A True Indian Story: James Laman Killian

What a night it was (that spring back in the late 1860's). Rain came in torrents, and the heavens were as black as pitch, except as the bolts of lightning tore open the sky. Jim humped in the saddle, riverlets of water coursing down every wrinkle in his clothing. His faithful little mare had jogged along the slippery road for the past two hours seemingly unconcerned with the rain, mud, lightning or the thunder, but now she appeared uneasy and was slowing to a walk and Jim had to use the spurs more than he liked to keep her moving at a pace he knew he must maintain. All of a sudden she stopped with a jolt, her head went to the ground, smelling it right and left, then with a snort and a stomp and a quick whirl, that nearly upset her rider, she raced back down the road. When Jim got his balance and control of the mare, he realized it was Indians she had smelled and for the first time in his two hour ride through the downpour he began to doubt his wisdom in coming alone on this dangerous mission.

 

Jim’s Bishop back in Glenwood had wanted him to take along a companion but Jim had chosen to ride alone. His experienced eye had seen the signs and smoke signals in the foot hills even before the bell at the Church had wrung out the alarm; which meant for all men to drop whatever they were doing and rush to the church house to receive instructions from the Bishop. Word had come that cattle had been stolen and the signs gave evidence that the Indians along the Sevier River were in preparation for a major attack. Other communities must be warned. That was the counsel of President Brigham Young. The Bishop called for volunteers to ride express. Some north to Salina, others to warn Marysvale.

 

Jim had volunteered and was told to get his horse and gear and stand by until darkness came on before starting for Salina. It was known that a man with team and wagon had gone two days previously to Salina to get a load of flour. It was hoped that he had been detained there and had not yet started back, for if he had, he might have met with foul play.

Jim had had dealings all his life with the Indians. He could speak their language and could read their signals nearly as well as the red men themselves. He had befriended the Indians many times, but of late had been compelled to join forces with his white neighbors and fight them to protect their families and property. The Indians had become so troublesome, so much stock had been driven off and killed (some human lives had been lost also) that President Young had warned that if conditions did not improve soon, the people along the Sevier must abandon their homes and farms and move to communities where there were strong forts.

 

The reason Jim chose to ride alone was the fear that if he had a companion they might start talking and give themselves away. It would be less likely that the Indians would hear one rider than two that stormy night. He had detected in those smoke signals from the foot hills that trouble had already started and he admitted to the Bishop that he was frightened. The Bishop had promised that he and his counselors would sit up and pray for the express riders every hour on the hour the whole night through. This promise bolstered his morale and he had started for Salina just as darkness came on, thankful for the storm which would somewhat hide his presence.

 



The little mare was rebellious now and no amount of coaxing or spurring could make her go forward. Jim got off and tried leading her but to no avail. She’d stomp and whirl and drag him right and left in the ankle deep mud and water. Jim put his arm around her neck and by patting her and whispering in her ear, finally got her calmed down somewhat and as he stood there in silence, between the claps of thunder, he could tell by the roar that he was near the river (the Sevier). He had chosen the Rocky Ford Road, knowing that the ford would be the only reasonably safe place to try to cross in the darkness, the river being high from the spring run off and augmented by this terrible storm. But why worry about crossing the river he thought, he couldn’t even get his mount near it, she refused to budge in that direction. As he stood there in near desperation, with his arms around his mares neck, he asked for divine guidance. As he ended his short petition the thought flashed to him to wrap his wet coat around the mares head and nose so that she could not smell so easily. This done, he climbed back into the saddle and by patting the mares neck and gently urging with his spurs he coaxed her slowly forward to what he was sure was a few feet from the river bank. Then in a flash of lightning he was able to see the river, and to his surprise a wagon standing near by. He edged the mare over to where he could get hold of the wagon box and stood waiting for another flash of lightning so he could see its contents. When it came, oh! what a ghastly sight met his eyes! It was the man with flour. He had been murdered and scalped and he lay there in the rain, a gory mess of blood, hair and wet flour; for the murderers had ripped open a sack of flour and poured over him. Jim took an added grip on the side of the wagon for the sight had nauseated him and put his head in a whirl. When his head cleared, he realized he could do the man no good and that he must get out and get out fast, for he was sure he could detect smouldering fires with Indians hovering over them. He ripped the coat from his mounts head and with a severe rake of his spurs plunged her into the river. She floundered and fought the deep current yet it pulled her down stream past the roadway out of the river. Jim’s mind throbbed out the thought that perhaps it would be the river, not the Indians, that would claim his life. Just as he was about to give way to despair he was brushed in the face with some willows, indicating he was near the opposite bank. The next lightning flash let him see another clump of willows which he grabbed, and pulling with a strength he’d never known before was able to help his floundering mount climb the steep embankment and out onto the shore. When onto the road again, he gave the mare her head and it seemed to Jim as though the little thing had sprouted wings. She fairly flew for miles down that road to Salina. A posse was mustered and Jim, with a fresh mount, rode back with them to the river crossing, arriving just at daybreak. By that time the Indians had taken to the hills, leaving the dead mans body in the same gruesome condition that Jim had found it. They had killed his oxen and had feasted upon them during the night as they huddled over the smouldering fires, in the rain.

 

The other express riders had gotten through to their communities also, and in record time posse’s had taken the Indians by surprise and had broken up their intended raid.

 

Soon after this incident, President Brigham Young gave orders for the people along the Sevier to abandon their homes and go to the various forts, north and south.

 

My Grandfather, James L. Killian, who was the “Jim” in the story, took his family north to Fountain Green where they remained until peace had been made and most Indians were settled on reservations.

 

Years after the Grandparents returned to Glenwood, Indians frequently trailed through the settlement and would come to visit Grandfather. They knew they would be given food. On one occasion, a half dozen old bucks came and Grandfather invited them into the house. They sat on the floor, by the fire, while Grandmother fixed each of them a big plate of food. After eating, they sat in silence an hour or more, then got up and left the house one at a time. The last old buck paused at the door and said in broken English:

 

“Jim, Remember many moons ago. When Indian was mad at white man —

Indians kill man, in wagon, by river. Heap dark Rain, thunder, Lightning.

You come, Look in wagon. Me, close by. Me try to shoot you. Heap



big hurt come in arm. Arm drop down by side. No could hold gun. Me

try again, when lightning come. No could shoot. No Indian could

shoot. Great Spirit Him, must like you Heap much!!!

 

Written by Rulon Killian , a grandson of James Laman Killian.