My next meeting with the men who looked so kindly after the "cohabs" was at Thurber. My son Ferra had purchased a strong, nervous, though vicious horse, and we believed that, given a little start, there was nothing in our burg that could overtake him. I had again been for a load of salt, returning with a four-horse team, and had reached Thurber when my son William R. overtook me.
"Father," said he, "you had better ride Selim a little while, and be quick about it."
I had just mounted when Bishop Coleman and my brother Franklin W. met us. They turned across the canal and drove rapidly toward the river, the marshals being in sight and driving furiously toward us. I loitered near my team in hopes to draw the "deps" after me; but they could see Coleman's rig, and wheeled across the canal in pursuit of him.
I jumped my horse across the canal; and galloping around a block, came into the road just ahead of the officers. They called on me to stop; but I could not do it, as some dogs ran out from a house I was passing, and so frightened my horse that he broke into a dead run. I jerked back violently and broke one rein, virtually turning the vicious brute loose. He seemed to go crazy. A man by the name of Keel was working on a vacant rocky lot near by. The horse bolting in that direction, pitched at the man, who struck him over the head with a crowbar. This seemed to daze the animal for a minute, then he commenced bucking; and for a short time he made it mighty interesting for me, and the people who were looking on. Finally, he threw up his head and broke for home, and I was quite willing to let him go. The marshals turned and followed, whereby the other "cohabs" got away again. I took a skurry through the hills, and late in the evening brought up at my brother's, in Teasdale, where I found Willie R. Later still, Bishop Coleman and Franklin W. arrived safe and sound.
Brother C. L. Christensen was living on a ranch about half way between Wild Cat and the Valley. One day the marshals caught him. "Now," said they, "you are a poor man, and we don't want to make it hard on you. We will let you go now if you will promise to come when we want you. You can thus be at home in peace with your family until you are wanted in court." So he promised. "Now," they said, "we are going home, and we will write you about ten days before we come for you; so you will have time to be prepared."
As soon as they were gone. Brother Christensen kindly came over and told me of the bargain, adding, "Now you can stay at home and not worry; for when I get the letter, I will send you word." I was pleased; for staying at home in peace in those troublesome times was pleasant. It was getting cold on the mountain, so I moved down to my winter ranch on Pleasant Creek. One night I woke up, and a low voice said to me, "The marshals will not write to Christensen, and you had better get away from here."
In the morning I rode eight miles to Bishop Joseph H. Wright's ranch, told him of my impressions, and said: "Tomorrow morning, before light, I shall pull for Colorado." He replied, "I will be at your place tonight, prepared to go with you." The next morning, at three o'clock, we pulled out, without letting our neighbors know of it.
I had three horses and a big, snorty mule in my team, and my wagon carried three thousand pounds of freight. About two o'clock, while driving across a smooth clay flat running parallel with the Dirty Devil river, I had raised the cover and was looking at a ranch on the south side, when I heard a moan; and looking around I saw Tamar fall from the wagon on to the heels of the mule. The team, becoming frightened, ran two hundred yards before I could stop them. When I finally did so, there lay Tamar, the nigh front wheel on her breast. I sprang out, pulled the team back with one hand, and lifted the wheel with the other until I rolled it off her.
The mule backed until her feet struck Tamar, then she wanted to run again. I tried with one hand to pull Tamar's body from the road, but she said, "Don't, you hurt my hand." Then I saw that her hand was under the wheel. With one hand and my knee, I lifted the wheel and she drew her hand out; then she fainted.
All this time, little Ray, three years old, frightened nearly to death, was screaming and threatening to tumble out of the wagon. I lifted him down, then examined Tamar's hand, expecting to have to take my knife and cut off her fingers, for they looked, in the blood and dust, as if they were ground to pieces. I found the bones were not broken. Thus relieved, I thought of assistance; and called to Bishop Wright, who was some distance ahead. Luckily he heard me, and ran back. Tamar still lay as if dead. Brother Wright brought some water from the river; we bathed her face, and she revived.