One night in the spring of 1856 Dudley LeavittDudley Leavitt
Mable Lillian Leavitt Waite
Rodney Waite
Laron Waite was riding along Mogotsu Creek near Santa Clara, Utah, letting his horse pick its way along the trail. The night was pitchy black with low, threatening clouds and occasional lightning and thunder. Dudley, who always talked to his horse almost as if it were a human companion, said, "Take it easy, Maje, old boy. Take it easy. Once we get out of here we'll make better time. It won't be long now."

Or he would break into a song, either a hymn or a fun song like "On the Road to Californee," making the echoes ring with his great voice. He had no fear, for he had no enemies, and he wanted anyone in the vicinity to know he was there so that they would not be taken by surprise.

As the horse clambered over a great, slick rock into a small clearing, it shied, threw up its head, and stopped. Dudley could hear its nervous little snort and feel the flesh on its front shoulder quiver. He himself now had a sudden premonition of danger, an instinct which told him that he was not alone. He later said that he "smelled" Indians. He sat silent and motionless for a few seconds, when a brilliant flash of lightning threw the whole valley into clear relief.

Indians! A whole circle of Indians, every one with his bow drawn to the last notch! To try to stampede through them in the darkness would bring a rain of poisoned points into both himself and his horse. Besides, there was no clear trail, and a stumble would be disastrous. More important still, he did not want to run.

"Wamptun Tunghi!" he called loudly. "Me Wamptun Tunghi! " He knew all the local Indians would recognize him by his name. "Tick-a-boo! Too-wich-a-weino-ticka-boo!" This was to say that he was a friend, a very good friend.

There was no answer, but he could hear them closing in on him, and with the next lightning flash one grabbed the bridle bit and held the horse while others dragged him to the ground.

He was a powerful man, so he shook them off while he tried to explain that he was a neighbor and friend, that he had given them bread when they were hungry and meat when he killed a beef. He had even traded a horse to one of them.

Nothing appealed to them now. While one led the horse ahead the others came with him, two holding firmly to his arms and the others behind. He tried in vain to learn the reason for this ambush. What had he done to make them so surly and angry? Why would they gather here to stop their good friend?

They led him on in silence along a secret trail to a place where the stream had cut a high, steep bank against the hill. In front of this was a smoldering fire with a large pile of wood in readiness beside it. The Indian in charge of Old Maje stopped at the edge of the clearing a short distance away, still holding the reins. The two guards led Dudley between the cliff and the fire and stood firmly, one on each side of their captive, while the band formed a half circle in front.

Dudley could see that his chances for escape were not good, unarmed as he was, but he was still puzzled to know the reason for this strange action. He thought he was acquainted with all the Indians of the Santa Clara and Toquer bands, but most of these here he did not know.

From their talk he could soon tell that they were trying to decide how best to kill him. Rush on him with knives? Bind him fast with his own lariat, put all the wood on the fire and throw him onto it? Or torture him first by twisting the burning end of a fagot into his flesh? Each of these were suggested by one or another, and he gathered that because two Indians had been killed by white men and only one white man was caught to atone, he should die twice as hard. How else could the two dead friends be properly avenged?

Dudley knew it was time for him to do something. But what?

Acting on a sudden impulse, he reached into his pocket and drew out the small notebook that he always carried. Then, sensing that the Indians were all watching him, he pretended to search everywhere to find the little stub of a pencil that he well knew was there. Wetting it with his lips to make the soft lead write darker, he began to draw heavy circles and strange figures. He kept at this until he knew all the Indians were watchingwith so much interest that they had stopped their talk.

Knowing that he now had their full attention, he tore the page out, stepped to the fire, and held one corner in the flame until it started to burn. Then he stood up tall and held it high toward heaven, and as it blazed he began his prayer:

"Pi-uinp Shanob! Epawk-i! " (Great God, or Almighty God, hear my distress cry. Or, more literally, Help! Help!)

Dudley went on to tell God how he had always befriended the Indians, given them food and helped them to get meat for their children. Now they were heap tobuck. They were going to kill him, their very best friend.

He had noticed that the guards on either side had stepped back a few paces, and the circle beyond the fire had retreated a little as every eye watched the magic words burst into flame and whirl away.

As he stood thus with his arm extended and repeated his cry for help, another flash of lightning cut the darkness and struck a pine tree high up across the valley. At the same instant the crash of thunder shook the earth. It could not have been timed better. Instantly every Indian disappeared. There was the fire burning; there was Old Maje standing patiently with dangling reins. But where were the Indians?

Dudley mounted and as he rode along sang out loudly, "God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform."