Transporting wool by wagon
submitted by: Raymond Gardner
Dear York and Evelyn,
I'm just finishing your book about Lehi W. Jones and must send my congratulations and thanks for your most prodigious efforts. The research that went into this publication was certainly very exhaustive and resulted in a very accurate, and well told, picture of Grandpa's life. I probably knew him as well as an of the grandchildren, having lived with him for 15 or 18 years, and I believe you have captured the real Grandpa Jones very well. I can hear him now shouting "Stay with 'im, Henry," or Nate, or whoever was in a pickle.
"Stay with 'im, Henry," comes to mind because of an incident that happened out at eightmile about 1930. I was probably in high school - - Grandpa must have been close to 80. Uncle Henry (the other member of the story) must have been in his late 80s. Grandpa and I had driven out to eightmile in a Model T pickup lading Old Jose (his favorite horse). There we encountered Uncle Henry who had ridden a yellow part-time workhorse out from the farm. We were looking over the fence and pasture conditions when we encountered a cow with an 8-month-old unbranded calf. Of course, the calf had to be branded, so I built a fire and threw in a couple of branding rings (always tied to the saddle) and proceeded to rope the calf. Grandpa got old Jose to keep the hind leg rope tight while Uncle Henry and I did the groundwork. When it was finished, Uncle Henry was taking off the hind leg rope when the 300 lb. calf decided to leave - - but Uncle Henry was astride of it, facing the rear. It bucked all around the greasewood and shadscale with Uncle Henry trying to figure out a graceful way to get off. I was afraid he would get hurt, but Grandpa sat up there laughing his head off, shouting, "Stay with 'im, Henry!" He finally got off up-side down in a shadscale bush and came out all scratched and bleeding. Grandpa always had scratched, mashed and bleeding hands, which he seemed to think was normal. So, Uncle Henry's traumatized condition only added to his mirth. I suppose his thinking was, "Why cray - - just do something about it."
I have a story to tell you about Rass Jones. Grandpa always called him Erastus. I don't believe this story. In the spring of 1922 after my father died, Uncle Rass and Aunt Martha invited me to live with them on the farm. Quinn was just a baby, and I don't think Zanola had arrived. The shearing had been done - - for all the Jones boys - - out at Iron Springs. I think I helped chase sheep through the shearing pens. It then became necessary to haul the wool which was piled in 350 lb. Sanks from Iron Springs to Lund, because the Cedar City railroad spur had not even started.
Ras had two teams with hay rack wagons that he offered to do the job, along with outfits brought by Kumen, Henry and John Heaton, and maybe another, making a fiver or six-wagon caravan.
Uncle Rass's teams were a pair of big gray geldings named Dan and Colonel, and a pai of big mares, brown and bay, named Old Kelly and Old Maud. Both teams were well matched. I was designated as the teamster of the mares, being then nine years old and quite green. We drove to Iron Springs and loaded the wagons, (10 or 11 sacks, I think, to a wagon) and camped until daylight the next morning, then headed across the desert.
About two-thirds of the way across the desert, sometime in the afternoon, we joined a road coming in from Enterprise. This junction was straight north of the butte. Five or six teams from St. George had entered the road ahead of us, and as we got closer, we found that they were stuck in deep sand. One man was out there shouting and cussing his horses and beating them with the lines, but they couldn't get through. Uncle Rass calmly unhitched Old Dand and Colonel and carried the doubletrees over and pulled them out. He had to repeat this with every wagon that wen through - - all of the St. George Croad, John Heaton, Uncle Henry and Uncle Kumen.
Finally, there were only two wagons left. Rass brought his team back and hooked onto his wagon (I expected that someone would bring another team and help) and he drove into the sand with only one team, Old Dan and Colone. The sand got deeper and deeper. Well, those grays decided that they wouldn't let Rass down for anything. They dug in with every ounce of strength they had and kept going. Pretty soon he drove out on had ground the shouts of all the men standing around.
I sat there, waiting for him to come back and help me through or drive. He shouted to come ahead. I was shaken a little that he would give me the responsibility in front of the crowd waiting on the other side, so he came over and said, "Just hold the lines tight and talk to the horses - - let them know who is in charge. Don't hit the; just talk and show those guys over there how to drive a team."
So, I got on the front wool sack, pulled up the lines, and braced my feet against the upright on the front of the hayrack and said, "OK, Kelly and Maud, go to it." Well, those two mares settled down to the hardest pulling I ever saw - - and they kept going when it seemed impossible. I kept calling them by name and tugging back on the lines. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity (probably 150 years of deep sand), we came out on hard ground.
All of the men who had been stuck were standing there watching. They threw their hats in the air and shouted. Of course, Old Kelly and Maud got super treatment from me the rest of the summer.
Of course, it is to Uncle Rass that any credit should go - - he trained the team, told me what to do and - - let me do it. As far as I'm concerned, Uncle Rass has a place among the great people who have inhabited this earth. He was totally fearless and there was no such word as "can't."
That experience has kept me going through many tight spots in my life. Many times, in surgery when I had trouble seeing my way out of a tight spot, I could hear Uncle Rass say, "Let 'em know who's in charge." It probably saved some peoples' lives.
May I congratulate you again on the fine piece of literature you have created.
Sincerely yours,
(s) J. Scott Gardner
September 15, 1992
Dear Sue, Gerry and John,
I cannot type this letter from your dad without my eyes full of tears. He was a great person in my growing-up years. All of the cousins, as well as aunts and uncles, idolized him.
It was a good experience to be with family members at Bob's funeral last Saturday. I'm especially glad to get to know who all of you are. I'm sorry for your dad's difficulties in these later years. I hope it isn't too prolonged.
Uncle Rass is York Jones's dad, in case you didn't know, so the story about him was particularly for York's benefit.
Sincerely,
(s) Marolyn