From the Improvement Era, January 1939 –

Confidence – A Short Short Story

By Lorin F. Butler

An early morning zephyr sweeping down the canyon met the circular camp of the little emigrant train and broke in eddying currents around the covered wagons. Mary Anne, fresh and cheery in a bright gingham dress, drew her gray shawl closer about her shoulders and moved with her frying pan and pancake batter to the other side of the fire. The ribbon of smoke wavered for a moment, then followed her. She rubbed her smoke-filled eyes.

“Fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed impatiently.

“Smoke allus follers the purtiest,” chuckled a masculine voice. “You see it don’t bother me.”

Mary Anne looked up in surprise to find the keen, blue eyes of the old trapper, Bill Tarkin, smiling down at her. She liked Old Bill with his indispensable rifle and his leathery brown face that wrinkled so easily into a happy smile. His presence in the camp made the journey much more pleasant. She smiled back and then broke into a hearty laugh as the smoke from the fire turned and enveloped him.

“You look as fresh as a buttercup, Mary Anne,” he said as he moved to her side of the fire. “Them Injun signals that we saw on the hill last night must not have kept you from havin’ a good night’s sleep.”

“No,” she answered, “I don’t worry much about the Indians; they won’t bother us.”

“Well, they ain’t never done, but we’re gettin’ into the country now where they’re most usually at their worst. Your pa stood guard last night, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he and Allan Motte.”

“Allan Motte. So that’s why you’re so certain the Injuns won’t bother. Hm-m. Well, I reckon you’re right; a handsome, strappin’ young feller like Allan wouldn’t let no pesky redskin carry you off.”

“Now, Mister Tarkin,” she said, “that wasn’t what I meant at all,” She looked up at him and her face grew serious. “I feel the same way about it no matter who is on guard duty. You see, we came out here to make homes and to find peace, and I don’t think our protection is left entirely to human hands. We treat the Indians fairly and we take precautions against attack, but still I have confidence that He who led us out here is watching over us.”

“You Mormons are a queer lot,” he remarked meditatively. “You know how treacherous and bloodthirsty the blamed Injuns are and still you talk of holdin’ ’em off with faith and confidence. You know what happened to Marcus Whitman and his family because they trusted the Injuns and wasn’t prepared to defend themselves.”

“I know, but — well, you have faith, too, Mister Tarkin, else you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, I have faith, but it’s faith in the white man’s alertness and in the business end of a good rifle.”

Jed Aranby and Allan Motte, the two men who had been standing guard at a point of rocks a hundred yards away, were returning to camp. Bill Tarkin’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction as he watched them,

“There is the reason why I could sleep well,” he explained. “I knew those fellows were standin’ out there with their rifles ready. My faith was a faith in them.”

The two guards leaned their rifles against the wagon wheel and came up to the fire. Old Bill tossed more wood on the flames and then picked up the weapons and looked at them fondly. He was a lover of good firearms and these guns pleased him. They were high-powered Winchesters exactly alike. He squinted over the sights at an imaginary Indian, clicked his tongue, and grinned.

“Mighty nice little weapons,” he said. “Yes, Mary Anne, I got plenty good solid confidence, I guess — confidence in tangible things like these and the boys that use ’em.” Bill put the guns down and moved on in his morning visits around the circle of wagons.

“They are good guns,” Jed remarked. “And it’s pretty hard to tell ’em apart.”

“Yes,” Allan agreed, “they’re twins. It was a lucky thing for me that they are the same calibre.” He grinned sheepishly at his companion and went on. “When Captain Andrews asked me to stand guard with you last night, I didn’t have a single cartridge in my gun. I was right out, but, our guns being the same, I knew I could get some from you if I needed them.”

“You — ” the older man’s face whitened for an instant and then flushed crimson, “you didn’t have any shells for your gun?”

“I guess it does sound ridiculous to an old scout like you.”

Jed shook his head and silently watched the flames as they twisted and leaped in a miniature war dance.

Jed looked up from the fire. “Ridiculous,” he repeated slowly, half to himself, “yes, because — I didn’t have any ammunition either!”