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diff --git a/old/11534-0.txt b/old/11534-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2a509c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11534-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13788 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lions of the Lord, by Harry Leon Wilson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Lions of the Lord + A Tale of the Old West + +Author: Harry Leon Wilson + +Release Date: March 10, 2004 [EBook #11534] +[Most recently updated: June 1, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIONS OF THE LORD *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, David Wilson and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration: Frontispiece: LIFTING OFF HIS BROAD-BRIMMED HAT TO HER +IN A GRACIOUS SWEEP] + + + + +THE + +LIONS OF THE LORD + +A Tale of the Old West + +By HARRY LEON WILSON + +Author of “The Spenders” + +Illustrated by ROSE CECIL O’NEILL + +Published June, 1903 + +TO MY WIFE + + + + +FOREWORD + + +_In the days of ’49 seven trails led from our Western frontier into the +Wonderland that lay far out under the setting sun and called to the +restless. Each of the seven had been blazed mile by mile through the +mighty romance of an empire’s founding. Some of them for long stretches +are now overgrown by the herbage of the plain; some have faded back +into the desert they lined; and more than one has been shod with steel. +But along them all flit and brood the memory-ghosts of old, +rich-coloured days. To the shout of teamster, the yell of savage, the +creaking of tented ox-cart, and the rattle of the swifter mail-coach, +there go dim shapes of those who had thrilled to that call of the +West;—strong, brave men with the far look in their eyes, with those +magic rude tools of the pioneer, the rifle and the axe; women, too, +equally heroic, of a stock, fearless, ready, and staunch, bearing their +sons and daughters in fortitude; raising them to fear God, to love +their country,—and to labour. From the edge of our Republic these +valiant ones toiled into the dump of prairie and mountain to live the +raw new days and weld them to our history; to win fertile acres from +the wilderness and charm the desert to blossoming. And the time of +these days and these people, with their tragedies and their comedies, +was a time of epic splendour;—more vital with the stuff and colour of +life, I think, than any since the stubborn gray earth out there was +made to yield its treasure._ + +_Of these seven historic highways the one richest in story is the old +Salt Lake Trail: this because at its western end was woven a romance +within a romance;—a drama of human passions, of love and hate, of high +faith and low, of the beautiful and the ugly, of truth and lies; yet +with certain fine fidelities under it all; a drama so close-knit, so +amazingly true, that one who had lightly designed to make a tale there +was dismayed by fact. So much more thrilling was it than any fiction he +might have imagined, so more than human had been the cunning of the +Master Dramatist, that the little make-believe he was pondering seemed +clumsy and poor, and he turned from it to try to tell what had really +been._ + +_In this story, then, the things that are strangest have most of truth. +The make-believe is hardly more than a cement to join the queerly +wrought stones of fact that were found ready. For, if the writer has +now and again had to divine certain things that did not show,—yet must +have been,—surely these are not less than truth. One of these +deductions is the Lute of the Holy Ghost who came in the end to be the +Little Man of Sorrows: who loved a woman, a child, and his God, but +sinned through pride of soul;—whose life, indeed, was a poem of sin and +retribution. Yet not less true was he than the Lion of the Lord, the +Archer of Paradise, the Wild Ram of the Mountains, or the gaunt, gray +woman whom hurt love had crazed. For even now, as the tale is done, +comes a dry little note in the daily press telling how such a one +actually did the other day a certain brave, great thing it had seemed +the imagined one must be driven to do. Only he and I, perhaps, will be +conscious of the struggle back of that which was printed; but at least +we two shall know that the Little Man of Sorrows is true, even though +the cross where he fled to say his last prayer in the body has long +since fallen and its bars crumbled to desert dust._ + +_Yet there are others still living in a certain valley of the mountains +who will know why the soul-proud youth came to bend under invisible +burdens, and why he feared, as an angel of vengeance, that early cowboy +with the yellow hair, who came singing down from the high divide into +Amalon where a girl was waiting in her dream of a single love; others +who, to this day, will do not more than whisper with averted faces of +the crime that brought a curse upon the land; who still live in terror +of shapes that shuffle furtively behind them, fumbling sometimes at +their shoulders with weak hands, striving ever to come in front and +turn upon them. But these will know only one side of the Little Man of +Sorrows who was first the Lute of the Holy Ghost in the Poet’s roster +of titles: since they have lacked his courage to try the great issue +with their God._ + +_New York City, May 1st, 1903._ + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER +I. THE DEAD CITY +II. THE WILD RAM OF THE MOUNTAINS +III. THE LUTE OF THE HOLY GHOST BREAKS HIS FAST +IV. A FAIR APOSTATE +V. GILES RAE BEAUTIFIES HIS INHERITANCE +VI. THE LUTE OF THE HOLY GHOST IS FURTHER CHASTENED +VII. SOME INNER MYSTERIES ARE EXPOUNDED +VIII. A REVELATION FROM THE LORD AND A TOAST FROM BRIGHAM +IX. INTO THE WILDERNESS +X. THE PROMISED LAND +XI. ANOTHER MIRACLE AND A TEMPTATION IN THE WILDERNESS +XII. A FIGHT FOR LIFE +XIII. JOEL RAE IS TREATED FOR PRIDE OF SOUL +XIV. HOW THE SAINTS WERE BROUGHT TO REPENTANCE +XV. HOW THE SOULS OF APOSTATES WERE SAVED +XVI. THE ORDER FROM HEADQUARTERS +XVII. THE MEADOW SHAMBLES +XVIII. IN THE DARK OF THE AFTERMATH +XIX. THE HOST OF ISRAEL GOES FORTH TO BATTLE +XX. HOW THE LION OF THE LORD ROARED SOFT +XXI. THE BLOOD ON THE PAGE +XXII. THE PICTURE IN THE SKY +XXIII. THE SINNER CHASTENS HIMSELF +XXIV. THE COMING OF THE WOMAN-CHILD +XXV. THE ENTABLATURE OF TRUTH MAKES A DISCOVERY AT AMALON +XXVI. HOW THE RED CAME BACK TO THE BLOOD TO BE A SNARE +XXVII. A NEW CROSS TAKEN UP AND AN OLD ENEMY FORGIVEN +XXVIII. JUST BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD +XXIX. THE WILD RAM OF THE MOUNTAINS OFFERS TO BECOME A SAVIOUR ON MOUNT ZION +XXX. HOW THE WORLD DID NOT COME TO AN END +XXXI. THE LION OF THE LORD SENDS AN ORDER +XXXII. A NEW FACE IN THE DREAM +XXXIII. THE GENTILE INVASION +XXXIV. HOW THE AVENGER BUNGLED HIS VENGEANCE +XXXV. RUEL FOLLETT’S WAY OF BUSINESS +XXXVI. THE MISSION TO A DESERVING GENTILE +XXXVII. THE GENTILE ISSUES AN ULTIMATUM +XXXVIII. THE MISSION SERVICE IN BOX CAÑON IS SUSPENDED +XXXIX. A REVELATION CONCERNING THE TRUE ORDER OF MARRIAGE +XL. A PROCESSION, A PURSUIT, AND A CAPTURE +XLI. THE RISE AND FALL OF A BENT LITTLE PROPHET +XLII. THE LITTLE BENT MAN AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS +XLIII. THE GENTILE CARRIES OFF HIS SPOIL + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + Lifting off his broad-brimmed hat to her in a gracious sweep + “Her goal is Zion, not Babylon, sir—remember _that_!” + “_I’m_ the one will have to be caught” + “But you’re not my really papa!” + Full of zest for the measure as any youth + “Oh, Man ... how I’ve longed for that bullet of yours!” + + + + +THE LIONS OF THE LORD + +Chapter I. +The Dead City + + +The city without life lay handsomely along a river in the early +sunlight of a September morning. Death had seemingly not been long upon +it, nor had it made any scar. No breach or rent or disorder or sign of +violence could be seen. The long, shaded streets breathed the still +airs of utter peace and quiet. From the half-circle around which the +broad river bent its moody current, the neat houses, set in cool, green +gardens, were terraced up the high hill, and from the summit of this a +stately marble temple, glittering of newness, towered far above them in +placid benediction. + +Mile after mile the streets lay silent, along the river-front, up to +the hilltop, and beyond into the level; no sound nor motion nor sign of +life throughout their length. And when they had run their length, and +the outlying fields were reached, there, too, was the same brooding +spell as the land stretched away in the hush and haze. The yellow +grain, heavy-headed with richness, lay beaten down and rotting, for +there were no reapers. The city, it seemed, had died calmly, +painlessly, drowsily, as if overcome by sleep. + +From a skiff in mid-river, a young man rowing toward the dead city +rested on his oars and looked over his shoulder to the temple on the +hilltop. There was something very boyish in the reverent eagerness with +which his dark eyes rested upon the pile, tracing the splendid lines +from its broad, gray base to its lofty spire, radiant with white and +gold. As he looked long and intently, the colour of new life flushed +into a face that was pinched and drawn. With fresh resolution, he bent +again to his oars, noting with a quick eye that the current had carried +him far down-stream while he stopped to look upon the holy edifice. + +Landing presently at the wharf, he was stunned by the hush of the +streets. This was not like the city of twenty thousand people he had +left three months before. In blank bewilderment he stood, turning to +each quarter for some solution of the mystery. Perceiving at length +that there was really no life either way along the river, he started +wonderingly up a street that led from the waterside,—a street which, +when he had last walked it, was quickening with the rush of a mighty +commerce. + +Soon his expression of wonder was darkened by a shade of anxiety. There +was an unnerving quality in the trance-like stillness; and the mystery +of it pricked him to forebodings. He was now passing empty workshops, +hesitating at door after door with ever-mounting alarm. Then he began +to call, but the sound of his voice served only to aggravate the +silence. + +Growing bolder, he tried some of the doors and found them to yield, +letting him into a kind of smothered, troubled quietness even more +oppressive than that outside. He passed an empty ropewalk, the hemp +strewn untidily about, as if the workers had left hurriedly. He peered +curiously at idle looms and deserted spinning-wheels—deserted +apparently but the instant before he came. It seemed as if the people +were fled maliciously just in front, to leave him in this fearfullest +of all solitudes. He wondered if he did not hear their quick, furtive +steps, and see the vanishing shadows of them. + +He entered a carpenter’s shop. On the bench was an unfinished door, a +plane left where it had been shoved half the length of its edge, the +fresh pine shaving still curling over the side. He left with an uncanny +feeling that the carpenter, breathing softly, had watched him from some +hiding-place, and would now come stealthily out to push his plane +again. + +He turned into a baker’s shop and saw freshly chopped kindling piled +against the oven, and dough actually on the kneading-tray. In a +tanner’s vat he found fresh bark. In a blacksmith’s shop he entered +next the fire was out, but there was coal heaped beside the forge, with +the ladling-pool and the crooked water-horn, and on the anvil was a +horseshoe that had cooled before it was finished. + +With something akin to terror, he now turned from this street of shops +into one of those with the pleasant dwellings, eager to find something +alive, even a dog to bark an alarm. He entered one of the gardens, +clicking the gate-latch loudly after him, but no one challenged. He +drew a drink from the well with its loud-rattling chain and clumsy, +water-sodden bucket, but no one called. At the door of the house he +whistled, stamped, pounded, and at last flung it open with all the +noise he could make. Still his hungry ears fed on nothing but sinister +echoes, the barren husks of his own clamour. There was no curt voice of +a man, no quick, questioning tread of a woman. There were dead white +ashes on the hearth, and the silence was grimly kept by the dumb +household gods. + +His nervousness increased. So vividly did his memory people the streets +and shops and houses that the air was vibrant with sound,—low-toned +conversations, shouts, calls, laughter, the voices of children, the +creaking of wagons, pounding hammers, the clangour of many works; yet +all muffled away from him, as if coming