Transcript

Transcript for Vida E. Smith, Biography of Alexander H. Smith (Independence: Price Publishing, 2007), 34-48, 49-50

[34-48] On the 3d day of August we drove into the fort, between 10 and 11 o’clock a.m. At Fort Laramie one of those peculiar circumstances occurred which convinced us that God was watching over us. We came to the crossing of the Platte at about 9 o’clock at night. On the very banks of the river we met an Indian, who asked us if we wished to cross. We said we did. He went back and called the ferrymen, saying it was unsafe for us to camp on the north side as the Indians were bad. The ferryman, two fine looking Germans, came over and took us over in a flat boat, and counseled us to camp with them, as we could not get into the fort so late at night, and it was unsafe to camp alone. These men had Indian women for wives, and lived in tents; they charged us nothing extra for crossing us at night.

We drove into the fort over half a day ahead of the train we were seeking. Here we found Bro. Richard Atwood, quartermaster of the commissary department; and weren’t we glad when he said, "Boys, how are your provisions holding out?"

He gave us tea, sugar, and bacon, which he said he had a right to do.

He said, "How did you ever travel alone on the north side for such a distance? Why, the night before last the Indians stole one hundred and twenty-five head of horses from the fort."

We saw no Indians but the one we met at the river, for at least ninety miles. And now we turned our attention to getting into the train which we learned was waiting to be examined, for no train was permitted to leave the fort for the west unless it was well armed, and was a strong train in men, because of trouble with the Indians. Brother Atwood introduced us to the inspecting officer, and made known our desire to cross the plains westward with the incoming train from the Missouri River. The officer was a jolly fellow; he examined our guns, revolvers and team, and remarked, "There will be no trouble at all; three lusty looking fellows like you, without any women incumbrances, will be a desirable addition to any train."

Some one mentioned our mission, and the difference in our faith; for we had learned that the train was a Mormon emigrant train en route for Salt Lake City. The officer used a little profanity and said, "I don’t care anything about your religion; that cuts no figure in this case."

He told us to hitch up and drive out where he and his aids were inspecting the train. We did so and found the train drawn up in line; the soldiers examining the men and their arms. The train numbered about fifty wagons, laden with merchandise and the dunnage of the emigrants, who numbered about two hundred and fifty souls. These teams had been sent down to Omaha by the church authorities at Salt Lake City to bring out the emigrants; most of the teams were volunteers; the owners sending the teams, and the drivers being allowed a certain amount as tithing for their services. I learned that all, or nearly all, the drivers and the men in charge were faithful Mormons, who had passed through their endowments. The train was in charge of Thomas Ricks and Appy Wolf, from Bear Valley, if I remember rightly.

But to return to my story. We had been on the ground but a few minutes before the captain of the train and the officers from the fort came up to our team, "Do you intend to travel with this train?"

"Yes, sir; that is our desire, but there seems to be some objection to it?"

"What is it?"

"They require us to pay them ten dollars for the privilege."

"What is that for?"

"They explained that it is to help pay their herders for taking care of the mules at night; but we propose to take care of our own mules."

They passed along up the line. Pretty soon they came back, and as they got opposite our team, the officer said to the captain of the train, "Are you going to allow these men to travel with you? I think you better, they are well armed, and will be quite an addition to your fighting force if you should have trouble with the Indians."

"No, sir; they can’t travel with us."

"But why not?"

"Because they refuse to comply with the rules of the train."

The officer turned to us and asked, "How is that, boys?"

"Why, sir, they want us to pay them ten dollars for herding our mules and we prefer to herd our own mules. We don’t want them to herd our stock, and we haven’t got any ten dollars to squander in that way."

Captain Ricks then said, "They can’t travel with us unless the ten dollars is in hand," and turned away, as if that ended the matter; but the officer stopped him.

"See here; I think you better let the men go with you."

"No, sir."

"Well, now see here; you can do one of two things, either take these men along and treat them well, or I shall be obliged to send an escort of soldiers along with you as far as Fort Bridger, and you will have to take care of the soldiers, also. Now you can do as you------ please."

