Where Trails Run Out

By Anna Prince Redd

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Chapter 9

Synopsis: A company of twenty-four young men and two families — James L. Davis, his wife, Mary, and their four children; Henry H. Harriman, his wife, Elizabeth, and their five children — are called to explore a route from Cedar City, in Southern Utah, to San Juan County. The two families are to remain in San Juan and prepare for the coming of the main company.

After much suffering, the company finally reaches Moenkopi. The Davis family remains there and the others go on toward the San Juan. Scouts return to Moenkopi and report the arrival of the Harrimans on the San Juan.

The James L. Davis family and the scouts leave to join the Harrimans. Pearcon, a renegade Piute, and his band block the trail into the wilderness. A friendly Indian chief intervenes and sends Pearcon away. The company arrives safely at Montezuma on the San Juan, and Mary and Elizabeth are reunited. Mrs. Mitchell, the wife of a neighboring prospector, comes to help Mary in her confinement.

James held Mary’s straining form in his arms, felt her relax, and thought that she was dead. A long, dry sob shook him, and he raised his sunken eyes to Elizabeth, praying for denial.

“Don’t you dare give up, James Davis!” Elizabeth commanded sharply. ‘The baby is coming! Mary will live.”

There was a high, strangling wail, and Mary’s baby came into the world.

Mrs. Mitchell returned to the cabin, so certain that Mary would be dead that she had brought her husband and the prospectors with her, so that they could dig the grave.

“The good Lord save us!” she cried when she saw that Mary was delivered, and that she was well enough to smile. An expression of fear came over the woman’s face, and she backed out of the door, muttering, “Mormons, Mormons,” as though for the first time in her life she had come in contact with the supernatural.

They named the baby Ethel and wrote the date, August 2, 1879, in the old family Bible, thus recording the birth of the first white child born in the San Juan Mission.

Silas Smith and George Hobbs, and the few other men who had stayed with them at Montezuma, left two days after the baby’s birth to join the scouts at the Blue Mountain, where they had been instructed to wait. Harvey Dunton, a man seventy years of age, decided to stay at Montezuma with the Davis and Harriman families.

“I will try to persuade some of the other scouts to return and stay here with yon, Brother Davis,” President Smith said. “It’s not safe for so few of you to be left here alone.”

But no one ever came back to Montezuma. James and Henry, Ted Davis, and the aged Mr. Dunton, were the only men left at the lonely little mission. Mancos, Colorado, a struggling town of twelve families, was sixty-five miles away. The nearest market was three hundred miles away.

“It’s us, and no more,” Ted sighed, choking down his homesickness. “But,” he added manfully, “I guess we men can take care of Ma and Sister Harriman, while they take care of the children.”

Mary looked at Ted, a world of pride in her eyes. “We’ll be the best-taken-care-of ladies in this whole mission,” she exclaimed, passing an infectious smile along to Ted, “I’m not one bit afraid.”

James and Ted began at once to build a stone fireplace in their cabin, for they expected the winters to be long and cold. Ted chipped the stones and shaped them while his father laid them, firmly packing the mortar in between.

“We’ll cut cordwood and stack it next to the house, Pa,” Ted suggested. “Ma’s not very strong, yet, since the baby came. We don’t want her to work too hard while we are away at our work on the ranch.”

“I hope we’ll never both be away at the same time, Ted,” his father answered. “I’d feel better about things here if the Indians were showing a little more natural curiosity.”

“You mean about us?” Ted asked. “I’ll ride up to the Mitchell ranch and see if they know any news. They can tell us about the Indians.”

James smiled. “News, my boy, Ted, will be as old as human nature before it gets to us here. We’d best stay at our jobs.”

He danced a jig to cheer himself up, and went to work.

That night one of the men from the Mitchell ranch came down to warn the new settlers that the Indians were on the warpath. The Navajos across the San Juan were friendly, he said, but the White River Utes were in a bad temper. They had just killed the Meeker family and were swearing to get all the cattle along the river, and then kill the whites— men, women, and children. They were, even then, nearing Montezuma.

“Us is got help from up the river,” the prospector said. “Us’ll build a fort and shoot our way clear. And you’s best do the same, likewise!”

“Our houses are small and not fit for forts,” James replied. “What are we to do? You see that Brother Harriman has one whole end of his house torn out so we can build him a fireplace.”

“Wells, then, I s’pect you gotta do the best you can,” the man said indifferently. “Us is warned ya!”

He started to leave, but when he saw Mary, frail, and still very weak, standing in the door with her baby in her arms, he hesitated, then offered reluctantly, “I guess ya could move in with us folks. You’d likely be safe with we uns. Us could hole you up.”

James looked at Mary, but she shook her head.

“Thanks, brother,” James said. “We’ll take our chances here.”

