Across the valley Rebecca could see the wagon train approaching. Heat waves distorted the line of wagons and cattle, making them appear to move more quickly than they did. Rebecca nudged the horse, “Come on, old dear. I know you’re tired, but there’s no water here, and just standing in the heat won’t help at all.”
She caught up with the wagons, bisecting the train as she crossed ravines and cedar-covered hills. She wiped the alkaline dust from her face and waited.
A woman sitting beside the driver of the first wagon stared and pointed. Rebecca watched the driver drop from the wagon and come toward her.
“Lost?” She shook her head. He was noting her condition. “Need a midwife?”
“No. I need to talk to someone in charge of the wagon train.”
His face darkened. “I take it you’re a plural wife running away from home.”
“No, no. It isn’t that at all, but it is terribly important.”
He hesitated and then turned to point to the next wagon approaching. “Charles Fancher’s in that wagon. Best talk to him. I’ll call him out.”
Rebecca watched him lope toward the wagons; then a man on horseback cut toward her. “Lady, Mac says you wanna talk.” His dusty face was closed and polite. “I’ll ride along beside you and listen to your story.”
“I’ve just come from Cedar,” she started slowly. “I think there could be trouble ahead for you.”
“What kind?”
“The Indians are—”
“Being riled by the Mormons?”
“It’s been a bad year, and they’re never above thieving. It’s best you get on out of the territory without stopping.”
“That’s impossible. The livestock have been on short rations and bitter water for a week now. We’re just able to keep them moving. We’ve been given permission to camp on Mountain Meadows until the livestock have enough strength to get them across the desert.” He started to turn and then asked, “Where’s the nearest water?”
“Another hour or so. You’ll need to swing toward the mountains. Most folks just go into Cedar. I wouldn’t suggest it.”
“Is there grass?”
“A little. Mostly rabbit bush.”
“Did you ride out just to meet us?” She nodded, and the man was silent. Finally, “You’re welcome to ride along. We haven’t been getting too friendly a welcome hereabouts. There’s a few hot-heads in our group. They make trouble for us. If you’re tired of settin’ that horse, my wife would be pleased to have you up with her. Come along and I’ll tie your horse to the back of the wagon.”
“I’d be glad,” Rebecca sighed; “I’m not accustomed to riding a horse.”
He halted the wagon long enough to allow Rebecca to climb to the seat. She settled herself and turned to point. “See that bluff? Turn into the trees there. It’s a pretty good trail. The men go through there with wagons when they haul wood. Won’t be much water,” she cautioned, “but there’s a pool backed up.”
“So we’ll be tapping a Mormon reservoir?”
“Won’t do no harm; no one’s around. Scout it out if you’re worried.”
“I’m Liz.” The woman’s lined face was friendly, but her eyes questioned.
Rebecca introduced herself and said, “I’d better explain to you. The more knowing—” She stopped, surprised at the sudden painful tightness in her throat. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m tired and confused. I can’t believe this is really happening, and when I stop to think about it, I’m afraid—”
“You’re taking a risk riding out so close to your time,” the woman said slowly. “Aren’t you afraid of the Indians?” Rebecca shivered and didn’t answer. It was Brother Morgan’s hard eyes that she was seeing.
“We’re a mite tired too,” Liz said with a sigh. “This is all much different than we expected. ’Tis so late in the season we decided to turn south and avoid the terrible mountains. You’ve heard about the Donner party?” Rebecca nodded, and she continued, “We’re short of supplies, but we have plenty of money to buy, only no one will sell us a speck of anything. We’ve offered more’n usual. One woman traded a cheese for one of our bedquilts. Listen to the cattle. They’ve been lowing like that for a week. The water’s brackish. We can’t go on like this much longer.”
“Your husband said Hamblin’s told him to stay in Mountain Meadows. I hear it’s good. But with the talk—” her voice trailed away. She noticed the growing curiosity in Liz’s face. She took a deep breath. “The Saints are riled. Washington’s moving in an army, right into the territory.”
“We heard,” she said softly.
Rebecca was still apologetic, “It seems to me, with the Indian problems and all that, it would be best to push on through the territory.”
