade.”
“What's in those wagons?”
Skye thought the man was probing a little too hard. “Have a look,” he said.
“You tell me and tell me now.”
“Who am I talking to, sir?”
“It matters not.”
Skye lifted that top hat, contemplated it, and made a decision.
“Then we'll be on our way.”
He touched heels to Jawbone, who started forward, ready to sink his yellow teeth into this man in the buggy. But a subtle signal from Skye cooled the horse.
“Likely it is you'll regret your insolence,” the man said.
The bearded man didn't move his carriage aside, but sat quietly, reining in his trotter, while Skye's women passed to the side.
But as Bright and his oxen pulled up, the man raised a buggy whip.
“Stop there,” he said. “Your name?”
“Bright, sir. New Bedford, Massachusetts. And you?”
“What are you carrying?”
“Necessaries, my friend.”
“Who are these children?”
“All from New Bedford, sir. We are heading into the desert on their account. Most are adults.”
“I know that. Where are the parents of these children?”
“Oh, they're back East.”
“Who owns them?”
Bright was taken aback. “Why, I imagine they rightly own themselves.”
“They are minors, collected here and possessed by you, or Skye there?”
Bright looked amused. “They were bound over to Hiram
Peacock to be taken to a sanitarium in the desert. It is a plan filled with mercy and hope. But he perished near Fort Bridger, and we're carrying on, friend. I am their guardian.”
“Perished?”
“He was killed by a ruffian, sir. A fist to the bellows. The criminal is even now guiding a wagon company a day or two ahead of us. His name is Manville, and it would be a blessing if this territory's constables were to pinch him.”
The bull-shouldered man stepped down from his ebony carriage and hiked past the wagons, peering at the pale young people, especially those lying in the second wagon or sitting on its tailgate.
He whirled suddenly toward Lloyd Jones. “You. Who are these children?”
“We're all lungers, sir, making this long trip and hoping the desert will heal us. That was Mister Peacock's vision.”
“They look stolen. Have you papers?”
The questioning was finally getting somewhere that Skye could fathom. He turned Jawbone back to this inquisitor and addressed him.
“Mister Peacock was a whale oil merchant whose family was stricken by consumption. He lost his wife and two children to this disease. He was also a visionary, whose studies led him to believe the desert offers hope to those consumed by this wasting sickness. He organized this company, sir, and we intend to follow his footsteps.”
“I've heard enough from you, Skye. I was not talking to you.”
“It's Mister Skye, sir. And you are Mister â¦?”
“I am an apostle, one of the Council of Twelve. Harley Peets. I look to public safety in Deseret.”
The jut-bearded man smiled, radiating a cruel confidence
as he gained ground here. There was something about him that suggested he was in command, and anyone who challenged him would find himself in serious trouble.
Skye watched warily. This was a moment to be quiet, observe closely, let this man finish his business and be on his way.
The apostle circled the two wagons, peered into the larger one that carried supplies, and finally studied the handsome Morgan tied to the rear of the first wagon.
“I believe that's a stolen horse,” he said. “Stolen children, stolen horse. It's the finest horse I've ever laid eyes on. And that says all that needs saying. It's been reported that a wagon company holds a dozen children in captivity.”
Skye suspected that the real stealing was about to begin, and he intended to stop it.
“Are you a constable or a peace officer, sir?”
The hulking man merely smiled.
Skye knew he wasn't. This was no official inquiry at all. “I thought so. We'll be on our way now.”
Once again, the hulking man deferred to Skye, or seemed to. He nodded, returned to his carriage, and offered no more opposition. Skye's train started south once more, but no sooner had it passed the buggy than the man cracked a whip over the rump of his trotter and plunged northward, his horse bursting away at a clip that could be sustained for only a mile or two.
Skye watched him go. The man had a mission. The Saints were secretive. It was something to ponder. There was something calculating about all this. And those questions sounded like some sort of prelude to trouble, some sort of rationale for seizing Skye's entire party.
They continued uneasily southward through a quiet countryside that was peaceful and sunny, in sharp contrast to the
worries whirling inside of Skye's head. Here was an accusation of horse theft. Here was a broad hint that these children were some sort of contraband. And if children and horses were valuable to these people, who had an unending need for horse and child labor, it might be easy to conjure up reasons to detain them. Especially if you were a powerful man.
Something in all this made Skye feel as if his party was being watched as it passed through one village after another: Midvale, Sandy City, Crescent, Riverton, Draper, and then into a great plain with a shimmering lake far to the south. That would be Utah Lake.