After consultation with his aid, Mr. Wolf, Mr. Ricks rode up and said, "You can fall in as the train pulls out, and go with us."

The officer said, "I thought so. Boys, have you got anything to drink in your outfit?" He then instructed us to telegraph back at every station and let him know how they treated us, and if they did not treat us right they would hear from him at Fort Bridger, and bade us good-bye. And once more we were made conscious that the good Father was watching over us. . . .

We were on the eve of starting west in a Brighamite emigrant train—a rather queer position, we three missionaries called Josephites, strongly antagonistic to the Utah church, going on a mission to Utah and California, with instructions and intent to do our best in opposition to that peculiar organization, en route in company with about three hundred souls, all, with two or three exceptions, strong in their faith, and many of whom had passed through the endowment house and received their endowments. And in their company not by their good will, but by force of circumstances and against their expressed desire. Having been forced upon them against their will, it is but natural they should show some resentment. We expected it, and were on our guard, and really, what was there to hinder their working their will upon us when we should find ourselves hundreds of miles from settlements or the soldiers who were so kind to us at Fort Laramie? We appreciate the situation and counseled that it would be best not to reveal our identity, nor to let the emigrants know our mission, but to treat all with the utmost kindness, do our part in all camp duties, such as night patrol and day guard, just the same as any other member of the train, and so reported to the captain of the train.

It seemed that the same mysterious power which had so markedly attended us all along was still with us, for while we were still watching the inspection of the company a young man came up to me and shook hands, but whispered to me, "Don’t seem to recognize me. I am the driver of one of the teams in the train; am a Josephite, will see you later!" and passed on. I was surprised, but soon fixed the young man. I knew him; he was indeed a member of the church; had relatives in Bear Valley, Utah, and was going out to visit them; his father and mother were also members of our church. Being thus warned, I of course kept my own counsel.

At last the train was in motion, and as it drove past we drove in behind and were on the road. The train was a large one and consequently moved slowly, traveling only from fifteen to thirty miles a day. We soon discovered that we were watched very closely, and speculation was rife as to who we were. Several efforts were made to draw us out, to reveal our object in crossing the plains; but for a time we remained unknown to them. I remember that at our first meal after joining the train, we were watched, and when we asked a blessing upon our food it was immediately reported to the captain that we were either apostate Mormons or Josephites, as no other class of religionists continued to keep up service and have prayer and ask a blessing upon the food so long after striking the plains. So we must be backout Mormons or Josephites.

It may seem strange how we could so soon learn what was reported to the captain, but you will remember the young man who made himself known on the first day of our meeting the train. He was supposed to be a good Mormon and attended their counsels and meetings and reported to me all he heard touching us in any way; so we had a spy in their camp.

About the third day out from Laramie one of their number came to me and said he was in charge of the corral guard and was making a list of all the names of the able-bodied men in order to organize more perfectly for the protection of the train. I at once recognized that it was simply a subterfuge to learn who we were. I told him at any time he wanted one of us men to let me know and I would furnish the man. This did not satisfy Captain Ricks, so I gave them our names, except that I only gave him my first and second name; so my name on his list was Alex. Hale. My purpose in doing this was to avoid any undue curiosity among the emigrants, for if it was known there was a son of the martyred Prophet in the train, there might be too many questions, and confusion ensue, or a collision on religious matters, which we desired to avoid while on the plains.

For a few days all went smoothly, then we were called upon to take our turn as advance guard. I mounted our pony and reported, and was placed with several others far in advance of the train to guard against surprise by Indians. As I was riding along the captain himself rode up alongside and saluted me. I returned his salute. This was the first time I had had an opportunity to converse with him. He had heretofore seemed to avoid me, but now he addressed me and said:

"Where did you say you hailed from?"

Instantly I was aware of what he wanted and resolved to tell him and evade nothing. "I came from the State of Illinois;" I answered.

What part of the State?"

"The western part."

"What county, or town, may I ask?"

"Certainly, sir; I came from Nauvoo, Hancock County."

