The Gift of Peace

The Gift of Peace By Venice Famsworth Anderson Father Time had once more drawn his inscrutable circle around the year. It was Christmas season 1847, in the snowy heart of the Salt Lake Valley. The cluster of adobe and log cabins within the "Old Fort" huddled affectionately together and clung tenaciously to the protecting arms of the kindly wall. The stockade gate at the east was closed except for a space large enough to allow entrance to a man and a horse. Many of the cabin loop-holes which penetrated the outer wall and gave access to the open country were fast barricaded, for it was the day before Christmas and the small body of settlers dreaded a sur- prise attack from an unfriendly band of Utes. All had been harmony between the "Mormons" and the red men until a week before Christmas when a prize beef belonging to the camp had been driven off and slaughtered by two young braves. When complained to, the chief sulked ominously and the Indians became openly hostile. The almost defenseless settlers had just reason to fear a bloody conflict. But it was the first Christmas in their new homes, and the brave little group had decided not to let a chance attack ruin the much beloved holiday. Accordingly, the men who were best able to leave had taken two sturdy work horses and gone, well armed, to the neighbor- ing canyon to procure evergreens for decorating the cabins and a great Christmas tree to occupy the platform in the middle of the "Old Fort." Here at high noon on Christmas day the set- tlers planned to congregate for singing, thanskgiving, and such feasting as their scanty larders would permit. ; In the Taylor cabin, which boasted of the largest stove in camp and a roof which leaked only during a very bad storm, the best cooks in the community had gathered to prepare the es- sential parts of the feast. An accepted leader among these women was pretty, young Margaret Yates. Margaret, however, was far more than a cook. In her deep, hazel eyes there was a look of pathos, humor, enthusiasm, and devotion. Her mouth was at once firm and enticingly sweet. Her hands were marked with hard work but her feet were as trim and shapely as a duchess's. Though she wore a plain worsted frock and an apron which had once been a flour sack, she was every inch the lady born. A true pioneer woman.

120 IMPROVEMENT ERA Until late in the afternoon she, with her happy companions, labored over cakes made with half portions of shortening and sugar, and sandwiches with meat but little or no butter. When all was done, Margaret hurried out to find her baby son, whom she had left playing with the other children. Her first glance at the sun told her that it was growing late and she wished she had put warmer wraps on her boy before leaving him. As she passed the open place where the youngsters had been playing "Fox and Geese," she found it deserted. With growing anxiety she hurried on to her own cabin. At the door she paused, sick at heart; the fire was out; the cabin was cold and strangely empty. A dread premonition seized her. Her boy had not returned to his home as she had bidden him. He had wandered off. Vainly she tried to assure herself that her baby had gone into one of the neighbor's cabins. She returned to the door and stood there for an instant, every muscle poised, straining eyes and ears for the slightest sign of life. Her eager glance swept to the very depths of the distant canyons. A wild terror suddenly rushed over her. The sun was traveling rapidly toward the snow-crested ridge in the west and a bleak wind blew steadily from Emigration canyon. With- in an hour the valley would be wrapped in darkness save for the cold light from the stars and the moon. Thd valley was already covered with a crusty blanket of snow and the night was grow- ing bitter cold. But far worse than the darkness and cold was the dread of the skulking gray wolves, which infested the valley, and the equally crafty and far more cruel Indians. There was not a moment to lose. Margaret grasped the elk horn which hung within reach and blew a shrill blast. Almost instantly the cabin doors within the "Old Fort" burst open and men, women, and children rushed forward in response to the call. At the arrival of each new comer, Margaret asked franticallv for her baby. No one knew anything of the sturdy little lad, the camp's favorite. He was last seen hours earlier playing with the children in the snow. By some dreadful mischance no child had felt responsible for independent little John Yates, nor had seen him wander away. The most experienced men could not hide their concern. Many of the wom3n wept openly. Some one suggested a minute search of the "Old Fort" and the immediate environs. With true pioneer skill the work was organized and begun. Marsraret, however, waited only long enough to assure her- self that her babv was not in caniD. Then from its resting place above her door she took a heavy-barrelled gun and with steady

