Mormon Literature Sampler:
Indian Episode of Early Days
Scipio Africanus (SA) Kenner
In the year of our Lord 1868, the writer was a telegraph operator
in the town of Beaver. The Deseret line had been completed several
months before, and the people were now getting so accustomed to it
that they no longer visited the office out of curiosity, and very
seldom for any other purpose, and there was a perceptible shrinkage in
the consequence which formerly hedged about the youth in charge,
rendering the post much less attractive than was its wont; these
circumstances, in connection with the other, that money was seldom
passed, that the roughness and unconventional ways of the early days
were still measurably in vogue, that the business had become tedious
and monotonous, while the boy himself was disposed to be active and
restless, and, above all, that Salt Lake was too far away, caused him
to hand in his resignation and depart. Replacing an operator in those
days in out-of-the-way places was no easy matter, and, in order to be
straightforward in the premises, the writer had, for about three
months prior to his departure, had in training in the art of
telegraphy a couple of young and capable men to take his place. These
were "coached", and received practical training, the field of their
practice gradually expanding until finally between them they could
handle the limited business of the office very well. One of these
(William Ashworth) became a regular operator and afterwards occupied a
much more responsible station. All this, however, is but preliminary
and incidental. The central fact is that I got out, and so much of
interest as the story contains is embraced in what follows.
By engaging persistently, and at times painfully, (because of
lacking skill) in the principal means of effecting exchanges in those
days, I had become the proud possessor of a pony, a saddle, bridle and
revolver. Having an uncle, an aunt and several cousins in the "Dixie"
country who had not been seen for some time, it was decided to pay
them a visit. Advice was freely given that it was a foolish thing to
make such a trip alone, as the Indians were marauding and murdering at
various points in Southern Utah, Sanpete and Iron counties (the latter
of which would have to be passed through going to Dixie) being the
principal sufferers. The line between Beaver and Iron counties is
about the central part of a range of low-lying mountains running due
east and west, and the lowest part of these is where the state and
county road runs. This is known as the pass, and a more fitting place
for an Indian attack could not have been chosen even by old Blackhawk
himself. In order to take up as much of the acclivity as possible, the
road is exceedingly tortuous, with little knobs or peaks continually
intervening, so that in places, the path can be seen but for a short
distance ahead, while on all sides are tolerably dense growths of
cedar and piñon pine trees. When one is alone, it is about the
lonesomest place in the world. At any point for a distance of several
miles, shots could be fired at a traveler from a hundred different
places and not one of the assailants be seen. But the advice given,
which was almost identical with that which the old man imparted to the
youth in the poem "Excelsior," to try not the pass, was received in
the same way, and the journey set out upon.
Did the reader ever try anything of that kind? If so, he will of
course remember that his high spirits are only maintained at a heroic
altitude while surrounded by civilization; with this behind him, with
a landscape presenting about the same features which it bore when the
great upheaval subsided, and a solitude so profound that the smallest
bird is a welcome visitation, all this before him, with dangers all
the more pressing because unseen and unknown all about him, his
courage is likely to subside in an inverse ratio to the progress made,
so that, by the time the mid-point between the safety place behind and
the safety place ahead is reached, all showy and boastful forms of
self-reliance have entirely evaporated. The individual at last
realizes that at any point in life, and particularly the one he
happens just then to be occupying, he is a creature of circumstances
with no more relative strength at one time than another; and without
the protecting care of a Providence which is too often unthought of
until actually needed, he is not of much consequence anyway.
The southern side of the pass is much shorter than the other; in
fact, it is not to exceed a mile's span, while the other is four or
five miles; so that when the apex is passed, the time spent in
reaching the open country again is brief. But what availeth it to
reach the open at such times? There is still nothing in sight but
barrenness, flanked by ridges with dense growths of trees impenetrable
for any distance to the eye, and traversed all along by gullies which
are usually dry, but, by reason of rainfalls and melting snows, have
been cut deep into the porous soil. The chances for attack from a
concealed or an unconcealed foe were not one whit lessened despite the
broader range of view, while the all-pervading solitude lent to each
darkened brush and half-hidden stump an awful, soul-saddening feeling.
But, as one of these mystical terrors after another dissolved in the
view of closer inspection, something akin to returning boldness was
experienced by reason thereof. We have all been there. After our fears
are shown to be groundless, we are slower to be frightened by the same
things again. This condition long enough continued would build us up
to the same pinnacle of vainglorious self-sufficiency with which we
set out on our expeditions in life, and from which we are at times, as
in my case, so unceremoniously toppled. Then we see how it is that man
continually needs admonishment, example and discipline to be kept in
the straight and narrow path, and is apt to depart from it as soon as
the corrective agencies are withdrawn.