"Ah! I thought so;" and he looked me straight in the eyes.

We understood one another.

I explained my object in withholding my full name, and he confessed the wisdom of it, and from this time forward Captain Ricks treated me with the utmost kindness; so also did Appy Wolf, his aid in charge of the train, while they were not quite so courteous to my brethren—[William] Anderson and [James W.] Gillen.

About this time a little incident occurred which pleased me, and left a pleasant memory to relieve some of the strain which affected us. One day I was assigned the position of advance guard. I mounted our pony, and rode out in advance of the train. We were in the mountains and traveling among them, small and great. As I rode along I noticed a beautiful little mountain to the right of the train as we advanced—that kind of a hill called sugar loaf, because of its shape. The idea at once occurred to me that I could obtain a fine view of our route from its top, so I climbed up its sides, which by the way were quite steep towards the top, and when I reached it I was more than repaid for my labor. Of course I had to dismount and lead "Billy," as he could hardly scramble up with my assistance. I wish I could describe the scenery as viewed by me upon this mountain among mountains, detached and alone it stood, like a sentinel doing duty there among his fellows, grand, noble, and inspiring. As I stood resting my elbow on the neck of my horse, taking in the beauty of the scene, there came upon me a feeling of awe and reverence for the nobility and magnitude of the works of God; and while this feeling was upon me I became conscious of sweet musical vibrations of sound filling the air all around me. The volume of sound seemed at first above me, and I unconsciously looked upward to solve the mystery. Gradually the music seemed to draw near and tune and words came out full and distinct in singing. It was human voices, but I am sure angelic singing could not have affected me more just then. It was the emigrants as they passed around the base of the mountain. Whether they saw me and had been informed who I was, I had no way of knowing; but the words of the hymn led me to think so. These were a band of good singers and they were singing, "We thank thee, oh God , for a prophet." I have heard the hymn sung by a good many choirs, including the famous Salt Lake City choir, since then; but never have I heard it equaled, as it was sung at the base of my little mountain.

One other incident I relate here which may be of interest to my readers. It was our coming to what is called Independence Rock. We had been traveling over a weary stretch of level plain, passed Soda Lake, or what was once a lake, but the heat of the sun or other causes had caused the evaporation of the water, leaving an incrustation of clear soda from one eighth to one and a quarter inches think, covering acres and acres of ground. The soda was pure, crystalized sediment, looking much like alum. Many of the emigrants gathered the crystals for cooking purposes. As we passed this peculiar lake we could see a range of mountains in the west, but between us and the mountains there rose right out of the level plain a huge rock detached from any mountains near. You may have seen what are called bowlders of granite in the prairies of the West, isolated and alone, no quarry or known ledge of such formation within thousands of miles; such was this huge rock in a dreary waste. Independence Rock! It is rightly named. I may exaggerate if I try to tell just how high it was. My memory of it is that it seemed fully one hundred and fifty feet high and covered about ten acres of ground. We climbed upon it, and saw hundreds, I suppose, of names inscribed or painted on it, but none engraven in it.

Being naturally ambitious we thought it would be a nice idea to have our names registered there also, so we set about to find a nice smooth place to make the inscription. We had no paint, but thought we might cut our names with a hatchet we had along with us, but on making the effort learned the rock was so much harder than our steel hatchet, that we could not make even a noticeable scratch on it, so we must resort to other means. Upon close examination I discovered that many of the names on this Nature’s Album were written with wagon grease from off the axles of the wagons. We had nothing except some dry powder with which, by mixing with moisture, we succeeded in fixing our names much like writing them in sand, for the first heavy rain would obliterate all evidences of our being there. However much I might feel to moralize upon this grand sentinel set in the weary land, it was an interesting lesson to me; but I will not weary you, but pass on, as we did, towards the west.