from some phantom-land. His +eyes, too, were kept darting from side to side by vague forms that +flitted privily near by, around corners, behind him, lurking always a +little beyond his eyes, turn them quickly as he would. Now, facing the +street, he shouted, again and again, from sheer nervousness; but the +echoes came back alone. + +He recalled a favourite day-dream of boyhood,—a dream in which he +became the sole person in the world, wandering with royal liberty +through strange cities, with no voice to chide or forbid, free to +choose and partake, as would a prince, of all the wonders and delights +that boyhood can picture; his own master and the master of all the +marvels and treasures of earth. This was like the dream come true; but +it distressed him. It was necessary to find the people at once. He had +a feeling that his instant duty was to break some malign spell that lay +upon the place—or upon himself. For one of them was surely bewitched. + +Out he strode to the middle of the street, between two rows of +yellowing maples, and there he shouted again and still more loudly to +evoke some shape or sound of life, sending a full, high, ringing call +up the empty thoroughfare. Between the shouts he scanned the near-by +houses intently. + +At last, half-way up the next block, even as his lungs filled for +another peal, he thought his eyes caught for a short half-second the +mere thin shadow of a skulking figure. It had seemed to pass through a +grape arbour that all but shielded from the street a house slightly +more pretentious than its neighbours. He ran toward the spot, calling +as he went. But when he had vaulted over the low fence, run across the +garden and around the end of the arbour, dense with the green leaves +and clusters of purple grapes, the space in front of the house was +bare. If more than a trick-phantom of his eye had been there, it had +vanished. + +He stood gazing blankly at the front door of the house. Was it fancy +that he had heard it shut a second before he came? that his nerves +still responded to the shock of its closing? He had already imagined so +many noises of the kind, so many misty shapes fleeing before him with +little soft rustlings, so many whispers at his back and hushed cries +behind the closed doors. Yet this door had seemed to shut more +tangibly, with a warmer promise of life. He went quickly up the three +wooden steps, turned the knob, and pushed it open—very softly this +time. No one appeared. But, as he stood on the threshold, while the +pupils of his eyes dilated to the gloom of the hall into which he +looked, his ears seemed to detect somewhere in the house a muffled +footfall and the sound of another door closed softly. + +He stepped inside and called. There was no answer, but above his head a +board creaked. He started up the stairs in front of him, and, as he did +so, he seemed to hear cautious steps across a bare floor above. He +stopped climbing; the steps ceased. He started up, and the steps came +again. He knew now they came from a room at the head of the stairs. He +bounded up the remaining steps and pushed open the door with a loud +“Halloo!” + +The room was empty. Yet across it there was the indefinable trail of a +presence,—an odour, a vibration, he knew not what,—and where a bar of +sunlight cut the gloom under a half-raised curtain, he saw the motes in +the air all astir. Opposite the door he had opened was another, +leading, apparently, to a room at the back of the house. From behind +it, he could have sworn came the sounds of a stealthily moved body and +softened breathing. A presence, unseen but felt, was all about. Not +without effort did he conquer the impulse to look behind him at every +breath. + +Determined to be no longer eluded, he crossed the room on tiptoe and +gently tried the opposite door. It was locked. As he leaned against it, +almost in a terror of suspense, he knew he heard again those little +seemings of a presence a door’s thickness away. He did not hesitate. +Still holding the turned knob in his hand, he quickly crouched back and +brought his flexed shoulder heavily against the door. It flew open with +a breaking sound, and, with a little gasp of triumph, he was in the +room to confront its unknown occupant. + +To his dismay, he saw no one. He peered in bewilderment to the farther +side of the room, where light struggled dimly in at the sides of a +curtained window. There was no sound, and yet he could acutely feel +that presence; insistently his nerves tingled the warning of another’s +nearness. Leaning forward, still peering to sound the dim corners of +the room, he called out again. + +Then, from behind the door he had opened, a staggering blow was dealt +him, and, before he could recover, or had done more than blindly crook +one arm protectingly before his face, he was borne heavily to the +floor, writhing in a grasp that centered all its crushing power about +his throat. + + + +Chapter II. +The Wild Ram of the Mountains + + +Slight though his figure was, it was lithe and active and well-muscled, +and he knew as they struggled that his assailant was possessed of no +greater advantage than had lain in his point of attack. In strength, +apparently, they were well-matched. Twice they rolled over on the +carpeted floor, and then, despite the big, bony hands pressing about +his throat, he turned his burden under him, and all but loosened the +killing clutch. This brought them close to the window, but again he was +swiftly drawn underneath. Then, as he felt his head must burst and his +senses were failing from the deadly grip at his throat, his feet caught +in the folds of the heavy curtain, and brought it down upon them in a +cloud of dust. + +As the light flooded in, he saw the truth, even before his now panting +and sneezing antagonist did. Releasing the pressure from his throat +with a sudden access of strength born of the new knowledge, he managed +to gasp, though thickly and with pain, as they still strove: + +“Seth Wright—wait—let go—wait, Seth—I’m Joel—Joel Rae!” + +He managed it with difficulty. + +“Joel Rae—Rae—Rae—don’t you see?” + +He felt the other’s tension relax. With many a panting, puffing “Hey!” +and “What’s that now?” he was loosed, and drew himself up into a chair +by the saving window. His assailant, a hale, genial-faced man of forty, +sat on the floor where the revelation of his victim’s identity had +overtaken him. He was breathing hard and feeling tenderly of his neck. +This was ruffled ornamentally by a style of whisker much in vogue at +the time. It had proved, however, but an inferior defense against the +onslaught of the younger man in his frantic efforts to save his own +neck. + +They looked at each other in panting amazement, until the older man +recovered his breath, and spoke: + +“Gosh and all beeswax! The Wild Ram of the Mountains a-settin’ on the +Lute of the Holy Ghost’s stomach a-chokin’ him to death. My sakes! I’m +a-pantin’ like a tuckered hound—a-thinkin’ he was a cussed milishy +mobocrat come to spoil his household!” + +The younger man was now able to speak, albeit his breathing was still +heavy and the marks of the struggle plain upon him. + +“What does it mean, Brother Wright—all this? Where are the Saints we +left here—why is the city deserted—and why this—this?” + +He shook back the thick, brown hair that fell to his shoulders, +tenderly rubbed the livid fingerprints at his throat, and readjusted +the collar of his blue flannel shirt. + +“Thought you was a milishy man, I tell you, from the careless way you +hollered—one of Brockman’s devils come back a-snoopin’, and I didn’t +crave trouble, but when I saw the Lord appeared to reely want me to +cope with the powers of darkness, why, I jest gritted into you for the +consolation of Israel. You’d ’a’ got your come-uppance, too, if you’d +’a’ been a mobber. You was nigh a-ceasin’ to breathe, Joel Rae. In +another minute I wouldn’t ’a’ give the ashes of a rye-straw for your +part in the tree of life!” + +“Yes, yes, man, but go back a little. Where are our people, the sick, +the old, and the poor, that we had to leave till now? Tell me, quick.” + +The older man sprang up, the late struggle driven from his mind, his +face scowling. He turned upon his questioner. + +“Does my fury swell up in me? No wonder! And you hain’t guessed why? +Well, them pitiful remnant of Saints, the sick, the old, the poor, +waitin’ to be helped yender to winter quarters, has been throwed out +into that there slough acrost the river, six hundred and forty of ’em.” + +“When we were keeping faith by going?” + +“What does a mobocrat care for faith-keepin’? Have you brought back the +wagons?” + +“Yes; they’ll reach the other side to-night. I came ahead and made the +lower crossing. I’ve seen nothing and heard nothing. Go on—tell +me—talk, man!” + +“Talk?—yes, I’ll talk! We’ve had mobs and the very scum of hell to boil +over here. This is Saturday, the 19th, ain’t it? Well, Brockman marched +against this stronghold of Israel jest a week ago, with eight hundred +men. They had cannons and demanded surrender. We was a scant two +hundred fightin’ men, and the only artillery we had was what we made +ourselves. We broke up an old steamboat shaft and bored out the pieces +so’s they’d take a six-pound shot—but we wasn’t goin’ to give up. We’d +learned our lesson about mobocrat milishies. Well, Brockman, when he +got our defy, sent out his Warsaw riflemen as flankers on the right and +left, put the Lima Guards to our front with one cannon, and marched his +main body through that corn-field and orchard to the south of here to +the city lines. Then we had it hot. Brockman shot away all his +cannon-balls—he had sixty-one—and drew back while he sent to Quincy for +more. He’d killed three of our men. Sunday and Monday we swopped a few +shots. And then Tuesday, along comes a committee of a hundred to +negotiate peace. Well, Wednesday evening they signed terms, spite of +all I could do. _I’d_ ’a’ fought till the white crows come a-cawin’, +but the rest of ’em wasn’t so het up with the Holy Ghost, I reckon. +Anyway, they signed. The terms wasn’t reely set till Thursday morning, +but we knew they would be, and so all Wednesday night we was movin’ +acrost the river, and it kept up all next day,—day before yesterday. +You’d ought to ’a’ been here then; you wouldn’t wonder at my comin’ +down on you like a thousand of brick jest now, takin’ you for a +mobocrat. You’d ’a’ seen families druv right out of their homes, with +no horses, tents, money, nor a day’s provisions,—jest a little foolish +household stuff they could carry in their hands,—sick men and women +carried on beds, mothers luggin’ babies and leadin’ children. My sakes! +but I did want to run some bullets and fill my old horn with powder for +the consolation of Israel! They’re lyin’ out over there in the slough +now, as many as ain’t gone to glory. It made me jest plumb murderous!” + +The younger man uttered a sharp cry of anguish. “What, oh, what has +been our sin, that we must be proved again? Why have we got to be +chastened?” + +“Then Brockman’s force marched in Thursday afternoon, and hell was let +loose. His devils have plundered the town, thrown out the bedridden +that jest couldn’t move, thrown their goods out after ’em, burned, +murdered, tore up. You come up from the river, and you ain’t seen that +yet—they ain’t touched the lower part of town—and now they’re bunkin’ +in the temple, defacin’ it, defilin’ it,—that place we built to be a +house of rest for the Lord when he cometh again. They drove me acrost +the river yesterday, and promised to shoot me if I dast show myself +again. I sneaked over in a skiff last night and got here to get my two +pistols and some money and trinkets we’d hid out. I was goin’ to cross +again to-night and wait for you and the wagons.” + +“My God! and this is the nineteenth century in a land of liberty!” + +“State of Illinois, U.S.A., September 19, 1846—but what of that? We’re +the Lord’s chosen, and over yender is a generation of vipers warned to +flee from the wrath to come. But they won’t flee, and so we’re outcasts +for the present, driven forth like snakes. The best American blood is +in our veins. We’re Plymouth Rock stock, the best New England graft; +the fathers of nine tenths of us was at Bunker Hill or Valley Forge or +Yorktown, but what of that, I ask you?” + +The speaker became oratorical as his rage grew. + +“What did Matty Van Buren say to Sidney Rigdon and Elias Higbee when +they laid our cause before him at Washington after our Missouri +persecutions—when the wicked hatred of them Missourians had as a besom +of fire swept before it into exile the whipped and plundered Saints of +Jackson County? Well, he said: ‘Gentlemen, your cause is just, but I +can do nothing for you.’ That’s what a President of the United States +said to descendants of _Mayflower_ crossers who’d been foully dealt +with, and been druv from their substance and their homes, their wheat +burned in the stack and in the shock, and themselves butchered or put +into the wilderness. And now the Lord’s word to this people is to +gether out again.” + +The younger man had listened in deep dejection. + +“Yes, it’s to be the old story. I saw it coming. The Lord is proving us +again. But surely this will be the last. He will not again put us +through fire and blood.” + +He paused, and for a moment his quick brown eyes looked far away. + +“And yet, do you know, Bishop, I’ve thought that he might mean us to +save ourselves against this Gentile persecution. Sometimes I find it +hard to control myself.” + +The Bishop grinned appreciatively. + +“So I heer’d. The Lute of the Holy Ghost got too rambunctious back in +the States on the subject of our wrongs. And so they called you back +from your mission?” + +“They said I must learn to school myself; that I might hurt the cause +by my ill-tempered zeal—and yet I brought in many—” + +“I don’t blame you. I got in trouble the first and only mission I went +on, and the first time I preached, at that. When I said, ‘Joseph was +ordained by Peter, James, and John,’ a drunken wag in the audience got +up and called me a damned liar. I started for him. I never reached him, +but I reached the end of my mission right there. The Twelve decided I +was usefuller here at home. They said I hadn’t got enough of the Lord’s +humility for outside work. That was why they put me at the head of—that +little organisation I wanted you to join last spring. And it’s done +good work, too. You’ll join now fast enough, I guess. You begin to see +the need of such doin’s. I can give you the oath any time.” + +“No, Bishop, I didn’t mean that kind of resistance. It sounded too +practical for me; I’m still satisfied to be the Lute of the Holy +Ghost.” + +“You can be a Son of Dan, too.” + +“Not yet, not yet. We must still be a little meek in the face of +Heaven.” + +“You’re in a mighty poor place to practise meekness. What’d you cross +the river for, anyway?” + +“Why, for father and mother, of course. They must be safe at Green +Plains. Can I get out there without trouble?” + +The Bishop sneered. + +“Be meek, will you? Well, mosey out to Green Plains and begin there. +It’s a _burned_ plains you’ll find, and Lima and Morley all the same, +and Bear Creek. The mobbers started out from Warsaw, and burned all in +their way, Morley first, then Green Plains, Bear Creek, and Lima. +They’d set fire to the houses and drive the folks in ahead. They killed +Ed Durfee at Morley for talkin’ back to ’em.” + +“But father and mother, surely—” + +“Your pa and ma was druv in here with the rest, like cattle to the +slaughter.” + +“You don’t mean to say they’re over there on the river bank?” + +“Now, they are a kind of a mystery about that—why they wa’n’t throwed +out with the rest. Your ma’s sick abed—she ain’t ever been peart since +the night your pa’s house was fired and they had to walk in—but that +ain’t the reason they wa’n’t throwed out. They put out others sicker. +They flung families where every one was sick out into that slough. I +guess what’s left of ’em wouldn’t be a supper-spell for a bunch of +long-billed mosquitoes. But one of them milishy captains was certainly +partial to your folks for some reason. They was let to stay in Phin +Daggin’s house till you come.” + +“And Prudence—the Corsons—Miss Prudence Corson?” + +“Oh, ho! So she’s the one, is she? Now that reminds me, mebbe I can +guess the cute of that captain’s partiality. That girl’s been kind of +lookin’ after your pa and ma, and that same milishy captain’s been kind +of lookin’ after the girl. She got him to let her folks go to +Springfield.” + +“But that’s the wrong way.” + +“Well, now, I don’t want to spleen, but I never did believe Vince +Corson was anything more’n a hickory Saint—and there’s been a lot of +talk—but you get yours from the girl. If I ain’t been misled, she’s got +some ready for you.” + +“Bishop, will there be a way for us to get into the temple, for her to +be sealed to me? I’ve looked forward to that, you know. It would be +hard to miss it.” + +“The mob’s got the temple, even if you got the girl. There’s a verse +writ in charcoal on the portal:— + +“‘Large house, tall steeple, +Silly priests, deluded people.’ + + +“That’s how it is for the temple, and the mob’s bunked there. But the +girl may have changed her mind, too.” + +The young man’s expression became wistful and gentle, yet serenely +sure. + +“I guess you never knew Prudence at all well,” he said. “But come, +can’t we go to them? Isn’t Phin Daggin’s house near?” + +“You may git there all right. But I don’t want _my_ part taken out of +the tree of life jest yet. I ain’t aimin’ to show myself none. Hark!” + +From outside came the measured, swinging tramp of men. + +“Come see how the Lord is proving us—and step light.” + +They tiptoed through the other rooms to the front of the house. + +“There’s a peek-hole I made this morning—take it. I’ll make me one +here. Don’t move the curtain.” + +They put their eyes to the holes and were still. The quick, rhythmic, +scuffling tread of feet drew nearer, and a company of armed men marched +by with bayonets fixed. The captain, a handsome, soldierly young +fellow, glanced keenly from right to left at the houses along the line +of march. + +“We’re all right,” said the Bishop, in low tones. “The cusses have been +here once—unless they happened to see us. They’re startin’ in now down +on the flat to make sure no poor sick critter is left in bed in any of +them houses. Now’s your chance if you want to git up to Daggin’s. Go +out the back way, follow up the alleys, and go in at the back when you +git there. But remember, ‘Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder +in the path that biteth the horse heels, so that his rider shall fall +backward!’ In Clay County we had to eat up the last mule from the tips +of his ears to the end of the fly-whipper. Now we got to pass through +the pinches again. We can’t stand it for ever.” + +“The spirit may move us against it, Brother Seth.” + +“I wish to hell it would!” replied the Bishop. + + + + +Chapter III. +The Lute of the Holy Ghost Breaks His Fast + + +In his cautious approach to the Daggin house, he came upon her +unawares—a slight, slender, shapely thing of pink and golden flame, as +she poised where the sun came full upon her. One hand clutched her +flowing blue skirts snugly about her ankles; the other opened coaxingly +to a kitten crouched to spring on the limb of an apple-tree above her. +The head was thrown back, the vivid lips were parted, and he heard her +laugh low to herself. Near by was a towering rose-bush, from which she +had broken the last red rose, large, full, and lush, its petals already +loosened. Now she wrenched away a handful of these, and flung them +upward at the watchful kitten. The scarlet flecks drifted back around +her and upon her. Like little red butterflies hovering in golden +sunlight, they lodged in her many-braided yellow hair, or fluttered +down the long curls that hung in front of her ears. She laughed again +under the caressing shower. Then she tore away the remaining petals and +tossed them up with an elf-like daintiness, not at the crouched and +expectant kitten this time, but so that the whole red rain floated +tenderly down upon her upturned face and into the folds of the white +kerchief crossed upon her breast. She waited for the last feathery +petal. Her hidden lover saw it lodge in the little hollow at the base +of her bare, curved throat. He could hold no longer. + +Stepping from the covert that had shielded him, he called softly to +her. + +“Prudence—Prue!” + +She had reached again for the kitten, but at the sound of his low, +vigorous note, she turned quickly toward him, colouring with a glow +that spread from the corner of the crossed kerchief up to the yellow +hair above her brow. She answered with quick breaths. + +“Joel—Joel—Joel!” + +She laughed aloud, clapping her small hands, and he ran to her—over +beds of marigolds, heartsease, and lady’s-slippers, through a row of +drowsy-looking, heavy-headed dahlias, and past other withering flowers, +all but choked out by the rank garden growths of late summer. Then his +arms opened and seemed to swallow the leaping little figure, though his +kisses fell with hardly more weight upon the yielded face than had the +rose-petals a moment since, so tenderly mindful was his ardour. She +submitted, a little as the pampered kitten had before submitted to her +own pettings. + +“You dear old sobersides, you—how gaunt and careworn you look, and how +hungry, and what wild eyes you have to frighten one with! At first I +thought you were a crazy man.” + +He held her face up to his eager eyes, having no words to say, overcome +by the joy that surged through him like a mighty rush of waters. In the +moment’s glorious certainty he rested until she stirred nervously under +his devouring look, and spoke. + +“Come, kiss me now and let me go.” + +He kissed her eyes so that she shut them; then he kissed her +lips—long—letting her go at last, grudgingly, fearfully, unsatisfied. + +“You scare me when you look that way. You mustn’t be so fierce.” + +“I told him he didn’t know you.” + +“Who didn’t know me, sir?” + +“A man who said I wasn’t sure of you.” + +“So you _are_ sure of me, are you, Mr. Preacherman? Is it because we’ve +been sweethearts since so long? But remember you’ve been much away. +I’ve seen you—let me count—but one little time of two weeks in three +years. You _would_ go on that horrid mission.” + +“Is not religion made up of obedience, let life or death come?” + +“Is there no room for loving one’s sweetheart in it?” + +“One must obey, and I am a better man for having denied myself and +gone. I can love you better. I have been taught to think of others. I +was sent to open up the gospel in the Eastern States because I had been +endowed with almost the open vision. It was my call to help in the +setting up of the Messiah’s latter-day kingdom. Besides, we may never +question the commands of the holy priesthood, even if our wicked hearts +rebel in secret.” + +“If you had questioned the right person sharply enough, you might have +had an answer as to why you were sent.” + +“What do you mean? How could I have questioned? How could I have +rebelled against the stepping-stone of my exaltation?” + +His face relaxed a little, and he concluded almost quizzically: + +“Was not Satan hurled from high heaven for resisting authority?” + +She pouted, caught him by the lapels of his coat and prettily tried to +shake him. + +“There—horrid!—you’re preaching again. Please remember you’re not on +mission now. Indeed, sir, you were called back for being too—too—why, +do you know, even old Elder Munsel, ‘Fire-brand Munsel,’ they call him, +said you were too fanatical.” + +His face grew serious. + +“I’m glad to be called back to you, at any rate,—and yet, think of all +those poor benighted infidels who believe there are no longer +revelations nor prophecies nor gifts nor healings nor speaking with +tongues,—this miserable generation so blind in these last days when the +time of God’s wrath is at hand. Oh, I burn in my heart for them, night +after night, suffering for the tortures that must come upon them—thrice +direful because they have rejected the message of Moroni and trampled +upon the priesthood of high heaven, butchering the Saints of the Most +High, and hunting the prophets of God like Ahab of old.” + +“Oh, dear, please stop it! You sound like swearing!” Her two hands were +closing her ears in a pretty pretense. + +He seemed hardly to hear her, but went on excitedly: + +“Yet I have done what man could do. I am never done doing. I would +gladly give my body to be burned a thousand times if it would avail to +save them into the Kingdom. I have preached the word +tirelessly—fanatically, they say—but only as it burned in my bones. I +have told them of visions, dreams, revelations, miracles, and all the +mercies of this last dispensation. And I have prayed and fasted. Just +now coming from winter quarters, when I could not preach, I held twelve +fasts and twelve vigils. You will say it has weakened me, but it has +weakened only the bonds that the flesh puts upon the spirit. Even so, I +fell short of my vision—my tabernacle of flesh must have been too much +profaned, though how I cannot dream—believe me, I have kept myself as +high and clean as I knew. Yet there was promise. For only last night at +the river bank, the spirit came partially upon me. I was taken with a +faintness, and I heard above my head a sound like the rustling of +silken