BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER TWENTY

MARCH 1895

THE UNITED

Just seven years ago only two Mormon families lived in Blackfoot, now there were enough to hold their Sunday meeting at the County Courthouse. Apostle Killpack came clear from Salt Lake to Sunday service in early May with the intention of meeting with Griffiths, Rose and Charles Liljenquist about the canal's progress. After the service, they rode out to the headgate site, taking the bridge over the Snake on the west side of town rather than heading straight north and crossing at Porterville—the river water, while shallow, was cold, ice layers still standing on shaded banks. The day had turned fine, given the season, the sky clear and wind but rare. "the Lord's blessing," Killpack said, referring to the weather, as they rode. "He is with us." The others compliantly assented.

Hans Christiansen had advised the canal president, Liljenquist, otherwise but he couldn't wait to speak, the subject eating away at him for weeks now. "Money's a problem," Liljenquist said. "As we knew it would be."

It was Killpack's cue. He was prepared. He needed to quickly deflect the problem, one that couldn't be overtly addressed. "The Church will not abandon you, it can spare some assistance," Killpack said, saying something and nothing simultaneously. He was just a bit weary of settlers' problems, being more accustomed to spiritual matters. "But these have been hard times even for the Church." They rode on.

How much money does that mean, Rose wanted to say, and he suspected the others wanted to say it, too. But wouldn't, being deferent as they were. It wasn't his place here to speak, he was only the surveyor.

Killpack let their silence eat at them, knowing they were looking for exact numbers, for orders and direction less vague than he was willing to offer. "President Woodruff has advised thrift," he finally said. "He suggests paying in scrip."

Griffiths had expected this, it was a common practice, one he was acquainted with since coming West in 1862. Hard money, be it coin or Lincoln skins, came in by freighter and was never plentiful enough to cover a burgeoning economy's activity. "Men will work some for scrip," he agreed. "They'll work for chickens. For butter. For lumber. For horses. Some will even work a great deal for these things, merely on promise, but even the devout, when hungry, unhoused and unclothed, require more than paper.."

The little nibbles begin, Killpack thought. "The Church will provide some money, say one-fourth of wages."

"That's but a pittance," Liljenquist protested, unable to hold his tongue. "Barely enough to live on."

"But live on it you can," Killpack answered sternly. He stopped his horse and let the others gather about him. "You must incorporate," he said, his eyes specifically trained on Liljenquist. There would be no quibbling, he hadn't the patience. "I suppose you are acquainted with Sam Lowe? He and his brother George are attorneys in Logan, they will help. Their brother Joseph is the judge for the entire district, that should count for something." He let his words sink in. "Enough scrip will be issued to cover purchase of stock in the company, for its water shares."

Griffiths, though feeling rebuked, nodded. As did Liljenquist. Rose just looked on.

"The settlers, once they see the scrip has worth, will see the promise of the end of their labor. The Lowes will put a value on the shares, to be exchanged for the scrip laborers earn. As any partnership entails, all are at risk. The Church. The canal. The settlers."

What does the Church risk? Rose wanted to ask, but instead he just leaned forward in his saddle.

Charles Liljenquist had been fidgeting. "There is a limit," he said. "There will be those that work until they have shares for their claims for just scrip, but they will not work beyond that. They have their own work, on their own place, to do."

"We will pray," Killpack said, "For their hearts to soften."

"Prayer is like scrip. It too has its limits," Griffiths said.

Killpack sensed heatedness beyond his own. "Talk to the mercantiles. Those owned by Mormons will share the burden."

"They will, but their suppliers will not," Liljenquist said.

"You speak like an unbeliever though I know you are not. Faith, my friend. You are far ahead of your work, but so far ahead you cannot do it."

Rose, acquainted with the Saints but not amongst their membership, dependent on them for work and thus necessarily bound to diplomacy, considered Liljenquist's demeanor and sympathized but remained silent. Between chastised and ashamed, there was sandwiched a defiance fueled by truth. Liljenquist had a question, a legitimate one, not answerable by invoking magic.

