The Three Sentinels

By Fred M. Civish Jr.

Join young Jesse Basham in his amazing life on a journey starting from Missouri on the 1857 Francher wagon train headed for California. It all came to an end at Mountain Meadows, Utah, where the entire train was massacred. Left for dead, Jesse was nursed back to life by a clan of Paiute Indians. He was accepted into their tribe and renamed Mericat, since the Paiute language only had two words for white men. The first was Momen, for the Mormons who came into the land as settlers. The second was Mericats, for everyone else. While the wonders of a historic wagon train trip along the Oregon trail and the life among the Paiute are a fascinating read, it is the deceit of those who did the attack and the causes for the massacre which makes this historical novel important.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645369516

Fred M. Civish Jr.

Fred M. Civish Jr. is a professional journalist living in Ogden, Utah. He began writing as an author/photographer for trade journals and has over a thousand articles published in over a hundred trade journals. He has three books published: The Sunnyside War, about the first nationwide coal strike (600,000 miners went on strike) and the killings that occurred during it; Losing Weight for Life (Eating What You Like on the RMR Diet). He used to weigh over 300 lbs and now weighs 175; and his autobiography Out of the Gulch onto the Mountain Top, which has nothing but five-star ratings on Amazon and reads like a novel as it traces him through life. His broad range of interests besides his love of history and Indian culture, which resulted in this book, include stand-in and bit parts in a number of movies and TV-series, parachute jumping and abalone diving in the Pacific.

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Glossary

About The Author

Fred M. Civish Jr. is a professional journalist living in Ogden, Utah. He began writing as an author/photographer for trade journals and has over a thousand articles published in over a hundred trade journals. He has three books published: The Sunnyside War, about the first nationwide coal strike (600,000 miners went on strike) and the killings that occurred during it; Losing Weight for Life (Eating What You Like on the RMR Diet). He used to weigh over 300 lbs and now weighs 175; and his autobiography Out of the Gulch onto the Mountain Top, which has nothing but five-star ratings on Amazon and reads like a novel as it traces him through life.

His broad range of interests besides his love of history and Indian culture, which resulted in this book, include stand-in and bit parts in a number of movies and TV-series, parachute jumping and abalone diving in the Pacific.

Copyright Information ©

Fred M. Civish Jr. (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Civish Jr., Fred M.

The Three Sentinels

ISBN 9781641828185 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641828192 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645369516 (E-Book)

The main category of the book — FICTION / Historical

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

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Acknowledgments

To Mother Earth for her many wonders, including the picture on the cover of The Three Sentinels of Goblin Valley (Taken by F. Civish).

To all the Native Americans (hereafter referred to as Indians) who inhabited the land I grew up in prior to my birth in 1931. Especially, the Suhuh’vawdutseng tribe of Indians who had lived in my area and left gravesites for me to ponder over as a child. Among other things, they left cliff paintings and countless arrowheads that I gathered until it became so commonplace that I eventually just let them lay.

To the many Indians I have interacted with throughout my life, and who have taught me many important things, especially the elders (Medicine Men) who taught me so much about their way of life.

To the University of Utah and Utah Historical Society libraries where I did over a decade of research.

To LaVan and Jetta Martineau for their book: Southern Paiutes: Legends, Lore, Language and Lineage.

To Juanita Brooks and Jan Shipps for their book: The Mountain Meadows Massacre.

Finally, to my genius of an editor, Roberta Mahin.

Preface

This is a historical novel that is fiction. While most of the names in the novel were real people contemporary to the times, all statements to the main fictional characters and all interactions with them are of course fictional, even though such statements or actions represent the mood, milieu, and ideas of the time as combed from interviews with and legends of the Paiutes, historical records, newspapers, diaries of trips across the plains, etc. Therefore, no inference can or should be made about the character or actions of any specific person or organization in the book. However, where real names of people, wagon train companies, Church, etc. are written about, the things, which ultimately happened to them are real events. Here also, however, many of the circumstances leading up to real events themselves were created by the author to reflect as accurately as possible his view of how and why the events happened.

