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Show haps he would let me come with him and be part of his tribe. could learn their ways and make a new and exciting life for myself, far from the reach of the Missouri sheriffs. As looked across the fire at my new friend, was glad that had saved him from a miserable death in the beaver pond. There was a new dimension in my life now, a more certain future. The Indian and did indeed become good friends, even though at first there was no verbal communication. The fact that we had been thrown together in a life and death struggle in the beaver pond seemed to pull us together into an unspoken bond of trust and mutual I I I I LEE NELSON Last week Dan Storm saved the life of an Indian who became trapped beneath a pony while he was - nasty slash where had accidently cut him. His inability to use his' legs was probably the result of cold and lack of circulation. All he needed was a little time and the healing warmth of a good fire. He was tired and pale, but he managed a friendly smile for me. I didnt have any more worries about his scalp- strong desire to keep him alive. The story continues as Storm cuts the horse and reaches inside. ing fire. The Ute was still unable to move his legs, so I dragged him over to the fire and propped his back against a tree. His legs didnt appear to be broken or hurt except for a few bruises and one I chasing Storm. He considered killing the Indian because he was near death, buti then he had a ' As I was cutting the hide along the bottom side, the warrior yelped in pain as accidently pushed the knife too far and sliced the man's leg. I tried to be more careful, but didnt stop, not even for a moment. It wasnt but a few minutes until I had cut all the way around and only the backbone was holding the carcass in one piece. I scampered over to the bank and grabbed a stone, then returned to the horse. Holding the knife blade firmly against the vertebrae, I pounded the stonea gainst the back of the blade, quickly cutting through the backbone. Slipping the knife back into my belt and dropping the stone, I grabbed the rib cage and turned the front half of the horse away from the Indian. did the same with the back half, leaving a black, f loody opening above the Indian. He was unable to get up by himself, and didnt have strength enough to carry him, so I grabbed both his arms and pulled him through the shallow water towards my little camp where I had cooked the trout earlier in the day. It was dark now, and both of us were numb from the cold especially the Indian. It took all my strength to get him out of the water and onto the grassy bank. I would have liked to have stretched out on the grass too, relishing the victory, but there was a more pressing problem that required my I I fist-size- d I I I I I immediate attention. Without the warmth of a fire, both of us would soon freeze in the cold October wind. crawled around in the grass drying and cleaning my wet, bloody hands and wringing out my sleeves. I couldnt have any water dripping onto my fire makings. After checking the coals in the fire pit to see if they were still warm I broke off some twigs from the trunk of a nearby cottonwood tree, making sure they were dry and brittle. After carefully carving a little hole in the middle of the bed of warm coals, I quickly crumpled up the smallest twigs and pushed them to the bottom of the hole. After letting them get hot for the better part of a minute, started blowing into the hole. The coals around the edge began to glow a soft amber. Then the twigs began to smoke, a few sparks, then a little flame. blew a little harder, and it wasnt long until all the twigs were burning. Soon had a blaz I I I I ing or torturning me. wished we understood a common language so we could talk about our recent adventure. sat down across the fire from him and we exchanged smiles for awhile as the steam billowed from wet buckskins. It wasnt long until hunger pangs began gnawing at my stomach. The strength I had derived from the three trout earlier in the day had long since been spent. The next time the warrior looked at me, I pointed at my mouth with one hand and rubbed my stomach with the other, thinking he might have some jerky or dried corn stashed away in his leggings or quiver. He responded by pointing to his mouth and rubbing his stomach exacly as I had done. He was hungry too, but it was obvious from the expression on his face that should be the one to get the food. I shrugged my shoulders and gave him the most questioning expression I could muster, hoping he would understand that I didnt have any food, nor did know where to obtain any. I certainly couldn't catch fish now that it was dark. He responded with an understanding smile, rubbed his belly again, then pointed out across the pond toward the dead horse. felt a little silly for not thinking of it myself. Without any further attempts at communication, I waded back across the pond to the dead horse and carved a huge roast out I had - of the uppermost hind quarter. never eaten horse meat before, but in the present circumstances, I couldnt be choosy. I dropped the road in a clump of clean grass near the fire and began chunks of red carving off meat which we roasted on the pointed ends of green willow sticks. There was no conversation as we feasted into the night, but even though neither of us knew the others language, felt increasingly confident that a lasting friendship had