The cowboys developed an unwashed sameness after a while, but we were fascinated by the Indians. They didn’t so much lounge around as affix themselves. They seemed such a permanent part of the landscape that I was startled the first time one of them moved. Their ragged children crowded close on the platform, ready to plead with everyone who left the train. The regulars ignored them. The rest of us chafed and worried when the little ones held up their hands, begging for food or money.

This was naturally a severe blow to Phil, who expected something quite different, based on his reading of western potboilers. Already the cowboys he had seen were totally ordinary, and now these Indians…. His perplexed expression made me push my way through the swarm of dirty urchins, poke him in the ribs and tease, “This was all your idea, Phil.”

“Aw, Liz, maybe we’ll see some real Indians later.”

Did we ever.

Chapter Three

We Everetts stopped in Ogden, near where the Union Pacific and Southern Pacific join, boarded another train for Salt Lake City, and arrived in the famous City of the Saints by mid-afternoon.

I know it was fashionable back then for tourists to examine Salt Lake to see if all those stories about the Mormons were really true, and I cannot deny that I was disappointed at the reality. Can I ever do enough penance for forming opinions from reading Phil’s western novels? We were not abducted by lascivious Mormon men eager for wives. In fact, no one approached us, except one small boy who wanted to shine Father’s shoes when we were still at the depot.

We strolled down first north, or south or maybe east or west street – Mormons lay out their streets grid-style, which seemed to suit them, but confused me, who would have failed trig without assistance. I craned my neck at every woman who passed by, wondering if she was trapped in polygamy – remember, this was 1877 – and forced to perform unspeakable acts in one of their temples.

The women all appeared quite ordinary; indeed, they were some of the best-looking and healthiest ladies we saw on our whole journey. I couldn’t imagine any of them having anything to smile about in their lives of degradation and misery, but they looked quite pleasant. It was in Salt Lake City that it began to dawn on me that one shouldn’t believe everything one reads.

Father arranged for an audience with Brigham Young, the Mormon “prophet.” Father had met him while work was going forth on the railroad in 1868, and he thought we would be improved, or at least entertained, by an interview with one of the world’s greatest rascals.

We were ushered into the Beehive House by one of the old man’s numerous daughters, and invited upstairs to a spacious and well-appointed parlor, grander than anything I had ever seen in Omaha. I was amazed at such elegance in the middle of the Great American Desert. Another daughter sat down at the harp and played for us until her father appeared.