The fictional characters are: the Jesse Basham family, Trace Stanton, Billy’s family of Paiute, Abraham Madison, and Nancy Madison Greer. However, even each of these are based on real people or are a conglomerate of the types of things endured by real people during the period covered by the novel.

All items covered in the Epilogue are real and historical.

Chapter One

Jesse’s Life Changes Forever

Jesse Basham’s life changed forever that early May of 1857 when word came that a wagon train from Arkansas was coming through their Southern Missouri town to lay over and pick up some Missouri Wildcats as guards. Then it was headed for California.

Heated family discussions and the hurried race to gather funds and supplies for the trip before the train arrived was an exciting time. Arrangements were made and wagon master Alexander Fancher was paid. Jesse’s seven-year-old mind even believed it when his father John Basham’s two brothers promised they too would come west someday when John, Martha, and the two boys were settled there.

We’re going to shoot us some buffalo, Billy commented while they were oiling the harnesses for the two mules that would pull their new wagon.

Not to be outdone by his older brother’s plans, Jesse put on his wisest and most grown-up look. When we get there, I’m going looking for gold, he said as he poured more oil onto a rag and rubbed it into the traces.

Their mother came toward them carrying a jug, Jesse, take this and stow it in the wagon, she said as she got close.

What’s in it, Mom? Jessie asked as he reached out to take the jug.

Uncharacteristically, she spoke sharply to him. I don’t have time for Tom-fool questions. But if you must know, one of the teamsters said we’d have to take Epsom salt and vinegar to put on the mule’s sores when the harness starts chaffing their shoulders, she said as she handed the jug to Jesse. This is extra vinegar.

It slipped from his fingers. Oh, shit, he exclaimed in alarm as the jug hit the ground. Thankfully, it didn’t break.

Impulsively, his mother reached out and slapped him. Watch your mouth. You’re not so grown up you can use that kind of language. You’d better be a lot more careful with things. Once we get started, there will be no replacing things you break.

It wasn’t the pain of the slap that hurt Jesse so much as being humiliated in front of his brother. He felt like an idiot. I’m sorry, Mom, he apologized as he bent over and picked up the jug. Thankfully, it was the last problem he created as the hurried work of packing the wagon progressed. This was important to Jesse because he really did want to be a good boy and please his mom.

There were problems of a different sort, however. His dad said since he was taking his blacksmithing tools with him, extra weight meant extra strain on the mules, so almost everything Jesse owned was to be given to his cousins.

If it ain’t essential during the trip, it ain’t going, and that’s that, John Basham said again and again in a tone leaving no doubt who was the final authority on what went or stayed, or anything else pertaining to the trip for that matter.

Jesse didn’t mind so much giving away his tops or his hoop and stick. What really bothered him was giving away his taw and big pouch of marbles he’d worked so hard to learn to shoot. What bothered him even worse was the smirk on his cousin’s faces, from whom he’d won most of them in the first place. At least, he got to keep his pocket knife for mumblety-peg.

When he returned from that, however, he was crushed by what came next. We ain’t takin’ no damn dog to eat up our spare food, his dad insisted.

Please, Dad, please. He only eats scraps, Jesse said, tears coming to his eyes.

No! And that’s that.

I’ll catch rabbits and things for him, I promise, Jesse stammered between sobs.

Take that damn dog out and give him away or I’ll shoot him. Then, I’ll really give you something to cry about.

Jesse, his mother said in a soft voice. We have no choice.

Jesse would rather be beaten to death than have to give Patch away. He looked at his dad and weighed his chances. I won’t do it! he shouted in defiance. John Basham started toward his son and unbuckled his belt as he came.

Now, John, let’s don’t start our new life off like this. It ain’t worth it, Martha said as she stepped in front of Jesse, shielding him. Billy, take Patch to your cousins.

Here, Patch, Billy called the dog in a husky voice, tears rolling down his own face.

As Billy started away, Jesse began to plead a different bargain. If Patch had to stay, couldn’t he stay with his uncles and cousins too? He no longer wanted to go to California. But it was no use. His mother seemed hurt and his dad swore several times asserting it would serve the ungrateful little wretch right if they did leave him. Hoping against hope, Jesse waited for some miracle to change his dad’s mind and save Patch before they left, but, apparently, this was not the season for miracles.

