Early in the autumn of 1859, I again visited Salt Lake City, when
President Brigham Young called upon me to make another visit to the
Moquis, and take with me Brother Marion J. Shelton, whom we had called
to labor with that people, to learn their language and teach them.
He directed me to leave with him one of the brethren who had been with
me for some time among the Indians. President Young also put in my
charge sixty dollars worth of goods, consisting of wool-cards, spades,
shovels and other articles which would be of value to the Indians,
with instructions to dispense them in the best manner to create a good
influence among them.
I returned home, and immediately made arrangements to carry out these
instructions.
Our company consisted of Marion J. Shelton, Thales Haskell, Taylor
Crosby, Benjamin Knell, Ira Hatch, John W. Young and myself.
We left the Santa Clara settlement on the 20th of October. Nothing of
special interest occurred on our journey, except that at one time we
did not find water where we expected, and were suffering with thirst,
when some Piutes saw our fire and came to us. They informed us where
water was located and in the morning piloted us to it.
We arrived among the Moquis on the 6th of November. We visited and
talked with them three days.
I was at a loss to know who to leave with Brother Shelton, and was
desirous that it might be made manifest to me. My mind rested upon
Brother Thales Haskell. I went to him and told him that he was the only
one I could think of to remain with Brother Shelton, but he had been
out so much that I disliked to mention the subject to him.
He replied that he was the man, for it had been made known to him
that he would be asked to remain before leaving home, but he had said
nothing about it.
We left our Moqui friends and Brothers Shelton and Haskell on the 10th
of November, and arrived home on the 25th. Brothers Shelton and Haskell
remained on their mission until early spring, when they returned home
and reported that the Moquis were kind to them, but they could not
make much progress in the object of their mission. The fathers of the
people told them, very emphatically, that they still believed that the
"Mormons" who had visited them were the men prophesied of by their
fathers, that would come among them from the west to do them good. But
they could make no move until the re-appearance of the three prophets
who led their fathers to that land, and told them to remain on those
rocks until they should come again and tell them what to do.
Under these circumstances the brethren thought best to return home.
In the fall of 1860, I was directed to make another effort to establish
a mission in some of the Moqui towns, and take with me George A. Smith,
Jr., son of the late President George A. Smith.
I left the Santa Clara in October with a company of nine men: Thales
Haskell, George A. Smith, Jr., Jehiel McConnell, Ira Hatch, Isaac
Riddle, Amos Thornton, Francis M. Hamblin, James Pierce, and an Indian
we called Enos. We took sufficient to sustain us in the Moqui country
for one year.
In speaking at a public meeting the day before leaving, I said I felt
different from what I had ever previously done on leaving home; that
something unusual would happen. What it would be I did not know.
Whether we should ever see home again or not I did not know, but I knew
we were told to go among the Moquis and stay for one year, and that I
should do so if I could get there.
When we arrived at the crossing of the Colorado River, I again felt the
same gloomy forebodings I spoke of before leaving home.
On the morning before crossing, the brethren said I had spoken
discouragingly several times, and they wished to know if there was any
one in the company that I did not wish to go on.
I assured them that there was no one that I did not wish to go
along, but I knew there would be something happen that would be very
unpleasant, and that there would be very hard times for some of us.
Young George A. Smith said: "You will see one thing, that is, I will
stick to it to the last. That is what I came for."
We all crossed the Colorado River with a firm determination to do the
best we could to fill our mission.
The second day's travel from the river we found no water, as we had
expected, and what little we had brought with us was exhausted.
About two o'clock in the afternoon, four Navajos came to us, and told
us that if we went on to the next watering place we would all be
killed. They invited us to go with them to Spaneshanks' camp, where
they assured us we would find protection.
We counseled about the matter, and concluded that the animals were too
nearly famished for want of water to reach Spaneshanks' camp. If what
the four Navajos told us about danger ahead was true, we were in danger
from enemies if we went on to water and of perishing with thirst if we
attempted to reach Spaneshanks' camp.
As the water was but a short distance ahead on our route, we concluded
to push on to it and risk the consequences.
I requested Brother Thales Haskell to go on with the company and water
the animals, he having been there before, and being, for this reason,
acquainted with the ground. I directed him, for security, to take our
animals on to the top of a table rock where there were about forty
acres of grass, and which could be reached only through a narrow pass
in the rocks, which would enable us to easily defend ourselves in case
of attack.
The Navajos were gathering around us from different directions, and the
Indian interpreter we had brought with us informed me that they were
evidently bent on mischief. I determined to remain behind with them for
awhile, and learn what I could by the interpreter and by observation.
The interpreter learned from their conversation, that they were
determined we should not go on to the Moqui towns, but they appeared
undecided whether to kill us or let us go home.
We had taken two Indian women with us, thinking that they might be a
great help in introducing something like cleanliness in cooking, among
the people we were going to visit. The Navajos said we might go home if
we would leave them.
I directed the interpreter to tell them that one of the women was
Brother Hatch's wife, and the other was mine. They replied that they
would not kill the men who had married them.
Two of the Navajos then hurried on to our camp, which was by the narrow
pass, on to the table rock. There the Navajos made a treaty with
us that if we would trade them the goods we had brought along, and
especially the ammunition, we might go home.
As it seemed impossible to fill our mission, we felt justified in
concluding to return.
The following morning we commenced to exchange articles of trade for
blankets. While thus engaged, our animals were taken off the rock to
water. When returning from the water, Brother George A. Smith's horse
turned back on a trail, which, in a short distance, led over a hill and
out of sight.
As he started after it, I told him that he had better not go alone,
to which he made an indifferent reply. Something else immediately
attracted my attention, and he was forgotten until the Navajos in our
camp suddenly left, when I learned that he was after his horse, alone
and out of sight. I sent two men after him.