“Without water and good grass, we’ll never make it.” The lined face turned to Rebecca, and the kindly eyes were searching out Rebecca’s thoughts. Liz’s eyes soon mirrored Rebecca’s fears.
As soon as the wagon train turned and headed into the sheltering cedars, the air began to cool and freshen. Now the lowing of the cattle lifted into a bawling demand for water, and the train moved quickly through the trees to the clearing where the Saints had built a dam to catch the spring runoff.
“Better get your water before the cattle muddy it,” Rebecca cautioned. “There’s no flow at this time of the year.”
Rebecca stood apart and watched the wagons drawing into their tight circle. Fires blazed, and cooking pots were filled. Still she hesitated, confused by her fatigue and uncertainty.
Charles Fancher approached. “As soon as we can get the men together, I’d like you to tell us all that you’ve told me. We need to ask you questions. I feel there’s more to the story.” Before he turned away he said, “Have your supper with us. There’s plenty of bedding.”
The cattle were contented, although the grazing was poor. The children were bedded, and the fires sank to coals. While the women moved about their tasks, the men gathered to the Fancher wagon for Rebecca’s story.
She briefly described the scene in Cedar. “It’s a feeling more’n anything. For a long time there’s been the whispered words, the riled feelings. The men have been drilling their battalions since spring. There’s been so much talk. You sense the wound-tight emotions, the anger underneath it all. The Indians are stirring, and no Gentile is welcome. As long as there’s all this fuss about the army moving into the territory, they’ll trust no one.”
“I heard the Mormons have vowed to avenge the deaths of Joseph Smith and his brother. Is that true?” She nodded. “Even on the innocent?”
“It’s rumored some of you are from Missouri, and even some of you were there when they were killed.” There was a soft curse.
Someone spoke, “That’s the Marshall brothers foolin’. You fellows, see what your smart talkin’s doin’?”
Charles Fancher stood up. “Maybe it would do to talk to the—” he hesitated over the word—“the Saints in Cedar City.”
Rebecca was shaking her head. “I’m fearing it’s too late. Besides, there’s just not much you can do to turn off the Indians once they’re stirred.”
“You think it’ll only be Indians?”
“I—I’m hoping so.”
From the back of the crowd came a voice. “Charles, you know the livestock can’t take pushing. Hamblin told us there’s no place else for grazing, no other good green grass until we get across Nevada. There’s lots of desert before then. We’ll never make it.”
“If we’re running for our lives, it’d be smart to sell the cattle.”
“I don’t think you’d raise a cent,” Rebecca said flatly. “The Saints don’t have money for buying, and the Indians take what they want.” The murmur of voices rose, and Rebecca could only watch and wait. These people were being pushed to the wall, but their fighting spirit wasn’t gone.
Finally a man spoke up from the group. “I’m in favor of sticking to the original plan. Many thanks to the little lady. We’ll be on guard, but we’ll push ahead.”
The men drifted off to their wagons, dark shadows moving into darkness. She heard Fancher ordering the men to take double guard, and then he came back to her. She was standing beside the fire, feeling its warmth touch the chill that was making her tremble.
“I reckon,” he said slowly, “they know what you’ve done today.” She nodded. “Won’t this put a lid on your going back to them?”
She thought for a minute and then slowly said, “I wasn’t thinking about one day ahead of today. I suppose it’s going to make it hard.”
“What will you do?”
“Tomorrow we head through the mountains into Pinto.” She shrugged.
“You live at Pinto?”
She nodded. “That’s down close to the ironworks. Through the mountains. The road goes through Pinto, and the mountains snug up pretty close to the road.”
“And that’s going to be bad.” He was watching her face.
“I’d guess.”
He was silent while the last embers of the fire were popping and blinking out. She could hear the soft lowing of the cows.
Nearby was the clank of harness and the click of hooves against stone. “Seems to me,” he said slowly, “there’s still more underneath what you’ve said. There’s more you’re fearing, or you wouldn’t have taken the risk to ride out. I’m guessing you won’t be the least bit welcome at home right now.”
