BIG SOUTHERN (CHAPTER TWO)

©2025 Ralph Thurston

1855

MCCANDLESS 1855

"A ragtag pair!"

Richard Grant's voice reached Lewis McCandless and John Leavitt before they found its source. An Englishman—McCandless recognized the accent, common as it was in Salt Lake amongst the Mormon converts. "Not only the team but the drivers!" Grant roared loudly at his own joke.

Sorry looking they were, their young oxen overtaxed by a ton and a half of salt, weapons and provisions intended for the Lemhi mission. Another two hundred miles away, to add to the hundred and thirty already covered. Bedraggled, too, were the two young men—boys, really—having had to unpack half the haul at every significant hill, the oxen, green as the men, unlearned and balky. The load diminished, the oxen would then consent to work it to the top of the hill, where McCandless and Leavitt repacked for the next journey segment. John's father Nathaniel, their boss and Brigham Young's righthand man, likely hadn't planned for such a juddering series of events.

Grant didn't expect much trade from the coming encounter, the boys' freighter being already full to the brim. And they had that Mormon look you could pick out immediately. He sometimes wondered if it was their Welsh background, but then thought otherwise—the eyes told more, that far off look into a place he didn't see. It was as if they were actors pleading for a cue from backstage.

The Mormons of recent rarely proved to be a lucrative proposition. Frugal on one hand, they haggled for low prices. Cutthroat on the other, they held out for high dollar on their own offerings. Trade here at the abandoned fort had tapered off after California started pulling in more of the voyagers, so Grant had taken to driving goods to Salt Lake not only to ply his wares but to drum up some entertainment for himself. He knew the brethren well, he believed. Well enough, anyway, as much as he cared to know. He knew they had one way of being when in the presence of their community and another outside earshot and view. Oftentimes he made an offer twice, once in public that was refused and another in private that was accepted. Since there were two men coming to meet him, he knew they'd be keeping each other in check so their entertainment value would be minimal. Each would be careful to keep to the script lest the other tattled on him. That meant he could drink without sharing, for either boy by himself would likely to take a share of his store but together they were bound by religion to thwart the other's impulse.

The two each weakly lifted an acknowledging arm, too tired to shout out a greeting. Having been earlier apprised of the Fort Hall situation, they had hopes of being put up for the night before crossing the Snake River in the morning for the trip across the Shanghi Plain. Grant was upon them quickly, his every other word an expletive that stung their Mormon ears. Each prayed silently for forgiveness and protection against the Gentile assault. He was happy to see them, it seemed, that was in their favor, a relief after a week in constant fear of the Shoshonis.

The expletive ratio lessened with time, as if Grant's supply were finite and consequently dwindled with each use. He bade them to spend the night, and as he put up their oxen for the evening plied them for their story which they gave without qualm. The were proud of the Church's calling for them to aid, if not outright rescue, the Mormon Lemhi mission. Grant frequently interrupted their tale, his swearing wedging into every place he sensed as appropriate to utter oaths against Americans. He'd fought in the War of 1812 for England and never gotten over the loss. "A Hudson Bay man, for life!" he exclaimed many times, drifting deep into his cups. "They can abandon me but my loyalty stands!"

He made their supper of plain fare, a hard bread and some tough meat along with a plate of undercooked beans, and as they ate and he drank he related the Fort's history, how Wyeth established the place two decades before out of "one part desperation and one part spite" after a reneged contract with a partner that became a competitor.

He swung his outstretched arms to indicate the group of deteriorating wagons, the emigrants having left them years ago. "They were told it was impossible to make the trip," Grant said. "But Ermatinger showed them otherwise. 'Course, his wagon was nothing but chassis by the time he got to Washington."

Leavitt and McCandless let him speak on, enjoying a meal, however poor, made by someone other than themselves, glad for a voice, too, other than their own. But night crept on and with it wearinesss, so Lewis ventured forth the thing weighing on their minds. "We need a pair of oxen more suitable to this task," he admitted, forcing his way into Grant's soliloquy. "We were hoping to trade with you."

Grant took another long drink. "I've seen those oxen. A little worn in such a short time." He drank again. "They're young, too young for such an excursion as yours."

"We surmised as much. Too late," Leavitt said. "Do you have a pair better suited?"

Grant laughed heartily. "I do," he said. His accent, drifting away toward England on the vessel of whiskey he was riding, was making his words barely comprehensible. "The perfect pair to match your effort." He stood. "Let's go take a look."

Stumbling, he took them to a small enclosure where a number of horses, cattle and oxen were penned. The livestock ranged from motley to sleek, coming in all colors and breeds. Grant leaned against the poles. "There's a lanky longhorn." He pointed at a bony specimen. "And there's a low slung ox." He motioned toward the other animal. "Just like you—tall and skinny and short and stout."

Leavitt looked at McCandless, who asked Grant, "Can they even be paired, given the size difference?"

"They were paired when they came to me so well familiar with each other. It's an odd fit, I agree. But—" he motioned toward them and scooped a wide swath of air "—not all good fits shout out their attributes in an obvious manner. These came with a Kansan, and he was loathe to part with them. But the distance had taken their toll and they were thin enough they would have perished had they continued on to Oregon." He paused, looking on admiringly. "That was a year ago and they are ready for another spell of work."

They had no choice, their own oxen worn out and likely never to make it through the coming terrain. McCandless nodded.

"We'll rig them up in the morning," Grant said. "Are you crossing at Baugh's Ford here or going up to Ross Butte—water's low, no need even for the ferry up there, though it's a simple enough trail, just head for the high spot, you'll go right by Cantonment Loring but you'll see no soldiers there." He paused. "If that was a concern. They left years ago."

He knew, apparently, of the brewing war between the U.S. government and Brigham Young.