After everyone was called together for a group prayer, it was even worse for Jesse when the train started moving. His mother was driving the wagon and his dad was riding their horse up ahead to talk with the other Missouri men who were also on horseback. Billy and Jesse walked alongside. The wagons, horses, and assorted livestock people were taking for use along the way made a cloud of dust that was almost choking. If, before they started, Jesse hadn’t seen the three fancy carriages up front with the ladies in it, he would never have known there were anything but freight wagons and Conestogas.

But what was hurting Jesse was the number of dogs whose owners apparently thought they were essential. He kept looking at them and hurt inside every time he thought of Patch. Every dog that barked, every dog that growled, every dog that played with another or scampered about made him think of Patch.

The train did not progress readily at first. While it wasn’t quite chaos trying to keep everybody in their assigned place and moving, it was close. Amid much shouting, cursing, and milling about, they finally began advancing more or less smoothly. Soon, there was enough distance between the wagons and groups that the dust was almost bearable.

After they’d traveled a couple of miles, a man rode up to their wagon. Jesse had no idea who he was. From the inquiring looks on his mother’s face, he assumed she did not either.

Good morning, folks, the man said.

Mornin’, Mr. Fancher, John Basham replied. Had quite a time getting things sorted out, looks like.

That we did, John. Don’t have a lot to time to chat right now, got to check on a lot more families. You folks doin’ alright?

Everything’s fine, Martha said.

The reason I’m checking with all the families, Mrs. Basham, is that some of the families didn’t stock up on medicine. Can’t start a trip like this without medicine. What do you have on hand?

Jesse thought his mother looked ashamed. Sorry, sir, she said. With everything else on my mind, I didn’t give it a thought. What should we have?

Well, Fancher started, then he paused for a moment to think. Nothing, huh? Well, for sure, you’ll need something for summer complaint. It might be wise to have a box of phasic pills, a cruse of peppermint essence, and at least a quart of caster oil. My own experience finds at least a quart of the best rum comes in handy at times as well. When it comes to medicine, you can’t have too much.

Thanks, Mr. Fancher, John said. Fancher waved acknowledgment and rode off. John pulled the wagon out of the line and stopped. Billy, you’ll have to ride back to town and get the stuff. Jesse, help me get the tac out of the wagon and saddle the horse.

Martha pulled out her coin purse, took out a two dollar fifty cent gold piece, and held it up in front of Billy. You remember what Mr. Fancher said? she asked.

Billy dropped his head. Not really, he said as Jesse got the saddle blanket and bridle from the back of the wagon.

His mother quickly repeated the list, then she added, And get some paregoric as well.

Okay, Mom, Billy agreed, and reached for the coin.

The last thing Jesse heard as he carried the stuff over to where his father was removing the halter from the horse was his mother warning Billy not to spend a single extra cent on anything else. She was always harping on money. It was the same warning he always got every time she sent him to the store. Soon, his dad drove the wagon back into a line, and Jesse and his mom were walking alongside.

Martha looked up at her husband. That Mr. Fancher seems like a nice man.

Yeah, John agreed. People tell me he's normally a soft-spoken man. That can change when there’s trouble though. Still, everybody says he’s the type who keeps his head no matter what kind of trouble blows up. They say if anybody can keep a train moving and its people well and happy, it’s him.

The first day out, they traveled only eight miles, Fancher saying they’d start off slow to get the pulling teams and everybody in shape. Jesse didn’t mind walking alongside his family’s wagon. He’d walked ten miles a day many times, but Patch had always been with him. When his dad returned to the wagon and tied the horse on behind, his mother got out and walked. One person in the wagon at a time was enough for the mules.

Don’t think it’s all going to be this easy, she warned Jesse. There are hard times ahead, she said in an anxious tone of voice and with a worried look on her face.

