WILLIAM FRANKLIN PACE
Following is a short sketch of the life of William Franklin Pace, one of the first men to settle on Spanish Fork river, as told by himself.
I was born in Tennessee May 19, 1838 and joined the Church five years later in a small town near Nashville. In 1843 my parents moved to Nauvoo, Illinois and they were living there at the time of the martyrdom of the Prophet and Hyrum Smith.
In l846 we were forced to leave our home and practically all we possessed and start on the long journey westward toward the land of promise.
Our first, stop was at, Council Bluffs Iowa, there we organized with Brigham Young as our President and leader. The only teams we had to make the journey with were oxen, with the exception of two spans of horses which belonged to President Young. While we were at Council Bluffs, the Mormon Battalion was called to go into the war with Mexico. From our company we were supposed to get five hundred men but we were able to muster only four hundred eighty four. The mustering of the battalion left us quite short of men to drive the teams and we had considerable difficulty in fording the rivers and getting the outfits over the bad places in the road. In May, 1848, we began the long journey westward from Winter Quarters.
The greatest trouble of the Saints was caused through not understanding how to provide for such a long hard journey as was before us and consequently we ran out of provisions. With all our difficulties, however, we arrived in Salt Lake City on September 20th, 1848, and commenced immediately to prepare houses for the winter.
After living in Provo for two years, we settled in Spanish Fork in what was then known as the upper settlement. The first year we planted and harvested an excellent crop. About this time my father was called to the legislature, and my brothers Harvey and William were attending school at Provo. I was left to take care of the home, though I was then only fifteen years old.
In 1853 we were forced to move to Palmyra on account of the outbreak of the Walker war, but after the war we moved back to the upper settlement and built a fort in which to live.
In the fall of 1856 I married, and a year later my wife and I moved to the Indian Farm where I worked as an interpreter for the Indians, and I became thoroughly conversant with the language and customs of the Indians. After two years we again took up our residence in Spanish Fork.
One evening I was standing outside the door of our cabin while my wife was doing the evening work. Suddenly I heard a great noise on the mountain, rocks came rolling down and dust rose in clouds, then from behind rocks, brush and other ambush Indians appeared in great numbers, all dressed in war paint. Some of the savages were painted black, a sign that death was to come to some-body. As the Indians came nearer I stepped into the house and told my wife not to show any sign of fear, as that would serve to provoke the Indians to attack us. By this time they had reached the house. They rode around the house, whooping and yelling in a manner calculated to strike terror to the bravest heart. I stepped outside and looked them over without showing any fear. The Chief walked up to me and said in the Indian tongue, “are you afraid?” “No,” said I, “I am not afraid of my Friends.” “Then stay here and raise corn,” the chief answered. “The Indians will never hurt you.”
Then they rode away, still yelling at the top of their voices. As long as we lived there I always was friendly with the Indians and they kept their promise to me.
Shortly after this the Indians became very troublesome and it was necessary to order the militia out to settle the out breaks. One day during these troublesome times, I was plowing in my field, when Bishop Thurber came to me and asked me if I would go up the canyon and see the Indians. I answered that it would not be safe so soon after the fighting but the Bishop insisted, so I finally consented, unhitched one of my mules and started off, Bishop Thurber accompanying me. After riding several miles without seeing any signs of Indians, we at length discovered two sitting on the side hill. They called to us and asked if we had anything they could get a drink out of. We told them no, but asked to come down to the river and get a drink. Just then I noticed a dead Indian wrapped in a blanket and lying close to me feet. I felt that we were in great danger, and drew the Bishop’s attention to the dead man and we moved a short distance away. The two Indians approached, but kept looking back up the hill and acted as if they were afraid of something. As they came nearer I perceived that each has his right arm broken and bandaged it with sticks and bark. While we were talking, a large band of Indians came down the canyon, and we thought it would be wise to leave, but the men we had talked to warned us not to move and told us not to act as if we were afraid.
The band drew near, and when they saw their dead comrade, they commenced circling around us whooping and yelling. Their leader, an old Indian named Old Taby, recognized me however, and saved our lives by a little talk to the braves. For this service he demanded that we give him a sack of flour and a side of bacon, which, you may be sure we were quite willing to do.
I have always tried to do the best I could in serving the Lord and living in harmony with my fellow men, and in looking back over the rugged experiences of the past, I see today the fulfillment of some of our dreams, and realize that our struggles have borne fruit that has blessed the lives of those who came after us.
