The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) (48 page)

“By George, I’d forgotten. He told me so himself. I’m obliged, Sister Morgenthaler. We hope to see you in the Emporium soon.”

“And I hope to see you, and your boy, in meeting today, Brother McPheeters.”

“Absolutely, absolutely,” said my father, and when she was out of sight, “Ridiculous old gobbler. A woman on that level of intellect should be boiled down for glue. They’re a drag on civilization. Come along, laddie, look sharp, now. It’s just down the street.”

Reaching Thomas’, we waited till nobody was around, then stepped to the rear, where there was an outside stairway, and climbed up in a hurry.

My father knocked, and after a pesky long time, the door opened slowly. I don’t know what we expected to see, but I’m blessed if it wasn’t the same pale, mischievous young man who had “interpreted” for the woman in church. The one that got up and said, “Melai, meli, melo, melooey.”

“Mr. Mar—” my father began, but he interrupted with, “Come in, doctor—been expecting you.”

We went inside to a plain, neat room full of books and pictures, and the young man added without preliminaries, “In trouble with the Danites, right?”

“Why, how did you know?”

“My business to know,” replied Marlowe, who seemed opposed to wasting time, and speech, on non-essentials. The fact is, everything he said was in a kind of chopped-off, businesslike style, half comic, but soothing on the nerves, too.

“Anyhow, neither here nor there. Question is, how much time?”

My father handed him over our threatening note, then sketched in details of our case, bringing it up to the present, with Kissel and Jennie headed for the Council. While he talked, seated in an uncomfortable-looking chair, the young man paced back and forth, frowning.

“Enough. Got it,” he said, cutting my father off in the middle of a gabby sentence. “Too much talk everywhere; not enough action.”

“Quite so,” said my father, rattled. “I’ve said so many’s the time.”

“Probably too many,” replied this unusual young man. “Where’s your gear? Horses, mules, wagons, furnishings?”

My father began to tell him, but he was so addled by the strange new speech that he began to do it himself.

“Farmer’s, mules out of town. Animals boarded, other stuff stored.”

“Organize your group. Wait at home for Council’s word. If not good, move out tonight. Only way. Seen it before.”

“Right,” said my father. “Say so myself.”

I could see he was itching to ask this Marlowe some questions—what was his part in this Mormon system, why he knew Bridger so well, what was his purpose in helping us, and so on. But he squashed it somehow, and we got up to leave.

Then, all of a sudden, the young man turned human for a second. “Don’t worry,” he said, clapping my father on the shoulder. “It’s a bad business, but don’t worry. Leave it all to me. Hate Danites and such. Enjoy outwitting, follow me?”

My father thawed out. “I do, and thank you for your help. We’re agitated. The ladies are upset.”

“Of course, naturally. Danites a terrible, bloody, murdering
bunch. Good Mormons stamp them out someday. Too soon yet. Meanwhile, fight ’em.”

“We’ll fight,” said my father. “We’ve had enough religious fanaticism for a while.” Then, pausing for a second, looking like his old self, he added, “Fed up.”

They laughed together, and we moved toward the door, the young man sliding forward nimbly to have a look out first.

“Quick, back!” he cried, and as he did, we heard a stomping of feet on the lower steps.

“In God’s name, where?” said my father.

“Under the bed. Nip under, both.
Jump!”

We rolled under just as a heavy banging commenced on the door. We heard the snick of a lock, then our host saying, “Well, well, Brother Muller. And friends. How pleasant. A Sunday visit?”

“That’s enough of your rubbish, Marlowe,” said Muller. “The Council’s on to you. And
so are some others.
Do you know what I mean?”

“No idea at all. Must ask my Uncle Brigham.”

“Being related to Brigham Young ain’t going to save your hide forever. You’ve been skating on thin ice. Where’s that doctor and the boy? They was seen heading here.”

From under the bed, I could make out four pairs of rough cowhide boots, shuffling from one position to another, and Marlowe’s slippered feet. Of them all, only his stood still for a moment.

“Here? Must have come in when I wasn’t looking. Let’s see, now—sitting here reading, facing east.”

“There’s another door. Have a look, Ben,” said Muller to one of his friends. “You’re pretty funny, aren’t you, Marlowe? Too good for us Saints, hey?”