robes, and the spirit of God hovered over me, so that I could +feel its radiance. All in good time, then, it shall dwell within me, so +that I may know a way to save the worthy.” + +He grasped her wrist and bent eagerly forward, with the same wild look +in his eyes that had before disquieted her. + +“Mark what I say now—I shall do great works for this generation; I am +strangely favoured of God; I have felt the spirit quicken wondrously +within me, and I know the Lord works not in vain; what great wonder of +grace I shall do, what miracle of salvation, I know not, but remember, +it shall be transcendent; tell it to no one, but I know in my inner +secret heart it shall be a greater work than man hath yet done.” + +He stopped and drew himself up, shaking his head, as if to shrug off +the spell of his own feeling. + +“Now, now! stop it at once, and come to the house. I’ve been tending +your father and mother, and I’m going to tend you. What you need +directly is food. Your look may be holy, but I prefer full cheeks. Not +another word until you have eaten every crumb I put before you.” + +With an air of captor, daintily fierce, she led him toward the house +and up to the door, which she pushed open before him. + +“Come softly, your mother may be still asleep—no, your father is +talking—listen!” + +A querulous voice, rough with strong feeling, came from the inner room. + +“Here, I tell you, is the prophecy of Joseph to prove it, away back in +1832: ‘Verily thus saith the Lord concerning the wars that will shortly +come to pass, beginning at the rebellion of South Carolina, which will +terminate in the death and misery of many souls. The days will come +that war will be poured out upon all nations, beginning at that place; +for behold, the Southern States shall be divided against the Northern +States, and the Southern States will call on other nations, even the +nation of Great Britain, as it is called.’ Now will you doubt again, +mother? For persecuting the Saints of the most high God, this republic +shall be dashed to pieces like a potter’s vessel. But we shall be safe. +The Lord will gather Israel home to the chambers of the mountains +against the day of wrath that is coming on the Gentile world. For all +flesh hath corrupted itself on the face of the earth, but the Saints +shall possess a purified land, upon which there shall be no curse when +the Lord cometh. Then shall the heavens open—” + +He broke off, for the girl came leading in the son, who, as soon as he +saw the white-haired old man with his open book, sitting beside the +wasted woman on the bed, flew to them with a glad cry. + +They embraced him and smoothed and patted him, tremulously, feebly, +with broken thanks for his safe return. The mother at last fell back +upon her pillow, her eyes shining with the joy of a great relief, while +the father was seized with a fit of coughing that cruelly racked his +gaunt frame and left him weak but smiling. + +The girl had been placing food upon the table. + +“Come, Joel,” she urged, “you must eat—we have all breakfasted, so you +must sit alone, but we shall watch you.” + +She pushed him into the chair and filled his plate, in spite of his +protests. + +“Not another word until you have eaten it all.” + +“The very sight of it is enough. I am not hungry.” + +But she coaxed and commanded, with her hands upon his shoulders, and he +let himself be persuaded to taste the bread and meat. After a few +mouthfuls, taken with obvious disrelish, she detected the awakening +fervour of a famished man, and knew she would have to urge no more. + +As the son ate, the girl busied herself at the mother’s pillow, while +the father talked and ruminated by intervals,—a text, a word of cheer +to the wasted mother, incidents of old days, memories of early +revivals. In 1828, he had hailed Dylkes, the “Leatherwood God,” as the +real Messiah. Then he had been successively a Freewill Baptist, a +Winebrennerian, a Universalist, a Disciple, and finally an eloquent and +moving preacher in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Now +he was a wild-eyed old dreamer with a high, narrow forehead depressed +at the temples, enfeebled, living much in the past. Once his voice +would be low, as if he spoke only to himself; again it would rise in +warning to an evil generation. + +“The end of the world is at hand, laddie,” he began, after looking +fondly at his son for a time. “Joseph said there are those now living +who shall not taste of death till Jesus comes. And then, oh, then—the +great white day! There is strong delusion among the wicked in the day +in which we live, but the seed of Abraham, the royal seed, the blessed +seed of the Lord, shall be told off to its separate glory. The Lord +will spread the curtains of Zion and gather it out to the fat valleys +of Ephraim, and there, with resurrected bodies it shall possess the +purified earth. I shall be away for a time before then, laddie—and the +dear mother here. Our crowns have been earned and will not long be +withheld. But you will be there for the glory of it, and who more +deserves it?” + +“I pray to be made worthy of the exaltation, Father.” + +“You are, laddie. The word and the light came to me when I preached +another faith—for the spirit of Thomas Campbell had aforetime moved +me—but you, laddie, you have been bred in the word and the truth. The +Lord, as a mark of his favour, has kept you from the contamination of +doubters, infidels, heretics, and apostates. You have been educated +under the care of the priesthood, close here in Nauvoo the Beautiful, +and who could more deserve the fulness of thrones, dominions, and of +power—who of all those whose number the after-time shall unfold?” + +He turned appealingly to the mother, whose fevered eyes rested fondly +upon her boy as she nodded confirmation of the words. + +“Did he not march all the way from Kirtland to Missouri with us in +’34—the youngest soldier in the whole army of Zion? How old, +laddie?—twelve, was it?—so he marched a hundred miles for every one of +his little years—and so valiant—none more so—begging us to hasten and +give battle so he could fight upon the Lord’s side. Twelve hundred +miles he walked to put back in their homes the persecuted Saints of +Jackson County. But, ah! There he saw liberty strangled in her +sanctuary. Do you mind, laddie, how in ’38 we were driven by the mob +from Jackson across the river into Clay County? how they ran off our +cattle, stole our grain? how your poor old mother’s mother died from +exposure that night in the rain and sleet? how we lived on mast and +corn, the winter, in tents and a few dugouts and rickety huts—we who +had the keys of St. Peter and the gifts of the apostolic age? Do you +mind the sackings and burnings at Adam-Ondi-Ahman? Do you mind the wife +of Joseph’s brother, Don Carlos, she that was made by the soldiers to +wade Grand River with two helpless babes in her arms? They would not +even let her warm herself, before she started, at the flames of her own +hut they had fired. And, laddie, you mind Haun’s mill. Ah, the bloody +day!—you were there, and one other, the sister, happy, beautiful as her +in the Song of Songs, when the brutes came—” + +“Don’t, father—stop there—you are making my throat shut against the +food.” + +“Then you came to Far West in time to see Joseph and his brethren sold +to the mobocrats by that devil’s traitor, Hinkle,—you saw the fleeing +Saints forced to leave their all, hunted out of Missouri into +Illinois—their houses burned, the cattle stolen, their wives and +daughters—” + +“Don’t, father! Be quiet again. You and mother must be fit for our +journey, as fit as we younger folk.” + +He glanced fondly across the table, where the girl had leaned her chin +in her hands to watch him, speculatively. She avoided his eyes. + +“Yes, yes,” assented the old man, “and you know of our persecutions +here—how we had to finish the temple with our arms by our sides, even +as the faithful finished the walls of Jerusalem—and how we were driven +out by night—” + +“Quiet, father!” + +“Yes, yes. Ah, this gathering out! How far shall we go, laddie?” + +“Four hundred miles to winter quarters. From there no one yet knows,—a +thousand, maybe two thousand.” + +“Aye, to the Rockies or beyond, even to the Pacific. Joseph prophesied +it—where we shall be left in peace until the great day.” + +The young man glanced quickly up. + +“Or have time to grow mighty, if we should not be let alone. Surely +this is the last time the Lord would have us meek under the mob.” + +“Ho, ho! As you were twelve years ago, trudging by my side, valiant to +fight if the Lord but wills it! But have no fear, boy. This time we go +far beyond all that may tempt the spoiler. We go into the desert, where +no humans are but the wretched red Lamanites; no beasts but the wild +ones of four feet to hunger for our flesh; no verdure, no nourishment +to sustain us save the manna from on high,—a region of unknown perils +and unnamed deserts. Truly we make the supreme test. I do not +overcolour it. Prudence, hand me yonder scrap-book, there on the +secretary. Here I shall read you the words of no less a one than +Senator Daniel Webster on the floor of the Senate but a few months +agone. He spoke on the proposal to fix a mail-route from Missouri to +the mouth of the Columbia River in that far-off land. Hear this great +man who knows whereof he speaks. He is very bitter. ‘What do we want +with this vast, worthless area—this region of savages and wild beasts, +of deserts, of shifting sands and whirlwinds of dust, of cactus and +prairie-dogs? To what use could we ever hope to put these great deserts +or those endless mountain ranges, impenetrable and covered to their +very base with eternal snows? What can we ever hope to do with that +Western coast, a coast of three thousand miles, rock-bound, cheerless, +uninviting, and not a harbour on it. Mr. President, I will never vote +one cent from the public treasury to place the Pacific Coast one inch +nearer to Boston than it now is!’” + +The girl had been making little impatient flights about the room, as if +awaiting an opportunity to interrupt the old man’s harangue, but even +as she paused to speak, he began again: + +“There, laddie, do you hear him?—arid deserts, shifting sand, snow and +ice, wild beasts and wilder men—that is where Israel of the last days +shall be hidden to wait for the second coming of God’s Christ. There, +having received our washings and anointings in the temple of God on +earth, we shall wait unmolested, and spread the curtains of Zion in due +circumspection. And what a migration to be recorded in another sacred +history ages hence! Surely the blood of our martyred Prophet hath not +smoked to heaven in vain. Where is there a parallel to this hegira? +They from Egypt went from a heathen land, a land of idolatry, to a +fertile home chosen for them by the Lord. But we go from a fair, +smiling land of plenty and pretended Christianity into the burning +desert. They have driven us to the edge; now they drive us in. But God +works his way among the peoples of earth, and we are strong. Who knows +but that we shall in our march throw up a highway of holiness to the +rising generation? So let us round up our backs to the burden!” + +“Amen!” replied the young man fervently, as he rose from the table. + +“And now we must be about our preparations for the journey. The time is +short—who is that?” + +He sprang to the door. Outside, quick steps were heard approaching. The +girl, who had risen in some confusion, stood blushing and embarrassed +before him. The mother rose feebly on her elbow to reassure him. + +“’Tis Captain Girnway, laddie. Have no alarm—he has befriended us. But +for him we should have been put out two days ago, without shelter and +without care. He let us be housed here until you should come.” + +There was a knock at the door, but Joel stood with his back to it. The +words of Seth Wright were running roughshod through his mind. He looked +sharply at Prudence. + +“A mobocrat—our enemy—and you have taken favours from him—a minion of +the devil?