Aaron Masterson

Seminar: Tales of California

Professor Dean

14 May 2001

The Mountain Meadows Massacre

© Aaron Masterson 2001

On a low hill above a rippling stream stood the fortress city of Parawan. Its high timber walls thrust up from the autumn grasses, piercing the deep blue skies. Atop the towering ramparts stood two Angels of War, defenders of the Mormon faith, terrible against the noonday sun. Hard eyes sweeping the valley, they guarded the holy citadel; motionless, they stood, holding rifles aloft like the sentinels of antiquity. Below, in the city’s great cathedral, kings and generals met in a council of war.

“What of these troubling reports, Major Haight?” asked Brigham Young, President of the Mormon Nation, “It would seem that all is not well in the world.”

“No Sir, Mr. President, all is most assuredly not well.” Isaac Haight, a tall, grave man, filled the room with his imposing presence. “This wagon train, it seems, has been wreaking havoc across our territory. Each report is more disturbing than the last. The heathen vandals have been terrorizing God’s people, running oxen through the towns, cursing the LORD and the church. Some of the rascals charged into a town square with a pistol drawn, firing it into the air and proclaiming it to be the very weapon used to murder our Prophet Joseph Smith!” With this there was a general intake of breath from around the room, and several men lowered their heads in mute prayer.

President Young shook his head. “Something must be done. We have been driven from our land time and again by these mobocrats, our homes burned and our friends murdered. The situation has grown intolerable. We have run out of places to flee to, and the enemy is closing on our last sanctuary. This is a grim day indeed.”

“You are correct, Mr. President,” piped up Col. William Dame, Commander of the Iron Military District, “Something must indeed be done. This is but the prelude to the invasion, a force sent to reconnoiter and test our resolve prior to the attack. I’m sure you’ve all heard rumors of the infantry force en route from America to ‘oversee’ our integration into the Union,” he said, gesturing to the audience, who nodded in return. “When the train reaches California, they will doubtless report back on the inadequacy of our defenses, and we will be attacked in force and overcome.” Here a general commotion rose, quickly brought to order by President Young. “However…” Dame continued, glancing about the room. “There is another alternative. If we can impress upon the Gentiles a sense of Mormon strength and resolve, we may be able to rid them of any such notions of conquest. The Indians, themselves victims of fraud, abuse, and outright murder at the hands of the Americans, have expressed a willingness, even a desire, to band with us against our common foe. Bishop Lee is in the area; he can act as our military liaison with the Indians. With their help, we can teach the Gentiles a lesson they won’t soon forget, and make sure that that wagon train never leaves our territory.”

There was a general murmur of approval from the assembled. “Just a moment,” interrupted Young. “I do not wish our hands to be stained with the blood of innocents.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. President. You have my guarantee that no innocent life will be claimed by Mormon hands.”

The sun bore down harshly on Samuel Dyers, mixing a slight nausea with his hunger to make him feel genuinely unpleasant. The rogueish character sitting next to him didn’t help matters either. He turned his attention from the reins in his grip to face the man, gritting his teeth in irritation. The train had picked up this one and about three dozen others in Missouri, and had regretted it ever since. The fellow looked normal enough; young and muscular, with longish blonde hair and thin stubble, but his and his comrades’ propensity for mayhem was unbelievable. In the last week alone they’d gotten the company thrown out of three towns and so irritated the locals that buying provisions became all but impossible. What a bastard, thought Samuel, I hope he dies or something soon.

Billy Blake glanced over at old Sam Dyers. Nice enough guy, I guess, but a little slow. None of these stiffs know how to have fun, either. He noticed that Sam was grinning at him, all funny-like, and so he returned the gesture. Queer folk, they are, and stingy too. I can’t for the life of me see why they’re so cheap when it comes to buying food. Would it kill them to do some shopping once in awhile? “Hey Sam,” he shouted over the din of wagon wheels.

God almighty, he’s talking again, thought Sam. I hope it’s not another Mormon joke. “What is it, Bill?”

“What’s the difference between Brigham Young and a pig?”

Sigh. “I dunno, what?”

“The pig takes a bath after it rolls in the mud!” Blake burst out in raucous laughter, obviously satisfied with himself and his rapier wit. Samuel chuckled politely, but perhaps with just a bit too much false enthusiasm.

“You like it, eh? Well, here’s another one! What’s the difference between a cork and Joseph Smith?”

“I dunno, Bill, what is the difference?” Sam could feel his blood vessels swelling.

“One’s a plug in a hole, and the other’s plugged full of holes!”

I hope he dies real soon, thought Dyers. Real, real soon.

The settler train passed on through the meadows, between verdant hillsides and slow-running streams. Far above, crouching behind a hilltop, sharp eyes watched the wagons and their passengers. Sharp eyes, and dark, framed with bronzed skin and raven hair. These eyes belonged to Kanosh, Chief of the Pavant tribe.

“Do you spy a mouse, great Eagle, that holds your interest so?” came a voice from behind him.