“Not good enough for some, too good for others,” said the young man in a quiet, different voice.

“What do you mean by that?” I could see a pair of boots come forward two paces until they nearly touched the slippers.

“Nobody’s out here. It’s a hallway,” cried Ben. “Give his nose a pull, and let’s get along.”

“The Council’s just ruled that the girl and old blubber-bag are unsealed. She’s going to me. Tell your doctor that, you interfering priss.”

“One moment,” said Marlowe. “Who are you talking about?”

“Innocent, hey? You know well enough. You’d help them, too, if you was able. Ox-belly, and that big-titty cod-tease he stole.”

“You mean the fellow who put that splint on your jaw?”

There was the sound of a very hard slap, then a silence broken only by a coarse chuckle from one of Muller’s friends.

“That may turn out to be the very worst mistake you ever made in your coward’s life, friend brewer,” said Marlowe, sounding perfectly happy and cheerful.

Muller evidently thought he’d gone too far, for he said, “Come on, let’s get out—we’ve got things to do.”

When the door slammed, Marlowe snapped the lock and came hopping back. “Up you go, out in the hall, down through the store. Watch close, we can’t have a ruckus now. Everything depends on it. Hold on, that door’s locked with a key downstairs.”

“Aha!” cried my father, digging in his pocket. “I’ve got the key.”

“Splendid. Take it slow down inside stair. No one home-Thomas in church. Hole up till nobody’s in sight on the street.”

“Tonight?” said my father.

“Bundle up and wait with lights out.”

“Most grateful—” began my father, only to be cut off again.

“Enough. No time for talk. Action, remember?”

We tiptoed down into the dark, gloomy store, which could have had an enemy in the shadows behind every box and barrel, and took up a position peering out from under the drawn shades.

“Come to think of it, I’ve got three dollars due in wages,” said my father. “I’ll just square the account,” and he crossed the room to lift down a handsome new revolving pistol that came in only the week before. It was in a leather holster, on a cartridge belt, and this last he filled all around, then dumped two additional boxes in his pocket. Strapped on, the gun made no noticeable bulge under his coat. This was handy, for our other pistols were ruined in the
firing of Kissel’s wagon. Just the same, I spoke up; I couldn’t help it.

“Father, doesn’t that add up to more than three dollars?”

“It works out exactly right,” he said. “Three dollars plus the Christmas bonus the old skinflint promised but failed to deliver when the time came. No, it’s right on the amount, lacking a few cents, which we can easily settle. Have a piece of candy, son.” And he held out a big glass jar.

“I don’t mind if I do,” I said, grinning. I filled my shirt pocket.

“That’s better. I don’t like to see a debt go unpaid, and neither does Brother Thomas. It’d plague him if he thought about it.”

In ten minutes the street was clear, and we stepped out, walking very brisk and fast toward home. Everybody was waiting for us, Jennie and Kissel sitting down, looking glum, and the others, including Mrs. Kissel, all in the same room, on our side of the house.

“Stir yourselves,” said my father, closing the door behind him. “We haven’t a minute to lose—we’re moving out tonight.”

Nobody said a word, but you knew by the way they lit into the packing that we were glad things had finally come to a head.

All was ready long before dark. When night fell, we kept the lamps lit till eight o’clock only, then blew them out. We waited in the darkness.

The night was still, no wind, wholly clear without many stars, cool but not cold, and with that first springy softness in the air that means winter’s about gone. I tiptoed through the back door and stood smelling and listening. Already the ice on the canal was broken here and there, where children had thrown rocks in, and you could hear water gurgling below. Pretty soon now the snows would melt in the high mountains, and the river and streams of this valley would be a-bulge with ice water. Even now, they said, there were bare patches on mountain faces where an unusual March sun had beaten down for several days together.

Sidling around, I peered up the street into the darkness. Then I saw something move across the street, a shape blacker than the
shadows. I said to myself, what if Muller’s got somebody watching the house? We’d never get out.

When I went back to tell the others, Mr. Kissel said, “I’ll take a look.” He crept out the back, and we tried to watch through the windows, but nobody could see anything but the darkness of the street.