THE GIFT OF PEACE 121 hands, she turned it away from her friends and fired three successive shots. These whizzed through the hollow distance and reverberated from every mountain side. Miles away in the icy depths of the canyon, John Yates paused, his ax held high in the air. At his feet lay a stalwart pine just felled. In his face flowed the rich blood of health and vigor. In his dark eyes was the fire of pioneer manhood. His broad shoulders and long, slender muscles showed him every inch the athlete, while his finely set head and his high brow bespoke him at once a scholar and a leader among men. In- stantly his companions near him stopped work and looked at him with anxious eyes. "That's your call, Yates." Noislessly John's ax sank into the snow. Breathlesly the men listened. In a moment through the white stillness, there came cracking again three distinct shots. "I'm off. You boys must bring the trees down," announced Yates briefly as he started on the run for camp. The men stood watching him admiringly as he swung off over the foot hills not deigning to take either horse or the longer, beaten trail. In his every movement was the evidence of in- finite reserve force. The pioneers felt this and loved and prized him for it. Margaret, dry-eyed, passionately calm, met her husband far outside the fort wall. "What is the matter, little mother?" asked Yates, assuming a cheerfulness which he did not feel. Tie knew his wife too well to expect a trifling mishap. Her first words weer a suppressed, "Thank God, you are here, I knew you would come at once, and it's none too soon." John threw his strong arm round her slender waist and somehow the pressure gave her strength to tell him, though her words came in gasps: "Our son — my baby — he's gone — he must have followed you men toward the mountains. No one knows anything about him. What on earth shall we do?" The red blood suddenly deserted John's cheek, but in the same instant his mind and body started action. He half carried Margaret back to the cabin, placed her in a chair and walked aimlessly, as it at first appeared, around the room. He would have given half his life at that moment to have been in an east- ern store. But hd wasted no time in idle wishing. He snatched the gaudiest thing in the cabin, a silk patchwork scarf, from a chair and then opened the provision cupboard. Margaret started in amazement fearing for the moment that her husband had lost his reason. Then light dawned.

122 IMPROVEMENT ERA "You're going to the Indians?" she queried almost afraid to believe. At a nod of acquiescence from her husband she was at his side. "Here, take this and tell them I have other good things," she said, as she thrust a pound can of sugar, more than half her winter's supply, into his hand. And then a brighter light, probably born of the blessed Christmas season, came to her. With eager feet she hurried across the floor and threw up the lid of her packing trunk. From the till she took a strange little toy, a home made wooden horse arrayed in a most gorgeous bridle of feathers and wool cleverly woven together. It was to have been her son's only real Christmas present, but she brushed back the hot tears and came smiling to her husband. "Take this to the chief. He has a grandson. I think he will help find our boy." John pressed his wife admiringly to his heart. Tenderly he wrapped the little horse in the bright scarf. At the door he paused to say cheerfully, "Don't worry, little mother, the In- dians are in camp not more than a mile away and the chief knows I am his friend. As for our boy, he is as sturdy as granite and he hasn't been out too long — yet." The tale of what John was doing ran like wildfire through the camp. Though the men feared for his safety, they knew, too, that it Was foolish to endanger the lives of more men than necessary and furthermore that the Indians would be sure to intercept the advance of a body of men as an attack, and would act accordingly. Yates traversed the distance between the "Old Fort" and the Indian encampment in a miraculously short time. As he neared the cluster of crude wikiups which had been thrown up by the savages he maintained a sharp lookout for any danger signals. He carried in a deep pocket in his sheepskin coat a trusty /pistol, but as he aproached the camp he raised his right arm above his head in friendly greeting. Unmolested except by glowering looks he reached the wik- iup of the chief. He found the savage sitting moodily before his pungent brush fire. The old chief neither moved nor showed any signs of interest or surprise at John's sudden appear- ance. To the white man's greeting the Indian grunted sullenly. Yates without delay brought into play all his knowledge of Indian psychology. He began smoothing unconcernedly the end of the scarf which hung below his coat. Then he pulled the cloth out little by little until its whole gaudy length Was visible. This he swung back and forth showing up the bright

THE GIFT OF PEACE 123 colors in the silk. The vision was too much for the old chief. He could not hide his interest though he remained silent and motionless. At this point the anxious father told his story. During the recital the chief eyed the silk scarf minutely but at the end of the eager petition for help he sank again into moody indiffer- ence. Yates bit down his impatience as best he could and began to whittle a flat stick into ladle shape. With this he ostenta- tiously tasted the sugar and offered some to the chief. The savage smacked his lips approvingly over the much craved sweet stuff but instead of moving merely grunted something about "heap cold" and deliberately threw another branch on his smoky fire. Then the desperate father prepared to use his last resource. With tactful skill he enquired about the welfare of the tribe and asked tenderly concerning the grandson, the beloved "little chief." In spite of himself the old Indian's heart warmed. With a glow of pride in his crafty old eyes, he spoke in his own savage way of the fine points of the baby brave. When the find grand- parent was at the height of his enthusiasm, Yates drew forth the toy horse with the simple plea, "It's for your grandson, chief. Won't you come and help find my boy?" The time-old appeal was too strong for the Indian. With a snort of acquiescence, he took the horse, examined it admir- ingly and finally hid it carefully away. Then he swallowed a great gulp of the sugar and, lest his squaw might find it, buried the can. With primitive vanity he drew the scarf around his neck so that the whole world, especially his jealous braves, might see. Without more ado the chief threw his blanket across his shoulder in typical fashion and set forth. Once in the open he sniffed at the wind and shook his head disapprovingly. Already a few icy flakes were fluttering in the air and the sun was a huge crimson ball in a dull gray sky. With steady strides he skirted the fort wall and reached the stock- ade gate. Here the chief paused long while John waited, con- trolling his impatience as best he could. After careful exam- ination the Indian rose leisurely from the hard beaten patch of snow. This was so gruelled with horses' hoofs that John had looked in vain for any clue to be found there. To his surprise the chief calmly informed him that the papoose was with the horses. To the white man's amazed look the Indian pointed disgustedly to a tiny dent inside a horse-shoe mark. There, sure- enough was a baby heel print not quite obliterated. The chief seemed satisfied now that he was not iri a vain quest and set out rapidly to follow the horses' trail. Now and again he paused to make sure that the little feet

124 IMPROVEMENT ERA had still followed. As they neared the canyon the snow became deeper and crustier. The father began to wonder if any child, even his son, could tra\ el so far on foot over such country. He voiced his doubts to the Indian. For answer the chief pointed to another tiny mark, this time a toe print, plainly visible be- yond the edge of a deep horse-shoe track. "Papoose good legs," remarked the chief and strode on in silence. The minutes seemed interminable to the father. With every step a ghastly fear was becoming stronger; could his boy if found have survived the bitter cold of the long hours, or worse, the possible attack of a wild beast? Finally they came to a steep ascent. Just beyond was a log bridge, a crude span over the icy, deep-running creek. Here a bleak certainty seized John, no four-year old child could cross that bridge in safety. It was a difficult task for a man. In the face of this fact with irritating serenity the Indian stopped, ad- justed his blanket and commented sagely, "Papoose heap wise." John looked at the chief and waited in tense silence. The Indian was no longer following the horses' trail. His eyes were roving over the surrounding country with a shrewd penetrating glance. The horses and men had crowded together for some distance before crossing the bridge so that the path was a mere confusion of marked and unmarked snow. On either side of the road with impenetrable underbrush ending in jagged peaks or in the ice-checked creek. The child's trail had simply vanished. The sun was only a gorgeous rim just visible above the high peak. In the east, the moon had risen cold and clear. The wind had died but for occasional shrieks, and in the interim all nature was solemn and still. For a few moments the Indian seemed puzzled, then he turned leisurely and walked back several yards. Suddenly be stopped with an exclamation of satisfaction. He had come to a low break in the bushes. He turned and with a look of tri- umph beckoned to John. In an instant the father was at the spot. The bushes here swerved back unexpectedly and between their ranks just visible in the gray light was a distinct trail of tiny foot marks. "Papoose heap tired," commented the Indian and this time not even expecting the dense white m^an to understand, he pointed to the toe marks. Each one was heavier than the last. The little feet could hardly lift themselves. A little farther on in the path there was a deep blurr — the tiny traveler had stumbled and fallen. A few rods ahead with a treacherous drift where the lad had wisely turned aside and trudged wearily on. There was a continuous line now between

THE GIFT OF PEACE 125 the foot marks. The tired little legs could no longer raise the heavy shoes above the snow. With a wild yell the Indian suddenly darted forward, his hunting knife raised above his head. At almost the same in- stant John's pistol shot rang in the air. A snarling wild cat had made his last hunt. Not three yards beyond the writhing body at the side of the path beneath a gnarled birch tree, lay a tiny form motionless in the blue snow. One little arm had clutched at a willow which had broken in the fall, but still remained in the baby hand. The thin home spun coat was spread uselessly on the snow. The weary feet had stopped only when they could go no farther. On the firm, pale cheeks were tear stains and the baby mouth drooped mournfully. Before the chief could touch him, John reached the spot and gathered his boy to his breast. For a moment the chief left him alone and then with less ceremony than wisdom, took the boy and placed him once more in the cold snow. With Indian skill he applied first aid. Roughly he rubbed the lad from head to foot applying soft snow to the cheeks, ears and hands. With no concealed disgust, he tore off the little shoes, civilization's foolish toys, and rubbed snow on the blue feet. Slowly the blod began to flow through the chilled veins. The tiny legs twitched spasmodically under the vigorous rubbing and, after what seemed on eternity to the father, two great brown eyes opened and looked mistily out into the bleak, world. "Heap fine papoose," said the chief as he rose solemnly and wrapped himself once more in his great blanket. Not a word further passed between the two men, but the hand shake which John forced upon the chief spoke a world of gratitude and bound the young pioneer and the old Indian in an undying friendship. It was almost dark now and the canyon was an unpleasant place in which to linger. The moon was veiling herself in swirl- ing billows of fine snow and in the distance two gray wolves howled as if some grievous wrong had been done them. John wrapped his precious burden securely in his great sheep-skin coat and falling in, almost reverently, behind the old chief, started for camp. The home journey was joyously short. As they neared camp they met numerous groups of men, self organized search parties, each with its lantern and dog. At th«se the chief scoffed openly but his old heart warmed in spite of himself at the white men's tumultuous praise when they learned what he had done. By the time they reached the stockade the journey had become a march of triumph headed by the majestic chief and the pubi- lant father holding in his arms the sleeping babe.

126 IMPROVEMENT ERA At the Yates cabin the crowd fell back out of respect to the reserved, brave little mother. She stood tremulous in the open door way, her lips parted over set teeth, her soft, hazel eyes two surging stars of love and fear. As if in spite of her- self her yearning arms stretched out and she whispered from the depths of her heart, "My baby — is he — is he?" "He is asleep, little mother, as well as he ever was." To prove his words, John sprang to the door step, placed the boy next his mother's heart and then folded them both pas- sionately in his two strong arms. Outside in the swirling snow the settlers took eager care of the old chief. He was escorted royally to a cabin where he was fed sumptuously. Then he was led over to the platform. Here a glad work was in progress. There was not a good wife in the settlement who did not donate joyously from her scanty supply to the heavy sled which was being packed for the In- dians. There was everything in the load from "poor man's" cake to juicy pine hens roasted to a nicety. One true-blue mother insisted upon sending precious pop corn balls to every youngster in the Indian band. And Margaret Yates had sus- tained her nerves during the dreadful hours of waiting by bak- ing ginger-bread men, large and small, in as plentiful numbers as her larder permitted. These were added as a final touch to the creaking sled. Several curious Indians found near the stockade gates were drafted to draw the load to the tribe. Amid a chorus of cheers and good will the mystified red men started for their wikiups, while with sighs of intense relief the pioneers returned, unfear- ing for the first time in days, to their cabins to enjoy the gift of peace which the little child had unwittingly brought them. In the meantime, little John Yates, the innocent cause of this rejoicing, was endeavoring manfully to finish eating his bowl of broth and bread. His heavy brown eyes closed sleepily over the last bite. Tenderly his mother held him while he lisped his baby prayer of thanks, and then she wrapped him snugly in the warm blankets of his trundle bed. Arm in arm the father and mother stood watching their boy until his heavy lashes lay peacefully on his rosy cheeks and his breath came in long, easy swells. One by one the tallow dips flickered out in the village of adobe and logs. The Indians had long since gone to rest. Great Salt Lake Valley was left unmolested to the fluttering white flakes and the bright angels of peace and good will. But a tense expectancy pervaded the gentle peace of the night, and l*--n* before daylight the camp had awakened to the meager Christmas joys of that brave little camp. Rippling mirth

THE GIFT OF PEACE 127 poured from the frosty windows and climbed with the circling smoke up the chimneys. From morn until night that day there was peace and joy and thanksgiving. And nowhere in the valley was there more happiness than in the cheery Yates cabin, unless it was in a far off wikiup where a little Indian boy sat all day and played with a wooden horse, while a moody old chief watched and smiled inwardly. Gems of Thought "As a man thinketh in his hearty so is he." — Proverbs. "All things are possible to him who believes." — Selected "Never speak a word that you would not wish to come true." "Man is materialized thought; he is what he thinks."— Franz Hartman. "Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall." — Paul. "Do not think a thought that you do not wish manifest in your life." — Author Unknown. "Never imagine a condition or circumstance that you would not like to see near you."— Selected. "Every right action and true thought sets the seal of its beauty on the person and the face." — Ruskin.. "Day dreams aren't useless after all, provided you back them up with day hustle." — Jerome P. Flieshman. "Practically all things are possible to a man who can learn how and what to think." — Dr. Wm. A. Keever. "Silence and reserve suggest latent power * * * what some men think has more effect than what others say." — Chesterfield. "Thoughts are not only things, they are living things which grow, multiply, and bring forth after their own kind." — Agnes Mae Glasgow. "Those who make room for impressions will receive them. Man's soul may be perfected by the power of the will." — Paracelsus. "As nothing reveals character like the company we like and keep, so nothing foretells futurity like the thoughts over which we brood." — Newell Dwight Hillis. "Act is the blossom of thought; joy and suffering are its fruits; thus does a man garner in the sweet and bitter fruitage of his own husbandry." — James Allen. "Truly thought must image forth the thing of the condition desired be- fore it can manifest itself. This is a truth known to all metaphysicians.— Stephen Adams. "Crowd your mind with thoughts that are rich and high and wonderful. This is the simplest way to build strength, quality, and greatness, into your mind." — Christian D. Larson.