Rose was starting up a creamery, having erected it near the Danskin Canal for proximity to water. He had also filed on a piece of ground that the United would encompass. In fact, he'd be first man on a lateral, his quarter section of one hundred sixty acres set to straddle the ditch, about twenty acres on one side and the rest on the south. That part he intended to irrigate and leave the other for later purposes. He needed customers and he needed suppliers. He didn't think he could raise cattle and farm, milk them and still put out a product by himself. But he knew that the man in the middle, who put a percentage on every transaction coming in and going out, turned a better profit than those on the ends—the producer and the retailer who each faced, at all times, the abyss of a bottomed out market. "Be the door," his dad, a cattle wholesaler, used to cry. "Catch 'em comin' in and comin' out, catch 'em swingin' both ways."

The United would bring settlers in, desperate to sell him cream and others in town eager to buy it in the form of butter and cheese rather than make their own. The Skeens would bring people in, too, but the United had the Church to back it, as he witnessed here, and the Skeens' was a crapshoot—who knew how that was going to go?

He'd met Moroni and Lyman multiple times, first when they tried to start the Danskin a decade prior. Lyman knew the work, was capable, and Moroni, more of a schemer than a do-er, was good at drumming up investors. He failed to do so for that ditch, though, overestimating the capital possibilities of locals, mostly non-Mormons then more associated with the mines in Central Idaho than interested in agriculture—'the big strike versus the long slog,' that battle was appraised as, 'time and time again,' Lyman had told Rose in an aside. And the promise of gold or silver always won out.

The Mormons, though, they were discouraged from involvement with mining, had been since Young first got to Utah. Miners were drinkers, swearers, carousers, not settlers, and their way of life was the life of Mammon, a threat to righteousness.

Every settler would also be a potential client for Rose's survey work. There would be some so proud they would think they could set their ditches in by themselves at a proper grade—and some would indeed do that ably. A second group would understand their lack of expertise and pay him, even if that pay might be in chickens or bushels of wheat. The third group would be his most lucrative, those who made a mess of their systems, requiring him to not just undo but do.

A prayer ensued, Rose bowing his head and folding his arms like the rest. But once it began, he opened his eyes and squinted to see the degree of devoutness surrounding him. He only half-listened, accustomed as he was for the practice of prayer to be a sort of cover for attack—appealing to the Lord for one thing and meaning another, in this case accusing the questioners of disbelief and disobedience when in fact they were merely posing logical inquiries. It's a practice that sickened him, angered him, and moments occurred frequently where he smothered his inclination to protest.

"Give us strength, oh Lord, to follow your plan to make this land green, to make it a place for your people, to overcome the Gentile peacefully and to seek his repentance, even his conversion, and thus overcome our own desire to destroy him, for he is not evil, he is but unacquainted with your word. Amen."

Their heads rose, looked for outward signs of the blessing.

"There is more," Killpack said after a period of silence. "You are men of action—" he paused, looked briefly to each of them "—but you require someone capable of dealing with government, with financiers, with the law." He paused to measure their reaction. "We have found him. The President of the Brigham Young Academy has agreed to serve as President of the newly incorporated company. You will vote for him and swear him in, funnel your questions through him and follow his advice. He will serve you. He will serve the Church."

He looked to Liljenquist in particular. "You now have an emissary to free you from working with the government and with the lawyers. Paperwork is not your calling. Doing, building, is." Liljenquist realized he was being replaced. Killpack detected his relief, but his resentment, too. "Your work at the canal is more important, the paperwork will take away from that progress," he addressed him, then turned to include them all. "Your work is the essential work, to bring water to the land. To do it quickly, for the government has already signaled it is against us. The Carey Act will give this land—" he swept his arm across the vista "—to others if we do not take it. It will take all your faith, and your brethren's faith, your toil, and your brethren's toil, to make it a home for our people."

©2025 Ralph Thurston