An old and homely backwoods maxim is to refrain from "hollering"
till you are out of the woods, and this is deserving of a much wider
application than it has received. When we think the crisis passed, we
are sometimes just upon the verge of it. Thinking all obstacles are
overcome, we care not for the greatest of all which may be lying in
wait for us. It was so with me on the occasion spoken of. My perplexed
fancy had become so relaxed that I was mentally ridiculing myself for
being so easily shaken, when from a ravine to the south, I saw a cloud
of dust arising and spreading. The first impulse was naturally one of
curiosity, this being succeeded at once by something a little more
disturbing to the nervous system. Was the appearance caused by a band
of sheep or cattle, or was the dust raised by a draft of air caused by
the shape of the fissure? Like the cloud no bigger than a man's hand,
of which we have read, this one grew apace and came nearer. My heart
beat with greatly increased rapidity for a moment, and then seemed to
suspend operations altogether, as from the jaws of the defile, half a
mile off, emerged, with a dash, a band of mounted Indians! The poverty
of the English language, even to a master of it, would be strikingly
shown, were he to attempt to place in words a full showing of the
things thought, the feelings felt, and the nothingness done by the
writer of these lines at that time! And even in the midst of this
orgie of desperation, when reason was measurably suspended, there at
once ensued as one of the contradictions with which the psychical
sometimes confronts the physiological existence, a greater degree of
judgment than ordinarily obtains. In such cases, especially when the
means of doing so are at hand, the first impulse is to seek safety in
flight, but that would have been as fatal a thing to do as to have
placed myself in battle array and begun firing upon the Indians. The
wisdom which the supreme court is supposed to have at all times, comes
to the humblest of people, as a flash of superior intelligence,
sometimes, and so it was then. "Distilled almost to jelly with the act
of fear," as Shakespeare writes it, I was yet impelled to assume a
boldness which nature, for some reason or other, had neglected to
place among my physical effects. The band were upon me in an instant,
gibbering, jangling and discordant; they baited in front of me,
instead of surrounding me, as I expected they would do, and seeing
that I was (apparently) as cool as a cucumber, they went to "sizing me
up" in Indian style before saying anything. This didn't take long, and
then one who seemed to be the leader said:
"Where oo go?"
With a mighty effort I said with seeming tranquility—
"Oh, just below here, to see the folks."
"Huh! Where oo live?"
"Oh, just back here in Beaver."
"Huh! You fight'em Injin?"
"No, never fight any Indians at all."
"Huh! You 'Mo'mon?'"
"You bet your life!"
They all looked me over carefully once more, and then, after a
little chattering among themselves, passed me by and sped along in the
direction they were going when the interview began. I made the pony
jog along indifferently until the savages were well out of sight, and
the whole situation changed. I had never ridden much on a horse,
lately not at all, and would gladly under ordinary circumstances have
dismounted and walked awhile, but not now. If the poor animal had made
his pace equal to the mighty dash of a limited express train, had he
been the modern Bucephalus with a speed many times multiplied, if he
had been a Pegasus in real life able to fly as well as run, he would
at such a time have seemed a huge, crippled snail, half asleep. He
must have made at least twelve miles an hour, but oh, how stationary
the landmarks on either side of the road did seem! And how very tired
I was, yet how splendidly was the weariness kept in subjection! What a
luxury would have been a walk of a mile or so!
At this point, a little moralizing is permissible. Almost every
event in life, beyond the common, furnishes materials for this, and,
if our philosophy would only enable us to find it out, much real
profit might be realized from apparently unprofitable and seemingly
unfortunate incidents. The greatest of lawgivers and protectors has
admonished us not to despise the small things of life; the fact that
the giant oak grows from the tiny acorn, and the mighty ocean
maintains its bulk by trickling tributaries, shows in some measure the
wisdom and justice of the admonition. Now, had I been a "plumed
knight," a "whiskered pandoor" or a "fierce hussar," the chances are
decidedly that I would have been taken into captivity or sent beyond
the reach thereof, and my little property have been converted to the
use of the "noble scions of the forest," without due process of law.
But it seems that even they have some appreciation of the fitness of
things. Being a noncombatant, very young, correspondingly tender, and
without the slightest trace of aggressiveness or resistance, the red
men concluded that the "game would not be worth the candle," and as
each of them had a horse and equipment worth a good deal more than
mine, they didn't care to burden themselves with the latter,
especially as the animal was tired, hungry and thin, and his trappings
were old, uncertain, and far from gaudy.