When they stopped for the evening, Billy still hadn’t got back with the paregoric yet. The wagons were circled, fires built, and Martha began cooking. Enjoy yourselves, Martha said as she stood back so everyone could help themselves from the heavy cast iron frying pans on the embers of the fire and the Dutch oven hanging above it. We ain’t going to be eating this high off the hog for very long. Again the anxious tone and worried look.

After his dad helped himself, Jesse scooped up a generous portion of stewed chicken. He looked over at the two hutches of chickens hanging on the side of the trailer. He knew that, at best, only a couple of hens and one rooster would make it with them all the way to California. He took a hunk of corn bread, sopped up some of the juice from the chicken, and took a bite. Hungry as he was, good as it tasted, his heart ached at the thought of how much Patch would love a piece of it.

A bark from some dog reminded him of Patch once again. Wait! That sounded like Patch! He looked back toward town. Billy and Patch were coming fast, but Patch was coming fastest. Jesse sat down his plate, jumped up, and ran toward them. As they closed, Patch jumped, hit Jesse in the chest, and the two of them fell rolling into the dirt. Billy just stood grinning as he watched them frolicking about in the dirt. Patch was licking Billy’s face all the while, wagging his tail in joy, and Jesse was cherishing the moment equally.

Your dad thought Patch might be useful to guard our things when we’re not at the wagon, Martha said as the boys and the dog joined their parents. John Basham just grunted.

Jesse reached down to his abandoned plate and picked up the hunk of corn bread. But he didn’t give it to Patch immediately. He held it in front of him and Patch sat with every fiber of his body focused on it. Jesse tossed the cornbread into the air and Patch jumped just as it started down. He never missed.

Some musicians from the train got together and music from flutes, fiddles, and a banjo soon filled the air. An impromptu hoedown began. Apparently, jugs of moonshine were essential for the trip because they were produced from within most of the wagons crammed with supplies. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves immensely.

John Basham went over again to talk with the Wildcats who stayed off in a group by themselves.

What are they like? Martha asked when he returned.

Her husband sat down by the fire. They’re a pretty rough bunch, and that’s for sure, he said. There was something in his tone Jesse could not identify.

Do they know about things? his mother asked cryptically.

Not that I can tell, his father replied and Jesse wished he knew what they were talking about, but he knew better than to ask.

I don’t know, John. The look of them worries me. Are they Bald Knobers?

Couldn’t really tell. Don’t think so, maybe a couple.

As Jesse laid on his makeshift bed under the wagon for the night, he could hardly sleep. He never knew what joy it could be to have his dog lying beside him. Maybe it was the season for miracles after all.

Chapter Two

Stanton Gets His Calling

Trace Stanton was chatting with some of the other elders after Fast and Testimony Meeting when one of the young deacons told him he was wanted in the Bishop’s office. He waved goodbye to the men with whom he was talking, left the hall, and headed toward the office. On a busy Sunday, the bishop was not one to be kept waiting. His only concern was a hope that whatever the bishop wanted, it wouldn’t take long. He’d been fasting since lunch yesterday and was anxious to get something to eat.

Stanton knocked on the door, then entered when he heard the bishop’s voice telling him to come in. Already seated in the room with the bishop were his first and second counselors. This won’t take long, the bishop said from behind his desk, pointing to an empty chair. Stanton sat patiently waiting for the bishop to finish the conversation that had apparently started before he arrived.

I agree, the first counselor said. The Spirit was especially strong when Sister Evans shared her testimony.

She really moved me, the second counselor added, when she told of how the saints were driven out of both Missouri and Illinois.

The part I liked best, Stanton added, was when she said that no matter how strong her faith had been, it was reborn again and again on that first trip across the plains from Nauvoo to Salt Lake. That was how the trip affected me too.

I wouldn’t think that a captain in charge of ten families would have had time to pay much attention to things of the Spirit, first counselor challenged.

Stanton laughed. Put your shoulder to the wheel was a lot more than just words to our song for me alright, he agreed.

The bishop sat pondering a moment. Will it? It’s only been ten years this July since we came here? he asked rhetorically. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Stanton chuckled. Making the desert bloom as a rose isn’t easy, he observed, and the general nodding of heads seemed to conclude the discussion. He didn’t add that the death of his two wives by typhoid made it seem a lot longer than that.

