Escape from Zion: Mormon/Lds Zion

© 2008 Fred Turner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 4/16/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-5927-8 (sc)

ISBN: 9781463462390 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

REBUFFED

HOLDUP

BLANKET WOMAN

BRUMBY

THE ANGEL

THE CHALLENGE

THE MAP

PUMA KITTEN

TO THE TRAIL

THE LOCKET

ESCAPE TRAINING

Millie

APPALOOSAS

TRADING

TRAIL TO RUBY

GIT OUT OF TOWN

Geological Notes

HEADING EAST

PIPE SPRINGS

GO SOUTH

ONE LOOK AT THE PLATEAU

BISHOP HAS A BAD DAY

TO THE TOP

Last of the Pursuit

WAHOO’S LAST FIGHT

ON THE PLATEAU

Geological Notes

CANYON BOTTOM

PUMA KITTEN APPEARS

BIRD WING

THE MOUNTAIN

RANCHES

• Prologue and Historical Setting •

The westward expansion during the Civil War era was a very troubled time. Along with the good and heroic incidents came many tragedies. The Mountain Meadows Massacre is one of those gruesome and infamous events.

A large wagon train of rich travelers with their blooded horses, registered cattle and gold were travelling through Utah territory on the way to California. They were all ambushed and massacred at Mountain Meadows in Southwest Utah in 1857 by the Mormons for their treasured possessions.

Children young enough to not understand the episode were spared and taken to the homes of the murderers. Nancy Cameron was older but small for her age. Somehow she was able to escape immediate death. She was reportedly isolated from the other children with an assignment to care for a young mother whom had trouble during childbirth.

Seventeen young children were taken into the Mormon homes. These children were later returned to homes of close relatives when the Army and family representatives came to get them after the Civil War. John D Lee was tried and hung in the Mountain Meadows where a statue now stands to mark the place of the notorious deed. Road maps have added Mountain Meadows to their historical sites.

Nancy Cameron did not have family or relatives that found her. She just sort of disappeared. We believe that Nancy somehow had a remarkable life.

The story line is based on a historical time and a true incident with real characters and recorded names but the entire script is purely fictional.

REBUFFED

The old Bull Whacker waddled to view the six-horse hitch that was to be his responsibility for the afternoon.The horses were raring to go and get to the feed trough at the end of the line. He checked the bits and the collars to assure that no raw sores were starting to appear and eyed the double trees for proper latch. He kicked the dust from his boots on the coach wheel and climbed aboard. He fingered the twelve lines that kept the teams on course and slammed his foot against the wheel break to release its grip on the coach.

He raised the rawhide whip whose pop would send the Overland coach into motion. It was the bright spot of his day, this chance to add a little excitement to the village. He would jump the coach to action with enough force to lay the passengers back against the seats and send villagers scampering for safety.

He glanced once to see if the non-passengers were out of the harms way. The glance spotted the female who quickly stepped to the side of the stagecoach and threw her self inside. The old driver looked closely through squinted eyes beneath the brim of his battered hat observing the local station master rise to attention. He paused a bit as he continued to watch the attendant from the corner of his eye. It was obvious that his trip was going to be interrupted, if he didn’t take action.

The stage driver bellowed, Ah lady, please come on out.

The answer was a sniffle from inside the coach. The old stage handler jerked on the wheel brake, stepped down from the boot and flung open the stage door.

Lady, please, we can’t leave until you come out. I would like to help but I can’t. I just drive this contraption.

The answer was a defiant look.

Come on, get out of the coach. You know the elders won’t let me take a lady out of St. George unless accompanied by her husband or has a written statement.

I don’t have a husband, retorted Nanci.

You soon will have now that you have grown into a desirable woman. I hear whispers they have been saving you for the Salt Lake bunch. I am surprised that the Salt Lake elders have not already been here. Maybe they are having so much trouble up yonder with their other wives that they don’t have time to make the trip. In another year if the elders don’t arrive then Old Jacob will probably make you his thirteenth wife, remarked the muleskinner.

Never, I’ll die before I marry any of the men who murdered my family at the mountain meadows, seethed Nanci.

A wife or a pile of bones in the desert will probably be your choice. Now just jump out of the stagecoach.

Nanci Cameron bolted from the coach knowing now for sure that she was a prisoner in this community. It was not a pleasant thought.

She swished her skirts and stamped her foot and glowered at the stage driver. She looked with a sidelong glance at the station attendant for now she knew it was necessary to start cataloging her enemies. She suddenly realized that it would be better to disappear from view without drawing any more attention to her flight attempt.

She promptly exited the dusty wheel-rutted street with a casualness that belied her anger and frustration. As she passed the collector and seller of animal furs, the proprietor motioned with a jerk of his head for her to enter his establishment. She stepped into the small log walled shop with a lean-to front and stood rigid amongst the collection of pelts with some apprehension.

I ken your teribul plite, said the old trapper.

Nanci looked at him with trepidation.

I’m Wahoo and not Momun. I wuz here befo dem.I be yur fren an hep ya. Ya ned to git gon suun. Kum by som tim, Ms Nansee Kamrun maybe ken figr way to skin da polekats.

Thanks Mr. Wahoo, I surely need a friend. I need to go now before I draw any more attention but I will stop in some day soon, she said and left his presence with a lighter step and a new determined spirit. She breathed a promise to herself, I am now grown into a woman. I will take charge of my life. I can do it. I will not be resigned to a fate here. I will escape no matter of the danger before the year is over.