If my memory serves me right, eight (four) miles travel by the road brought us to the Sweetwater River, at the gap in the mountains where the river rushes through, called the Devil’s gate. Sometime in the dim past mountains by some throe of nature have been cracked or broken, as a huge cut, clean from top to base, and moved apart; and the river taking advantage, rushed through and has ever since kept its channel, although huge quantities of rock have from time to time fallen from the ragged walls on either side, which rise thousands of feet, sometimes perpendicularly, sometimes overhanging, and sometimes receding, raising upward, making a grand sight, which to be appreciated must be seen. It was thought that parties could pass through the gate on foot, but teams and horses must go around the point of the mountain by the road.

It was Bro. J. W. Gillen’s turn to drive our team, so William and I started out on foot. As we reached the outlet where the cold, clear water came tumbling over the rocky way, seeming glad to escape and rush away towards the plains, I determined to climb to the top, and cross the mountain, rather than risk a long, weary tramp back in case we could not get through. I suspected that we would have to cross the rapid running stream several times ere we emerged from the canyon on the other side. I knew the water was very cold, and that to cross meant to plunge in and wade it, so I concluded to scale the mountain. I found the ascent was rough, but not of a hazardous nature, and as I climbed upward I found an abundance of interesting matter, which well repaid me for my labor. But ah! When I reached the summit what a grand sight was spread out before me! And as I turned and looked back the way we had come, I could see the wagon trail winding around the huge rock in the desert; and away towards the east the vast plain which seemed limitless; and to the south I could see occasionally the glint of silver as the river came in sight in its meanderings; while to the west lay a valley, a beautiful valley; and beyond, range upon range of rugged mountain scenery. North of me was the deep chasm, with the mountains rising higher and thus cutting off any extended view in that direction. I sought out a fine resting place beneath a rugged pine tree, and rested, and enjoyed myself until the sun’s rays warned me that I better begin my descent.

I must here digress a little at the risk of making my story tedious. On the plains, the day before we reached Fort Laramie, I cut my hand badly. It happened in this wise: we came to a large patch of wild mountain currants. The fruit was ripening nicely. These were the first of the kind I ever saw; they were very palatable, and being the cook of the party I at once conceived the idea of adding stewed currants to our menu. I was in advance of the wagon, so I ran back to it and secured a two quart pail. I soon had it nearly full, but when I looked up to see where the wagon was I discovered that they had left me, and I knew how hard it was to catch up; but I had not yet secured all the currants I wanted. The idea occurred to me to cut some of the best laden bushes and carry to the wagon and pick the berries at my leisure. I took my knife and bent several bushes and drew my knife hastily across them, when from some cause it slipped and struck my left hand, cutting it badly. I was surprised as well as hurt, and the rapid flow of blood scared me a little. It is enough to say that I dropped the bushes, caught up my pail and hurried on to the wagon. I didn’t want any more berries. We had nothing to put on the wound, in the shape of salve. One of the company used tobacco, and I had heard tobacco was good for wounds and bruises; so I bound up my hand in tobacco, renewing the plaster from time to time; but the cut would not heal, and a small roll of angry proud flesh formed the entire length of the cut, about one inch and a quarter long, and was very painful. Eight days I suffered with what patience I could muster, until I lost all faith in the curative virtues of tobacco upon my flesh.

And now I resume my narrative on the mountain top. I noticed a gummy substance exuding from the bark of a sugar pine, or balsam fir tree; I gathered some, intending to try it on my sore hand. I started to descend, and the way seemed easy for a time, and I made my way down what seemed to be a hollow or depression. The soil was light and dry, and my feet would sink into it, leaving a well-defined trail. As I passed along I noticed tracks leading downward, but I soon came to the end of the depression, and as the track led on I approached what at first seemed a bench or abrupt drop off. I carefully crept to the edge and looked over. I full expected to see the rocks but a few feet below, for the tracks plainly led right over the edge; but imagine my dismay as I looked over, away down, down, five hundred feet or more I saw the waters of the river rushing madly through the rocky channel, roaring like a torrent! I was not long creeping away back up from that route and onto more secure ground, for I imagined that light, loose soil was creeping, creeping down over that fearful verge to the depths below. I finally made my way down on the western slope of the mountain, where I could distinctly hear the people conversing, and where they had gone into camp. I climbed out on a huge pile of rocks where I could see every movement in the valley.

