But what did these Saints do when they finally found themselves totally powerful over others already living in these free mountains? Did they let those other folks be, let others live their lives according to their own beliefs? No—Brigham Young’s holy, self-righteous people turned out to be murderers and thieves even worse than those who had hounded the Mormons out of every city back east … for the Saints committed their evil, stole from Gentiles, staining their hands with the blood of innocents—all in the name of their gods!
There wasn’t much of anything the Mormons had left behind. They had plundered everything of any value: blankets, clothing, weapons, cooking vessels stolen from every hut. And what they hadn’t loaded up on Bridger’s wagons before heading south for Salt Lake City, they had destroyed. Waits bent to pick up the remains of a brass kettle, smashed in half by the butt of a rifle or the heel of a boot, then stabbed with a bayonet until it could never be used again.
All that he and his woman had managed to acquire over twenty years together was gone in one fit of murderous thievery. Even when the Blackfoot, Sioux, or Cheyenne had raided, none of those tribes had ever completely stripped Titus Bass of everything. He gazed around, his heart aching and his eyes stinging with bitter tears. All it seemed they had left were their children—
Waits-by-the-Water suddenly hunched over in a spasm of pain, huffing loudly.
“Mary!” he cried from the ruins of what had been their little cabin as he threw his arms around his trembling wife. Sensing the volcanic quake shudder through Waits-by-the-Water, he hollered again, with even more urgency. “Shell Woman! Mary! Someone, come help us!”
Titus heard the footsteps pounding up behind them. Still holding her tightly against him as she caught her breath, her knees gone watery, Scratch peered back over his shoulder from the charred ruins, finding their children frozen in place, their wide eyes locked on their mother. Jim and his wife ran up and ground to a halt with Toote and Shad, the smoking timbers staining the air.
Seeing that frightened look in Mary’s eyes, Scratch realized the woman knew what they were up against.
Quietly, calmly supporting his trembling wife, Titus Bass said, “Mary—we’re gonna need your help. This baby’s comin’ too early.”
He had asked Waits-by-the-Water if she wanted to come with him, but he knew that no matter how strong she was, she still was in no condition to straddle a horse.
He could have cut some saplings and tied together some sort of travois to carry her in … if she had wanted to go along with him into the hills.
But she had shaken her head, bit down on her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out loud, and buried her face against him until it was time for him to go. Alone.
They didn’t have much they could do for a proper burial shroud, what with the Mormons stealing most everything and burning what they didn’t take with them when they cleared out of the valley. But Jim Bridger did manage to find some scraps of flour sacks his wife, Mary, and Shell Woman quickly stitched together with some delicate and narrow leather whangs until they had a piece of coarse burlap big enough to wrap twice round the tiny corpse. Into this mourning sack they sewed the infant, this one and only garment the child would wear on this earthly veil. Soon enough, he thought as Gabe helped his wife with those stitches, soon enough the burlap would fall to tatters beneath the howling winds of this coming winter … then the tiny body would begin to go the way of all flesh. Back to dust, set upon the winds for all time to come.
When the little bundle was ready, Jim came over and nodded, then turned away. Neither he nor Shad had been able to say anything, their grief was so palpable.
“I will go now,” he said to her as the fire’s light flickered on the sheen across her wet cheeks.
“Say the prayers,” she begged him in Crow.
She didn’t have to. “I know the prayers to say. Through the seasons, I have said the words over so many. Over your father, and your brother too. These same prayers we both said over the grave of my grandson. And finally … the words spoken over the body of your mother too.”
“Wh-why?” she whimpered again, grinding her face into his shirt. “Did we do something wrong to bring all this pain? Is there something we could have done to change this—”
Pressing two fingertips against her lips, Titus reassured her with words he did not yet believe, “This is not about us—not about what we did or what we didn’t do.”
“How can this be about that little man who died coming too early?” she asked in a husky whisper, her throat sore from the hours of hard breathing and the difficult labor.
“It isn’t about our son either,” he said. “It’s about whoever makes these choices. Who decides what’s to live … and what’s to die.”
“Will we ever know?”
He squeezed her shoulders against him for a long time, then finally said, “If we’re lucky, we might figure it out one day. But … I don’t think we ever will know why it was us, why it was here and now … why it was that little boy of ours.”
She sobbed for several more minutes; then her trembling slowed until she finally pushed herself back from him enough to gaze up at her husband’s eyes. Waits said, “Make it a safe place for him who has no name. Make it a very, very safe place.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, right where her hair began, and drank in the fragrance of her, then slowly peeled himself out from under his wife and stood. Without a word he passed by his children and went to untie the reins to his horse.
As Scratch put his left moccasin into the big hole of the cottonwood stirrup, he stopped, stood still, feeling so damned weary. Then without turning to look back over his shoulder, he said, “Flea, I want you to bring me the body of your little brother.”
With great effort, Titus dragged himself into the saddle, settled himself down, and toed his right foot into the stirrup as the tall, muscular Flea took the tiny bundle from Shell Woman’s arms and brought it over to where his father sat on the horse.
“I can come with you, Popo.”
His eyes were wet, tears falling down his leathery cheeks as Flea laid the burlap shroud across the crook of his left arm. “You stay with your mother. Sit with her. Do anything she needs of you. I … I must do this alone.”
Not able to choke out anything more, Titus Bass dragged the reins to the right and heeled the horse in a quarter turn. The animal slowly carried him away from the smoking rubble that remained of Fort Bridger on Black’s Fork in the valley of the Seedskeedee. The stars were still in bloom early that morning as the sky began to gray in the east. Just the faintest hint of rose at one spot on the horizon. A reddening, deepening, bloody rose that so reminded him of the smears running up and down the newborn’s body, of that blackening pool of blood there beneath his wife’s buttocks as her legs quivered in pain and exhaustion while she delivered the tiny lifeless body.
The boy had never breathed.
Scratch let out a long sigh, watching the thin, gauzy wisp of breathsmoke trail from his mouth as he began to sob again. This tiny son of his had never taken a breath, never known the simple joy of tasting life in his lungs.
First Maker breathed His spirit into each of us, he thought as he started the horse upstream toward the lion’s head rocks where he and Gabe had waited out the Mormons’ sacking of the fort. So it was the Indians of these mountains believed. The Creator of all blew His breath into the mouth and nostrils of every newborn at the moment of emerging into the world so that the child gasped with the powerful spirit that infused the tiny lungs and made the babe cry out with life.