The prospector pursed his lips several times, then rode away without looking back. “Them folks sure puzzle me,” he muttered. “They shore does!”

Henry came in with a load of rock for his chimney, and James explained the situation to him.

“You did right to say we would keep to our own premises, James. I’m not one for running away,” Henry assured him.

“Now that you’ve got the rock hauled in, Henry, it won’t take long to lay up a fireplace. We’ll work all night. The women can take turns holding the lanterns for us to work by.” Then, turning to his son, Jams told Ted to see that the guns were in shape, and for him never to leave them, even for a minute. The boy obeyed promptly, glad to be relieved of the tedious job of stone chipping.

Outwardly calm, Mary and Elizabeth made all preparations for the night, trying to feel as brave as they talked. “I’m a coward at heart, Mary,” Elizabeth murmured in an undertone. “I’m trembling till I can hardly stand.”

“Somehow, I don’t feel afraid,” Mary answered. “James was prompted to stay here, and his promptings are always for our good. Frankly, I’m not much more afraid of Indians than I am of trappers and prospectors!”

“Well, I’d not sleep a wink if I went to bed, so I’ll hodl the lantern for the men to work by. I can at least act like I’m brave,” Elizabeth declared.

“You are brave, Elizabeth,” Mary assured her. “I’ve seen the time when you stood up to danger better than most men.”

Elizabeth smiled gratefully. “I guess I’ll make out,” she said, and went into her own cabin.

Shortly after dark as the men worked n the chimney, a friendly navajo came running with the word that the Utes were within two miles of the settlement, and that there were at least three hundred of them. The warning threw Elizabeth into such a state of fear that she dropped the lantern she was holding above her head, and crumpled to the ground. Mary and ed helped her into the house.

“You go and hold the lantern, Ted,” Mary told her son. “The chimney has to be built. It is our only chance. I’ll mind the guns.”

Ted went quietly to the end of the house and took up the lantern, assuring the anxious men that Mrs. Harriman was all right.

“Ever since we came she has wanted me to promise that I’d kill her before I’d let her fall into the hands of the Indians,” Henry said. “I declare, I don’t know how to pacify her.”

“There’re two things we can always do, Henry,” James spoke with assurance, “and that is to pray and work. And I’ve seen that it’s a medicine that women have to have, too. There’s not been much for the women to do, the houses not being finished, and all. it’s no wonder they are fearful. Once we get this end of the house rocked in, Sister Harriman will feel safer.”

The children said their tearful prayers and went to bed, too quiet, too wide-eyed for sleep.

By midnight the chimney was even with the roof of the cabin.

“I guess that will do until we need to build a fire in it,” James decided. “I ave the feeling that we had best get into our house and stay there till we know what’s goin’ to happen.”

Each of the families had an extra large, fine dog. Closing and barring the door of the Davis cabin, with the dogs crouched low in the dark room, the men took up their vigil. Mary and Elizabeth waited with their children. The dogs growled often, low, angry growls that answered the slightest sound outside.

An hour went by. The strain of waiting and listening, yet hearing nothing, was almost unendurable. In the dark, the breathing of the alert dogs conveyed a new and sudden uneasiness. The men tightened their fingers around their gun barrels. The dogs stood up. They remained motionless, listening. Then, without any apparent warning from outside, they sprang against the bolted door.

The children began to whimper.

“Hush, Orson,” Mary whispered to her eight-year-old son, “little Emily hasn’t made a sound!”

Orson stopped crying, but he crouched against his mother. Mary could feel the trembling of his little body against hers.

Not being let out, the dogs set up such a barking that even the baby began to scream in fright.

“Open the door, Ted!” James Davis cried. “Let the dogs loose!”

Ted drew the bolt, and the dogs hurled themselves into the pitch black darkness.

“Hush, my darlings,” Mary soothed, and when Orson again began to scream, she held her hand over his mouth, talking in low, prayerful tones.

“Be with us, Lord,” Elizabeth prayed. “Keep these little children in thy hand.”

“It’s strange that we hear nothing,” Henry said. “The dogs are more wrought up than I’ve ever seen them.”

“I hope they get back to us,” James muttered. “They are more help than ten men.”

The dogs came back, but they were still bristling with anger. The Indians had crossed the ford less than a mile above the two small cabins, not stopping for minor raids, in their hurry to join forces with some renegade Navajos from the reservation.

For a few weeks the Indians were fully occupied with their own tribal wars and left the white settlers to work in peace. Taking advantage of the situation, James and Ted began work on a larger house, a half mile east of the Harriman claim. If they were to be ready for winter, no time was to be lost.