She glanced back over her shoulder to see the old timer hobbling in front of his store. He was the first man she had met in a long time that she trusted. He was not a likely confidant but her situation called for unusual responses. He was grizzly and somewhat unkempt, but his eyes held strength and warmth. His well-worn plaid shirt was tucked into brown buckskin pants with rawhide suspenders. He had a big boned frame; bushy hair and scared hands with enlarged knuckles. His gnarled and rugged appearance brought a touch of a reassuring smile to her lips.

She trod slowly through the sage and catclaw to her abode with the wives of the elders. The elders had so many wives they kept some of them in other locations than their main homes. St George seemed to a favorite place to keep the extras. It was probably because it was a difficult place from which to leave and far enough away to keep wives separated from each other. She often wondered if the other ladies were not more tragically captive than she was.

HOLDUP

The stage from St. George careened down the last slope to hit the trail along the Virgin River heading for Vegas Springs. It was much dryer here at the beginning of the desert and much faster traveling. The stage driver was still upset at the treatment of the womenfolk in Utah territory. He was muttering to himself and wondering about the lady who had jumped into his coach. His preoccupation had taken his attention from the road ahead. He looked up just in time to keep from running over a rider sitting his horse in the middle of the trail.

Whoa, there you blind fool. It is time you woke up, growled the stranger in the trail.

You should get out of the way. This is the Wells Fargo stage road and I am in a hurry, retorted the muleskinner.

The huge, burly and scraggly haired newcomer quickly drew his revolver and pointed it at the drivers head.

I just took charge and you better jump to my call. Stand down, and open the stage door. I am going to check your passengers.

You hurt any of my passengers and you will answer to Wells Fargo.

Shut your mouth, I will do what I want and if you get in my way, I will shoot you a new eye hole, snarled the big ruffian stepping down from his horse.

Get out here, I want to look at you, he yelled at the stage riders.

Stumbling from the coach was a travelling merchant, two miners, a cowboy, an elder couple and a mature woman. The big bully shoved them all around and then concentrated his attention on the woman.

I thought you were younger but some of the Elders are not choosy.

What do you mean? I do not know any Elders, Why don’t you leave us alone? We haven’t done you any harm, blurted the woman.

This is not the woman you are looking for, spoke the stage driver, the young one did not ride from St. George.

Keep out of my business. I am the person calling the shots here. I expect more cooperation from the drivers on this road. I want you to vamoose pronto and I don’t want to see you driving again on this route. I don’t like you.

The crude holdup man was huge with a rough visage with eyes that showed cruelty. He moved with animal strength and bullying manner. In order to leave a lasting impression of his prowess, he demonstrated the speed with which he could draw his Dragoon Colt and shoot prickly pear ears. He stomped around in his big Cavalry boots and frightened the passengers as much as he could. It was obvious that he was discouraging any of them from returning to Utah territory.

Get the stage out of here, the big one shouted as he swung into the saddle and galloped out of view over the greasewood covered slope.

Who was that? asked the driver.

That was Port or Rock the toughest of the Danites. I wouldn’t drive this route again, if I were you, cautioned one of the miners. "Some call him a saint; while others call him the bloody assassin."

They all stood rooted to their spot until the horse and rider disappeared from view. They were glad to see him go and hoped never to encounter him again. They were especially glad that no one was hurt.

BLANKET WOMAN

The silent figure sat at the junction of the Santa Clara and the Virgin River with eyes searching the banks beyond the union.

Soon her vigil was rewarded, as a stealthy figure slipped to her side.

Did the girl get through on the stage? she asked.

No, Bird Wing, apparently she was put off at the beginning, replied the visitor.

‘That is both good and also sad. She wasn’t harmed, but neither did she get away," Bird Wing soliloquized.

Bird Wing slouched at this crossroads trail most every day with the offer to sell blankets to the passersby. She presented the appearance of a plump unwanted squaw seeking to eke out a living by trading colorful blankets. This was generally Paiute country but Bird Wing was a Havasupi whose tribe claimed as their hunting ground and homeland the rugged plateaus north of the Grand Canyon and the small watered meadows at the bottom of the Colorado River Canyon. She was on watch for adventurers planning to travel in their lands. Her tribe had been successful thus far in keeping the Gold Hunters and adventurers from staying permanently in their homeland because the terrain was extremely rugged and they found no great treasure worth the digging effort.

She was here mostly because of the Mormons. They were a different problem. They had come to stay. They were creating farms wherever they could find enough water and oust the current inhabitants. She was the source for information about their intentions. The Havasupi had many isolated communities that were not appealing to most settlers but they did have water.

The Mormons were difficult to deal with. They considered all of western desert Territory their God given inheritance and their promised land. The Elders had no scruples when dealing with anyone dwelling in their Promised Land. Bird Wing had become especially rankled of late with the Mormon putdown calling the local Indians the lost tribes of Israel. The Havasupi were not lost. If any tribe was lost, it was the Mormons. The Mormons consider themselves superior to all non-Arian Nationalities, Gentiles, Blacks and Native Americans.

She knew the story of Nanci very well and was determined to be of assistance to her. They had interests in common, because the main player in the massacre of her family was hiding and taking refuge in one of the Havasupi home sites at the confluence of the Paria and the Colorado rivers. If he were to be arrested for his crimes then he would need