She thought of Andrew’s stony face. Suddenly it was as if her heart were being shredded from her. She closed her eyes against the pain. The splintery edge of the wagon pressed against her face. “I wasn’t thinking,” she whispered; “I wasn’t seeing the whole of it until this moment. It’s like a wall I’ve built, isn’t it? There’s no room to change anything, and they’ll never understand. What will they do to Andrew once they find out? They’ll never believe I haven’t betrayed them. I’ve only tried to protect—” she raised her head, “and even that hasn’t worked.”
From a moment of silence, he said, “I have an idea. Ride along with us to Mountain Meadows. You can hide in the wagon as we pass through Pinto. Stay with us until we reach Nevada, and then we’ll send you back with a rider. He can say that we’ve taken you hostage for our safe passage. In that way you can be delivered home, free of blame.”
Rebecca nodded and with growing eagerness, exclaimed, “Oh, yes, that’s very good.” But even as she spoke the words, she felt she was grasping a straw bridge. There were those words she must push out of her mind, the picture of an open grave.
The next day the train avoided Cedar City, cutting a new trail across the flatlands, heading for the distant cut that marked the mountain valley through which they must pass.
Mountain Meadows was all that Hamblin had promised it to be. When Rebecca opened her eyes that Sabbath morning, the early sun was slanting pale light through the morning mists rising from the deep gorge sheltering the river. Although it was September, the grass was still green and full of life. The cottonwoods and willows clustered along the edge of the gorge were tipped with gold, but the meadows seemed a forever summer land. Rebecca could hear the frogs croaking with the background music of swiftly moving water.
Lying in the little tent, concentrating on the sounds and smells of this spot, even while the strange ache of the future leaned heavily upon her, a thought occurred to her. Could she give herself to the enjoyment of this day and this place without entertaining thoughts of all that might lie ahead? Could she trust God with the future? It seemed a divine challenge, and she felt her heart lifting in response. The baby was stirring within her, and she pressed her hands against him. “My little one, how glad I will be to see you! But today is today, and while we are one, we’ll give ourselves to this moment.”
Mrs. Fancher was standing beside the wagon. With head lifted, she was breathing deeply of the freshness of the morning. “Ah, Rebecca, how wonderful it is! It’s a spot where a body could be content to stay forever.”
“There’s all that’s necessary—the water, the sun and grass. The frogs and birds seem most content.”
“But they’ve no need to seek their fortune. How blessed they are. After breakfast, we’ll be having a Sabbath worship.” She paused with bucket on hip. “Would you be inclined to worship with us or—”
“Oh!” Rebecca cried, hardly daring to hope, “do you believe Jesus is God and that the Bible is God’s Word—truly believe?”
“Why, of course. I grant, some of us live it better than others; but we have a good preacher right here, and he’s an encouragement.”
There was a question on her face. Rebecca confessed, while she poked her toe in the damp soil. “I’ve been reading my mother’s Bible. I choose to believe Jesus is God and that the Bible is God’s Word. I believe in the atonement of Christ.”
It seemed as if there was a holy hush spreading across the meadow as the people gathered on the grass, facing the darksuited man. The Reverend Harper was holding a large blackbound book. As Rebecca studied him, his eyes met hers. He’s feeling a heavy load, she thought.
Now the Book was opened to words that had grown precious to her. Like gentle drops of rain they fell: “the trial of your faith…more precious than gold…hope to the end for grace….”
On Monday, the Indians began their attack. The first line of washing had been strung between the wagons, and the women were bending together over the steaming tubs. They were chatting merrily.
When Rebecca straightened to rub her back, she saw the cloud of dust. Mute, she pointed, and at that moment the war cries echoed across the meadow. While women’s screams filled the air, Rebecca hung motionless, her arm still lifted. The heavy shouting of the men broke the spell, and she became a part of the mass that raced to the wagons, burrowing deep into the sheltering depths.
Through a slit in the canvas Rebecca watched the men take their positions behind that mounding bank of dirt that stood between the wagons and the river. Rebecca was seeing it all as sharply as if it were being etched eternally on the crystal of her mind.
Dust puffed from the dirt bank, and she realized the menace was rifles, not bows and arrows. Now bullets cut across the chasm, showering the wagons, the horses, the cattle, and the men. They were drawing a steel curtain between the wagon train and the river lying just down that steep slope.
As a bullet tore into the canvas above Rebecca’s head, hands forced her down. “What are you doing,” Mrs. Fancher gasped, “sitting up there with the bullets a-flyin’?”
“Why,” Rebecca said slowly, speaking out of the shock that wouldn’t release her to move and think and feel, “why, they’ve cut off our water.” The silence in the wagon reached the smallest child, and dismay swept across the faces.
It was Mrs. Fancher’s brisk voice that broke the spell. “There’s no call to fret. The men’ll send the Indians a-packin’. ’Tisn’t the first Indian raid we’ve had.”
Throughout the day, the Indians continued to make their swooping attacks on the wagons. Inside the circle of wagons, while one group of men crouched to return their fire, the others were digging an entrenchment.
Warm bodies, tiny limbs pressed against Rebecca. A breath touched her cheek. “Miz Jacobson, why don’t the Indians go home so we can sleep in our own wagon. I’m thirsty.”
The sun rose higher and seared the moisture from the grass. A sip of water was shared, a bit of bread. Children were hushed and babies nursed. Still the women and children huddled close, trying to read courage and hope in each other’s faces. But Rebecca had to turn away, fighting the night-time thoughts that shadowed her.
Liz Fancher was speaking, “It’s certain we can’t go another day without water. There’s not a speck left in this jug, and the bucket’s been empty since yesterday. We need water for the wounded.”
Another woman whispered, “They’re working now to send out children with a white flag to get water. They don’t shoot children.”
“No!” Rebecca cried, “no, they mustn’t—” Liz’s eyes warned, and she dared say no more.
As the day passed slowly, Rebecca recalled the words that had drifted up to her as she lay in the Morgans’ loft. Was it possible that she had really heard those words? Avenge. Let the Indians do it, so’s there’s no blood guilt about the women and children. Listen to council. Live your religion. Avenge the Prophet.
Blood atonement. Sharp and clear came the picture of Brother Johnson. She could hear his shovel strike the stones as he lifted the earth from his own grave. Andrew. There was that question again.
Timmy’s mother was comforting him. “Never you mind. Those people in Cedar, like as not, have heard about this, and they’ll come rescue us. There’s lots of people around here; they’ll help.”
The words burst from Rebecca, “You don’t know—” All eyes focused on her. The children were hanging on her words. Trusting. She was silent now, turning away.
The days were losing significance. The sun went down, and the coolness eased the thirst; fretful sleep eased the hunger.
Silent shadows slipped close to the wagon. “Are you safe? Many’s been shot; a number won’t make it. There’s no way we can slip down for water. Be brave; help’ll come.”
Morning came and Rebecca must hide her face, stifle her fears. “God, Jesus,” she whispered against the canvas. “Please, the children are so young.”
An edge of desperation was moving through the company. The last of the water was carried to the wounded.
Rebecca shook her head sadly as the three men prepared to slip out of the camp. They were going to Cedar for help. “It’s a waste,” she mourned as she cuddled little Annie Barker against her. Annie’s father had been wounded yesterday. Now Timmy’s father had been shot. Rebecca reached down to pat the shoulder of the little boy huddled miserably against her while the babe within her stirred against her ribs.
“Timmy, how would you like to hear a story?” His expression was blank as he turned his head toward the sounds of battle.
Dusk was deepening as the Reverend Harper crawled between the wagons, whispering encouragement to the women and children. Rebecca asked, “What’s become of the men who went to Cedar?” He avoided her eyes. As she started to speak, he hastily interrupted.
“Mrs. Evans sent this bit of bread for the children. Be brave, sister.”
Behind Rebecca there was a muffled sob, but she didn’t turn. She leaned wearily against the rib of the wagon, and little Timmy reminded, “Pa says stay down.”
When the sun was gone a cool wind swept across the meadow, whistling through the trees. Rebecca could hear the gurgling water, and she licked her parched lips.