—shame!” + +The girl looked up. + +“He was kind; you don’t realise that he has probably saved their lives. +Indeed, you must let him in and thank him.” + +“Not I!” + +The mother interposed hurriedly. + +“Yes, yes, laddie! You know not how high-handed they have been. They +expelled all but us, and some they have maltreated shamefully. This one +has been kind to us. Open the door.” + +“I dare not face him—I may not contain myself!” + +The knock was repeated more loudly. The girl went up to him and put her +hands on his shoulders to draw him away. + +“Be reasonable,” she pleaded, in low tones, “and above all, be polite +to him.” + +She put him gently aside and drew back the door. On the threshold +smiled the young captain he had watched from the window that morning, +marching at the head of his company. His cap was doffed, and his left +hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword. He stepped inside as one +sure of his welcome. + +“Good morning, Miss Prudence, good morning, Mr. Rae, good morning, +madam—good morning—” + +He looked questioningly at the stranger. Prudence stepped forward. + +“This is Joel Rae, Captain Girnway.” + +They bowed, somewhat stiffly. Each was dark. Each had a face to attract +women. But the captain was at peace with the world, neatly uniformed, +well-fed, clean-shaven, smiling, pleasant to look upon, while the other +was unshaven, hollow-cheeked, gaunt, roughly dressed, a thing that had +been hunted and was now under ban. Each was at once sensible of the +contrast between them, and each was at once affected by it: the captain +to a greater jauntiness, a more effusive affability; the other to a +stonier sternness. + +“I am glad to know you have come, Mr. Rae. Your people have worried a +little, owing to the unfortunate circumstances in which they have been +placed.” + +“I—I am obliged to you, sir, in their behalf, for your kindness to my +father and mother and to Miss Corson here.” + +“You are a thousand times welcome, sir. Can you tell me when you will +wish to cross the river?” + +“At the very earliest moment that God and the mob will let us. +To-morrow morning, I hope.” + +“This has not been agreeable to me, believe me—” + +“Far less so to us, you may be sure; but we shall be content again when +we can get away from all your whiggery, democratism, devilism, mobism!” + +He spoke with rising tones, and the other flushed noticeably about the +temples. + +“Have your wagons ready to-morrow morning, then, Mr. Rae—at eight? Very +well, I shall see that you are protected to the ferry. There has been +so much of that tone of talk, sir, that some of our men have resented +it.” + +He turned pleasantly to Prudence. + +“And you, Miss Prudence, you will be leaving Nauvoo for Springfield, I +suppose. As you go by Carthage, I shall wish to escort you that far +myself, to make sure of your safety.” + +The lover turned fiercely, seizing the girl’s wrist and drawing her +toward him before she could answer. + +“Her goal is Zion, not Babylon, sir—remember _that_!” + +She stepped hastily between them. + +“We will talk of that to-morrow, Captain,” she said, quickly, and +added, “You may leave us now for we have much to do here in making +ready for the start.” + +“Until to-morrow morning, then, at eight.” + +He bowed low over the hand she gave him, gracefully saluted the others, +and was gone. + +[Illustration: “HER GOAL IS ZION, NOT BABYLON, SIR—REMEMBER _THAT_!”] + + + + +Chapter IV. +A Fair Apostate + + +She stood flushed and quick-breathing when the door had shut, he +bending toward her with dark inquiry in his eyes. Before she spoke, he +divined that under her nervousness some resolution lay stubbornly +fixed. + +“Let us speak alone,” she said, in a low voice. Then, to the old +people, “Joel and I will go into the garden awhile to talk. Be +patient.” + +“Not for long, dear; our eyes are aching for him.” + +“Only a little while,” and she smiled back at them. She went ahead +through the door by which they had first entered, and out into the +garden at the back of the house. He remembered, as he followed her, +that since he had arrived that morning she had always been leading him, +directing him as if to a certain end, with the air of meaning presently +to say something of moment to him. + +They went past the rose-bush near which she had stood when he first saw +her, and down a walk through borders of marigolds. She picked one of +the flowers and fixed it in his coat. + +“You are much too savage—you need a posy to soften you. There! Now come +to this seat.” + +She led him to a rustic double chair under the heavily fruited boughs +of an apple-tree, and made him sit down. She began with a vivacious +playfulness, poorly assumed, to hide her real feeling. + +“Now, sobersides, it must end—this foolishness of yours—” + +She stopped, waiting for some question of his to help her. But he said +nothing, though she could feel the burning of his eyes upon her. + +“This superstitious folly, you know,” she blurted out, looking up at +him in sudden desperation. + +“Tell me what you mean—you must know I’m impatient.” + +She essayed to be playful again, pouting her dimpled face near to his +that he might kiss her. But he did not seem to see. He only waited. + +“Well—this religion—this Mormonism—” + +She shot one swift look at him, then went on quickly. + +“My people have left the church, and—I—too—they found things in Joseph +Smith’s teachings that seemed bad to them. They went to Springfield. I +would have gone, too, but I told them I wanted first to see you and—and +see if you would not come with us—at least for awhile, not taking the +poor old father and mother through all that wretchedness. They +consented to let me stay with your parents on condition that Captain +Girnway would protect them and me. He—he—is very kind—and had known us +since last winter and had seen me—us—several times. I hadn’t the heart +to tell your father; he was so set on going to the new Zion, but you +_will_ come, won’t you?” + +“Wait a moment!” He put a hand upon her arm as if to arrest her speech. +“You daze me. Let me think.” She looked up at him, wondering at his +face, for it showed strength and bitterness and gentleness all in one +look—and he was suffering. She put her hand upon his, from an instinct +of pity. The touch recalled him. + +“Now—for the beginning.” He spoke with aroused energy, a little wistful +smile softening the strain of his face. “You were wise to give me food, +else I couldn’t have solved this mystery. To the beginning, then: You, +Prudence Corson, betrothed to me these three years and more; you have +been buried in the waters of baptism and had your washings and +anointings in the temple of the most high God. Is it not so? Your eyes +were anointed that they might be quick to see, your ears that they +might be apt at hearing, your mouth that you might with wisdom speak +the words of eternal life, and your feet that they might be swift to +run in the ways of the Lord. You accepted thereby the truth that the +angel of God had delivered to Joseph Smith the sealing keys of power. +You accepted the glorious articles of the new covenant. You were about +to be sealed up to me for time and eternity. Now—I am lost—what is +it?—your father and mother have left the church, and because of what?” + +“Because of bad things, because of this doctrine they practise—this +wickedness of spiritual wives, plural wives. Think of it, Joel—that if +I were your wife you might take another.” + +“I need not think of it. Surely you know my love. You know I could not +do that. Indeed I have heard at last that this doctrine so long +gossiped of is a true one. But I have been away and am not yet learned +in its mysteries. But this much I do know—and it is the very +corner-stone of my life: Peter, James, and John ordained Joseph Smith +here on this earth, and Joseph ordained the twelve. All other churches +have been established by the wisdom or folly of man. Ours is the only +one on earth established by direct revelation from God. It has a +priesthood, and that priesthood is a power we must reverence and obey, +no matter what may be its commands. When the truth is taught me of this +doctrine you speak of, I shall see it to be right for those to whom it +is ordained. And meantime, outside of my own little life—my love for +you, which would be always single—I can’t measure the revealed will of +God with my little moral foot-rule. Joseph was endowed with the open +vision. He saw God face to face and heard His voice. Can the standards +of society in its present corruption measure and pass upon the +revelations of so white-souled a man?” + +“I believe he was not white-souled,” she replied, in a kind, animated +way, as one who was bent upon saving him from error. “I told you I knew +why you were sent away on mission. It was because you were my accepted +lover—and your white-souled Joseph Smith wanted me for himself.” + +“I can’t believe it—you couldn’t know such a thing”—his faith made a +brave rally—“but even so, if he sought you, why, the more honour to +you—and to me, if you still clung to me.” + +“Listen. I was afraid to tell you before—ashamed—but I told my people. +It’s three years ago. I was seventeen. It was just after we had become +engaged. My people were then strong in the faith, as you know. One +morning after you had left for the East, Brigham Young and Heber +Kimball came to our house for me. They said the Prophet had long known +me by sight, and wished to talk with me. Would I go with them to visit +him and he would bless and counsel me? Of course I was flattered. I put +on my prettiest frock and fetchingest bonnet and set off with them, +after mamma had said yes. On the way they kept asking me if I was +willing to do all the Prophet required. I said I was sure of it, +thinking they meant to be good and worshipful. Then they would ask if I +was ready to take counsel, and they said, ‘Many things are revealed +unto us in these last days that the world would scoff at,’ but that it +had been given to them to know all the mysteries of the Kingdom. Then +they said, ‘You will see Joseph and he will tell you what you are to +do.’” + +He was listening with a serious, confident eagerness, as if he knew she +could say nothing to dim the Prophet’s lustre. + +“When we reached the building where Joseph’s store was, they led me +up-stairs to a small room and sent down to the store for the Prophet. +When he came up they introduced me and left me alone in the little room +with him. Their actions had seemed queer to me, but I remembered that +this man had talked face to face with God, so I tried to feel better. +But all at once he stood before me and asked me to be his wife. Think +of it! I was so frightened! I dared not say no, he looked at me so—I +can’t tell you how; but I said it would not be lawful. He said, ‘Yes, +Prudence, I have had a revelation from God that it is lawful and right +for a man to have as many wives as he wants—for as it was in the days +of Abraham, so it shall be in these days. Accept me and I shall take +you straight to the celestial Kingdom. Brother Brigham will marry us +here, right now, and you can go home to-night and keep it secret from +your parents if you like.’ Then I said, ‘But I am betrothed to Joel +Rae, the son of Giles Rae, who is away on mission.’ ‘I know that,’ he +said—‘I sent him away, and anyway you will be safer to marry me. You +will then be absolutely sure of your celestial reward, for in the next +world, you know, I am to have powers, thrones, and dominions, while +Brother Joel is very young and has not been tried in the Kingdom. He +may fall away and then you would be lost.’” + +The man in him now was struggling with his faith, and he seemed about +to interrupt her, but she went on excitedly. + +“I said I would not want to do anything of the kind without +deliberation. He urged me to have it over, trying to kiss me, and +saying he knew it would be right before God; that if there was any sin +in it he would take it upon himself. He said, ‘You know I have the keys +of the Kingdom, and whatever I bind on earth is bound in heaven. Come,’ +he said, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained. Let me call Brother Brigham +to seal us, and you shall be a star in my crown for ever.’ + +“Then I broke down and cried, for I was so afraid, and he put his arms +around me, but I pushed away, and after awhile I coaxed him to give me +until the next Sabbath to think it over, promising on my life to say +not one word to any person. I never let him see me alone again, you may +be sure, and at last when other awful tales were told about him here, +of wickedness and his drunkenness—he told in the pulpit that he had +been drunk, and that he did it to keep them from worshipping him as a +God—I saw he was a bad, common man, and I told my people everything, +and soon my father was denounced for an apostate. Now, sir, what do you +say?” + +When she finished he was silent for a time. Then he spoke, very gently, +but with undaunted firmness. + +“Prudence, dearest, I have told you that this doctrine is new to me. I +do not yet know its justification. But that I shall see it to be +sanctified after they have taught me, this I know as certainly as I +know that Joseph Smith dug up the golden plates of Mormon and Moroni on +the hill of Cumorah when the angel of the Lord moved him. It will be +sanctified for those who choose it, I mean. You know I could never +choose it for myself. But as for others, I must not question. I know +only too well that eternal salvation for me depends upon my accepting +manfully and unquestioningly the authority of the temple priesthood.” + +“But I know Joseph was not a good man—and they tell such absurd stories +about the miracles the Elders pretend to work.” + +“I believe with all my heart Joseph was good; but even if not—we have +never pretended that he was anything more than a prophet of God. And +was not Moses a murderer when God called him to be a prophet? And as +for miracles, all religions have them—why not ours? Your people were +Methodists before Joseph baptised them. Didn’t Wesley work miracles? +Didn’t a cloud temper the sun in answer to his prayer? Wasn’t his horse +cured of a lameness by his faith? Didn’t he lay hands upon the blind +Catholic girl so that she saw plainly when her eyes rested upon the New +Testament and became blind again when she took up the mass book? Are +those stories absurd? My father himself saw Joseph cast a devil out of +Newell Knight.” + +“And this awful journey into a horrid desert. Why must you go? Surely +there are other ways of salvation.” She hesitated a moment. “I have +been told that going to heaven is like going to mill. If your wheat is +good, the miller will never ask which way you came.” + +“Child, child, some one has tampered with you.” + +She retorted quickly. + +“He did not tamper, he has never sought to—he was all kindness.” + +She stopped, her short upper lip holding its incautious mate a +prisoner. She blushed furiously under the sudden blaze of his eyes. + +“So it’s true, what Seth Wright hinted at? To think that you, of all +people—my sweetheart—gone over—won over by a cursed mobocrat—a fiend +with the blood of our people wet on his hands! Listen, Prue; I’m going +into the desert. Even though you beg me to stay, you must have +known—perhaps you hoped—that I would go. There are many reasons why I +must. For one, there are six hundred and forty poor hunted wretches +over there on the river bank, sick, cold, wet, starving, but enduring +it all to the death for their faith in Joseph Smith. They could have +kept their comfortable homes here and their substance, simply by +renouncing him—they are all voluntary exiles—they have only to say ‘I +do not believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God,’ and these same +Gentiles will receive them with open arms, give them clothing, food, +and shelter, put them again in possession of their own. But they are +lying out over there, fever-stricken, starving, chilled, all because +they will not deny their faith. Shall I be a craven, then, who have +scarcely ever wanted for food or shelter, and probably shall not? Of +course you don’t love me or you couldn’t ask me to do that. Those +faithful wretched ones are waiting over there for me to guide them on +toward a spot that will probably be still more desolate. They could +find their way, almost, by the trail of graves we left last spring, but +they need my strength and my spirit, and I am going. I am going, too, +for my own salvation. I would suffer anything for you, but by going I +may save us both. Listen, child; God is going to make a short work on +earth. We shall both see the end of this reign of sin. It is well if +you take wheat to the mill, but what if you fetch the miller chaff +instead?” + +She made a little protesting move with her hands, and would have +spoken, but he was not done. + +“Now, listen further. You heard my father tell how I have seen this +people driven and persecuted since I was a boy. That, if nothing else, +would take me away from these accursed States and their mobs. Hatred of +them has been bred into my marrow. I know them for the most part to be +unregenerate and doomed, but even if it were otherwise—if they had the +true light—none the less would I be glad to go, because of what they +have done to us and to me and to mine. Oh, in the night I hear such +cries of butchered mothers with their babes, and see the flames of the +little cabins—hear the shots and the ribaldry and the cursings. My +father spoke to you of Haun’s mill,—that massacre back in Missouri. +That was eight years ago. I was a boy of sixteen and my sister was a +year older. She had been left in my care while father and mother went +on to Far West. You have seen the portrait of her that mother has. You +know how delicately flower-like her beauty was, how like a lily, with a +purity and an innocence to disarm any villainy. Thirty families had +halted at the mill the day before, the mob checking their advance at +that point. All was quiet until about four in the afternoon. We were +camped on either side of Shoal Creek. Children were playing freely +about while their mothers and fathers worked at the little affairs of a +pilgrimage like that. Most of them had then been three months on the +road, enduring incredible hardships for the sake of their religion—for +him you believe to be a bad, common man. But they felt secure now +because one of the militia captains, officious like your captain here, +had given them assurance the day before that they would be protected +from all harm. I was helping Brother Joseph Young to repair his wagon +when I glanced up to the opposite side of Shoal Creek and saw a large +company of armed and mounted men coming toward our peaceful group at +full speed. One of our number, seeing that they were many and that we +were unarmed, ran out and cried, ‘Peace!’ but they came upon us and +fired their volley. Men, women, and little children fell under it. +Those surviving fled to the blacksmith’s shop for shelter—huddling +inside like frightened sheep. But there were wide cracks between the +logs, and up to these the mob went, putting their guns through to do +their work at leisure. Then the plundering began—plundering and worse.” + +He stopped, trembling, and she put out her hand to him in sympathy. +When he had regained control of himself, he continued. + +“At the first volley I had hurried sister to a place of concealment in +the underbrush, and she, hearing them search for the survivors after +the shooting was over, thought we were discovered, and sprang up to run +further. One of them saw her and shot. She fell half-fainting with a +bullet through her arm, and then half a dozen of them gathered quickly +about her. I ran to them, screaming and striking out with my fists, but +the devil was in them, and she, poor blossom, lay there helpless, +calling ‘Boy, boy, boy!’ as she had always called me since we were +babies together. Must I tell you the rest?—must I tell you—how those +devils—” + +“Don’t, don’t! Oh, _no_!” + +“I thought I must die! They held me there—” + +He had gripped one of her wrists until she cried out in pain and he +released it. + +“But the sight must have given me a man’s strength, for my struggles +became so troublesome that one of them—I have always been grateful for +it—clubbed his musket and dealt me a blow that left me senseless. It +was dark when I came to, but I lay there until morning, unable to do +more than crawl. When the light came I found the poor little sister +there near where they had dragged us both, and she was _alive_. Can you +realise how awful that was—that she had lived through it? God be +thanked, she died before the day was out. + +“After that the other mutilated bodies, the plundered wagons, all +seemed less horrible to me. My heart had been seared over. They had +killed twenty of the Saints, and the most of them we hurried to throw +into a well, fearful that the soldiers of Governor Boggs would come +back at any moment to strip and hack them. O God! and now you have gone +over to one of them!” + +“Joel,—dear, _dear_ Joel!—indeed I pity and sympathise—and care for—but +I cannot go—even after all you say. And don’t you see it will always be +so! My father says the priesthood will always be in trouble if it sets +itself above the United States. Dear Joel, I can’t go, indeed I _can’t_ +go!” + +He spoke more softly now. + +“Thank God I don’t realise it yet—I mean, that we must part. You tell +me so and I hear you and my mind knows, but my heart hasn’t sensed it +yet—I can feel it now going stupidly along singing its old happy song +of hope and gladness, while all this is going on here outside. But soon +the big hurt will come. Oh, Prue—Prue, girl!—can’t you think what it +will mean to me? Don’t you know how I shall sicken for the sight of +you, and my ears will listen for you! Prudence, Prue, darling—yet I +must not be womanish! I have a big work to do. I have known it with a +new clearness since that radiance rested above my head last night. The +truth burns in me like a fire. Your going can’t take that from me. It +must be I was not meant to have you. With you perhaps I could not have +had a heart single to God’s work. He permitted me to love you so I +could be tried and proved.” + +He looked at her fondly, and she could see striving and trembling in +his eyes a great desire to crush her in his arms, yet he fought it +down, and continued more calmly. + +“But indeed I must be favoured more than common, to deserve that so +great a hurt be put upon me, and I shall not be found wanting. I shall +never wed any woman but you, though, dear. If not you, never any +other.” + +He stood up. + +“I must go in to them now. There must be work to do against the start +to-morrow.” + +“Joel!” + +“May the Lord deafen my ears to you, darling!” and squaring his +shoulders resolutely away from her, he left her on the seat and went +in. + +The old man looked up from his Bible as his son entered. + +“It’s sore sad, laddie, we can’t have the temple for your +sealing-vows.” + +“Prudence will not be sealed to me, father.” He spoke dazedly, as if +another like the morning’s blow had been dealt him. “I—I am already +sealed to the Spirit for time and eternity.” + +“Was it Prudence’s doings?” asked his mother, quickly. + +“Yes; she has left the church with her people.” + +The long-faced, narrow-browed old man raised one hand solemnly. + +“Then let her be banished from Israel and not numbered in the books of +the offspring of Abraham! And let her be delivered over to the +buffetings of Satan in the flesh!” + + + + +Chapter V. +Giles Rae Beautifies His Inheritance + + +By eight o’clock the next morning, out under a cloudy sky, the Raes +were ready and eager for their start to the new Jerusalem. Even the +sick woman’s face wore a kind of soft and faded radiance in the +excitement of going. On her mattress, she had been tenderly installed +in one of the two covered wagons that carried their household goods. +The wagon in which she lay was to be taken across the river by Seth +Wright,—for the moment no Wild Ram of the Mountains, but a soft-cooing +dove of peace. Permission had been granted him by Brockman to recross +the river on some needful errands; and, having once proved the extreme +sensitiveness, not to say irritability, of those in temporary command, +he was now resolved to give as little éclat as possible to certain +superior aspects of his own sanctity. He spoke low and deferentially, +and his mien was that of a modest, retiring man who secretly thought +ill of himself. + +He mounted the wagon in which the sick woman lay, sat well back under +the bowed cover, clucked low to the horses, and drove off toward the +ferry. If discreet behaviour on his part could ensure it there would be +no conflict provoked with superior numbers; with numbers, moreover, +composed of violent-tempered and unprincipled persecutors who were +already acting with but the merest shadow of legal authority. + +On the seat of the second wagon, whip in hand, was perched Giles Rae, +his coat buttoned warmly to the chin. He was slight and feeble to the +eye, yet he had been fired to new life by the certainty that now they +were to leave the territory of the persecuting Gentiles for a land to +be the Saints’ very own. His son stood at the wheel, giving him final +directions. At the gate was Prudence Corson, gowned for travel, +reticule in hand, her prettiness shadowed, under the scoop of her +bonnet, the toe of one trim little boot meditatively rolling a pebble +over the ground. + +“Drive slowly, Daddy. Likely I shall overtake you before you reach the +ferry. I want but a word yet with Prudence; though”—he glanced over at +the bowed head of the girl—“no matter if I linger a little, since +Brother Seth will cross first and we must wait until the boat comes +back. Some of our people will be at the ferry to look after you,—and be +careful to have no words with any of the mob—no matter what insult they +may offer. You’re feeling strong, aren’t you?” + +“Ay, laddie, that I am! Strong as an ox! The very thought of being free +out of this Babylon has exalted me in spirit and body. Think of it, +boy! Soon we shall be even beyond the