HOMESTEADING Along the Mormon Trail

They found a little-used deer trail at the edge of the meadow. It led through the trees and sloped downwards, “Must be ‘nother crick ahead. This deer trail goes down purty steep.”

In another twenty minutes, they heard gurgling, “Rebecca! It’s the same crick. It’s still got thet green scum on it, but movin’ faster. Look at the size now!” They walked on for a few more yards. The dog made a low growl and stopped dead in his tracks. Caleb halted and squatted to the ground. He motioned Rebecca to do the same.

A small band of Indians scrambled down the ravine towards the small creek just ahead, leading their ponies. They were out of earshot and on the other side of the green stream. The Indians and horses were all sliding in the yellow clay.

Caleb pulled on the milchcow’s rope and Rebecca crept slowly back towards the animals, crouching below the tops of the brush and cane growing along the creek bank.

Caleb crawled backwards and hid with her in the brush. The milchcow was backed into the tall cane. Rebecca had the colt hidden there as well. She reached down and held the young dog’s muzzle firmly, the dog squirmed to get loose; she held on tight. The colt was calm and paying no attention to the Indians and their ponies. The young dog finally stopped his low growling.

Caleb and Rebecca watched cautiously, peering through the cane growing near the bank. They were thirty yards upstream from the Indians—and upwind. The Indian ponies couldn’t smell their colt or the dog. The small band of Indians led their ponies to water, then knelt down, upstream from their horses and drank their fill. One filled a deerskin bag with water. He tied off the end with a thong while another Indian stood guard warily, bow in his hand—arrow affixed. They were in enemy territory!

They talked for a few minutes, mounted, and moved on downstream. Caleb could see their lips moving, but he couldn’t hear them talking, “I wouldn’t know what they said anyhow.”

The Indians didn’t have many horses in this part of the country yet. The Plains Indians had the most horses. These Indians were probably from further west, across the Mississippi into Missouri or maybe Iowa country.

Rebecca and Caleb stayed hidden in the brush by the little creek for another twenty minutes. Caleb thought to himself, “This crick must flow into a larger river. It’s wider here than it was back a few hours.”

“I reckon it’s good to come out now Rebecca. I think they air long gone. They kin git a ways on horses in no time an besides they air t’other side of this here crick. It’s flat over there.”

Rebecca led the colt out of the brush and tied its lead rope to the tail of the milchcow. The dog had swum the short way to the other side and was sniffing along the edge of the water where the Indians had been. The dog had himself a drink. He hiked his leg and claimed territory.

“Caleb, the path on the other side—it’s not as overgrown as this one.”

“I noticed. We’ll try it soon, but not right now. Them Indians air still too close,” they walked along the trail until the sun was low in the western sky. Finally, they crossed to the well-worn path with very little difficulty.

The creek was wide, shallow, and moved slowly here. The creek bed was full of smooth, bluish colored rocks and the yellow clay was gone—only black loam made up the banks. There was a full moon rising in the cloudless night sky. The green algae had formed into clumps—the rest of the creek surface was clear. They kept on going west for two more hours in the moonlight, being very quiet as they walked, and only whispering to each other. They were now at the point of almost “feeling” their way along the trail.