“Rebecca,” Liz Fancher was speaking cautiously, “doesn’t it seem to you that it’s been a long time since we’ve heard the Indians?”
“Yes, it does.” She sighed with relief, but tried to conquer hope.
She was dozing when she heard the babble of voices. A call swept across the meadow with its answering chorus. “It’s help! Someone’s coming with a flag.”
Timmy hugged Rebecca, and they crowded to the end of the wagon to see. There were two men, three. The darkness wasn’t revealing all, but a shadowy figure was led into the circle of wagons. The elation seemed to still, die. The voices deepened.
A man left the group and came to the wagon. It was Mr. Fancher. “These men are from Cedar. They say the only way we can safely get past the Indians is to leave everything here except enough necessities to see us through and then walk the thirty miles back to Cedar. We’re to go unarmed, marching with the women and children in front. There’ll be wagons carrying the babies and the wounded.”
“Charles, that doesn’t sound like a wise thing to do. How’ll we last through such a long walk with so many little ones?”
“Who are the men?” Rebecca asked in a low voice. “Might be I should talk to ’em.”
“No,” he said sharply. “For now it’s better if they don’t know about you.”
He turned to his wife, speaking softly and shaking his head, “It doesn’t sound smart at all; but I’ve been outvoted, and we’ll go.”
“The risk is worse than staying,” Rebecca said heavily. “You don’t—”
He cut through her words, “The only thing we have left is hope, Rebecca; don’t snatch that from us.”
In the darkness wagons creaked, and terrified horses snorted. There was the sharp cry of the wounded as they were lifted into the first wagon. Children and babies were taken from their mothers. Whimpering with fright, they were bundled into the wagon along with supplies. The creaking of the wagon was fading as the silent lines of women and older children took their places.
Now it was their turn. As they fumbled their way down the trail, back through the cut, walking past trees and bushes, Rebecca became conscious of dark shadows joining them. She pressed her knuckles against her lips to quiet their trembling.
From the sounds of heels striking stone, Rebecca guessed a multitude was behind her, but she dared not look. Her heart was pounding with a heavy, slow beat. The pale gleam of moonlight brightened the scene, revealing shapes. She brushed at the perspiration dampening her face and tried to calm herself.
Suddenly there was a shout: “Do your duty!”
The shadows erupted into life. Dark forms ran from the trees and bushes. From behind her shots rang out, and the meadow was filled with screams of terror. “No, oh, no! Please!”
Dark forms streaked toward her. Rebecca plunged away from the trail, running desperately. Behind her, screams were becoming cries of agony. The thudding of hooves approached in the darkness ahead of her. Suddenly a horse glistened in the moonlight. A rider scrambled from the saddle, and the light touched his face.
“Andrew! Oh, Andrew!” At the moment of recognition she was seeing him turn and kneel. Moonlight touched the muzzle of his rifle, and she stopped. Her hands had been outstretched. Now they reached instinctively for her breast. With a sigh she dropped her hands and waited. How could she have expected anything else?
The rifle kicked backward as a knife of light leaped from its muzzle and the noise of a shot carommed among the trees. A hammer-like blow against her right ribs jerked Rebecca backward. She stumbled and fell face-first on the rocky ground.
The man stared for a moment, then fumbled to reload. Finished, he began to raise the rifle to his shoulder, but Rebecca’s body was limp and quiet. Satisfied that his mission was complete, he stood and reached for his horse.
The lone rider was heading westward. In front of him the mountains’ dark peaks funneled off to the south. He reined his horse and listened to the raucous cry of a crow echo through the morning air. Joshua’s breath had frosted his beard, and his hands were stiff with cold.
Autumn color had faded into the gray and dismal browns of November. Today bare branches whipped the frosty air. Narrowing his eyes against the sun, he studied the clouds sweeping north along the edge of the mountains. He touched his horse’s neck. “Old girl, we’ll avoid that storm by cutting west here, but I don’t reckon I know where this road leads.” He absently patted her as his eyes continued to scan the countryside. “It appears to be a meadow, and if it just keeps rolling gentlelike, clear to Nevada, we’ve an easy trip ahead.” The horse responded to his nudge and turned down the narrow trail.