The bishop leaned forward over his desk a little and looked seriously at Stanton. He seemed to have read Stanton’s mind. We wanted to speak with you on an urgent matter, he said. As you know, we generally have married men with families in positions of authority. You’d probably be sitting in my seat right now if you’d remarried right away.

I know, Bishop. But since both my wives and my three children died, the Church has kept me kind of busy, sending me to one place or another, Stanton said, and noticed the bishop frown. And my own testimony has grown with each calling, he added hastily just in case the bishop thought he was complaining. Too many times, he’d seen how it affected the lives of people out here if word got around they were no longer happy following the counsel of church authorities.

The Bishop nodded. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his ample stomach. As you know, about three years ago, the Paiuches down on the Sevier River ambushed Captain Gunnison and the rest of his government survey party.

Yeah, Stanton said. As I remember, only four of the twelve escaped with their lives.

And the fiends mutilated the bodies of the rest, second counselor added.

Stanton nodded. Strange thing that. The Paiutes seem so peaceable most of the time, and them armed with only bows and arrows against Gunnison’s fully-armed party.

The bishop snorted. Well, the Paiuches ended up with all of Gunnison’s weapons; fat lot of good it’ll do ’em when they run out of ammunition.

Stanton’s stomach rumbled. What was it you wanted, Bishop?

Like I was saying, the Paiuches down South have caused a lot of trouble before, and we’re getting worried about them again. The Stake President got word from the First Presidency that you’ve been called to Louisa to take over the militia there and to work to try to keep the Paiuches peaceful.

Stanton’s stomach did more than rumble; it groaned. Not in hunger, but both in unrest and anticipation. Once again, he was being sent off to one of the small, new settlements away from the luxuries of Great Salt Lake City he’d like to learn to become accustomed to. But this time, his calling came from the Prophet himself. No little, unnecessary task this time. A calling was, after all, a calling. Nobody turned down the Church if they wanted to do well in Zion, no matter how menial the task. But this? Stanton thought back for a moment; no, there was no mistake. The bishop had said from the First Presidency.

When do I leave? was his only question. From past experience, he knew all matters of importance had been discussed and decided before it was ever mentioned to the person it involved.

The bishop raised his arms and placed his hands behind his neck. He spoke as though a stray thought had just crossed his mind. If you can get ready that fast, tomorrow morning, Brother Brigham is leading his annual spring caravan to call on the saints to the South. He’s taking some gentile federal officials down there to show them how close we are to establishing our new State of Deseret. You might want to go with them.

Stanton thought quickly. I’m being assigned to join Brother Brigham’s party. There’s a lot more to this than a simple calling to a farming town. What could it be? It’s a long trip on horseback and I would appreciate the company, Bishop. I’ll try to be ready by then, he responded, wondering now not only about being assigned to the Prophet, but why the rush?

First counselor nodded his head and did his best to look wise. Having company on such a trip is one thing, but don’t forget the safety in numbers if some accident or problem with your horse occurred along the way.

Stanton didn’t need this not-so-subtle urging from the first counselor that he’d better be ready to join Brother Brigham’s party. They all knew that whether it was convenient or not, he’d be ready to go by tomorrow afternoon.

One more thing, the bishop said and took his hands from behind his head. He leaned forward and spoke in a tone that was almost a command. Don’t stop at Louisa as you go through. Go with the group on down to Cedar City. When you get there, check in with Jacob Hamblin about your duties with the Indians, and President Haight about your duties in the militia.

Stanton merely nodded, and got up to leave. Now he was not only going to the South, but he was to meet with two of the most powerful church leaders there. He wasn’t accustomed to this. There was nothing more to be said. Once again, he would gird up his loins and set out to do what the Lord’s representation here on Earth had decided he must do.

And, Trace, the bishop added as Stanton got to his feet and was about to turn toward the door. Get yourself some wives. There are plenty of good women around who are widows and would make your life more celestial. You’re becoming too important a man to remain a widower.

I’ll do that, Bishop, Stanton concurred and said goodbye.