"Some people are born great, others achieve greatness, and others
still have greatness thrust upon them." There should be added to this
that sometimes the greatness fits and sometimes it doesn't. Now and
then, it is a means of protection or exemption from consequences by
reason of the respect or awe which it inspires; but occasionally, it
is a lightning rod which deflects the destroying fluid from the path
it would otherwise pursue, and brings the whole volume upon itself. It
may not be destroyed by the visitation, neither is it benefited, and
anything in the world is much safer when bolts of lightning give it
the go-by and pounce upon something else. We find that the loftiest
trees in a grove, the highest poles in a town, and the tallest man in
a group, if all are possessed of equal attractiveness, will nearly
every time be the recipient of the electric fluid when it descends
upon their immediate locality. "Death loves a shining mark," but its
agents in the shape of aerial electricity, and hostile red men, are
not so particular about the shining, if the object only has some other
qualifications, chief among which is prominence. Lacking that, there
is sometimes (but not always) safety. There was in my case, and for a
few hours at least, I would not have traded stations with the Prince
of Wales, the President of the United States, nor even the conductor
of any street car on which I have ever traveled, and nothing could
emphasize the desperateness of the situation more than that. All these
thoughts, and a good many more, occurred to me as I sped along, the
mental exercises being interspersed with occasional glances over my
shoulder and urging the faithful beast to still greater effort. Of
course, I realized that the Indians I had encountered were not all
there were in the country, and one interview like the last one, in the
course of a day, or a lifetime for that matter, was quite ample. But
there was no further interruption. After a long, needful rest at
Paragoonah, the "great moral ride," as it has been called, was
resumed, and Parowan reached in safety. This town is and was generally
a quiet, pastoral place, not increasing much in population, nor at all
given to indulgence in the spectacular or the sensational, but it was
different on this occasion. The Indian situation was acting like an
effervescing agency, and everybody was visible, and all were active, a
condition of things which increased rather than diminished as time
went along. The red men were stealing stock continually, and were
ready to fight whenever opposition appeared. Military preparations, on
as large a scale as the means at hand would admit of, were being made,
and the day after my arrival as strong a detachment as was considered
proper (the safety of the town as well as effective operations in the
field being duly regarded) went out under experienced leaders, all
mounted, of course. Not being, by this time, in so much of a hurry as
when I left Beaver, it was thought advisable to lay over for a while.
At such times and in such places, all hands must "stand in," and
generally they do so with alacrity if not with cheerfulness. To me was
assigned a position as one of the night guard, the duties being to
take a post a little beyond the outer fringe of houses, keep a sharp
lookout for suspicious indications, and give the alarm if necessary.
There were several of us out at a time, and we were stationed two or
three hundred yards apart. There had been fighting a few miles away,
during the afternoon, the shots being distinctly heard in the town,
and the necessity for the most extreme vigilance was realized by all.
Nobody but the children slept. In front of my post, about fifty yards
away, was a dense growth of scrub oak, or some similar vegetation, and
a good-sized army, by exercising caution, could have approached near
enough for effective operations without being seen or heard. This
circumstance had a very stimulating, agreeable effect upon me, and
occasionally, as the ragged fleeting clouds passed from the face of
the moon and left her smiling as brightly and beautifully as though in
ignorance of what was going on below, it occurred to me how pleasant
it would be to be translated all at once to her peaceful, Indianless
realm!
Occasionally, a slight noise from the thicket would dispel all
musings and imaginings, and was the means of accomplishing what I was
afraid would take place by other agencies the raising of my hair. And,
as on the day previous, these figments of the fancy were hurriedly,
abruptly, excruciatingly crystalized into a hard, concrete
realization. There was a sound this time! No mistake about it--would,
oh would that there were! Another, and nearer, its awful realness
impinging upon my sense of hearing with a forceful, fateful thud! I
did not reach for my revolver, because it had never been out of my
hand for an instant, a kind of false security being felt by reason of
its presence. There was another noise--a footstep, unmistakably, and
close to the margin of the thicket. It was time to prepare for action.
One step more, and, in accordance with instructions, I called out with
as much distinctness and vehemence as circumstances would permit—
"Who's there?"
No reply.
Again: "Who's there?"
Dread silence, most awful, prevailed. On the next putting of that
terrible question, with no reply following, I was to shoot in the
direction of the noise and then act as judgment (or the total
suspension thereof) suggested. The fateful words were about to find
expression when the thicket parted, and there emerged into the open a
cow!
The moon smiled (apparently), the scurrying clouds pursued their
aimless, flecky way, the light breezes chanted amid the tangled
shrubbery a miserere for the dying day, the kine trudged unmolested to
her lair, and "left the world to darkness and to me."
*Scipio Africanus Kenner (1852-1913) was born in Missouri, crossed
the plains with his parents in 1860, but was not baptized a member of
the Church until 1865. He became a journeyman printer with the Deseret
News, later holding at one time or another almost every job associated
with that paper from typesetter to editor. He subsequently became a
telegraph operator in Utah and Nevada, a member of the Bar, city
attorney, county attorney, Church attorney and assistant United States
attorney. He held public office as a justice of the peace and state
legislator and gained public attention as an orator and author of wit
and eloquence. Besides his numerous editorials and articles, he
published several books, including The Practical Politician and
Utah As It Is. This account was published in the 1901
Improvement Era.
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