Joshua knew he shared the trail a moment before the horseman appeared. He pulled aside and waited. The man approaching was dark. His broad shoulders were covered by a great coat as dark as the beard that touched it.
As he rode slowly toward Joshua, he pushed his hat away from his face. His blue eyes were watchful, measuring. He stopped his tall roan in the middle of the trail. As the horse pawed restlessly, he said, “I thought I was seeing things for a minute. That’s a nice looking buckskin you’re riding. Did you buy her to match your britches and your hair?” His grin was an even slash of white in the dark beard.
Joshua tensed and frowned. The man’s friendly manner struck an uneasy response from him. He tilted his hat a shade closer to the bridge of his nose. “I don’t rightly guess I gave it any more thought than you did when you picked your coat.”
There was a pause, and the man’s grin vanished. When he spoke his voice was heavy. “You lost? Not many ride this way.”
“I’m looking for a shortcut west.” He gestured toward the dark clouds. “Straight south I’ll run into snow.”
“Could be. But this road dead-ends at Mountain Meadows.” He paused, and wary eyes searched Joshua’s face. The years of traveling had taught Joshua to keep his thoughts to himself. The muscle along his jawline tightened as he ducked his head.
“Then point me on my way. I want the fastest road out of Utah.”
“Better head south for the Clara, then west.” The eyes were still wary. “What brings you this way?”
Joshua hesitated, and tension crept through him. Despite the warning every instinct gave, he couldn’t resist one last try. He shoved his hat back and admitted, “I’m looking for a friend. When I pass through the territory I always ask. Just a friend, but I like to keep track of my friends.”
“What’s his name?”
“Her—her maiden name was Wolstone. I don’t know the married name. Rebecca Wolstone from Illinois. Ever hear of her?”
The blue eyes darkened and his mouth twitched fleetingly. Slowly, the man raised his hat and smoothed his hair. “Yes,” he paused, “I’ve heard of Rebecca Wolstone. You can quit looking for her. She’s dead.” His eyes were emotionless, but as the man continued to talk his eyes held Joshua’s. His voice was flat, low. “Rebecca wasn’t one of the sturdy Saints. It’s unfortunate, but the kind heavenly Father knows best.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was heavy as if he spoke almost against his will. “We Saints don’t fight the will of the Lord, although at times we reckon it to be harsh, harsh as the land we call Zion.”
He nudged his horse, and the restless beast moved closer to Joshua. The man pointed. “Just head toward that cut in the mountains. The trail’s easy to spot, and it’ll take you direct to Clara.”
Joshua slumped in the saddle. As he rode he was scarcely conscious of the lowering clouds, the swirling flakes, and the bite of cold.
The horse picked her way along the mountain road, as aimlessly as if she no longer carried the rider on her back. It was late in the afternoon when Joshua’s emotions reached the depths, and once again he was becoming aware of life and deepening cold when he heard the horse behind him.
This time it was an Indian pony. The blanket-swathed figure moved close to Joshua and halted. The blanket was dropped and the bronze figure straightened and peered through the snow. “Mormonee lost?”
“No, I’m heading for the Clara. I think I’m on the right trail. I’m not a Mormon.” The Indian was studying him.
“Cold. Bad.” He pointed to the darkening sky; then he beckoned, gestured, as he reached to tug at the buckskin’s reins. “Come.” He motioned toward the sky again, and pulling the blanket close, he walked his horse ahead. Now Joshua realized the Indian was offering to lead him.
“I’m obliged!” he shouted; “just point the way. I don’t—”
The Indian was moving ahead, and Joshua followed. Within an hour his guide turned off the road and started up the mountain. Joshua halted and shouted, “No! I go to the Clara.” The Indian came back and twitched the horse’s reins. Now Joshua was beginning to sense the urgency in the Indian’s actions, and reluctantly he fell in behind the Indian pony. As the trail narrowed and the pony slowed on the slippery slope, Joshua became aware of his surroundings. The trees were becoming taller and the undergrowth heavier. When the timber formed a canopy against the blizzard, Joshua caught the scent of wood smoke.