After he’d eaten, he began packing his things. But the bishop’s last advice kept running through his mind. The pull to be married again with someone to cook for him and share his bed was indeed much on his mind. It was, after all, the Lord’s plan. It was nowhere in his nature to question the wisdom and rightness of the Lord’s emissaries here in Zion, but a disquieting thought once more crossed his mind. How can I both get married and keep going off to the places they send me?

Then he thought again of being assigned to Brother Brigham’s party. He’d heard the ‘Lion of the Lord’ speak many times. This reminded Stanton of his usual practice to keep many of the articles published in the Deseret News whenever it reported a speech he’d heard either by the Prophet or other members of the Presidency. He searched for his file of the important speeches and packed them with the other belongings he would be taking on his pack horse.

Still in all, he’d never had the chance to talk with Brother Brigham personally since the long wagon trek across the plains ten years ago, and that had been very brief. He took the possibility he might now get to converse with the Prophet face to face as an important sign the Lord had meaningful things for him to do in his new calling. Stanton couldn’t imagine what that was. But once again, he repeated to himself as he had so often before that whatever the Lord wanted, Thy will be done.

Chapter Three

South of the Missouri River

They were still well south of the Missouri River when Captain John T. Baker and his group joined them with two hundred head of cattle. By the time they reached St. Joseph Missouri, they were beginning to operate as an organized wagon company. They even laid over for a day to resupply.

How much did you spend, Martha asked John when he returned from the trip into town with the other men.

Too damn much. And that’s the Lord’s truth, John said as he got off his horse and started unpacking the mule he’d taken as a pack animal. Seems hundreds of wagons have started the trip before us, and I guess there’s that many behind. Prices have gone sky high.

How much was the rice and sugar I asked for? she wanted to know.

The rice is up to seven cents a pound, the sugar is ten, he answered, then grunted as he lifted a large sack of flour from the mule. But this damn thing set me back a dollar seventy five.

Lord, Martha worried. At this rate, are we even going to have enough money to last as far as Salt Lake City?

For hell’s sake, Martha, stop worrying. I told you everything will be fine, and it will. Why else do you think I would have loaded the wagon down with my anvil and some of my other blacksmithing tools if it wasn’t to earn a little extra along the way?

Sorry, John, she apologized, but the worry still in her voice made it sound a little less than convincing. What else did you get?

I could’ve got more if I’d just taken a little more money with me. But as it was, I only got a couple slabs of side pork and that set me back five cents a pound.

Dad? Jesse asked hesitantly.

Don’t interrupt, Boy, when your mom and me are talking. How many times I got to tell you kids are to be seen and not heard?

Now, John, Martha intervened, what is it, Jesse?

Jesse looked at his shoes. Nothing, he said, as though not really talking to anyone. Then he added, I need to do my chores and take care of the mules, and I was just wondering when the wagon with the hay will get here?

Didn’t I tell you there were hundreds of wagons ahead of us? John demanded of Jesse.

Yeah, Jesse said, not understanding at all.

John began removing the packsaddle from the mule. Well, then any idiot could figure out there ain’t no hay to be had, he said as he pulled the saddle from the mule’s back. After you’ve grained the mules and the horse, take ’em out to the best grass you can find before you hobble ’em.

Jesse just nodded, and Martha began helping her husband pack the newly purchased supplies in the Conestoga. What are we going to do, John? Martha asked. All those wagon trains before us have pretty well clipped the grass clean. Our animals can’t survive on that very long.

John grunted as he lifted the flour up onto the tailgate. Fancher says not to worry about it. When we get to a small farming community ahead called Highland, we may be able to get some. He hopped up into the wagon and hefted the flour up on top of Martha’s large steamer trunk in the center of the wagon where it wouldn’t get wet. It’s no calamity even if we don’t though, he added. Fancher says we’ll soon be out into grass country and a thousand wagon trains couldn’t eat it all up.

The next morning, as they moved along the plains from St. Joseph, they made quite a sight. The conastogas with over a hundred and thirty men, women, and children was one thing. But the assorted pigs tied behind wagons, sheep, extra horses, mules, and oxen plus the two hundred head of cattle made this seem like a moving city.