As the weeks went by, and no Indians appeared on the scene, James decided to go to Mancos, Colorado, for supplies. Taking a pack horse and one to ride, he took a roundabout route far to the southeast to avoid going through Ute territory. While many of the Navajos were willfully mean and lawless, most of them were friendly to the white people. If they were well-treated they gave little trouble. James preferred to take his chances with them. He made the sixty-five mile trip and back again within four days, but he had been able to buy very little food. There was no surplus anywhere, and with winter only a few months away, each man was jealously hoarding his meager store.

At James’ home waiting to see him was the famous Thales Haskell, a man who had spent many years as missionary to the Indians. President Erastus Snow had heard that the Montezma families had been killed by the Indians, and had sent the missionary from the outpost headquarters at Moenkopi to investigate.

“Seeing your smoking chimney was a thankful sight, Brother Davis,” Haskell affirmed, coming out into the dooryard to greet James. “I have brought you a little flour, all that I could carry horseback. It is good to see that you and Brother Harriman are alive and well.”

“We have lived on wheat, ground in a coffee mill,” James confided, shaking hands with the missionary. “We’ve come to like it. Your flour will be saved for special occasions. But tell me, Brother Haskell, what has become of the second company? We have almost given up expecting them.”

“We have heard nothing concerning them/’ Haskell answered. “There are some at Moenkopi who fear they have been killed by the Indians.”

“I pray that such a rumor is unfounded,” James replied. “We may be too prone to blame things onto the red men.”

Haskell looked at James with a new interest. “If you are as tolerant as your words imply, Brother Davis,” he said, “you will have little trouble from the Indians.”

They shook hands again, and James led the way into the house.

Month after month passed, but the second company did not come. The two families at Montezuma had no food left, not even wheat, and there was too much Indian trouble around for either of the men to leave the mission long enough to go the long distance to Mancos to buy provisions. During the past month they had saved the bran from the wheat which they had ground for food, and this remained their only means of subsistence.

“What are we going to do?” Mary questioned Elizabeth, looking out over the country, vainly trying to hide her tears. “James is too ill to work, and the children have such stomach pains that they do not sleep at night. Your children have fared no better.”

.

.

”Mary, we must find a way to supplement our diet,” Elizabeth answered. “Let’s go hunting sego lily bulbs.”

Mary shook her head. “It is useless. Ted has hunted for bulbs for days.” She sighed. “The rodents have eaten them, Elizabeth.”

“If we can only hold out a little longer,” Elizabeth tried to be encouraging, “the second company will surely get through to us. I cannot believe they have all been killed!”

“We’ll kill a cow,” James decided, coming in at the door of the Harriman house where the two women sat. “We’ll not starve while there is meat.”

Mary turned white. “I can’t eat meat any more, James, the very thought of it nauseates me.”

“I’ll have Ted roast it in the coals until it is so charred it has lost its flavor, Mary. Then you can eat it.”

James looked to Elizabeth and Mary for encouragement. “Someday,” he said, “all this will be forgotten.”

Mary shook her head. “Our stomachs will quit clamoring for food, but our children’s cries will always be in our ears!”

“We must not let Brother Haskell see that we are discouraged,” James advised. “He will be in from the reservation tonight. Perhaps he will ave heard more of the rumors about our friends in the main company.”

“That’s right,” Elizabeth agreed. “Somehow we’ll just have to go on until help does come.”

That night the aged man, Harvey Dunton, sat with the Davis family long after his usual time for retiring. Usually he kept to his bed in his wagon when night came. But, though he had eaten his meal of bran and charred meat, he made no move to go.

“Is something troubling you, Brother Dunton?” Mary asked, fearing that he, too, was getting sick from the coarse, inadequate diet.

“I’m well,” the old man answered. “I stayed to tell you that I am going away, Sister Davis.”

“Oh, no!” Mary cried. “Where would you go? How would you live?”

“Those same questions are confronting me here,” he answered. “I am one more to feed, and too old to do much but sit by the fire and dream.”

“And when we reach your age, that is what we shall all want to do,” Mary answered, sorry that she could offer no real comfort.

“I shall go,” the old man reiterated. “My musket is good, and snake meat is as palatable as squirrel and rabbit.”

“But your going will not give us more to eat!” Mary reminded him, aghast at the prospect of an old man, undernourished and thinly clad, going alone into hostile, desert country. “You have helped to keep us in food by sharing your horse feed with us,” she added.

“Soon what little bran you have will be gone, Sister,” the old man spoke firmly, “and then your children will cry for that, too. I have made up my mind.”

Mary’s eyes swam with tears as she bade him good night. “I wish you well,” was all that she could say.

“I will travel toward the Colorado River,” he explained. “Yesterday while I was out hunting, a friendly Navajo told me that other Indians had told him that there were many white men and families on the other side of the Colorado, and that they cannot cross. I’ll go toward the river in the hope that I will see them there.”