They camped beside a laughing creek that flowed into the lake, and while they were enjoying the comforts of a fire and a good rest, a horseman raced by, his lathered horse at a steady canter. They watched the horseman, even as the horseman studied them, but he didn't pause.
The next days they continued southward through slumbering villages, irrigated fields, comfortable settlements: Pleasant Grove, Orem, Provo, Spanish Fork, Payson, Santaquin. The names sounded biblical to Skye.
Each day more dispatch riders flew by in both directions. More were headed south than north. None paused to pass the time of day with the struggling wagon company. None even acknowledged their existence.
The air was dry and warm, and Skye thought the invalids were enduring fairly well. None was in dire straits, though Ashley Tucker coughed miserably and was spitting blood, and Eliza Bridge was suffering hectic fever again. But there was not enough food to last long, and he knew he must try to trade at Nephi, a bleak little town huddled beneath the Wasatch Range off to the east.
He wondered what to trade. Not Peacock's handsome
Morgan horse if he could help it. It actually was Sterling Peacock's horse now. Skye had been admiring that docile, eager mare for much of the trip and knew its value. In the middle of a quiet afternoon he halted his company before a whitewashed plain rectangle of a building labeled “Nephi Mercantile.” This was farming country. There would be abundant flour, oats, fruit, and produce here.
But it was strange that not a soul was visible on the clay street of the business district even in the middle of a bright afternoon.
T
he whitewashed mercantile scowled at Skye in the bright light. A raven sitting on a rooftop scolded, shattering the silence. Skye headed toward Bright and the Jones brothers.
“I'll go in here and see what we can do,” he said.
He abandoned Jawbone and stood stiffly in the quiet street, recovering the use of his legs, and then headed for the mercantile. He let himself in to the jangle of bells, and found himself in an orderly general store, with shelves well stocked and the air rich with the scents of fabrics, foods, and leather goods. Light from an overhead well banished gloom from the long, silent room.
“Anyone here?” Skye asked.
“You are not welcome here. Please leave.”
The male voice rose from a curtained doorway.
Skye sensed what all those couriers were about. “I'm Mister Skye, sir, and I am hoping to buy or trade for some provisions. I'm escorting a group of invalids to the desert. It's our
understanding that desert air and rest will heal them. I myself am not sick and you have nothing to fear from me.”
“We are not permitted any intercourse with you, sir.”
The voice echoed out from the curtained doorway.
“I see. Well, I can understand that. Our young people know enough to keep away. And we do need food. Supposing I bring in Mister Bright, who is himself in fine health, and we select what we need.”
“Absolutely not!”
The voice rose sharply.
“Who are you?” Skye asked.
“Harley Pratt.”
“Mister Pratt, even if we can't do business, why don't you step forward and tell me where we stand. It'd help me to know what this is all about.”
Surprisingly, Pratt did. He was a bald, thin man, sharp Adam's apple, and a look about him of a raptor. He studied Skye, plainly disapproving of the quilled and beaded leather, the unruly locks, and the battered top hat. Even so, he edged around the counter, heading for a place where, Skye supposed, the man kept a weapon, just in case.
“You won't need a weapon here, sir,” Skye said quietly.
Pratt froze.
“Just tell me where we stand. We have young people who need to be fed. We need some greens as well as meat and grains. Perhaps you can help us.”
Pratt shook his head violently. “It is forbidden on pain of excommunication to have the slightest intercourse with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a plague invading our land. You are the Apocalypse, the Pale Horse of Revelation. You will take our food and pay us with sickness. Death, disease, famine ⦠You
and the United States Army are coming to destroy Zion. The prophets have warned us, and we will resist to the last man.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe what the elders tell me is true. They have received it from the Lord.”
“What exactly do they say?”
“That, sir, is for the Saints to know.”
“What would you have us do?”
“Turn around and go back the way you came.”
Skye knew he would face even more trouble heading that way. “Perhaps you could give me advice,” he said.
“Harley!”
That was a woman's voice, and it clanged like a church bell.
“Missus Pratt is telling me she's ready. She has the cow bells in hand. If you don't leave at once, she will ring them, and the militia will arrive.”
“What then?”
“They are armed, and will take matters into their own hands.”
Skye settled his top hat, nodded, and retreated to the silent street. A breeze whipped a weed down the center of it. How very strange. Not a horse or wagon stood anywhere in sight. Not a soul was walking the boardwalks. But Skye didn't doubt that his wagon company was being observed from a hundred windows. He did not see any weapons poking from those windows, but suspected that they soon would be unless he took his company out of town at once.
He reached Bright. “They want us out of here. Won't sell a thing.”