Suddenly, we heard sharp sounds of a scuffle—a scraping of feet on hard ground, a thud, and then a muffled cry. Five minutes later, there came two soft kicks at the back door, and upon our throwing it open, Mr. Kissel was there with one of Muller’s friends slung over his shoulder, unconscious.

“I was obliged to invite him in,” Mr. Kissel said.

My father and Mr. Coe took bandage strips and trussed the man up, hands and feet; then they strapped a wad of gauze in his mouth for a gag. He appeared to have a fair-sized knot on his forehead, and he was breathing heavy, like a horse that’s gone uphill a few miles.

“What did you hit him with?” asked my father in his professional voice, bending down.

“Knuckled him,” said Mr. Kissel.

We talked in whispers, and did the tying up to matchlight, that burned a second or two, then flickered out. Now we kept watch in the dark again.

It was just at ten when the door burst open, bringing us scrambling to our feet, and Marlowe shut it quickly behind him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Needed to make sure. Ready, all? Well, well, what’s this?”

My father told how we had captured Muller’s friend, who was slumbering, then he said, “We’re packed up, children wrapped in blankets, and itching to get started.”

“Then out we go. Leave him here; he’ll keep till morning. Single-file after me. Wagons and animals on edge of town.”

“How on earth—?”

“Never mind. No time for words.”

As nearly as I could see, he led us, Kissel and Mr. Coe and
my father carrying the smallest children, Mrs. Kissel leading the other by the hand, over a back route through the sleeping town and toward the Valley beyond.

In a rocky hollow near the lake we found an Indian boy waiting with the Brice and Coe wagons, loaded with plunder and provisions along with the oxen, mules, and Spot. The moon was up, though veiled over with mist, and things looked ghostly pale as we tumbled children and women into the wagons, packed traps on the mules, which seemed in an agreeable humor for a change, and made the last adjustments of straps and other harness.

“Hurry, hurry, don’t dawdle. They’ll be on our heels before daylight,” said Marlowe, mounted on a horse of his own now, riding up and down beside us.

We cracked the reins and headed off toward the lake, across the Salt Valley, half frozen, patchy with snow, silvery in color under that dull moon.

For hours after reaching the water, we followed the lake shore, crossing some foothills that came right down at one point, with snow to make it hard pulling, and before dawn left the lake to come out on what Marlowe said was the South Trail. Everybody was half dead with tiredness and the animals had that “sobbing” of their sides that my father once put in his Journals.

But we didn’t rest long. The animals were fed and watered, we lay down for maybe an hour, until the sky had paled a little across the Wasatch Mountains, then Marlowe was rousting us out. Nobody argued; we knew he told the truth when he said the Danites would pick up the trail by morning. We knew, too, that if caught it meant death for some and a kind of slavery for the rest.

But I don’t recollect ever being so played out. We’d been keyed up and nervous for days, and now we had gone all night without sleep. Off and on, I rode Spot a little, but mostly I walked to keep him fresh. Now, with the daylight coming, Po-Povi and I got up, double, for a while and plodded along, nodding and waking, nodding and waking.

When it was full light, we took to looking back over our shoulders.
You do that without knowing it when you think you’re being followed. Nothing in sight, but after another rocky range, I noticed Marlowe, on a little peak, studying the low, level waste that stretched out in the shimmering haze behind us.

“Anything?” said my father, when Marlowe got down again.

“Dust cloud—air spiral. Nothing yet.”

But he watched more frequently all that day and into the next. And finally, from another rock, studying the back trail, glancing at the sun, and making calculations, he called out:

“So, ho! Company.”

We stopped and collected in haste, the women frightened and white. For perhaps the hundredth time that day we stared back at the road we’d come along.

“Other direction,” said Marlowe, pointing to the hills.

We whirled round and saw nothing at first but a succession of rocky rills, over which thin clouds drifted, lonely and silent. Then I caught sight of a sun glint on metal, high in the boulders, a glitter followed by several others, spaced out with method.

“Hadn’t we better form a defense?” cried my father, more agitated than I’d seen him yet on the trip. “We’re exposed on all sides.”

“Harmless unless aroused,” said Marlowe, pointing up, where a loose, untidy figure carrying a brass-bound telescope was making its leisurely way down.

“Dear me,” said my father. He sounded a little shaky in spite of himself. “Major Bridger.” And looking again. “Now don’t tell me—”