Where Trails Run Out

By Anna Prince Redd

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Chapter 10

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 –a re 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.

The company, after much suffering, 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, and Mary and Elizabeth are reunited. Mary’s baby is born after a difficult confinement. the families at Montezuma are destitute for food. four scouts from the main company arrive, but bring no supplies. James and Mary Davis, returning to their homestead from a visit with the Harrimans, are confronted with trouble.

“Pa! It’s Indians!” Ted Davis cries.

A small, startled group, in sight of their lonely, dark home, James Davis and his family stood and faced the Indians, three of them, young and belligerent, arrogantly possessive.

“How!” James Davis cried. “Discause?”

“How!” The Indians repeated his greeting. “Discause,” they said, affirmatively.

James turned to his son. “My boy Ted, you take your sister by the hand and go to meet them,” he instructed ina quiet voice. “We have no cause to fear. they say they are cold. We will ask them in to get warm at our fire.”

Ted looked at his mother in questioning surprise. Her lips formed the word yes, and she gave Emily a little push toward him.

But Emily drew back, hiding her face in her mother’s skirts, whimpering in fear.

Mary whispered to her, “Be brave, sweet one, your papa will not let the Indians hurt his little girl. You can show the Indians that we put our trust in heavenly Father.”

Emily lifted her head and gave her hand to the big brother whom she adored. Ted clasped her fingers tightly, and they went forward till they were at the edge of the dooryard. James and Mary came behind then, each with a child by the hand, the baby held comfortably against its father’s shoulder.

The Indians showed plainly that they were surprised at the manner of their approach.

As they got closer to the Indians, Ted tried to speak to them, but his tongue was stiff with fright. Emily tugged at his hand to remind him that he should greet the Indians. Ted opened his mouth, but no sound would come. He tried again, but did no better. Emily pinched his arm, looking at him in surprise. Ted looked at her helplessly. To save his life, he could not speak or move. He had never known fear in his life before, and could not understand it now. Usually, if things threatened him, he became angry. And under that impulse he would tackle anything. This feeling of fear left him helpless and ashamed.

Emily pulled her hand from his stiff fingers and marched straight up to the scowling Indians. She smiled an entrancing smile and asked, “Discause?’ she shuddered, suggesting that they must be very cold. “O-ooo-o,” she said, and smiled again.

The pantomime was engaging and fearless. To the Indians it was unexpected. They looked the white family over with pleased approval. “Discause,” they agreed, “muncha discause!” They repeated Emily’s pantomime of being cold, and laughed at each other’s performance.

Emily reached out her hand and took hold of the nearest Indian’s sleeve. “You can get warm at our house,” she said. “Can’t he papa?”

The Indians hesitated. James said “How!” again, and opened his door. Mary followed him, and at the door she turned and motioned for the Indians to follow her into the house. Mechanically, Ted followed the Indians. He uncovered the coals from the ashes, piled the split pitch-pine kindlings on the darkened coals and blew them to life with long trembling breaths. He was grateful for something to do that would help him hide the tears he could not choke back. He had been a coward, outside, and now he was acting like a baby. He brushed his sleeve across his eyes, more ashamed of his tears than he was of his show of fear. It had been such a paralyzing thing that he had been powerless against it. But acting like a sissy was his own fault. His little sister, six years old, was a better pioneer than he was!

He gave the coals a poke, blowing on them with short, angry breaths, until they flamed to a blaze. Emily knew her big brother was afraid. That was why she ran ahead to meet the ugly smart alecks of Indians, he thought, and felt like running away and hiding himself.

James, keenly sensitive to his children and their needs, saw the drama that was taking place in Ted’s soul, so plainly written in his face. “My boy Ted,” he spoke naturally, as unconcerned as he would have been if he were going to tell the boy to do his chores, “you take the Indians to the barrel down by the canal, so they can wash for supper. It’s so darn dark they’ll not be able to find it alone. And by the time you and those big fellers get back, your Ma will have the food on the table.”

Ted looked up at his father with adoring eyes. “You bet, Pa,” he answered. “That’s just what I was goin’ to do!”

He motioned for the Indians to follow him, and they all left the house. Pa don’t think I’m a coward! he thought, pride in himself returning as he walked along in the lead, an’ – an’ I’m not! I just lost my nerve!

Not knowing that Ted could speak their language, the Indians began talking freely, laughing and fooling with each other. “The white man is good,” they decided. “The boy is brave. The little papoose is nice. She is very happy and nice!”

Ted smiled, and was tempted to start talking to them in their language, but decided that his father had had a purpose in not letting them know that he could talk with them. He walked rapidly toward the barrel of water which was kept for washing purposes. He showed the Indians how to fill the basin that stood on a bench by the barrel, then he sat down cross-legged in the sand to wait for them. When the Indians finished washing, Ted ducked his own head and face, ad laughing with the Indians, came filing back to the house.

