Cry of the Hawk

Come a day soon, it would be most interesting to see how Young would react to having the powerful man back at his side, seeing how years ago he had ordered Jubilee Usher to kill Jim Bridger with the words, “These mountains are not big enough for the two of us!”

Wiser brooded on that now, wondering if the valley of the Great Salt Lake where bloomed in glory the City of the Saints would now prove to be too small for Brigham Young and Jubilee Usher.

“I figure I’ll point them north from here. As I understand from this map we copied from the post commander at Fort Harker, Fort Hays is not that far ahead of us along this river, called the Smoky Hill.” Lemuel strode to the open tent flaps, taking a deep breath of the spring air. “I’ll go due north—with your permission, Colonel. North until I strike the Platte not far from Fort Kearney in Nebraska.”

“No longer a territory, Major,” said Usher. “It became a state last year as I understand.”

“Yessir.”

“You’ll march west from this fort …”

“Fort Kearney, sir. Yes. We can plan to rendezvous with the others in, say, the second week of July.”

“That will give you enough time, Major?”

“It will.”

“How about my battalion? Have you thought of a route I should take?”

Wiser took a hobbling step forward. “Perhaps it would be most prudent of you to march your wing on west, along the Smoky Hill. Past Fort Hays, Fort Wallace, and plunge into Colorado Territory, where you can strike north from there, to Fort Sedgwick.”

“You’ve spoken of it—on the South Platte.”

“Yes. Northwest of there within easy distance is Fort Laramie. Where we’ll be waiting for you—should we arrive earlier than expected.”

Usher smiled as he rose from his chair, pacing to the small camp table where waited the cut-crystal decanter. He poured himself another glass of brandy. Savored its aroma, then took a drink, swishing it around in his cheeks. Enjoying it fully.

“Yes, Major—that’s where Hastings and I will expect to meet up with you … and the lucky man who carries the head of Riley Fordham.”

Spring seeped out of the land and with it the rains of April, along with the cool days of May. And finally the passing of those first days of June.

July at last had come to bake the plains.

And with it the coming of Hastings’s squad of twelve.

They had inched their way north along the Missouri until reaching the mouth of the Platte River. From there they struck out due west, following the great Platte River Road of the emigrants—those wayfarers of a quarter century moving west before them—bound for California, Oregon, and those Saints on their pilgrimage to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. This dozen trail-weary scouts too were bound for a home most had not seen for many years. A home some had never cast their eyes upon.

For now, they had pushed all the way to Fort Kearney, Nebraska. More properly, Hastings’s platoon reined up not far from the fort itself, in a little settlement fondly called Dobe Town. Most among the dusty, saddle-galled long-riders found much to their liking in that squalid grouping of saloons, watering holes, whores’ cribs, and even what was touted as an opera house—each structure really nothing more than a mud hut with some sort of storefront, clustered among the others along a rutted main street like some nightmare vision of sod walls and roofs that leaked on occupants when it rained, showered dust on occupants when the plains baked dry with the coming of July.

July was dry. And growing more than hot with each passing day.

“Some of us got all tangled up in what Jubilee told us, in that Bible voice of his—how he spoke his Bible words at us,” explained Healy Stamps, one of Eloy Hastings’s reconnaissance platoon, during the long days and nights of their march west from the Missouri River. “Few of us never was Mormons before Colonel Usher come along to save our souls and put our feet on the right road to immortal life.”

“I s’pose I get a chance to meet the man, this Jubilee Usher—I’ll learn about the hereafter myself,” Jonah replied.

“You can’t but be caught up in the righteous power of that great man,” Stamps went on, lights glowing beneath his bushy eyebrows. “He is one truly anointed by God—a powerful and mighty elder in the one true church of Jesus Christ in the latter days.”

“Sounds to me like Usher took you in when no one else would, didn’t he?”

“Don’t you know it,” Stamps answered enthusiastically. “Back during the war, with nowhere for a loyal Union man to turn but what he didn’t see Secesh on every side of him. I hope you don’t take offense, Hook—you being a old Confederate soldier yourself.”

“Man does what he damn well believes in, Stamps. I carry no grudges again’ you, or most who fought in blue. I figure you always done what you thought was right, too.”

“God Himself knows what is right for man. And God not only tells the Prophet Brigham Young, but those the Prophet chooses to ride at Brigham Young’s right hand.”

“Usher?”

“God speaks to the colonel all the time.”

“Usher’s battle plans?”