The day was dreary; heavy clouds hung low over the land. The lack of sun made it cool, if not cold. But Jesse warmed up as he walked, at least till the rain came. No gentle rain, this. It suddenly came down in buckets and didn’t let up. Before they could even get out their slickers and put them on, Jesse was soaked. His clothes sticking to him like the wrinkled skin of a two hundred year old man. In no time, the wagons were leaving six-inch deep ruts in the mud.

After a bit more walking, he looked up at his mother on the conastoga. Sitting on the seat in front, she was as exposed as he was. Besides the slicker over her long, calico dress, her only protection was her bonnet, and it was rapidly becoming a sodden weight on her head. Mom, when are we going to stop?

Have patience, Son. Your dad is up, trying to find out, she said. I… she started to say when a mule stumbled in its traces. Haa, she shouted and snapped the reins, to try to get the mules going straight again.

Ain’t going to stop just because it’s raining, John said to Martha as he returned on his horse. Martha pulled the mules to a halt, and John tied up his horse and crawled onto the wagon seat. Fancher says we already lost two wagons. Traces on one broke and another slid into a gully.

Martha climbed off the wagon. She looked up at her husband. What’ll they do? she asked.

Fancher left some men to help ’em out, and they’ll have to catch up as best they can.

As his dad whipped the mules slipping and sliding into motion once more, Jesse began walking again and looked down at Patch. With his tail between his legs and his head down, Patch was a dirty, bedraggled mess. Jesse wondered if he looked as bad. When he smelled his wet dog’s fir, however, he knew he didn’t smell as bad. He looked over at Billy walking on the other side of his mother and hoped he didn’t look as bad as him. Just then his mother’s foot slipped.

Jesse looked once more at Patch walking alongside of him. At least, Patch had four legs; he wasn’t having as much trouble walking as the rest of them were experiencing. He slipped and almost lost his balance a couple of times. Each step was a risk.

Be careful, Son, Martha said to Billy when he almost fell once.

Shortly, they passed the wagon with the broken traces. Jesse noticed his dad didn’t have much trouble getting around the wagon parked in the middle of the ruts the train was following. Previous wagons going around it had made newer, if not quite-so-deep ones.

The rain stopped just as they passed the wagon in the gully. His dad made sure he stayed well wide so as not to meet the same fate. Jesse could hear his mother mumbling a prayer. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was praying that it wouldn’t rain anymore today.

Whether or not the rain would stay stopped in answer to her prayers, Jesse couldn’t be sure. The clouds continued to hang low and threatening. It was a gray day, and while the heavy rain never came again, a slight mist fell a couple of times. Slowly, however, Jesse felt his clothes start to dry out.

Boys, his mother said, it looks like my prayers are being answered. Take off your slickers. She stopped and began unbuttoning hers. Jesse and his brother did likewise. With a sigh, Patch laid down in the mud. Let’s catch up to our wagon and throw them in the back, she said when the slickers were off.

As they began trotting toward the wagon, Patch jumped up and raced ahead, barking as he went. Mom, why didn’t Dad stop the wagon so we didn’t have to run? he asked.

It’s too hard on the mules to have to get it started again, she puffed as she continued to jog.

After they’d deposited the slickers and started walking again, Jesse noticed his mother’s breathing soon returned to normal. But her long dress was far from normal. She looked like some of the poor, white trash back where they came from. Jesse felt sorry for her. She always kept her hair so neat and tried to look nice even when it wasn’t Sunday-go-to-meeting time.

He began to look around. There seemed to be seven or eight different strings of wagons with a dozen or so other wagons following along behind it. There was plenty of space in between the various groups of wagons, but as best Jesse could tell, the stock belonging to various groups was getting all mixed up. Here and there, a man worked the stock, keeping it moving. But Jesse couldn’t see any effort being made to keep a given bunch of the stock with any particular group of wagons. He looked back to see the herd, but it was out of sight somewhere.

Thank the Lord for small favors, his mother said. At least, the rain settled the dust.

And another thing, Billy agreed. "It’s cooler and