The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.21 Locusts and Flies

September 18, 1847

"For many years now, our tribe has seen the white settlers crossing our land," the Chief said, looking out over the worried faces of his tribal council. "They always come and they always go, hurrying on to lands far to the west. Far across the deep deserts and beyond the great mountains. The land they call California. We have been blessed that they have not stayed, and that they believe that our desert land is worthless."

"They once believed that. But they believe it no longer."

The man who spoke was the oldest among the Chief's trusted inner circle. Many years ago the man named Drouillard had come to them, desperate for food and water. None of the Goshute knew from where he had come, but it was clear when they looked at him that he was not one of the People. He had said he was half of the People and half something he called "French," but the Goshute did not understand what that word meant.

The Chief looked at Drouillard, who sat in his honored place among the tribal council, directly in front of his wife.

She was also the Chief's older sister.

"Wanderer, the white men are soft," the Chief continued. "They could not survive here in the land of the Goshute. They would wither and die like the grasses in the heat of the midsummer sun. Through the generosity of our gods and the sweat of our brow, our people have been blessed. We gather the desert's bounty, and we always have enough. But the white man would wither and die here."

"My Chief, you are wise, as was your father before you," Drouillard said, and he looked at the younger man with genuine affection. "But you do not know these white men the way that I do. You have not seen them enslave their black brothers. You have not heard them speak of the People as vermin, and wild animals. You have not seen them slaughter and destroy for no reason. And you have not seen how hungry they are for the land. Yes, they have always passed through before now. And so far, their numbers have been few. But those numbers are growing. And the ones called Mormons have now come to stay. They intend to make the valley of the lake their home. Only two low mountains separate us from their settlement. With time, they will want this land too."

"They will wither and die," a young brave said, standing proudly at the edge of the council circle.

"They will not," Drouillard said, his voice firm now. "They are already building a great village at the foot of the tall mountains, not two days walk from here."

"But that too is a harsh and barren place!" the brave said with a laugh. "How can they survive there?"

"They will not only survive, but they will thrive," the former mountain man said, his voice rising. "Great numbers of their people will travel from the East to join them. And soon, the city they build will rival the great cities that have already raped the lands of the tribes to the East. They will come like the locusts and the flies. And they will stay."

"They will never make a great white city in the desert!" said another of the elders.

"They will," Drouillard said simply. And that was enough to quiet the group, who looked at each other with concern weighing down their faces.

You need to be more than concerned, Drouillard thought. You need to be terrified. These Mormons will be the death of the Goshute.

The Chief broke the silence, and as always, the group listened to his quiet voice with rapt attention. "The words of our brother Drouillard ring true, and I trust them, as did my father before me. But how can we fight them? We are a poor tribe, and we are few. We are a peaceful people. We are not a tribe of war."

"We must steal their horses," said the same young brave who had spoken earlier. "I have seen them. They are fine horses. If we had their horses, we could drive them back from our land. Keep them on the far side of the Oquirrh mountains. We could protect our people!"