They broke into a clearing. Snow-covered cones dotted the area, and Joshua realized they were in an Indian village.
They led their horses to shelter under the trees. Joshua shook snow from his clothes and removed his snow-laden hat to wipe the moisture from his face. The Indian was untying bundles, lifting them from his pony, and Joshua went to help.
“Sun.” There was awe in the Indian’s voice. Joshua realized he was staring at his hair and beard. “Sun child,” he said again, this time with understanding. He nodded and grinned. “Mormonee sun child, too.”
“No, I’m not Mormon,” Joshua said, “I’m—” The Indian was unwrapping the bundle and Joshua caught his breath. With a quick step he moved and touched the little leather trunk. “Where did you get this?”
The Indian seemed surprised, “Mormonee sun child.” He frowned and hesitated while his dark eyes studied him again. He said, “Come, sun child.” Bewildered, Joshua followed the Indian through the snow to one of the huts. He stooped and staggered through the opening. In the dark, smoky room he stood waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
One of the women turned from the fire. Her braids were long and as yellow as new-ripened wheat. His lips were stiff, unbelieving, but he must try the name. “Rebecca?” She was much taller than he remembered and much too thin.
It was a long moment before she moved, and whispered, “Joshua, is it really you?”
“Mormonee sun child.”
“Like children of light,” said the woman standing beside Rebecca. Joshua stepped closer to Rebecca and looked into her face. There were pain-filled shadows in her eyes. Looking at the thin, pale cheeks, he ached for her suffering.
Gently, as if he were touching a wounded child, he reached for her. A sigh escaped her lips as she leaned against his shoulder. He felt tears against his neck.
The Indian woman stepped close to them, saying simply, “You two belong.” She touched their hair. “I not believe Eagle’s story about woman on mountain with hair like light. Now two of you.”
There was compassion in her eyes as she said, “Sun child very ill. Fever from gun wound; baby born dead.”
Joshua felt Rebecca’s trembling and sensed the deep, silent sobbing. Alarmed he said, “Rebecca, don’t. You are safe now. I’ll make certain of that.”
When she could talk, she raised her head, “Why did you think I wasn’t safe?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. But there was nothing in me except the constant need to find you. The feeling wouldn’t let me rest.” Was he sensing her shrinking away from him? “Rebecca, I’m asking nothing except, will you please let me take you home to Ma? You don’t need to say one thing about what’s happened. Just come with me. Let the past go.”
The room emptied slowly, and Rebecca said, “I think it will be best forgotten if I tell you all first.” They sat down beside the fire. The Indian woman, Solali, touched Rebecca’s shoulder before she left. Rebecca explained, “Solali was a plural wife too. She wasn’t happy and returned to her own people. That’s why she speaks English. She also understands why I can’t return to them.”
Joshua watched the sadness creep across Rebecca’s face as she stared into the fire. Finally, she roused herself and began her story.
The embers dulled and grayed before new wood was added. A fresh log flared and glowed, but the embers were dying again before her story reached that night on Mountain Meadows.
Watching her face, knowing now where the story was leading, Joshua said, “As soon as I rode into the territory I knew something was afoot. I’ve never been aware of such emotions, and they were everywhere as I rode the trails and looked in the towns.”
“Looking for me?”
He nodded. They were silent for a long time, but when she spoke again, he sensed an easing of the tension between them.
Rebecca whispered, “When we started the march back to Cedar City, it seemed the very air was alive with something evil and frightening. My knees would scarce hold me as we walked. And I was sensing them moving out of the darkness. When the shouting began and the screams and gunfire, I ran. Then I saw Andrew.” She swallowed and shook her head. Grief bowed her double. Joshua stirred the fire and waited.
“’Twas the Lord. I am sure of it. It was His blessed faithfulness, not a quirk of fate that sent this Indian to me. You’ve heard them say he recognized me by my hair.” Her voice was low and husky. “I don’t know what significance he saw in it, but he hid me in the bushes and later carried me to this village. You’ve been told the rest.”
Out of a long silence she spoke, “It’s the blood atonement. ’Tis written in the Doctrine and Covenants. I read it for myself. Says that if a man in the priesthood has a wife who sins against the new and everlasting covenant, she is to be destroyed in the flesh. Do you understand, Joshua?
