Corn Creek, Utah
August 1857
After long talks in the big wickiup at the center of the village, Chief Kanosh, and the other men decided to ride north toward Salt Lake to Brigham Young’s house.
The prophet would decide what to do about the dead Paiutes and, of course, Proctor Robison.
Something had to be done. All the death seemed to point back to the gentile wagon train.
I had heard growing murmurs that the gentile wagon train had spread poison across the steer carcasses they left behind at Corn Creek. But Kanosh, like the rest of the Indian chiefs in Utah Territory, had learned not to take matters into his own hands when it came to white settlers.
As the riders prepared to leave, I thought of the little girl I’d met. If poison had been set intentionally, she certainly hadn’t been the one to do it. But what about her papa? There was a world of difference between a grown coyote and a pup.
I pushed the memory of her sad brown eyes away.
“Maybe they’ll return Brother Brigham’s little doll to him when they go,” Kanosh’s second wife, Numa, muttered to the third—Povi—who cut her eyes toward me. She was at least a head shorter than me, but her long hair was streaked with gray and wrinkles lined her eyes. All three of Kanosh’s other wives were old enough to be my mother. And Kanosh was old enough to be my grandfather.
“She’s not even pretending to mourn the dead,” Povi said indignantly to Numa, not bothering to lower her voice.
I ignored them and thrust my hands deep into my pockets to find my tulle horse while I stared into the fire, listening to the sound of hoofbeats as the first riders disappeared.
Kanosh and the elders would probably be gone for a few days, given the distance to Salt Lake. Which meant the women wouldn’t try to hide their disdain for me. But at least Kanosh wouldn’t make his way into my bedroll.
* * *
That night, when I entered the wickiup, I found my bedroll moved to the farthest side of the large branch and brush structure. The tule-stalk broom, usually tucked into the corner, lay on top of the bedroll. Someone had sprinkled dirt, hair, and a few dead insects across it, too.
Inola sighed and snatched up the broom, then moved my bedroll back beside the other wives’ while I watched in silence. “I don’t like her either, but there’s no sense making this day worse for anyone,” she snapped at Numa and Povi.
I lay down on the bedroll but kept my eyes open until the sound of steady breathing filled the wickiup. In the distance, some of the mourners were still wailing in the night, soft keening sounds from outside the wickiups that had lost a beloved family member.
A tangle of silvery hair still stuck to the bedroll in front of my eyes, and I couldn’t help thinking of the strange, mouse-colored wreath on the door of Brigham Young’s meeting room. It looked like it was made of delicate feathers artfully woven together into flowers and bows. I’d only learned that the wreath was made of human hair when—without warning—Clara had plucked a few strands from my scalp after my baptism. She tied them into the delicate wreath, pointed at her own hair, then back at the wreath, smiling with all her teeth out. I smiled too, wishing I could pluck the hairs right back.
They didn’t belong there.
And neither did I.
None of Brother Brigham’s many wives were invited to attend his meetings in the room behind the hair wreath. No women. The one exception was when Brigham hosted the local Indian chiefs. Then, I was invited inside to serve fresh biscuits and jam to the half-dozen guests who had traveled from across the territory.
I always did my best to disappear into the corner once the serving was done. The meetings lasted a long time, while the Mormon leaders and chiefs held heated discussions through an interpreter about land, cattle, and water, but mostly about the U.S. government and rotten President James Buchanan.
James Buchanan was coming for Indian and Mormon alike. The government had already chased the Mormons out of New York, Illinois, and Missouri the same way they’d been chasing Indians off their land to make way for wagon trains to trespass.
But enough was enough.
From what I pieced together, the American government wanted to replace Brigham Young as our state governor because the Mormons in Utah listened to him more than anyone else. Including the federal officials who kept showing up in Utah Territory—then storming back to Washington in a huff.
No other governor had twenty-seven wives. Or spoke directly to God. Brother Brigham was a prophet first. His roles as a governor and Indian Agent came second.
James Buchanan didn’t like that one bit. But Brother Brigham said that the president was in for a surprise if he tried to unseat him.
“It is not in the power of the United States to destroy us,” he boomed, gesturing around the table at the chiefs the last time I served biscuits and jam. The meetings in the hair-wreath room tended to shift into sermons quickly, with Brother Brigham standing at the head of the table. “And if they send an army against us, we have every constitutional and legal right to send them to hell.”
I noticed that when he said we, he made fierce eye contact with each of the chiefs.
One day, I made the mistake of keeping my eyes open during the closing prayer at a meeting with the chiefs. In doing so, I caught the eye of Chief Kanosh, who was the only brown man I’d ever seen with a mustache. It curled above his weathered upper lip like the tail of a small animal. I couldn’t stop staring.
He winked at me and smiled, which made his mustache twitch.
A few days later, Clara told me I would need to pack my things—consisting of two scratchy dresses, one pair of hard shoes, and a small, shiny brooch the Youngs gave me as a goodbye gift along with a pat on the shoulder.
I would be joining the Paiutes near Corn Creek—as Kanosh’s fourth wife. Four didn’t seem like very many compared to Brother Brigham’s twenty-seven. But I didn’t want to be anybody’s wife.
The day I arrived at the village near Corn Creek, Kanosh paraded me through the wickiups. He told the elders and his three other wives that Brigham Young was a powerful ally against the U.S. government, which posed a threat to Paiute and Mormon alike. According to Kanosh, the prophet had parted with his beloved Sally as a gesture of goodwill. He told the others I was like a daughter to Brigham. His treasured possession.
The scars on my cheeks and my shabby clothing told a different story—one that Kanosh’s three other wives were quick to notice. I could see the disdain and judgment in their eyes from the first moment. Of course, they said nothing.
And neither did I.
We all knew I was a trade. Not a treasure.
Still, Kanosh had promised to build me a cabin instead of the shared wickiup, to show Brigham next time he rode out to Corn Creek. So that the prophet could see he cared for me above all else. The other wives rolled their eyes when he looked away.
I smiled vacantly as if I didn’t understand a word he said.