“Great Chief Tutsigabot,” said Kanosh, turning around, “I was not aware that you had arrived yet.”

“My eyes are the eyes of my people, where they look, I also see.”

Kanosh returned a puzzled expression for a moment, then continued. “The white men draw near, the time for attack is now. Let us fall upon them and exact vengeance for the rape of our sisters and murder of our sons. The white man enjoys killing us for sport, let us now find sport in spilling his blood upon the fields.”

“Our allies, the Mormons, desire us to wait,” replied the Big Chief, “They may share in the white man’s bumbling ineptitude, but they also possess his war-making skills, and have never broken a promise to us.”

“Since when do our great tribes take orders from Mormons? Though we may share a common enemy in the Merrycats, we are not of one people. Their skin is no less white than our foe’s, and though they may be useful allies they will never be Indians. Their desires come secondary to our needs, and we need to attack now. We have the element of surprise and the thunder weapons given to us by the Mormons; the white wagons will stand no chance against us. Chiefs Ammon and Walker agree with me on this matter.”

“In that case, let the will of the Chiefs be carried out,” sighed Tutsigabot. “I will not stand in their way. You may begin the attack when you see fit.”

“Thank you, Great Chief. May we fly like falcons and strike like wolves.”

Samuel Dyers shook the reins tiredly, as Billy prattled on next to him. He’d stopped trying to figure out what the man was talking about, but every now and then he’d hear something like “whiskey” or “pants” or “goat”. To relieve the monotony he’d taken to amateur botany, trying to identify the various kinds of scrub on the hillsides. He was gazing intently at a small ficus bush near the top of a hill when he saw something move behind it—a deer, perhaps, or—no, it was taller, and…

“Billy! Hush up!”

“So then old Cletus takes the dress and starts a-tryin’ to fit it onto the… eh?”

“Look over there at those bushes, what do you see?”

“Looks like a fic-”

“Not the bush itself, man, look at what’s behind it!”

“Well, I see a- I’ll be damned. You know what that is? That’s a genu-ine Injun warrior! You don’t see too many of them these days, and for good reason.” Billy knowingly patted his holstered revolver. “Looks like he brought some friends with him too.”

“I wonder what they’re up to…”

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Billy?”

“I think I done figured out what they’re up to.”

“What’s that, Billy?”

“They’re attacking!”

Dozens of Indian warriors swept down from the hillsides surrounding the wagon train, their war cries filling the air with a terrible howling. They opened fire on the exposed wagons with their rifles, gifts from their Mormon allies.

Billy leapt up in his seat. “You lot, don’t just stand there and be killed! Quick, form the wagons in a circle, that’ll keep them out. Break out the shovels, we’ll need to make bullet-stops with the dirt. Quick now, boys, if you waste time you’ll waste lives. Our lives!” Billy snapped his revolver out of its holster, leveling its long barrel on an approaching Indian. He fired, and the brave stumbled and fell to the ground. Samuel looked up at Billy with newfound respect, and for the first time was glad they’d picked up him and his lot along the way. We just may survive this one yet, he thought.

John D. Lee brought his horse to a trot as he entered the Mormon encampment. Riding up to the main tent, he dismounted and hitched his horse at the post. Major Higbee strode out to meet him.

“About time you showed up, Lee. We almost had to have the war without you. Come on in, the Colonel’s waiting.”

Lee followed the Major into the tent. Inside he found Colonel Dame and his aides standing around a small folding table, studying a map of the area.

“Ahh, Major Lee, how good of you to join us at last,” chided Dame.

“I apologize for my late arrival, Colonel, but there were pressing family matters to attend to. They have now been taken care of and I can attend to my duties properly.”

“Very well, very well. As you may or may not already know, the Indians have somewhat complicated our plans by attacking early. The emigrants have now dug in and fortified their positions, forcing us to lay siege to them at a heavy cost. To further complicate matters, some of our men were revealed to the settlers when they tried to break through our lines, and they are now aware of our complicity with the Indians. If they escape with this information, the wrath of the American nation will surely fall upon and destroy us. It is the order of the President that all emigrants are to be put out of the way, and none that are old enough to talk are to be spared.”

Lee grew pale at the words. “Surely you can’t mean… But Colonel, there are innocents down there! Women and children, we can’t simply-”

“Innocents, Major?” Higbee interjected. These are marauders sent from the heathens to drive our people into exile once more. Murderers and cutthroats, the lot of them! Would you offer sanctuary to the murderers of the Reverend Joseph Smith? No, Major Lee, there are no innocents among them.”

The Colonel continued: “Although there are known to be women and children among them, we have devised a means by which to deal with them without involving ourselves in the slaughter of the defenseless. The Indians want revenge for the evils committed against their people, and so we can use them to deal with the women and children while we clean up the menfolk. What we need is someone to lure the settlers out of their fortifications, to lure them with the promise of sanctuary, split them up, and then put them out of the way. You, Major Lee, are that someone. You’ve got a silver tongue, and it’s time for you to put it to use for the LORD.”