been forged by the events of the day. The Utes were one of the most powerful tribes in and around the Rocky Mountains. They were one of the first tribes to learn to use horses, and their warriors were reported to be fierce fighters, able to stand their own ground against the Apaches to the south, and the Blackfeet to the north. Probably my new friend was a Ute, as indicted by his braided hair. Per I .. fist-size- . I I d commitment. And the bonds grew stronger as we grew accustomed to each other as we lazed around the campfire the next few days, feasting on roasted horse and waiting for his legs to regain their strength. He was called Neuwafe (new snow), and was a subchief in one of the primary Ute tribes. Even before his legs were strong again, we knew we would be traveling together to join his tribe. He sensed my desperate situation, being alone without supplies with winter approaching. And I sensed his willingness to take me under his wing to live with him and his tribe. As a boy I had sometimes dreamed of living the wild, carefree life of an Indian. Now it looked like I would get the chance to do it. Maybe I would like it well enough to spend the rest of my life as a Ute warrior, far from the reach of the Missouri law. Chapter 2 began this history, it seemed prudent to begin with my experiences among the Utes, leaving out or quickly glossing over the events in Missouri which forced me to flee to the Rocky Mountains at such a young age. My thinking was that some of the Missouri happenings would be offensive to some readers. I wasn't worried about legal retribution, knowing that my history wouldnt be read or published until after my death. After thoughtful consideration, however, realizing that my history cannot be fully understood and appreciated without an accounting of those Missouri happenings, I have decided to go back to the beginning and tell it all at the risk of offending those who conform closely to the standards of social piety. I apologize in advance to anyone might offend, hoping they will understand why I am impelled to tell the truth, the whole truth. I hope posterity doesnt judge me too harshly. As I Elder Pratt was youthful and strong, like a young bull. He had a warm smile, and a quick wit. The local preachers hated him. They went wild at the mention of his doctrine that men could become like God. Theyd scream, yell, and spit out their protests, hardly able to contain themselves at such bold doctrine. They responded the same way when the Book of Mormon was mentioned, a new scripture, in addition to the Bible, written by ancient prophets who lived on the American continent. These teachings seemed kind of logical to me, but the ministers went wild at the suggestion there could be more scripture in addition to the Bible. Two of the local preachers attended that first meeting where we heard Elder Pratt speak. David and I were sitting in the front row. We certainly weren't religious boys or involved in any serious quest for truth. We had already heard about the Mormons' gold bible and their boy prophet, Joe Smith. There was something new and exciting about the Mormons, not the usual hellfire and damnation fare dished out every Sunday by the local preachers. We were in the front row because we were curious. And when the two preachers walked in the door, we knew we could expect an exciting evening. As soon as Elder Pratt began his sermon, the two preachers began throwing objections and questions at him. At first he tried to handle their questions in a polite, thoughtful manner. Most of the time they didnt give him a chance to finish his answer before throwing something else at him. I started to feel sorry for Elder Pratt because the ministers were ruining his sermon. Seeming to sense they were getting the best of Pratt, the preachers become louder and more hostile in their attacks. I sensed the people around me were annoyed, as I was, that Elder Pratt was unable to tell his story. All of a sudden, I noticed that Elder Pratt hadnt said anything for some time. At first glance, he appeared to be calmly watching the frenzied protesting of the preachers, but as I looked closer from my front row seat, I noticed some little things that made my heart beat faster. He was holding the edge of the little podium with his hands. His knuckles were whitening as his muscular hands tightened their grip. Continues Next Week SALES AND SERVICE I older brother, David, and I became orphans when our parents died in a hotel fire in Toronto, Canada in 1928. I was five years old at the time, and David was ten. We went to live with an aunt and uncle, Henry and Sarah Watkins, on a small farm in the country near Toronto. They were old and not very well, so they left us pretty much alone to raise ourselves. We first heard about the Church in 1835, when I was My twelve. One Sunday we were invited to a neighbor's home to hear Parley P. Pratt preach. He wasnt one of the typical go-tforever preachers we were used to hearing. He didnt make you feel like god was mad at you for every little thing you had ever done o n wrong. On All Makes of Electric Motors Distributor For and GE Electric Motors DAYTON Tools & Products DAYTON SPEEDAIRE Air Compressors and Products MOTOR REPAIR & TROUBLESHOOTING We have new, used and rebuilt motors In stock. Controls for furnaces, pumps, air conditioners, etc. Large stock of evaporative air conditioners. BOB A 1C PHIE ELECTRIC 802-147- 6 1371 North Flinders, Tooele |