Professors Savage and Ottinger were in the train, photographers, taking views, and I saw them getting ready to take a view of the very mountain side I was climbing down. I could plainly hear all they said, but I shouted as loud as I could and for a long time, it seemed to me, but they could not see me. I waved my hat and shouted; but it was no use; I could not get them to see me. It seemed to me that I could pitch a stone right in among them. I continued my downward course until I finally reached the camp and looked up. I saw the point I stood upon when I made such frantic efforts to attract their attention, and lo, it was fully one half mile away. William had made his way up through the gate by wading some places waist deep in the cold water. He insisted that I owed the Devil toll. I told him nay, that I did not go through his gate, but that he did, and if he did not pay the old gentleman he was the one who owed toll. "Ah, well," said he, "you climbed over, and the good book says that ‘he that climbeth up any other way is a thief and a robber’; and you have cheated the Devil." I told him that was the intention; that the very mission I was on was to cheat the Old Boy.

But I wish to relate how my hand was treated. I tried to get the brethren to cut the roll of proud flesh out and put on a plaster of pine balsam, but neither one would do it, so I cut it out myself and put on my plaster, and in less that a week the wound was entirely healed, and that alone paid me for climbing over the Devil’s gate.

It is with pleasure I recall events occurring on my mission across the plains. And while I may not fill my lines with doctrine, I shall endeavor to weave in enough to show a general watchcare of divine providence, and some events which denote almost miraculous interposition for the welfare of the weak ones sent out in the Master’s name; also some events which show the bent of the human kind when in an apostate condition.

It must not be thought that a form of godliness was not kept up in the journeyings of these modern children of Israel; for as I remarked, discipline was observed from early morning till 10 o’clock at night. There was a call to prayer in the morning, when all who were not taking care of the teams were expected to attend prayer service; then the daily routine service at meal time. But the climax in service was at the close of the evening prayer service, when it was the rule to get out the violins and a general dance was indulged in. Old and young engaged alike when not too tired. At 10 o’clock, however, the word was passed around, "To your tents, and in twenty minutes lights out." It did seem a travesty on religion, but many who were too tired to assemble at prayer did engage in the dance, and seemed to get rested marvelously thereby; and to be just I must say, many who attended the prayer service seemed disgusted at the conduct of many at the dance, and some preferred their tents or wagons to either, but were visited by the teachers if they failed to be present at the evening assemblings.

Our next adventure happened at the crossing of Green River. When we arrived upon the east side of the river the ferryboat was sunk, the river was high, and the ferryman lived on the west side. Brethren Anderson and Gillen being anxious to get over the river, and in order to meet the excuse of the ferryman that his boat was sunk, volunteered to help raise the boat and repair it so we could get on and not be delayed too long on the road. There seemed very little energy either on the part of the trainmen or the ferrymen. The water was cold and some one had to get wet. After a hard day’s work the boat was raised. The next day crossing began, but our turn came last, and it seemed for a time as if we were not to get over at all. We assisted others, and then had in a manner to do the work of crossing ourselves. The ferryman did not so much as turn a hand to aid us; and when I asked what the charge was he quietly said, "Two dollars and a half," and when one of us remonstrated, he gave us to understand we were not in the States, and we could pay it or suffer worse. This man’s name was Robinson, and when I paid him there was some change coming to me, and I received two badly executed counterfeit fifty-cent currency notes. I knew they were counterfeit, but there had been so much ugly feeling manifest towards us here I deemed it best to say little about it. This Mr. Robinson was a Mormon and kept a supply store, so called. The major part of his supplies were tea, coffee, tobacco, and whisky. I gave Bro. J.W. Gillen the "shinplasters," and he bought some supplies and nothing was said on the presentation of that kind of money, for they knew very well I had received it from them not thirty minutes before. The church teams did not bring the ferry much money, but he got receipts on or for tithing as his pay, and he did not feel over rich by reason of crossing so large a train, hence his exorbitant charge of the only ones who paid him money. So I made all the allowance I could for his treatment of us Josephites.