“But Colonel, we are forbidden to betray oaths! If I lure them to their doom by offering false sanctuary, I’ll…”

“The President has assured me you will receive a Celestial Crown for your faithfulness to the Church, Major Lee. There is no higher calling than to serve as an officer in the Heavenly Host, and this supercedes all other directives.”

“I have heard the will of the Church,” said Lee, his voice wavering, “and I will obey.”

That evening, Lee sat on the hillside overlooking the wagon train. The valley below, littered with bodies, shone golden in the setting sun. As he watched, he spotted motion beside a wagon. A little girl was creeping out from the circle towards the stream that ran a few dozen feet from the fortifications, pail in hand. A knot twisted in Lee’s stomach, and he felt as though he were going to be sick. The girl was no more than halfway there when the top half of her skull seemed to crumble away in a cloud of red mist, followed an instant later by the deep crack of a Mormon rifle shot echoing across the hillside. Lee removed his hat and clenched it in yellow, sweaty hands, the knuckles white from exertion. He crumpled forward, falling to his knees with his forehead upon the grass, and there he prayed, prayed with every fiber of his being, every ounce of his soul, prayed to the Almighty to let this cup pass from his hands, to relieve him of this horrible murderous task. He prayed, but was not answered. God was silent, and in the soft orange glow of the setting sun Lee quietly cursed his God and his duty.

Samuel Dyers leaned against the wagon wheel, a cold numbness in his bandaged shoulder. A bullet had caught it the day before, but Billy had quickly stopped the bleeding and dressed the wound. I grow to like him more by the day, thought Sam, but I fear our days are nearing their end.

“How’s that arm holding up, Sam?” asked Billy, sitting nearby and cleaning his rifle.

“As well as can be expected, I guess. How long you think our supplies’ll last?”

“Another day, maybe two. The food we can do without, but with no water, in this sun, we’ll be dead inside a week. Well inside a week.”

“Well, it seems that this is indeed the end. I only wish-”

“Just a second, something’s happening,” snapped Billy, gazing over the makeshift battlements. “Someone’s coming. Two men, down the hill. One of ‘em’s carrying a white flag. Truce! They’re looking for a truce! We may live through this yet, Sam my man.”

The two men strode down the hillside, empty-handed but for the flag of truce and a holy text. They arrived at the train, quickly convinced the guards of their noble intent, and were granted admittance. Into their camp that day strode the Mormon Bishop John D. Lee, a smile on his face and a Bible in his hand.

The settlers were soon persuaded to come out, and were divided up accordingly. The men were sent in one direction under armed guard, while the women and children were sent in another, over a small earthy rise, with the promise that the two groups would meet up again after being safely escorted out of Indian territory. John D. Lee followed the women and children, riding in a wagon carrying the wounded emigrants. Samuel Dyers lay at his side, drifting in and out of consciousness. Lee sat in silence as the wagon rolled onward, following the group of refugees through a path in the thick brush. Suddenly, Major Higbee’s voice rang out across the meadows.

“HALT! MEN, DO YOUR DUTY!”

Volley after volley of shots split the air. At that instant, waves of Indians poured out of the undergrowth around Lee’s wagon, setting upon the women and children with vengeful hatred.

Samuel Dyers’ eyes sprung open at the sound. His last sight was that of Lee staring down at him, holding a revolver to his temple. The expression on Lee’s face was blank and empty as he mechanically squeezed the trigger.

Works Consulted

Groves, Bob. Canyon Spirit. 13 May 2001. <http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Trails/3159/

MORMONS.html>

Kelley, Charles, ed. Journals of John D. Lee. Salt Lake City, University of Utah Press, 1984.

Lee, John D. Confessions of John D. Lee. Salt Lake City, Modern Microfilm, 1880.

Lee, John D. The Last Words of John D. Lee. 13 May 2001. <http://www.mazeministry.com/mormonism/mmmassacre/

lastwords.htm>

Lyford, Rev. C.P. The Mormon Problem: An Appeal to the American People. New York, Phillips & Hunt, 1886.

Twain, Mark (Samuel Clemens). Roughing It.

New York, Penguin Books USA, 199x.

A number of works were used in the creation of this story. Lyford’s book and Groves’ page provided in-depth but conflicting views of the events that transpired on that fateful day and the days leading up to it. Somewhere, between these two extremes, lies the truth. Twain’s book was useful as a concise explanation of events. The three sources direct from Lee’s mouth (or pen) gave insight into the personality of the only man who was tried and executed for the Massacre.

Some of the story was altered for dramatic purposes or to avoid long, confusing explanatory passages. The two men in the wagon train are fictional, but the others are not. Col. Dame was not present at the Meadows, but his orders were relayed to Lee there. Most of the events are depicted at least roughly according to the sources, but some of the details have been altered. This is not intended to be a flawless historical re-enactment, but rather a dramatization of a real event.