Wind Walker

horsemen and loped toward the two old trappers.

“Elder Orson Pratt!” announced the long-faced one who was first to speak. He held out his hand. “What are your names?”

“Elder?” Titus echoed. “You don’t look so damn old to me.”

“That’s a way our brethren have of addressing one another,” Pratt declared with a self-assured grin. “The title doesn’t refer to our age, just our wisdom in the word of God. What name do you go by, good sir?”

“Titus Bass,” he answered, tapping the brim of his wide hat with two fingertips. “This here’s Jim Bridger.”

Pratt’s face lit up, as did the countenances of the other three. “The Jim Bridger?”

“I’m the onliest one,” Gabe replied.

Turning sideways in his saddle, Pratt said exuberantly, “Elder Woodruff, ride back and tell the President that God has surely blessed us this day. Explain that Jim Bridger himself has been delivered into our hands!”

As the round-faced man in the flat-brimmed black hat reined his horse around and loped back toward the main party, Pratt didn’t get a word out before Bridger spoke up, “Me delivered into your hands?”

The stranger nodded enthusiastically. “We prayed we might run onto you, Mr. Bridger. Two days ago we met up with a small company of men come from Oregon.”

“Oregon?” Jim repeated. “They was headed east?”

“On their way to the States on some business,” Pratt explained. “Left Oregon on the fifth of May, horseback and making good time they claimed. Major Harris, their guide, was bringing them through to Laramie, where he would take his leave of their party and stay at that post until he could hire out to one of the emigrant companies if they wished to employ his services, leading them back to Oregon.”

Titus asked, “That where your train is headed?”

Pratt shook his head. “My, no. We’re on the way to a land of our own. Where the Lord Himself is guiding us.”

“We are the Saints of the living God,” declared the man beside Pratt, his face flushed with the heat. “We have come to find the paradise He has promised to our Prophet, President Young.”

“Saints, you said?” Titus commented as his eyes moved across the three strangers. They did have the same look about them as those men camped near the Pueblo when he arrived to deliver word of the slaughter in Taos a few months back. “I met me a hull camp of fellers down on the Arkansas last winter what called themselves Saints too. There more’n one bunch o’ Saints come west to find their promised land?”

The second man had turned to Pratt and was talking almost before Bass was finished. “That must be Captain Brown’s party. Praise God for their deliverance!”

Then he turned back to address Bass and Bridger, “I am Elder James Little. This is good news you’ve brought us this day about our first pioneer party to push west from Winter Quarters on the Platte.”

“Pioneers?” Bridger echoed as the rest of the main body came up.

“We are the vanguard of a mighty migration,” stated a solid man as he brought his horse to a halt. The solid, big-honed man wore no mustache, only a full beard, and his eyes appeared to shine with the first sign of a fever. “Good day to you both. I am President Young. Brigham Young. Pray, which of you is Jim Bridger?”

“He is,” Titus said, indicating his friend.

Young heeled his horse forward, stopping immediately on Bridger’s off side, and held out his hand. “I am very, very pleased to meet you, Mr. Bridger.”

They shook as Jim said, “Call me Jim.”

“Then you must be sure to call me Brigham.”

“You’re chief to these here Saints?” Titus asked. “An’ them Saints I met down on the Arkansas last winter?”

“Captain Brown’s party is safe and well?”

“They was when I last saw them middle of winter.”

Young smiled. “This is truly an auspicious day, brothers! We learn that our fellow Mormons are safe in the hand of God, and Jim Bridger has been brought to help us.”

“Marmons?” Titus repeated.

“No … Mor-mons,” Young corrected, his face hardening.

“That’s what I said: Mar-mons,” he replied. “Thought you said you were saints.”

With a benevolent smile, Young explained, “We are known by both names. Ours is the Church of the Latter- Day Saints, but most folks call us Mormons, because of the Book of Mormon we read, revelations of the latter day.”

“Two names for the same thing,” Bass muttered to Bridger out of the side of his mouth. “Ain’t that just like a confabulating religion?”

“Are-you bound for your post?” Young asked Bridger, stoically ignoring Bass’s comment.

Jim wagged his head. “Fort John for supplies.”

“Could I prevail upon you to spend some time with us before we proceed on our way?” Young pleaded. “You see, we have these maps of Colonel Fremont’s. It would be most helpful if you could—”

“Fremont?” Bridger snorted with a huge grin and a shake of his head. “Best you don’t count on them Fremont maps none! Might end up marching right into the sea, you foller a map drawed by the Colonel Fremont I know!”

“They’re not to be relied upon?” the Prophet asked, dumbfounded.

“Truth is,” Jim said, “I’m ashamed of any map Fremont’d draw. He knows nothing of the country hereabouts.”

Drawing in a long sigh, Young said, “Exactly, Mr. Bridger. That’s why it was God’s will that He delivered you to me here. Weeks ago I heard you alone were the man to know this interior country. And for weeks now I’ve prayed God would lead me to you.”

Squinting his eyes, Jim asked, “What you want of me, Brigham?”

The man’s face lit up. “Why, I want you to help me find the Promised Land for my people!”

That afternoon as Bridger and Bass joined the Mormon pioneers in making camp beside the ford of the Little Sandy, Scratch got to brooding that Brigham Young sounded more and more like the Moses of a bygone day, what with all the stories his mother had read him from her great family Bible back in Rabbit Hash, Boone County, Kentucky. This one, a new Moses, explaining how he was leading his people out of turmoil and despair back east, where they could not practice their chosen religion in Illinois or Missouri, guiding his flocks of faithful onto the prairie to escape to Zion, much as Moses led his people into the wilderness in search of their own Promised Land.

“The information you give us about the country west of here is considerably more favorable than the news given us by Major Harris,” Orson Pratt declared at that great council of the Twelve held beside the ford of the Little Sandy, where Bridger and Bass agreed to tarry till breakfast, answering every last one of the Saints’ questions concerning the unknown country ahead.

“If this here Harris is a feller of dark skin,” Bridger explained, “I figger you run onto Moses Harris, but he goes by the name Black Harris. You read the same sign, Scratch?”

Bass nodded.

Brigham Young confessed, “Said he was a pilot—could guide for us. We shared a camp with him last night at Pacific Springs, but, I’ll admit I never got the man’s first name. Moses.”

Bridger said, “I don’t know how he come to call hisself a major, but I’d be curious to hear what he told you Mormons ’bout where you’re headed.”

“There’s the lake where I feel I’m drawn,” Brigham declared. “I asked him about that lake.”

“Big’un, or small?” Bridger inquired. “Salt or sweet?”

Young grinned. “Salt. Yes! Salt.”

“What’d Harris say ’bout it?”

“Not much good,” Young admitted, his jowls working. “The whole region is sandy, destitute of timber of any size, and there’s no vegetation but for the wild sage. Tell me, should I trust the word of Major Harris?”

Making a casual sign of the cross from brow to breast, Bridger explained, “Can’t figger what he’d know of that part of the country. As for me, there’s plenty of timber. Last twenty year, I made sugar from the trees. Right where