Mountain Meadows, Utah
September 1857
Day 1 in the Meadow
The large supply wagons sat side by side, six feet apart in the center of the trampled Meadow, surrounded by the trenches we’d dug and the tight corral of circled wagons.
As I approached, I saw bullet holes in the side of one of the water barrels. Beneath it was a mess of mud and grass. A shallow, dirty puddle remained, reflecting blue sky overhead.
Our water. Gone.
My heart sank a little lower. I put my full weight on my injured foot without thinking, sending the toe throbbing again, but the pain was nothing compared to what I saw in front of me.
Captain Alexander and some of the other wounded lay propped between the long supply wagons in the shade. I made a quick count. Five men, five women, two children. The ground beneath their bodies looked just like the muddy, trampled grass beneath the spilled water barrels. The injured lay in a mixture of the wasted water and blood from wounds that hastily applied bandages couldn’t fully staunch.
I saw that someone had placed tin buckets underneath the biggest leaks in the water barrels, to catch the precious liquid. When Eliza, Alexander’s wife, saw me limping toward her, she dipped a cup into one such bucket.
Eliza hunched on her knees, her dress a mottled mess of mud and blood. “Kit,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and desperate, pleading like I might have come to offer help instead of taking it. At the other end of the makeshift infirmary, two more women turned to look at me. Both were re-wrapping blood-soaked bandages. One woman held a half-empty bottle of whiskey to a child I barely recognized through the crusted earth and blood on her face. The bullet had caught her in the neck, slicing through the flesh beneath her chin. The wound looked like a gaping second mouth.
Alexander blinked and fixed his eyes on me when Eliza spoke my name. His dark, deep set eyes always seemed slow and sleepy, in stark contrast to the quick mind behind them. Unlike the other wounded souls writhing in pain around him, Alexander looked almost serene—except for his labored breathing.
A bandage that didn’t quite cover the jagged hole in his torso drew my gaze. The material covering the wound had a pattern to it, and it took a moment for me to realize I was looking at the skirt of a dress, soaked through and deep crimson. One end of the skirt had come unraveled, revealing bruised, swollen flesh that surely covered broken ribs. His chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing through the tightly wrapped bandage and the wound itself.
“How is Uri holding up?” he asked.
“Don’t speak, just rest,” Eliza commanded with a shaking voice, bringing one hand to rest on his cheek.
Alexander’s neat black mustache twitched with the barest hint of a smile. “Yes, Captain Eliza.”
“Uri is alive,” I told them, kneeling beside Alexander. The sweet relief of taking the pressure off my crushed toes made me dizzy. “He’s with Louisa and the children in the trench. Hampton and James are still standing guard,” I said.
Alexander nodded but kept his lips pursed together.
“We need fresh bandages. And water,” I told Eliza hesitantly, looking at the half-empty buckets. “How much is left?”
She shook her head. “There’s only a little water left. Not much.” She swallowed hard. Her lips were cracked and dry. I knew without a doubt she hadn’t taken a sip for herself all day. “Take one of the buckets back to the trench with you,” she instructed. “Give some to my girls … and everyone. Here.” She rose to a crouch and pulled strips of material from the prairie schooner. “We’ve run through the bandages, but there’s clothing to spare.”
I winced at the thought of someone’s carefully packed second dress being used as a tourniquet. But for all I knew, the clothing belonged to the dead and dying. And besides, what was a dress if we didn’t get out of here alive?
The thought made my stomach turn.
I took the half-full bucket and tin cup Eliza offered and held my tongue. The incessant buzzing of flies, whispered moans of pain from the wounded, and quiet pleas for water filled the silence. The gentle rush of the river, just out of our reach beyond the circled wagons, was audible amid all the misery.
My own dry throat ached to drink the cool water, but there were too many others who needed it more.
“The Indians have the cattle. The herd is long gone. So why won’t they let us go? What are they waiting for? Did you get a good look at any of them?” I couldn’t help myself. The fearful questions tumbled out before I could stop them. I clutched the bucket hard against my chest, terrified I would drop the precious liquid.
Alexander blinked his eyes open. The woman on the other side of Eliza, whose soft moans had been an awful melody to my questions, suddenly went silent. Eliza whirled around, clearly worried she had died. One of her arms hung limp across her chest, blown apart at the elbow.
But her face was turned toward Alexander, eyes open and mouth set in a tight line. She wasn’t dead. She was listening.
When Alexander didn’t respond, I pressed. “I saw two of the men. So did Uri. It was too foggy, too dark, to tell for sure, but they were half-naked, painted up.” I swallowed. “Indians. But Uri still thinks the Mormons ordered the attack.”