“But why?”
Skye shook his head. “They won't say. Well, yes they will.
They believe I am one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse; that we have come to spread sickness among them. The rider of the Pale Horse brings sickness. Jawbone is indeed a pale horse.”
Bright absorbed that with a shake of the head.
Skye noticed that Victoria, who had a keen sense of trouble, had reached the travois with her bow and quiver, and was ready to help any way she could. He shook his head, slowly, but she glared at this place, her loathing palpable.
They started south again, straight through the brooding town, until at its southerly edge they discovered a livery barn. It, too, was whitewashed, its board and batten siding fresh and clean. Horses stood quietly in a pen. Several buggies and wagons stood in the yard. The double doors in front stood wide open, letting the breezes eddy through a cavernous interior.
The town was mostly behind them. Skye peered rearward, seeing no armed mob. Nothing at all.
“Let's try this,” he said. His women nodded.
He rode Jawbone up to the livery barn, slid off, and left Jawbone to his devices. The young people peered at him from their tailgate seats. Some stood. The sickest lay abed in the second wagon, uncaring about delays.
He walked cautiously into the cool barn, enjoying the sweet scent of hay and horses. A loft above enabled the liveryman to fork hay into mangers below. A horse shifted in its stall.
An office stood to one side, so Skye entered. A hostler sat waiting, his arms crossed. He was an older man, with a full white beard combed straight so every hair hung down.
“Go,” he said.
“I am Mister Skye. And you?”
“Willard Romney. And that will be the last of this discussion.”
“We're heading south to the desert. We're looking for provisions.”
“Why come here, then?”
“Over there I see bags of grain. Oats, I believe. Barley. I'd like to trade for some.”
“Horse feed.”
“Feed that will help very sick young people reach a place of healing.”
“I believe I asked you to leave.”
“Mister Romney, I can understand why your people want us to leave. A war is brewing. I hope you'll let us trade for food so no one starves.”
Romney didn't reply. His bright blue-eyed gaze slowly took in everything about Skye that a gaze might reveal. He said nothing, which encouraged Skye to keep on.
“We have a fine Morgan mare, five years old, from Justin Morgan's own stock, no injuries, good teeth, no fistulas, no splints, obedient under saddle. I'd like to trade her for some of that horse feed.”
“Never heard of that line of horses.”
Skye stared. Something obdurate radiated from this liveryman.
“The mare was owned by the man who put this company together, Hiram Peacock. He's dead now. The ownership has passed on to Mister Peacock's surviving son who is with us. The whole family save for him has perished. His name is Sterling Peacock. He will sign over a bill of sale.”
Romney said nothing, simply stared as if he hadn't heard a word.
“This fine mare was purchased for two hundred fifty in
Massachusetts, and is worth all of that here. What I propose, sir, is five hundred pounds of grain, mostly oats, some barley, and you will receive title to her. She's just out the door. I'd like you to take a close look.”
“I thought I instructed you. Are you deaf?”
The liveryman stood abruptly, and in his hands was a fowling piece. He swung the barrel around until the muzzle faced Skye.
Then he nodded toward the door.
“You have a choice. Stay and be shot. Argue and be shot. Linger outside and face our militia, which even now is armed and ready. What will it be?”
Skye nodded curtly. No help here. The town had coalesced into trouble.
He stepped into the barn, then through the double doors into bright sun and silence. Now, a hundred yards distant, stood a group of armed men, wearing the smocks of clerks, the dark suits of lawyers and professional people, the rough britches of laboring people. They formed into a line and began a slow walk.
Skye climbed up on Jawbone, nodded to his women and Bright, and the wagon train rolled southward. The militia continued to follow, step by step, until some unseen boundary was reached that Skye supposed was the southern edge of Nephi, and then no one followed.
At least not at first. After an hour of plodding quietly through peaceful agricultural country, Skye noticed a horseman trailing a half mile or more behind. He called a halt for a rest. The horseman halted, a small dot on the northern horizon, but Skye had a bad feeling about him. From now on, this company would be shadowed.
Skye dropped back to talk to Bright.
“It seems we're not welcome,” Bright said dryly.
“It's more than consumption. These people are waiting for war to come. The Yank government's on the move. We're outsiders and suspect. A company that could spread disease is worse. It's biblical talk, brimming with sulphur and brimstone. We're in trouble and I don't know how to deal with it.”
Bright nodded. “More of them than us. They've got weapons. I'd say keep on rolling, since I can't think of anything else worth doing.”
“We've got the young people to feed,” Skye said. “And I don't know how to do it.”