Lucy PRC - Fish Springs Excerpt

Outside Fish Springs Station, Utah Territory – September 22, 1864

            While walking next to the lead ox, Lucy slid the front seam holding the brim of her sunbonnet to the crown back past her hairline long enough to wipe her forehead with her sleeve. I have become so uncivilized. Until three months ago, she never would have done anything so backward and uncouth. Her aunt had taught her to always use a handkerchief to remove unwanted perspiration. However, ever since they left the vicinity of the Jordan River that connected Utah Lake with the Great Salt Lake, water had been scarce. Yes, the Central Overland Trail across Utah Territory had springs that provided drinking water for them and their livestock. She and Caroline were able to prepare food most nights. They kept their barrels full. However, there was not enough water to wash, let alone do laundry. And a white linen handkerchief could wipe away only so much sweat, dust, and grit before it spread more filth than it removed.

            Readjusting her sunbonnet, Lucy wondered if traveling this route truly was better than taking the California Trail that crossed the Forty Mile Desert. In spite of it being the end of September, she found the heat miserable. True, it appeared this was the third day of a heat wave—days that Malachi confirmed more closely resembled the July weather he experienced when he rode the stagecoach across this same country years earlier. If that was the case, she prayed the weather would soon moderate. The nights were cool—evidently typical of desert climes—but she wished for more temperate daytimes for the balance of their journey.

            At least, judging from the dark streak across the land ahead, they should be approaching Fish Springs soon. A mail coach station by the same name was located near one of the marshy grass-framed springs that Malachi assured her did actually contain fish—some six inches in length.

            Supposedly, these fish were holdovers from when the entire region was a prehistoric giant lakebed that mostly went dry. The Great Salt Lake was a small remnant of what remained of Lake Bonneville. The fish were of ancient origins, having survived by moving between water sources—great and small in volume—by way of underground faults in the rocks and water flows provided by natural springs.

            As appealing as the thought of possibly catching a few fish to add some variety to their diet struck Lucy, mostly she wished to stop walking in this heat, eat a small snack followed by a cool cup of water, and rest in the shade until the sun dipped behind the horizon. Maybe the air would cool.

            Lucy sighed with relief upon hearing the shout repeated along the length of the wagons. Will had called a halt for the afternoon. She turned to the lead ox—the only ox in front of the two wheeler oxen—which was attached to the wagon by means of a harness rather than a yoke. “Whoa. Whoa, boy.” When the ox stopped and stood in place, Lucy patted its neck. “Good boy. You did good today.”

            Two days before, the lead ox’s yoke-mate had thrown a shoe and gone lame before anyone caught it. Although refitted with an ox-shoe, Will suggested that Aunt Caroline keep that ox tied to the back of her wagon until the leg healed. The hope was that, with it not being required to pull a load, the injury would heal more quickly. Fortunately, this section of trail had been relatively flat, which did not require the remaining oxen to pull a heavy load uphill.

            “I’ll take care of unyoking your oxen, Lucy.” Malachi appeared at her side and smiled. “You and Caroline can start your usual routine.”

            “Thank you.” Lucy found the energy to return his smile. She glanced at his hat—the one that had been so pristinely clean and well-shaped the day they married. It now bore evidence of having absorbed days of sweat, being subjected to blowing dust, rainstorms, dirty fingers, and being stepped on. The brim had been modified, not only by the way Malachi moved his hat on and off his head, but by the way his fingers fidgeted with the brim while his mind was elsewhere.

            Noticing the dirt on the back of her hands, Lucy decided she would get a cup of water before doing anything else. She glanced at the springs. The spring water might taste better than the aged liquid in the prairie schooner’s barrel. However, she would let the men check out the quality of the water source before she traipsed through the tall, marshy grass to make her own judgment. She met Caroline at the back, joined her in loosening the ties on the end of the bonnet, and opening the tailgate. She climbed inside the wagon and pulled two tin cups from inside the box of mismatched dishes, including the spatterware they had salvaged after Quantrill’s attack on Lawrence. After handing Caroline one cup, she followed her aunt to the water barrel where each used the dipper to fill the cups.

            “I’ve tasted better, but at least, it’s wet.” As if trying to remove something that tasted bad, Caroline scraped her tongue against the edges of her top teeth.

            “Maybe filling the barrels with water from Fish Springs will be an improvement.” Lucy turned to stare at the marsh before her.

            “You want to drink water from a small spring in which fish have been swimming around and doing what all creatures do?” Caroline grimaced.

            “Hmm.” Lucy twisted her lips. “Maybe we could filter it through some cloth and boil it first, at least the water we drink. I doubt the oxen will mind drinking it the way it is.” She again filled her cup. The water in the barrel might be slightly brackish, but it had helped revive her.