Alexander’s eyes flashed. “We can’t know it was the Mormons.” His voice was firm as he went on. “We’ll keep cool heads. We’ve been raided before—and not by the Mormons. It doesn’t matter who the snipers are anymore. We’ll fight like hell until we pick them off one by one, or until they run away after the cattle hustlers. Our men have already hit two more of the snipers hidden along the river.” He blinked those hooded, dark eyes, calculating. “I believe they’re planning on holding us here a little longer, until there’s no hope of us recovering the cattle. A day. Two at most, to drive the steers so far back into Utah Territory that we won’t try to chase them.” He winced. “I’m sorry, Katrina. We’ll all take care of you in California. Cattle or not.”
His words filled my eyes with tears. Part despair, part rage, part desperate hope at the idea of leaving this valley of blood and fear behind to reach California. Poorer than when we’d left Arkansas, but alive. At least alive.
As long as we could just get out of here.
We’re nearly there, I told myself firmly.
Even that part of my bedraggled prayer felt like it was hanging by a thread now.
I nodded. If there was anyone I trusted after Peter’s death, it was Alexander. I loved Uri and Louisa, but Uri could be a hothead. Alexander was right. The who of this attack didn’t matter right now so much as the what.
And the what was fighting like hell until they left us alone.
The squish of footsteps in the mud made all of us turn. It was one of our men—Pleasant Tackett. His eyes blazed while he stood panting down at Alexander. He glanced at me and Eliza but then said, “Last count, best I can tell, there’s only a few gunmen left along the river. Should we rush them?”
Alexander grimaced and shook his head. “No. Don’t leave the protection of the wagon fort. There’s no telling how many men we’ll lose if we force the fight out into the open. Keep shooting at anything that moves. And keep some of the men working to widen the trench.”
Pleasant nodded once and crept back through the Meadow, the way he had come.
I kissed Eliza on the cheek and gently squeezed Alexander’s hand. “Your girls are doing fine, they’re right beside me in the trench. I’ll be back,” I said, hoping it was true.
* * *
Uri insisted I give most of the water to the children in the trench. He took a drink from the tin cup, then gave each child a sip.
While I was gone, Hampton’s sister had brought little Lizzie over to play with my Nancy. They convinced her to share the little horse with her and baby Triphena. For an hour or so now, the two little girls seemed to forget we were crouched in a trench beneath the blistering sun, with the sound of flies in our ears and blood in our noses. Mary used the horse to play peek-a-boo with the babies, and the little girls laughed each time the horse hid beneath Mary’s sleeve.
At long last, the shadows cast by the circled wagons shaded us from the heat. Bright and Belle sighed with relief, letting out a mournful bawl at intervals. I could only imagine how thirsty and exhausted they were, standing yoked with their noses up against the neighboring wagon on the outside of the trench. I wanted to let them out of their yoke so they could stretch their legs. Let them plunge into the river. But if I did that, we’d never leave this Meadow.
“Whoa there, Belle, whoa there, Bright,” I called to them softly. “It’s all right.”
The last words caught in my throat.
Nightfall was still hours away, but the worst of the midday heat was past. Maybe by the time night fell, our men could sneak toward the snipers under the cover of darkness and end this horror. Or at least get down to the river undetected to gather a little water for the suffering humans and animals alike.
No sooner had I thought it than a gunshot split the air, followed by an anguished, earsplitting bellow from just above the trench.
The shadows shifted, and I scrambled upright, putting most of my weight on my good foot to see.
Bright struggled to stand in the yoke, pulling Belle and the wagon with him. Blood poured from his big, wooly neck, cascading onto the grass. He tripped on his hobbles and crashed down hard, right in front of me.
I gasped. He’d been struck in the throat.
“No, no, no.” The tears I thought had dried up pricked at my eyes again.
His nostrils flared and his enormous, soft eyes rolled back. Below me in the trench, the children cried in terror, mingling with the soft bawling sound still coming from Bright’s mouth.
Belle leaned her body as far away from him as she could, her legs shaking and her head tossing from side to side.
“Whoa, Belle,” I told her, again and again until she hung her head in exhaustion.
The gunshot that hit Bright brought James and Hampton running, weaving and ducking through the cover of the big supply wagons toward us. Some of the snipers must have changed position. The brush and boulders along the riverbank offered a thousand hiding places. The shooters could be anywhere.
Stop, I wanted to scream to Hampton and James. If a sniper’s bullet could hit Bright, it could hit them, too. But I kept quiet and watched as James lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired.
The bloodcurdling scream from the brush told me he’d made his target. An exhale of relief escaped me, but the fear hung on.
Bright shuddered, and I scooted my body higher onto the trench ridge, so I could lay a trembling hand on his nose. “There, boy,” I choked out quietly.
I sang until his body finally shivered into stillness and the lyrics caught in my throat.
“So fill to me the parting glass and gather as the evening falls.
And gently rise and softly call goodnight and joy be to you all.
“Since it fell into my lot that I should rise and you should not,
I'll gently rise and softly call good night and joy be to you all.”