THREE DAYS AFTER HE WAS MURDERED, RICHARD PRATT BEGAN TO FEEL MUCH BETTER...
A seemingly random act of violence propels Professor Richard Pratt into The Hereafter. It is a strange, muted, netherworld of the dead-a world in which he is forced to bear...
Halfway across what is now the state of Wyoming, if you are traveling East or West on Route 220, is a 130-foot-high and nearly 2,000-foot-long mound of prime American granite. Geologically known as a pluton, this fifty-million-year-old artifact is composed of igneous rock that cooled deep within the earth, and emerged like a gray bubble over the millennia.
It is known as Independence Rock.
In 1857, the State of Wyoming was still several decades in the future. This was Nebraska Territory that year, at least until you crossed the continental divide. Thousands of pioneers passed Independence Rock on their way west, and seeing it arise from the featureless plains was an important milestone on their journey.
And as humans do, those who passed by liked to leave their marks.
Two-thirds of the way up the rounded summit of the stone, in a place that you can't easily get to if you have a fear of heights (or lack the climbing acumen of a monkey), is an inscription. It's one of hundreds or perhaps thousands that cover Independence Rock.
This particular inscription was carved in the late spring of 1857 by a fifteen-year-old boy, just eight days before he died.
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From where Billy had climbed, the view out over the plain was magnificent. They called this the Sweetwater Valley, and it meant that they were nearing South Pass, and the continental divide. His father had told him that South Pass meant it would just be a matter of a week before they entered the Salt Lake Valley. It had been a long and tedious journey from Iowa, and although they wouldn't be staying in Salt Lake City, he knew the Mormon stronghold would mean a few days rest, and the last chance he'd have at seeing some civilization, before his parents packed up their wagon and they headed to California.
The Travers family had stopped late the night before, after the wagon train they were hanging with had pushed into the evening hours to reach this camp. His mother and father had looked up at the dome of granite with a mixture of longing and pride in the twilight gloom. Billy knew getting here was an important milestone on their journey. Important enough to take a day or so to just relax and enjoy the moment. And to Billy, it felt good just to stop bouncing along in the overstuffed wagon.
Unlike many of the fellow travelers they had met on their journey west, their wagon was well stocked, and they could afford a day of rest. So many of the other travelers seemed almost destitute, subsisting on whatever fare they could dig out of their dilapidated handcarts or covered wagons; cooking their meager rations over buffalo dung fires every night, and even butchering their own stock for food. Billy knew many of them, especially the poorest with just their handcarts, were Mormons fleeing persecution. And over the campfire he had heard their wide-eyed tales of the shining city of Salt Lake. They had all spoken of it with such reverence and in such hushed tones, that even Billy now thought of it as the promised land.
Frances certainly believed that it was.
Billy tried not to think too much about Frances—the girl who traveled with the small train of a dozen wagons. It was a Mormon caravan, but although Billy and his family were not Mormons, they had fallen into step with the group because of the safety in numbers. Traveling together just made sense, and the Mormons had been nothing but kind to the Travers.