When they ent3ered the room, Mary and James welcomed the Indians again, and told them to sit down at the table with the family. The Indians hesitated, but James motioned to them that it was all right, and they sat down to eat. Mary asked the blessing on the food, and the family said “Amen.”

Ted had watched the Indians furtively, hoping the Lord would not think him irreverent. but he wanted to know what the Indians would do while his mother prayed. To his surprise, they folded their arms and, sitting very straight, looked only at Mary. Ted’s eyes followed theirs. In the glow of the firelight, his mother looked very beautiful and very good.

Mary served the Indians bran pancakes, stewed beef, and a cup of precious molasses that she had been saving for cough medicine.

The children eyed the molasses longingly, but watched the Indians eat it without saying a word.

“Weno,” the Indians said, smacking their lips over the rare sweet. “Weno!”

When they hd finished eating, James told them in sign language that they could sleep by the fire. He and his family would sleep in the only other room in the house.

Above the fireplace hung his loaded gun, and he left it hanging there, although he had seen the Indians eyeing it furtively.

In the dark, in their room, James and Mary lay for a long time, listening for any stealthy tread that would warn the mof their danger. Ted, too, had lain tense and wakeful, reviewing in his mind the events of the ay – the coming of the four scouts, the thrill of getting news from home, and then the Indians, who had come with evil intent, who might be, even then, plotting how to kill the white family that was so trustful. But as the hours wore on and there was no sound beyond the thin board partition, he fell asleep. Mary, assured by the steady and regular breathing of the Indians, followed Ted into a relaxed sleep. James, alone, kept the full night’s vigil.

Morning came. The Indians bean stirring, unguardedly. James combed his hair, made a great show of getting dressed, and went into the main room. He stirred the fire and stood before it with his hands at ease behind his back.

“Weno se kish,” the Indians said, and shaking James’ hand, each in solemn friendliness, they went away. The gun above the mantle had not been touched. On the table lay a string of bright turquoise beads beside Emily’s crumpled little hair ribbon.

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There followed long days of cold and hunger. The children, improperly nourished, had wasted in flesh. But there would soon be milk, Mary promised them, for they had six little new calves coming. Then there would be nourishing food for everybody. Mary counted the days anxiously, praying for strength to care for her family in their great need.

“If only the second company would get here,” she said over and over again. But the four scouts had been able to give them no definite time to look forward to. It all depended on how the company could manage to work, on the little food that was left to them. The rumor the Indians had brought that a white company was camped on a high ledge above the Colorado River was true. The scouts had confirmed it. But it might be a long time before they got a road chiselled down through the crack they had found in the ledge, and which they were widening into a road.

When Mary, no longer able to endure the suspense in silence, would question her husband about it, James would say, “They’ll come, Mary darlin’. They will come.”

One night James came from his field fencing, weary and discouraged.

“More of the stock is missing,” he said, sitting down to a supper of drv bran, moistened with warm water. The children had been given a little bran mush, and were tossing feverishly in bed.

“Not the milk stock!” Mary cried. “Oh, James!”

“The milk cows are safe, darlin’,” James assured her. “But,” he added, “if more of our stock is stolen there’ll be none to sell for food, even when the spring breaks so we can get to a market.”

Mary dropped to her knees beside James, and put her arms comfortingly around him. “Don’t worry, James. There is still the seed wheat. If the worst comes, we can eat that.”

“Which would only postpone the end, for if we do not plant we will continue to have nothing to eat.”

“It looks like we are abandoned to our fate, James,” Mary agreed, “but, even so, we must not give up. We will live through this terrible winter somehow. Already a month has passed since the scouts returned to the Hole in the Rock, where the main company is camped. They promised that if we could hold out sixty days, they would be back with food for us, whether the company had got through or not.”

“Yes,” James said. “We will have to eat a little of the seed grain.”

“Elizabeth’s children are worse off than ours are, James,” Mary reminded him. “They were very sick today. Her boy came to tell me. I must go down there tonight, James.”

“You don’t seem to understand, Mary. The cattle were stolen. That means Indians. They are raiding again. They are mad at the White Father in Washington for sending the soldiers against them. I think, myself, that it does more harm than good.”

“Indians, or no Indians, James Davis, I am going to see Elizabeth. She needs me. I will take Ted. You keep our children here.”

Mary stood up, smoothed James’ hair tenderly, and went to put on her shawl and gloves. James called Ted in from the woodpile, and told him to accompany his mother.

Mary found Elizabeth bending over a very sick child, helpless to give it relief.

“It’s the bran, Mary,” Elizabeth said apathetically. “My little one needs food. Our last milk cow sank into the quicksand nearly a month ago. Since then we have had nothing but the culls of he wheat. What can we do?” she cried.

Mary stood watching the convulsive retching of the sick child.

“If there was milk, Elizabeth, it would ease these terrible stomach pains. Where can we go for help?”