They went about a mile, and found him lying by the trail, with three
bullet wounds through the lower part of his body, and four arrow wounds
between the shoulders.
I mounted a horse and rode to the spot, and learned that Brother George
A. had found a mounted Indian leading off his horse, and that he took
the Indian's horse by the bit, when the stolen horse was readily given
up, with which the owner started for camp.
The Indian who had taken the horse and a companion then rode a short
distance together, when one came up by the side of Brother George A.,
and asked him for his revolver. Not suspecting any treachery, he passed
it to the Indian, who handed it to his companion a little in the rear.
The latter then fired three shots into him, with the revolver only a
few feet from his body.
Brother Smith was paralyzed, and soon fell from his horse. The two
Indians then dismounted, and one threw his buckskin shirt over his
head, and the other shot the arrows between his shoulders.
We took the dying man on a blanket near to the camp, when he earnestly
requested us to lay him down and let him die in peace.
During this time about forty Navajos had gathered at a difficult place
on the trail leading to the Moqui towns, probably anticipating that we
would make an effort to go in that direction.
I sent our interpreter to ask them what they meant by shooting a man
after they had agreed with us that if we would trade with them we might
go in peace.
He returned with a message to the effect that three relatives of the
Indians had been killed by pale faces like us, and, to avenge their
death they had shot one of our men. They said: "Tell Jacob that he need
not bury him, for we will eat him, and the women and children will help
do it. We want to kill two more; and if Jacob will give them up or let
us quietly kill them, the rest of the company may go in peace."
The question was asked me, "What are you going to do?"
Under the trying circumstances, it was a serious question; and the
query was an earnest one with us all, "What can we do?" The heavens
seemed like brass over our heads, and the earth as iron beneath our
feet. It seemed utterly impossible to reach the Moqui towns, which were
almost in sight, and like certain death to attempt to escape in the
night with our jaded animals.
Our interpreter thought it would be better for two of the company to
die, than for all to be killed.
I told him to go and tell the Navajos that there were only a few of us,
but we were well armed, and should fight as long as there was one left.
He turned to go, rather reluctantly, saying again that he thought it
better for only two to die than all.
I replied that I did not think so; that I would not give a cent to live
after I had given up two men to be murdered; that I would rather die
like a man than live like a dog.
As the interpreter turned to go, the two Indian women we had brought
with us wept aloud, and accused me of bringing them along to be
murdered. I went a little way off by myself and asked the Lord to
be merciful, and pity us in our miserable and apparently helpless
condition, and to make known to me what to do and say to extricate us
from our difficulties.
I returned to camp and told the company that we would leave as soon as
possible.
Some thought it was certain death whether we went or remained where we
were.
I told them, however, that there would not be another one of us injured.
Our four Navajo friends who had come to us the day before, had
remained, and now helped to gather our animals and pack up.
We were soon on our way.
I told Brother George A. that we must return home to save our lives,
for we could not go any farther, as the Navajos were guarding the pass.
"Well," said he, "leave me; it will make but very little difference
with me; it may make much with you. You cannot go very fast if you take
me."
We put him in a saddle upon a mule, with Brother Jehiel McConnell
behind him, to hold him on.
We left our camp kettles over the fire containing our breakfast,
untouched, and all our camp outfit that we could possibly do without.
The Navajos who had been guarding our trail beyond the camp, started
after us, coming down like a whirlwind.
Some of our party predicted that in ten minutes there would not be one
of us left, but there was no flinching, no wilting in the emergency.
I again predicted that there would not be one of us hurt, for so the
Spirit whispered to me.
The Navajos came almost within range of our rifles, and then turned
suddenly to the right.
As they passed, the mule that carried our supplies went after them;
but, to our surprise, it was brought back to us by a friendly Navajo.
We traveled as fast as possible, while the four old gray-headed Navajo
friends guarded our front and rear. They often asked us to leave the
dying man, as he was no longer of any use; that the one who shot him
would follow to obtain his scalp, and that if we stopped to bury him
they would leave, for our enemies would have his scalp if they had to
dig his body up.
About sun-down George A. asked me to stop, and said that everything
looked dark to him, and he was dying.
Our Navajo friends again said if we stopped they would go on. I said to
Brother George A., "It will not do to stop now."
He asked, "Why?"
When I told him, he said, "Oh, well, go on then; but I wish I could die
in peace." These were the last words that he said.
A few minutes afterwards, the Navajo friends said, "The man is dead. If
you will leave him, we will take you to Spaneshanks' camp, where you
will have friends."
Our last ray of hope for getting the body of George A. where we could
lay it safely away in the rocks, was now gone. I said to the company,
"What shall we do?" The answer was, "What can we do, only lay the body
on the ground and leave it?"
I replied that such was my mind, for we would only risk our lives
by making an effort to bury the dead, in which we would probably be
unsuccessful.
We wrapped the body in a blanket, and laid it in a hollow place by the
side of the trail, and then rode on as fast as our jaded animals could
well carry us, until late in the night.
We halted on a patch of grass, held our animals by the lariats, and
also put out a guard.
I sat down and leaned over on my saddle, but could not sleep. The
scenes of the past two days were before me in vivid reality. The
thought of carrying the wounded man with his life's blood dripping out
of him along the trail, without his having the privilege of dying in
peace, combined with the leaving of his body to be devoured by wolves
and vultures, seemed almost too much to bear.
My imagination pictured another scene. South of us, in the distance,
we could see a large fire, around which we presumed the Navajos were
having a war dance over the scalp of our brother.
Then the thought of conveying the sad news to his father and mother and
affectionate sister, all old and valued acquaintances of mine, pierced
me like barbed arrows, and caused me the most bitter reflections that I
have ever experienced in my life.