During our weary journey we witnessed many things which surprised us and made us feel sad, but of such a nature that we could not help. I remember upon one occasion I heard some angry talking, and made my way to the place from whence it came, and some of the women of a mess were quarreling. I got there in time to see one sister strike another aged sister and knock her down right over the campfire, or so nearly so I was afraid she would get burned. I was so shocked I could only look on for a moment, and when I interfered and tried to calm the troubled spirits, and sought to shame them into better conduct, an elder, John Hammer, came to me and laughingly said,

"Oh, that’s nothing, Brother Smith; they will all have to be baptized over again when they get into the valley. It matters little what they do on the plains, their rebaptism will set all things right, you know."

This was the first time I had heard of their wholesale rebaptism and I was interested, and asked for further information, and was told that every man, woman and child who was baptized in the old country was required to be rebaptized on his arrival at Salt Lake City. What about those who were ordained in the old country? Oh, they were like all the rest, they had to be rebaptized and reordained to make their priesthood valid. Everybody who crossed the plains and went in over the rim of the basin had to be rebaptized. I did not understand it then, but I do now. The church in Utah was a new church under the leadership of Brigham Young, and was really the Brighamite church, and during their reformation a change had been effected and all had been baptized out of the true order into the apostate organization, apostles and all. This John Hammer was a volunteer driver from Bear Valley, Utah, and a good, sincere man, and certainly one of the best drivers in the train. He was a quiet man, and drove the team next mine, in the lead or ahead of me. He was well-informed, and after we became well acquainted, conversed freely with me. He took a wagon across the plains with a load of sixteen hundred pounds of merchandise and some baggage, the spokes of the hind wheels of which were loose in the hub when he started from Omaha. Good management and careful driving did it.

We reached Cache Cave at the head of Echo Canyon, quite a large cave near the summit of the mountain, to the right of the wagon trail. We visited the cave and found the walls and the ceiling covered with names carved in the sandstone. Here again I was seized with the mania, and I wanted to have my name registered on the tablets of this natural album. I sought in vain for space on the walls, but by standing up in my saddle on the back of my pony I found space right in the very top of the cave. I carved my name standing up on my horse to do it. See how easily we fall into the follies of the world!

I had partial charge of the train that day, and was riding back and forth along the line to keep them together. In riding up to one wagon, one in which I knew there was a sick woman, I heard a groan. We were just well started down the descent into Echo Canyon, and the jolting of the wagon with brakes on was something fearful. I hastily rode forward to tell the driver to be more careful. As I got far enough forward to look into the wagon, I saw the driver (whom I knew to be a married man, whose wife lived in Bear Valley,) with his arm around a young woman evidently in the act of kissing her. He looked up with a silly grin on his face. I was so surprised and disgusted I rode on in silence, fearing if I said anything I would say too much. That night, if my memory serves me right, we camped on the Weber River, near a village called Coalville. At night I was on corral guard, and in making my rounds I came to the wagon in which I had heard the groan in the forenoon, and I learned the woman was dead. The prayer service was short so the dance could begin early. The bishop called out two men and I saw them take the poor woman out of the wagon, and wrap her up in the quilt she died in, and carry her out and dig a hole in the loose, gravelly soil and bury her,--not a hymn, not a prayer, not a mourner, and the dance went merrily on in the meantime. I being on corral guard, was permitted to see what others did not. I was grieved, dazed. I could not believe human beings, let alone professed Saints of God, could be so heartless. There was no necessity for such unseemly haste. We had arrived within the outlying settlements. Two hours of the next day could well have been taken to give the poor woman a decent, Christian burial. There was no contagious disease to cause such an unusual procedure.

