Remembering 9/11.

September 11. A date burned into history like a brand. The date of the deadliest mass murder on American soil. But the 9/11 chronicled in With a Kiss I Die occurred in 1857 at a place called Mountain Meadows in Utah Territory—an evil deed unsurpassed in bloody violence until its one hundred and forty-fourth anniversary in 2001. 

With a Kiss I Die—A Novel of the Massacre at Mountain Meadows  is a love story entwined in the tragedy of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. Polly Alden, a young California-bound Arkansas emigrant, falls in love with Tom Langford, a Mormon boy she meets in the settlements of Utah Territory. Caught between the fear and hatred of the persecuted Saints for the emigrants, and the hostility of the emigrants toward Mormons who will not replenish their dwindling supplies, the young lovers defy mistrust and opposition as they aspire to a life together.

Animosity between the emigrants and the settlers grows as the wagon train makes its way south through the territory, culminating in the blood-stained soil of Mountain Meadows.

Follow the trail of the Arkansas emigrants and the blossoming affection of the star-crossed lovers in a compelling, engaging tale inspired by history—and the eternal conflict between good and evil, hatred and love—through the pages of With a Kiss I Die.

 

Where I’m Going—Part 7

 

One of the most famous high-speed roads in Western history passes a few miles from where I live: the Pony Express Trail.

The trail passed through the middle of Salt Lake Valley from roughly north to south, then headed west across the desert until reaching what is now Nevada, leaving a string of swing stations and home stations in its wake. Monuments mark most, if not all, their locations and there are traces of some still standing.

Sad to say, I have yet to venture out into the sagebrush, shadscale, and greasewood to visit them. Not that I haven’t wanted to. It’s just that I haven’t made a definite plan to do so and carried out that plan. Thank goodness the pony riders weren’t as remiss in their travels on that road.

Still, I am determined to do it. I will see what there is to see at places like Simpson’s Springs, Fish Springs, Boyd’s Station, Willow Springs, Deep Creek, and places in between and beyond. I will see sights and sites that are much the same as those seen by the brave boys of days gone by.

One of these days. For certain sure. You can count on it.

How he died.

 

Orrin Porter Rockwell is my favorite historical character. Given his notoriety in his day, he does not get the mention he deserves in the literature—whether dramatic or documentary—of the Old West.

What is written about him tends to be contradictory—some writers presenting him as a cold-blooded murdering gunslinger, others as a righteous gunman who never killed anybody who didn’t need killing. I know from experience that a strong case can be made for either conclusion.

Even his death supports both points of view when it comes to the mythology of how men died in the Wild West. Good men were said to die in bed, which Porter Rockwell did. Bad men, on the other hand, died with their boots on, which Porter Rockwell did.

Here’s how it happened. On the night of June 8, 1878, Ol’ Port attended a play in downtown Salt Lake City, then spent some time imbibing in one of the city’s saloons. He made his way on foot a few blocks to the Colorado Stables, one of many of his business interests—which also included the Hot Springs Hotel and Brewery, and cattle and horse ranches in the West Desert. Rockwell kept an office at his livery stable, along with a room with a cot where he sometimes spent the night when in the city. He went to bed feeling poorly and spent a fitful, painful night. He stayed abed the next day, suffering severe stomach pains and vomiting. Late in the afternoon, he sat up in bed, determined to arise, and managed to pull on his boots before he fell back into the rumpled covers and died, just a few weeks short of his sixty-fifth birthday.

Porter Rockwell, like a good man, died in bed. But, like a bad man, he died with his boots on. Life and death are seldom black and white.

History gone wrong: Forgetting Dominguez.

    The name “Escalante” graces many places on the map of Utah. There’s a town, a basin, a canyon, a desert, a mountain, a natural bridge, a river, a state park, and—in partnership with Grand Staircase—a national monument. Maybe more.
    If you’re unfamiliar with the history of my home state you may wonder why this is. And there are some of us familiar with that history who also wonder why.
    Our story begins in 1776, when folks Back East were quibbling with Great Britain. Out here in New Spain, later to be part of Mexico, and later still becoming much of the western United States, the Spaniards had already established missions and settlements, and were exploring trade routes and sites for other missions.
    Enter Fray Francisco Silvestre Vélez de Escalante. Or, as we in Utah’s schools call him, Father Escalante. The good Father was with an expedition seeking a route from Santa Fe to Monterey. Their path brought them into what is now Utah—through the Unita Basin and the Wasatch Mountains and Utah Valley, then deep into the southern part of our state.
    The way Escalante’s name got plastered all over the place, you’d think he was in charge of the whole thing. But that’s where history (the popular notion of history, that is) gets it wrong.
    In truth, Escalante, who kept the diary of the expedition, and Bernardo de Miera y Pacheco, the mapmaker (see his handiwork above), and the handful of other men in the party were under the command of Fray Francisco Atanasio Domínguez.
    Domínguez organized the journey. Domínguez led the way. Domínguez determined the route. Domínguez gave the orders. Domínguez made the tough decisions.
    His name does not appear on any prominent place or landmark on the maps of Utah.

Porter Rockwell pulls the trigger in True West.

The latest issue of True West magazine (May 2017) is on newsstands. Most fans of the Old West are familiar with this colorful, lively publication that chronicles all kinds of people and events from our history.

In this issue you’ll find “Utah Bloodbath,” an article I wrote about Porter Rockwell’s pursuit and shooting of Lot Huntington, and the suspicious deaths of Huntington’s partners in crime after Rockwell turned them over to the Salt Lake City police. Robbery, horse stealing, and the brutal beating of Utah’s governor all led up to the shootout and are reported in the story. As is usually the case with history, many details are sketchy and accounts differ. But the article attempts to present events as recorded in contemporary sources. 

Porter Rockwell was one of the Western frontier’s most feared and respected gunmen, but his place in history in no way reflects his fame and infamy in his day. Perhaps this article in this influential magazine will help bolster his memory.