The Wedding Dress (37 page)

“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.”