I remember one other burial on the plains. A child died. The mother was sick of fever and could not leave her wagon. It was the second one she had lost since leaving the old country. The father was worn out with care and the weary journeying, but the father and the bishop, with one other, took the little body and carried it out at night and dug a grave and buried it, with nothing to mark the place to show where the little one lay. The poor woman grieved so sorely it was feared she too would die. Brother Anderson and I looked for a board, a stone or post or something suitable to mark the grave, but could find nothing more suitable than the cover to our cracker box. We took that, and I carved with my knife and marked with a pencil the name, age, and date of death upon it, took it to the mother and showed it to her, and went and planted the board at the head of that lonely little grave. Frail as was the mark, the mother was comforted, and we were glad to see a better light come into her eyes. But I must return to our camp on the Weber.

Having passed through the Indian country and arrived within the radius of the settlements in Utah, we were told we would have to take our mules five miles away from camp for grazing. It being my watch I took them and started, but something said, "Don’t do it. There is danger!" I turned about and returned to the wagon, and tied the animals to it. The brethren asked,

"What are you going to do?"

" I’m going to get them some hay."

"Where, I’d like to know?"

"O, back on the road a little ways."

I had noticed as we drove into camp, some grass cut and raked up in the yard of a farm not more than half or three quarters of a mile away. I took a rope and started back. The brethren laughed at me, but I went on all the same. I went into the yard. A big dog came towards me barking and acting quite ugly, but I paid no attention to him. I walked up to the door and knocked. A voice said, "Come in."

I went in and found a man sitting beside a fire in a wide, old-fashioned fireplace. I made my errand known and asked him if he would sell me an armful or two of hay.

"No, sir; I have no hay for sale."

After some little talk he said, "Do you belong to that train camped down on the river?"

"Yes, sir."

"They tell me a son of Joseph Smith the Martyr is in the train. Do you know anything about it?"

"Yes, sir; you are rightly informed."

"Well, I don’t believe it. They tell so many infernal lies you can’t tell when they are telling the truth. Do you know the man?"

"Yes, I am tolerably well acquainted with him, as I am the man myself."

"What, you?" and he sprang to his feet and grasped my hand. "You the son of Joseph Smith? Which one of the boys?"

I told him, Alexander. All the time he was looking sharply at me.

"Yes, I see it. You are like him. Yes, sit down, sit down."

I sat down and we had a long talk. He was a Josephite—belonged to the Reorganization. Finally he said, "Yes, you can have all the hay you want for your mules. Bring them up here and I’ll feed them. Tell the brethren to come up. I want to see them. Say, how would you boys like some nice, fresh potatoes, and some good cheese?"

And when I went back to the wagon I carried some fresh potatoes and some of the finest cheese I ever ate. And I could not help thinking that God was good and was still watching over us. Praise his holy name!

[49- 50] "Have you a jug or large bottle in your outfit?"

At first I did not "catch on," using a western phrase, but he told me he had some prime valley tan, and if I would accept he would give me a quart. He must have seen that I did not yet understand him.

"Don't you know what valley tan is? Whisky, man, whisky; homemade, valley made whisky."

"Oh!" I said, "we none of us use it."

"That don't make any difference; you better take some along. It may serve you better than money. You don't know what you may be called upon to pass through yet."

So I got out a large square bottle I had in my cooking outfit, and he filled it for me. I accepted it more to please him than for thought of any good it would ever do for us, but subsequent events proved that our friend and brother knew the West better than we did, as I will record further on. But the brethren took occasion to rally me on my new addition to our missionary outfit, saying:

"Going to convert the heathen with a Bible in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other."

At last we reached the rim of the basin, crossing Little Mountain, we turned down through Parley's Park, on the headwaters of Cottonwood, and on down through Cottonwood canyon. In this canyon we met some horsemen. Among them was my cousin, John Smith, patriarch of the Utah Church, oldest son of Hyrum Smith the Martyr. I was riding our pony and was greeted quite warmly by Cousin John and those with him, and while the others went on and mingled with the emigrants, welcoming them to Zion, John turned back with me, and we rode together into the Great Salt Lake Basin, my cousin pointing out to me the points of interest as we entered the valley.

I noticed a large adobe building, inclosed by high adobe walls, some distance to the left of the road, and inquired what it was.

"The penitentiary," was his answer. "Would you like to go through it and see where we keep troublesome characters out here?"