            “What’s that? Did you hear?” As if she was capable of seeing through two layers of bonnet canvas, Caroline turned her gaze toward the opposite side of the wagon. She next spun on her feet and rushed to the back of the wagon and bent forward. “Oh, my! Where did they come from?”

            Sliding the lid to the water barrel back in place, Lucy ran to the front of the wagon. Looking over the backs of the wheeler oxen, she saw men—maybe twenty in number. They held bows and arrows—some held spears. Their clothing appeared made of fibers rather than animal skins. They spread out in a fan shape, standing several feet apart. One man in front appeared younger. An older man stood slightly behind him and to her left. She saw no women or children. Although Native Americans, they looked like no tribe of Indians she had ever seen.

            A pistol in one hand, Malachi ran around the wheeler oxen toward Lucy. “You ladies need to get inside the wagon.” He grabbed her arm and all but dragged her toward the back. He almost collided with Caroline, who already had started moving into position to place her boot on a wheel spoke to climb. After tucking his revolver inside his waistband, he grabbed Lucy by the waist and lifted her inside. “Watch your feet.” He reached for the tailgate and slammed it upright before shoving the bolts in place on either end.

            “Who are they, Malachi? What do they want?” Grabbing the top edge of the tailgate, Lucy leaned forward as she breathed out her questions.

            “Don’t know. Probably Goshutes. When I came west on the stagecoach, word was, they’ll attack anyone who comes through here. It started when the Mormons settled on the land and drew from their water sources. They weren’t too happy with the Pony Express—burned down more than one station and tried to kill more than one rider. They give the stagecoach stations a lot of trouble, too. Please pull the bonnet tightly closed and keep low.” Malachi pulled his pistol free again and ran to join the other men.

            Lucy scrambled to move to the center of the wagonbox. Turning to face Caroline, she suspected the wide-eyed expression of fear on her aunt’s face mirrored her own. Then, they each sprang to opposite ends of the wagon to pull cords at the bonnet ends to close the openings as tightly as possible.

            Lucy stood at an angle to the peephole that remained at the front end of the bonnet. She positioned her head in an attempt to peer at the scene outside. Then she turned to Caroline and held a finger to her lips. After listening several seconds, she realized she could understand most of the words being spoken. Crouching, she made her way back to Caroline so her aunt could hear her as she whispered, “The man in front speaks English. He’s talking to Will, who is standing a few feet in front of our men. They accuse us of destroying their land so they have no food and taking their water.”

            “What?” Also speaking in a whisper, Caroline’s eyebrows shot upward. “All we’re doing is driving some wagons across it.” She bent forward and pulled a long-handled wooden spoon from the box of dishes. She then crouched by the side of the wagon. She wiggled the handle between the wooden board and the canvas covering the top few inches, the bottom edge of which was attached to the wagonbox. Prying the bottom of the canvas upward, she peeked through the slit to view the scene for herself.

            Lucy found the wooden scraper and moved two bows over before mimicking her aunt. She saw Arnold place a full sack of their flour on the ground about five feet in front of Will—an equal distance between him and the English-speaking Goshute. Peter followed, carrying the molasses keg she knew was at least two-thirds full. He set it next to the flour.

            “We know of the fish in these springs you speak of, but we will not take any for our own use. We have used water from some of the springs we passed before…” Will, speaking loud enough to be heard at a distance, pointed in the direction from which the freight train had come. “We will use more water as we go…” He pointed toward the direction they intended to travel. “We will not take the fish. If you believe our cattle drinking from these springs will injure your food supply here, we will leave and find water elsewhere. Our animals do graze the land we cross, but we are not farmers.”

            “You come from the land of the Mormons. You have your women with you. Your promises are less than dust on the wind.”

            “We are not Mormons who have come here to build farms on this land.” Will shook his head. “Them women are wives of two of the men who work for me. We are not like the stagecoaches that bring their animals on your land every few days and graze your land often. We will not build stations to keep your people from your water and places where you gather food. We are traders going west. This is not our usual trail. We do not plan to travel this way again. We offer part of our own food as a trade for the water we use and the grasses our cattle will eat this one time we cross your land.” He waited in silence.

            The Goshute who spoke English turned his head to the side and softly spoke in a different language. He appeared to be translating for the older man who stood slightly behind.

            As she waited for the outcome of Will’s negotiation, Lucy held her breath.

            “What do you think they want?” Caroline leaned toward Lucy and hissed. “Part of the trade goods that are in the freight wagons? Maybe all of it?”

            Lucy shook her head. “I think the issue is food. Look at them, Aunt. They might be a slender people naturally, but to me, they look like they don’t always get enough to eat.” She started to say more, but she caught sight of the man in front shake his head.

            “You have many cattle and the mule. This is not enough to cover what they will eat.”