“When I told Andrew I was trusting in the atonement of Jesus Christ for my salvation, this meant I was rejecting the new and everlasting covenant. He was obligated.” She trembled and held her hands to the fire. It was a long time before she whispered, “’Tis his religion that makes him into this. So far as he knows, I’m dead. For him to know otherwise means he’ll have the job to do over again.”
“Then there’s no way you can return to him,” Joshua said slowly. “Your choice of Christ’s atonement was a denial of the new and everlasting covenant. To return to him means death. Rebecca, you know I’m obliged to carry you out of here.”
It was his turn to be silent and then his words were tentative, as if he sensed he was probing a sore spot. “You know these plural marriages aren’t recognized by the government of the United States. And he didn’t tell you he already had a wife when you married him. Nowhere else in the country will he have any legal hold on you.”
For a moment Rebecca’s expression became hopeful; then fear crept into her eyes. “’Tis so. But I’m still here. Under the covenant, he’s obliged to destroy me if he really loves me. They teach ’tis the only way I’d make it to the highest glory.”
“Then you must flee for your life. Rebecca, I’m taking you home with me.” As if he sensed her questions, he raised his hand. “Rebecca, I’m asking nothing. Only let me take you home. For us both, that is enough for now.”
When Joshua moved again, it was with the motion of casting off a burden. He asked, “Were there survivors?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I had Solali ask Eagle. He said that all the emigrants were killed except the smallest children. Seventeen of them were taken to the Saints. That means there were one hundred and twenty older children, men and women who were killed. Eagle admitted the Indians had been given the task of murdering the women and children. Oh, Joshua, I still can’t believe it. The stories were so horrible. Eagle said the wolves got the bodies; they had been poorly buried. When I remember those kind people….” She turned away with her grief. Her voice muffled, she said, “I’ll never forget that I failed.”
The fire died and they could hear the wind and feel the press of cold. Joshua rose to kindle it afresh. In the light of leaping flames, Rebecca stirred and straightened. The lines were still on her face and the shadows in her eyes, but she lifted her chin and her hands were moving, touching the world around her.
“I made these people realize I must never return to my home. But there was one thing from the past I wanted. When I explained it to Solali, she sent Eagle to Pinto for it.”
“The wedding dress?”
“My mother’s Bible. Before I left Pinto I felt the strong need to hide the Book. It had become too precious to risk. I placed it in the trunk where it belongs and shoved it back under the bed. I couldn’t tell Eagle to bring just the Book, because there was another black book there. I dared not run the risk of having him bring the wrong book, so I asked for the trunk.”
“But the dress?”
“It’s in there. But, Joshua, the dress wasn’t the important thing. It was the Bible. My mother was trying to tell me that the Holy Bible was my only hope. I’m sure of that now. How blind I was to think a marriage was what she had in mind. How blind I was to think anything could supplant what God has given in His Word.”
In another moment she moved again. This time there was a new expression on her face. Even in the shadowed room he could see the sad lines ease as her eyes were touched with new light.
“My friend,” she whispered, “my dear faithful friend. I can’t begin to understand the sacrifice you’ve made for me. Will I ever be worthy of this care, this concern?”
He took her hand and squeezed it, clasping it between his two. “Rebecca, seems I don’t know much about God, but I remember how I felt first off—unworthy. I couldn’t lift my face to Him. When I finally could understand what He was saying to me in His Word, I knew He was wanting me to be thinking now about His love, not my unworthiness. If He doesn’t want those feelings of not being worthy between me and Him, I sure can’t imagine Him thinking it’s good between a man and a woman.”
There were shadows moving back into her eyes, and he guessed her thoughts were on the past again. His own heart ached, but he could only watch helplessly.
Suddenly she took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Joshua, can you be patient?” She raised a trembling hand, but as she pressed it against his shoulder and then lifted it to his face, the trembling ceased.
With the other hand she brushed her hair away from her eyes and met his steadily. He smiled down at her. “Patience? It’s faith, Becky. Everything’s going to be all right.”