Thales Haskell leaped to his feet. He had listened intently, feeling more sympathy than he had cared to express. “That must be the main company,” he cried. “I feel that I should go to investigate this rumor. We must know if our friends are still alive!” He looked at James for his approval.

“By all means, go!” James decided. “You have lent us all the aid a man can give. What we must have now is the assurance that help is on the way. We will be safe, Brother Haskell. Our trust is in the Lord.”

“You and Brother Dunton can travel together!” Mary exclaimed with satisfaction. “That will take a big load off my mind.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Haskell promised, “and somewhere along the line, I may be able to buy a little flour from a hunter or a trapper.”

“While you are gone,” James promised, “we will get moved into our new house. Christmas is only a few days away, and it may storm. There is no time to lose.”

The moving was accomplished with difficulty, for no one in the family was well enough to work more than a few hours a day. When they were finally settled, Mary felt a great sense of relief. At least they had room enough to set a small native Christmas tree where the firelight would shine upon it. She had knit warm stockings, mittens, and scarves. Ted and James had whittled toys from pine blocks, and she had painted them with dyes extracted from berries that grew along the river banks. They would have thee for the children, but, without food, it would be hard to pretend that it was a happy Christmas. If only there could have been a little candy, Mary felt that she could have managed the rest.

On Christmas day it snowed six inches of heavy, wet snow, and that night there was an unprecedented drop in temperature. But, with wood piled high beside the door, the great fireplace was kept roaring and the day was not an unhappy one. The children played games and danced around the Christmas tree. At last, they slept, dreaming of the food they could not have.

Another week passed. Too dispirited to pretend that he was well, James sat by the fire and tried to figure a way out of their troubles, but he was not able to think clearly. Hard pains wrenched his stomach and bowels, and his head ached constantly. What would Mary do if he should die? That seemed to be all that he could think or feel. He could not let Ted go alone to get supplies, for probably there were none to get, and the boy’s life might be the forfeit if he should try. They must have the faith to wait, and the determination to keep on living. …

Mary was busy with her house and her children. James dropped into an unrestful sleep.

Unexpectedly, there was a long, clear hail from the direction of the ford, and Ted came running into the yard.

“Pa!” he cried, “some white men are crossing the river, down at our old place, Pa! And George Hobbs is one of them!”

“Ted, my boy, go to meet them!” James ordered, shaking visibly. “I’m just too excited to walk!”

Ted raced away, leaving his father and mother clinging together in the doorway.

The four men were scouts from the main company of the San Juan Mission. They confirmed the report that the company was at the west ledge of the Colorado River, blasting their way down through a crack in the ledge, stair-stepping their way to the river.

James and Mary had taken their children and hurried to the Harriman home, where the scouts had gone as soon as they crossed the ford. Elizabeth was in such a state of excitement that she was almost incoherent. “Oh, Mary, George has come!” was all that she could say.

George Hobbs met James and Mary with such a handclasp that words would have been an anticlimax. There was a tribute of pride and understanding in his eyes that started James to shaking hands all over again. Mary tiptoed to kiss George’s cheek. His arms enfolded Mary and his sister in one embrace.

“And now you must meet the other Georges,” Elizabeth reminded. “My George, you do the honors.”

The scouts were introduced as George Sevy, George Morrell, and Lemuel H. Redd. They, with George H. Hobbs as their leader, had been given a difficult and dangerous assignment— to scout the country east of the Colorado River and find a way through to Montezuma for the wagon train of the main company, or die in the attempt. And as the two families listened to the almost unbelievable story of what that assignment had cost in suffering, cold, and starvation, and of the bewilderment of being lost for days and days at a time, they knew that only men of indomitable will and courage could have come through.

“The main company is as hungry and discouraged as you people are here, James,” George Hobbs confided. “But they’ll get here. Silas S. Smith is their leader, as he was of our exploring company. He’ll get them here, somehow, but no man can say when.”

“But that will take too long,” Elizabeth protested wearily. “I doubt if we can live until you can get back.”

“By using your seed grain,” George told James and Henry, “you can hold out for sixty days.”

Elizabeth went to her brother and brushed her face against his sleeve. “We’ll make it, I guess,” she promised, “for I know you’ll come, if you say you will.”

James and Mary said goodbye to the scouts.

“We’ll get home before dark,” James said. “The darkness holds too many real and imaginary dangers, to make even a short walk pleasant after night.”

Ted Davis walked ahead, thinking he would get the fire burning, so the house would be warm for his mother. As he neared the house, he stopped in consternation. There, in the dooryard, stood three tall, young Indians.

“Pa!” Ted cried in warning. “Pa! Stop! It’s Indians!”

(To be continued)