“No place,” Elizabeth answered. “Henry has even tried to find female animals that he could tame and milk.”

Elizabeth’s voice was harsh with misery. Her eyes were dry and dull.

“Cry, Elizabeth,” Mary pleaded. “Let go and cry!”

Elizabeth’s lips twisted into some sort of a smile. “I can’t,” she said, “the children would start crying, too.”

“And that would do you all good! This unnatural fortitude is killing you. Why, we all cry like boobies, when we’re too hungry.” She looked at Elizabeth, and the tears glistened n her own lashes. “Why do you suppose the good Lord made tear ducts, honey? He gave us tears to keep the heart from breaking.”

She bent over the sick child and felt its faint, uneven pulse. The child, she knew, was beyond all earthy help. It breathed its last, feeble sucking its own little lips in vain longing. Mary held her hand on its head, weeping that Elizabeth had to lose her child.

But Elizabeth was past all sense of grief. “I would not have had it live,” she murmured. “It is too pitiful to hear it cry for food.”

Mary washed and dressed the tiny little body and wrapped the child in a soft, warm blanket. Elizabeth put a little, homemade lamb im its arms.

Ted dug the grave, and just as the twilight closed sharply around them, they buried the baby. The next day James erected a slab of sandstone to mark the grave. He had carved the name, the date, and a little inscription, “At Rest,” on the slab— with a broken butcher knife.

The lonely hours dragged to midnight, but still Elizabeth sat before the fire. The Davis family had long before gone home. Henry and the children were in bed. Elizabeth had promised that she would only sit by the fire a while, and then she would go to bed, too. But the hours passed and she had not moved. Her body, as inert as her mind, seemed incapable of action. The only thing she seemed to think was that she was waiting for someone.

She was not surprised, when, hours later, just as the gray morning light came over the hills, her brother George rode into the yard. He spoke to the yelping big dog that bounded to meet him, and dismounted.

“George.” Elizabeth had come to the door. There was no excitement in her voice, no welcome, and no relief. “You came too late,” she said.

George asked no questions. He took his sister back to the fire, and stood beside her chair.

“You said you would come, George, or die in the attempt.” Elizabeth looked steadily into the fire. “I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

George smoothed her hair, letting Elizabeth get around to telling him in her own way what had happened. He dropped wearily to his knees, relaxed to a sitting position on the floor, and put his head in her lap, waiting for her to continue. Elizabeth took a lock of his hair and twisted it around her finger, letting her hand rest on his head. George sighed. His body sagged against her knees. Elizabeth relaxed in her chair and closed her eyes. She heard George’s horse shake himself and then lie down, saddled as he was, in the dooryard.

“There’ll be food for breakfast,” she said, and went to sleep.

Spring brought new life to the countryside. But the two families had eaten all their seed grains, so it meant nothing to them to feel the warmth of the sun, or to know that it was time to plow and plant.

George Hobbs had gone back to the camp of the main company. The food he had brought to the mission had saved their lives, but now it, too, was gone. Unless they could get through to Mancos to buy food, they would not be able to live more than a week longer. And in neither family was there anyone well enough to make the long and dangerous trip into Colorado for food. Their only hope was that the main company would come soon.

“But we’ve been hoping for that until hope is a mockery,” Mary asserted.

As usual, James answered: “They will get through, darlin’, they’ll get through!”

Lewellen Harris, a missionary, came to the Montezuma settlement. He told them that the company would come in about ten days. They had finally crossed the Colorado, and were slowly making their way, through the wildest country on earth, to the San Juan.

“We haven’t food enough to last even that long,” Mary answered. “There is seed wheat to last for two days, and that,” she said, “is for my children! Grownups must do the best they can.”

“That is right, Sister Davis,” Lewellen Harris replied, “but your wheat will last much longer than that.”

Mary looked at him in surprised disbelief, started to protest, and then accepted his words.

That night, and for three more nights, she made wheat bread, She sent half of each portion to Elizabeth and her children. Her own portion, she contrived to give to James without him knowing that she had done it. For day she had been too ill to work on the river dam that he and Ted had started, to divert water to their farms, though what good that would do when there was nothing to plant, she didn’t know.

She went into the yard, so that she would not be tantalized by the delicious odor of the warm wheat bread, trying to keep her mind on just ordinary things – like water, and land, and the coming of the second company.

Lewellen Harris stayed with the Davis family six days, and each night Mary made wheat bread. When he had gone, James said to Mary: “Darlin’, I thought you said there was only wheat enough to last two days?”

“And there is wheat enough for two days still, James.” Mary offered no explanation, for there was none.

James and Mary sat before their fire that night until long after their usual bedtime.

“Lewellen Harris is a good man,” James said fervently. And they knelt and gave their humble thanks that his words had been fulfilled.

Ten days later, April 1, 1879, as Lewellen Harris had predicted that they would, the main company of settlers of the San Juan Mission entered San Juan County.

(To be continued)