From the time of its inception, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, often called “Mormons” by their enemies and detractors, were plagued by persecution. From New York to Ohio, from Missouri to Illinois, they were chased, hunted and driven out until finally in 1846, after many of them were able to participate in ordinances in their temple in Nauvoo, Illinois, they crossed the frozen Mississippi into Iowa. After slogging through the Iowa mud, they set up temporary headquarters on either side of the Missouri River in Florence, Nebraska and Council Bluffs, Iowa, Then, in 1847, the left the borders of the United States to “hunt out a location where they could remove to…in the mountains where the devil could not dig them out.”
The found such a place in the Great Basin of Upper California and settled up against the formidable Wasatch Mountains and began spreading out from there. Ten years to the day that Brigham Young declared “this is the right place, move on,” four travelers arrived from the Midwest with a report that the U.S. Army was “marching on Zion.” They were on their way up to Big Cottonwood Canyon to break the news to the Saints celebrating around Silver Lake.
In the following scene from Marching on Zion, the notorious Mormon gunman Orson Porter Rockwell speaks his mind as he stares up at the peak towering over them:
Abraham Smoot held up his hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun and caught a glimpse of a series of peaks practically overhead.
“It’s quite a sight,” he said to his three companions as he slowed down his mount. His mare was foamy in sweat. They had left the Salt Lake City before dawn and had made good time. But they still had miles to go, all uphill.
“Think we can make it up the canyon by noon?”
Orrin Porter Rockwell pulled his mount to a stop and patted her on the neck. At first glance, he appeared every bit the wild man his enemies described him to be. Hair down his back, a long beard, buckskin and leather and weapons in plain view. But, Mayor Smoot knew the man, knew his character and trusted him.
“If we don’t spend time talking about it,” Rockwell replied as he spit, wiping his mouth and beard with a kerchief. And then he stopped and looked up to his left as Twin Peaks stared down at him.
“I like what I see,” he declared.
“What is that?” the third horseman, Elias Smith, asked.
“A mighty fortress. A mighty, mountain fortress.”
And then the Mormon gunman gave his mare a nudge, and she lunged ahead. Mayor Smoot and Judson Stoddard exchanged glances and a grim smile. They were glad Orrin Porter Rockwell was on their side. The four horsemen picked up the pace. After a mad dash of 520 miles in just 20 days, they were to be surprise guests at a picnic up the canyon. Few would be expecting them.
Would they ruin the party?