limits of the United States—in a +foreign land out there to the west, where these bloodthirsty ones can +no longer reach us. Thank God they’re like all snakes—they can’t jump +beyond their own length!” + +He leaned out of the wagon to shake a bloodless, trembling fist toward +the temple where the soldiers had made their barracks. + +“Now let great and grievous judgments, desolations, by famine, sword, +and pestilence come upon you, generation of vipers!” + +He cracked the whip, the horses took their load at his cheery call, and +as the wagon rolled away they heard him singing:— + +“Lo, the Gentile chain is broken! +Freedom’s banner waves on high!” + + +They watched him until the wagon swung around into the street that fell +away to the ferry. Then they faced each other, and he stepped to her +side as she leaned lightly on the gate. + +“Prue, dear,” he said, softly, “it’s going hard with me. God must +indeed have a great work reserved for me to try me with such a +sacrifice—so much pain where I could least endure it. I prayed all the +night to be kept firm, for there are two ways open—one right and one +wrong; but I cannot sell my soul so early. That’s why I wanted to say +the last good-bye out here. I was afraid to say it in there—I am so +weak for you, Prue—I ache so for you in all this trouble—why, if I +could feel your hands in my hair, I’d laugh at it all—I’m so _weak_ for +you, dearest.” + +She tossed her yellow head ever so slightly, and turned the scoop of +her bonnet a little away from his pain-lighted face. + +“I am not complimented, though—you care more for your religion than for +me.” + +He looked at her hungrily. + +“No, you are wrong there—I don’t separate you at all—I couldn’t—you and +my religion are one—but, if I must, I can love you in spirit as I +worship my God in spirit—” + +“If it will satisfy you, very well!” + +“My reward will come—I shall do a great work, I shall have a Witness +from the sky. Who am I that I should have thought to win a crown +without taking up a cross?” + +“I am sorry for you.” + +“Oh, Prue, there must be a way to save the souls of such as you, even +in their blindness. Would God make a flower like you, only to let it be +lost? There must be a way. I shall pray until I force it from the +secret heavens.” + +“My soul will be very well, sir!” she retorted, with a distinct trace +of asperity. “I am not a heathen, I’d thank you to remember—and when +I’m a wife I shall be my husband’s only wife—” + +He winced in acutest pain. + +“You have no right to taunt me so. Else you can’t know what you have +meant to me. Oh, you were all the world, child—you, of your own dear +self—you would have been all the wives in the world to me—there are +many, many of you, and all in a heavenly one—” + +“Oh, forgive me, dearest,” she cried, and put out a little gloved hand +to comfort him. “I know, I know—all the sweetness and goodness of your +love, believe me. See, I have kept always by me the little Bible you +gave me on my birthday—I have treasured it, and I know it has made me a +better girl, because it makes me always think of your goodness—but I +couldn’t have gone there, Joel—and it does seem as if you need not have +gone—and that marrying is so odious—” + +“You shall see how little you had to fear of that doctrine which God +has seen fit to reveal to these good men. I tell you now, Prue, I shall +wed no woman but you. Nor am I giving you up. Don’t think it. I am +doing my duty and trusting God to bring you to me. I know He will do +it—I tell you there is the spirit of some strange, awful strength in +me, which tells me to ask what I will and it shall be given—to seek to +do anything, how great or hard soever, and a giant’s, a god’s strength +will rest in me. And so I know you will come. You will always think of +me so,—waiting for you—somehow, somewhere. Every day you must think it, +at any idle moment when I come to your mind; every night when you waken +in the dark and silence, you must think, ‘Wherever he is, he is waiting +for me, perhaps awake as I am now, praying, with a power that will +surely draw me.’ You will come somehow. Perhaps, when I reach winter +quarters, you will have changed your mind. One never knows how God may +fashion these little providences. But He will bring you safe to me out +of that Gentile perdition. Remember, child, God has set his hand in +these last days to save the human family from the ruins of the fall, +and some way, He alone knows how, you will come to me and find me +waiting.” + +“As if you needed to wait for me when I am here now ready for you, +willing to be taken!” + +“Don’t, don’t, dear! There are two of me now, and one can’t stand the +pain. There is a man in me, sworn to do a man’s work like a man, and +duty to God and the priesthood has big chains around his heart dragging +it across the river. But, low, now—there is a little, forlorn boy in +me, too—a poor, crying, whimpering, babyish little boy, who dreamed of +you and longed for you and was promised you, and who will never get +well of losing you. Oh, I know it well enough—his tears will never dry, +his heart will always have a big hurt in it—and your face will always +be so fresh and clear in it!” + +He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into the face under +the bonnet. + +“Let me make sure I shall lose no look of you, from little tilted chin, +and lips of scarlet thread, and little teeth like grains of rice, and +eyes into which I used to wander and wonder so far—” + +She looked past him and stepped back. + +“Captain Girnway is coming for me—yonder, away down the street. He +takes me to Carthage.” + +His face hardened as he looked over his shoulder. + +“I shall never wed any woman but you. Can you feel as deeply as that? +Will you wed no man but me?” + +She fluttered the cherry ribbons on the bonnet and fixed a stray curl +in front of one ear. + +“Have you a right to ask that? I might wait a time for you to come +back—to your senses and to me, but—” + +“Good-bye, darling!”. + +“What, will you go that way—not kiss me? He is still two blocks away.” + +“I am so weak for you, sweet—the little boy in me is crying for you, +but he must not have what he wants. What he wants would leave his heart +rebellious and not perfect with the Lord. It’s best not,” he continued, +with an effort at a smile and in a steadier tone. “It would mean so +much to me—oh, so very much to me—and so very little to you—and that’s +no real kiss. I’d rather remember none of that kind—and don’t think I +was churlish—it’s only because the little boy—I will go after my father +now, and God bless you!” + +He turned away. A few paces on he met Captain Girnway, jaunty, +debonair, smiling, handsome in his brass-buttoned uniform of the +Carthage Grays. + +“I have just left the ferry, Mr. Rae. The wagon with your mother has +gone over. The other had not yet come down. Some of the men appear to +be a little rough this morning. Your people are apt to provoke them by +being too outspoken, but I left special orders for the good treatment +of yourself and outfit.” + +With a half-smothered “thank you,” he passed on, not trusting himself +to say more to one who was not only the enemy of his people, but bent, +seemingly, on deluding a young woman to the loss of her soul. He heard +their voices in cheerful greeting, but did not turn back. With eyes to +the front and shoulders squared he kept stiffly on his way through the +silent, deserted streets to the ferry. + +Fifteen minutes’ walk brought him to the now busy waterside. The ferry, +a flat boat propelled by long oars, was landing when he came into view, +and he saw his father’s wagon driven on. He sped down the hill, pushed +through the crowd of soldiers standing about, and hurried forward on +the boat to let the old man know he had come. But on the seat was +another than his father. He recognised the man, and called to him. + +“What are you doing there, Brother Keaton? Where’s my father?” + +The man had shrunk back under the wagon-cover, having seemingly been +frightened by the soldiers. + +“I’ve taken your father’s place, Brother Rae.” + +“Did he cross with Brother Wright?” + +“Yes—he—” The man hesitated. Then came an interruption from the shore. + +“Come, clear the gangway there so we can load! Here are some more of +the damned rats we’ve hunted out of their holes!” + +The speaker made a half-playful lunge with his bayonet at a gaunt, +yellow-faced spectre of a man who staggered on to the boat with a child +in his arms wrapped in a tattered blue quilt. A gust of the chilly wind +picked his shapeless, loose-fitting hat off as he leaped to avoid the +bayonet-point, and his head was seen to be shaven. The crowd on the +bank laughed loud at his clumsiness and at his grotesque head. Joel Rae +ran to help him forward on the boat. + +“Thank you, Brother—I’m just up from the fever-bed—they shaved my head +for it—and so I lost my hat—thank you—here we shall be warm if only the +sun comes out.” + +Joel went back to help on others who came, a feeble, bedraggled dozen +or so that had clung despairingly to their only shelter until they were +driven out. + +“You can stay here in safety, you know, if you renounce Joseph Smith +and his works—they will give you food and shelter.” He repeated it to +each little group of the dispirited wretches as they staggered past +him, but they replied staunchly by word or look, and one man, in the +throes of a chill, swung his cap and uttered a feeble “Hurrah for the +new Zion!” + +When they were all on with their meagre belongings, he called again to +the man in the wagon. + +“Brother Keaton, my father went across, did he?” + +Several of the men on shore answered him. + +“Yes”—“Old white-whiskered death’s-head went over the river”—“Over +here”—“A sassy old codger he was”—“He got his needings, too”—“Got his +needings—” + +They cast off the line and the oars began to dip. + +“And you’ll get your needings, too, if you come back, remember that! +That’s the last of you, and we’ll have no more vermin like you. Now see +what old Joe Smith, the white-hat prophet, can do for you in the Indian +territory!” + +He stood at the stern of the boat, shivering as he looked at the +current, swift, cold, and gray under the sunless sky. He feared some +indignity had been offered to his father. They had looked at one +another queerly when they answered his questions. He went forward to +the wagon again. + +“Brother Keaton, you’re sure my father is all right?” + +“I am sure he’s all right, Brother Rae.” + +Content with this, at last, he watched the farther flat shore of the +Mississippi, with its low fringe of green along the edge, where they +were to land and be at last out of the mob’s reach. He repeated his +father’s words: “Thank God, they’re like all snakes; they can’t jump +beyond their own length.” + +The confusion of landing and the preparations for an immediate start +drove for the time all other thoughts from his mind. It had been +determined to get the little band at once out of the marshy spot where +the camp had been made. The teams were soon hitched, the wagons loaded, +and the train ready to move. He surveyed it, a hundred poor wagons, +many of them without cover, loaded to the full with such nondescript +belongings as a house-dwelling people, suddenly put out on the open +road, would hurriedly snatch as they fled. And the people made his +heart ache, even to the deadening of his own sorrow, as he noted their +wobegoneness. For these were the sick, the infirm, the poor, the +inefficient, who had been unable for one reason or another to migrate +with the main body of the Saints earlier in the season. Many of them +were now racked by fever from sleeping on the damp ground. These bade +fair not to outlast some of the lumbering carts that threatened at +every rough spot to jolt apart. + +Yet the line bravely formed to the order of Seth Wright as captain, and +the march began. Looking back, he saw peaceful Nauvoo, its houses and +gardens, softened by the cloudy sky and the autumn haze, clustering +under the shelter of their temple spire,—their temple and their houses, +of which they were now despoiled by a mob’s fury. Ahead he saw the road +to the West, a hard road, as he knew,—one he could not hope they should +cross without leaving more graves by the way; but Zion was at the end. + +The wagons and carts creaked and strained and rattled under their +swaying loads, and the line gradually defined itself along the road +from the confused jumble at the camp. He remembered his father again +now, and hurried forward to assure himself that all was right. As he +overtook along the way the stumbling ones obliged to walk, he tried to +cheer them. + +“Only a short march to-day, brothers. Our camp is at Sugar Creek, nine +miles—so take your time this first day.” + +Near the head of the train were his own two wagons, and beside the +first walked Seth Wright and Keaton, in low, earnest converse. As he +came up to them the Bishop spoke. + +“I got Wes’ and Alec Gregg to drive awhile so we could stretch our +legs.” But then came a quick change of tone, as they halted by the +road. + +“Joel, there’s no use beatin’ about the bush—them devils at the ferry +jest now drowned your pa.” + +He went cold all over. Keaton, looking sympathetic but frightened, +spoke next. + +“You ought to thank me, Brother Rae, for not telling you on the other +side, when you asked me. I knew better. Because, why? Because I knew +you’d fly off the handle and get yourself killed, and then your ma’d be +left all alone, that’s why, now—and prob’ly they’d ’a’ wound up by +dumping the whole passle of us bag and baggage into the stream. And it +wa’n’t any use, your father bein’ dead and gone.” + +The Bishop took up the burden, slapping him cordially on the back. + +“Come, come,—hearten up, now! Your pa’s been made a martyr—he’s +beautified his inheritance in Zion—whinin’ won’t do no good.” + +He drew himself up with a shrug, as if to throw off an invisible +burden, and answered, calmly: + +“I’m not whining, Bishop. Perhaps you were right not to tell me over +there, Keaton. I’d have made trouble for you all.” He smiled painfully +in his effort to control himself. “Were you there, Bishop?” + +“No, I’d already gone acrost. Keaton here saw it.” + +Keaton took up the tale. + +“I was there when the old gentleman drove down singing, ‘Lo, the +Gentile chain is broken.’ He was awful chipper. Then one of ’em called +him old Father Time, and he answered back. I disremember what, but, any +way, one word fired another until they was cussin’ Giles Rae up hill +and down dale, and instead of keepin’ his head shet like he had ought +to have done, he was prophesyin’ curses, desolations, famines, and +pestilences on ’em all, and callin’ ’em enemies of Christ. He was +sassy—I can’t deny that—and that’s where he wa’n’t wise. Some of the +mobocrats was drunk and some was mad; they was all in their high-heeled +boots one way or another, and he enraged ’em more. So he says, finally, +‘The Jews fell,’ he says, ‘because they wouldn’t receive their Messiah, +the Shiloh, the Saviour. They wet their hands,’ he says, ‘in the best +blood that had flowed through the lineage of Judah, and they had to pay +the cost. And so will you cowards of Illinois,’ he says, ‘have to pay +the penalty for sheddin’ the blood of Joseph Smith, the best blood that +has flowed since the Lord’s Christ,’ he says. ‘The wrath of God,’ he +says, ‘will abide upon you.’ The old gentleman was a powerful denouncer +when he was in the spirit of it—” + +“Come, come, Keaton, hurry, for God’s sake—get on!” + +“And he made ’em so mad, a-settin’ up there so peart and brave before +’em, givin’ ’em as good as they sent—givin’ ’em hell right to their +faces, you might say, that at last they made for him, some of them that +you could see had been puttin’ a new faucet into the cider barrel. I +saw they meant to do him a mischief—but Lord! what could I do against +fifty, being then in the midst of a chill? Well, they drug him off the +seat, and said, ‘Now, you old rat, own up that Holy Joe was a danged +fraud;’ or something like that. But he was that sanctified and +stubborn—‘Better to suffer stripes for the testimony of Christ,’ he +says, ‘than to fall by the sin of denial!’ Then they drug him to the +bank, one on each side, and says, ‘We baptise you in the holy name of +Brockman,’ and in they dumped him—backwards, mind you! I saw then they +was in a slippery place where it was deep and the current awful strong. +But they hauled him out, and says again, ‘Do you renounce Holy Joe +Smith and all his works?’ The poor old fellow couldn’t talk a word for +the chill, but he shook his head like sixty—as stubborn as you’d wish. +So they said, ‘Damn you! here’s another, then. We baptise you in the +name of James K. Polk, President of the United States!’ and in they +threw him again. Whether they done it on purpose or not, I wouldn’t +like to say, but that time his coat collar slipped out of their hands +and down he went. He came up ten feet down-stream and quite a ways out, +and they hooted at him. I seen him come up once after that, and then +they see he couldn’t swim a stroke, but little they cared. And I never +saw him again. I jest took hold of the team and drove it on the boat, +scared to death for what you’d do when you come,—so I kept still and +they kept still. But remember, it’s only another debt the blood of the +Gentiles will have to pay—” + +“Either here on earth or in hell,” said the Bishop. + +“And the soul of your poor pa is now warm and dry and happy in the +presence of his Lord God.” + + + + +Chapter VI. +The Lute of the Holy Ghost Is Further Chastened + + +Listening to Keaton’s tale, he had dimly seen the caravan of hunted +creatures crawl past him over the fading green of the prairie; the +wagons with their bowed white covers; a heavy cart, jolting, creaking, +lumbering mysteriously along, a sick driver hidden somewhere back under +its makeshift cover of torn counterpanes; a battered carriage, +reminiscent of past luxury, drawn by oxen; more wagons, some without +covers; a two-wheeled cart, designed in the ingenuity of desperation, +laden with meal-sacks, a bundle of bedding, a sleeping child, and drawn +by a little dry-dugged heifer; then more wagons with stooping figures +trudging doggedly beside them, here a man, there a woman leading a +child. He saw them as shapes floating by in a dream, blurred and +inconsequent. But between himself and the train, more clearly outlined +to his gaze, he saw the worn face of his father tossed on the cold, +dark waters, being swept down by the stream, the weak old hands +clutching for some support in the muddy current, the white head with +the chin held up sinking lower at each failure, then at last going +under, gulping, to leave a little row of bubbles down the stream. + +In a craze of rage and grief he turned toward the river, when he heard +the sharp voice of the Bishop calling him back. + +“It ain’t any use, Joel.” + +“Couldn’t we find his body?” + +“Not a chance in a thousand. It was carried down by the current. It +would mean days and mebbe weeks. Besides, we need you here. Here’s your +duty. Sakes alive! If we only had about twenty minutes with them cusses +like it was in the old days! When you’re ready to be a Son of Dan +you’ll know what I mean. But never mind, we’ll see the day yet when +Israel will be the head and not the tail.” + +“My mother? Has any one told her?” + +“Wal, now, I’m right sorry about that, but it got out before you come +over. Tarlton McKenny’s boy, Nephi, rowed over in a skiff and brought +the news, and some of the women went and tattled it to your ma. I guess +it upset her considerable. You go up and see her.” + +He ran forward toward the head of the train, hearing as he went words +of sympathy hurried to him by those he passed. Mounting the wagon, he +climbed over the seat to where his mother lay. She seemed to sleep in +spite of the jolting. The driver called back to him: + +“She took on terrible for a spell, Brother Rae. She’s only jest now got +herself pacified.” + +He put his hand on her forehead and found it burning. She stirred and +moaned and muttered disjointed sentences. He heard his father’s name, +his sister’s, and his own, and he knew she was delirious. He eased her +bed as well as he could, and made a place for himself beside her where +he could sit and take one of the pale, thin hands between his own and +try to endow her with some of his abundant life. He stayed by her until +their camping-place was reached. + +Once for a moment she opened her eyes with what seemed to him a more +than normal clearness and understanding and memory in them. Though she +looked at him long without speaking, she seemed to say all there was to +say, so that the brief span was full of anguish for him. He sighed with +relief when the consciousness faded again from her look, and she fell +to babbling once more of some long gone day in her girlhood. + +When the wagon halted he was called outside by the driver, who wished +instructions regarding the camp to be made. A few moments later he was +back, and raised the side of the wagon cover to let in the light. The +look on her face alarmed him. It seemed to tell unmistakably that the +great change was near. Already she looked moribund. An irregular +gasping for breath, an occasional delirious mutter, were the only signs +of life. She was too weak to show restlessness. Her pinched and faded +face was covered with tiny cold beads. The pupils of her eyes were +strangely dilated, and the eyes themselves were glazed. There was no +pulse at her wrist, and from her heart only the faintest beating could +be heard. In quick terror he called to a boy working at a wagon near +by. + +“Go for Bishop Wright and tell him to bring that apothecary with him.” + +The two came up briskly a few moments later, and he stood aside for +them in an agony of suspense. The Bishop turned toward him after a long +look into the wagon. + +“She’s gone to be with your pa, Joel. You can’t do anything—only +remember they’re both happy now for bein’ together.” + +It made little stir in the busy encampment. There had been other deaths +while they lay out on the marshy river flats. Others of the sorry band +were now sick unto death, and many more would die on the long march +across the Iowa prairie, dropping out one by one of fever, starvation, +exposure. He stood helpless in this chaos of woe, shut up within +himself, knowing not where to turn. + +Some women came presently from the other wagons to prepare the body for +burial. He watched them dumbly, from a maze of incredulity, feeling +that some wretched pretense was being acted before him. + +The Bishop and Keaton came up. They brought with them the makeshift +coffin. They had cut a log, split it, and stripped off its bark in two +half-cylinders. They led him to the other side of the wagon, out of +sight. Then they placed the strips of bark around the body, bound them +with hickory withes, and over the rough surface the women made a little +show of black cloth. + +For the burial they could do no more than consign the body to one of +the waves in the great billowy land sea about them. They had no +tombstone, nor were there even rocks to make a simple cairn. He saw +them bury her, and thought there was little to choose between hers and +the grave of his father, whose body was being now carried noiselessly +down in the bed of the river. The general locality would be kept by +landmarks, by the bearing of valley bends, headlands, or the fork and +angles of constant streams. But the spot itself would in a few weeks be +lost. + +When the last office had been performed, the prayer said, a psalm sung, +and the black dirt thrown in, they waited by him in sympathy. His +feeling was that they had done a monstrous thing; that the mother he +had known was somewhere alive and well. He stood a moment so, watching +the sun sink below the far rim of the prairie while the white moon +swung into sight in the east. Then the Bishop led him gently by the arm +to his own camp. + +There cheer abounded. They had a huge camp-fire tended by the Bishop’s +numerous children. Near by was a smaller fire over which the good man’s +four wives, able-bodied, glowing, and cordial, cooked the supper. In +little ways they sought to lighten his sorrow or to put his mind away +from it. To this end the Bishop contributed by pouring him drink from a +large brown jug. + +“Not that I approve of it, boy, but it’ll hearten you,—some of the best +peach brandy I ever sniffed. I got it at the still-house last week for +use in time of trouble,—and this here time is _it_.” + +He drank the fiery stuff from the gourd in which it was given him, and +choked until they brought him water. But presently the warmth stole +along his cold, dead nerves so that he became intensely alive from head +to foot, and strangely exalted. And when they offered him food he ate +eagerly and talked. It seemed to him there had been a thousand matters +that he had long wished to speak of; matters of moment in which he felt +deeply; yet on which he had strangely neglected to touch till now. + +He talked long with the Bishop when the women had climbed into their +wagon for the night. He amazed that good man by asking him if the Lord +would not be pleased to have them, now, as they were, go back to Nauvoo +and descend upon the Gentiles to smite them. The Bishop counselled him +to have patience. + +“What could we do how with these few old fusees and cheap arms that we +managed to smuggle across—to say nothing of half of us being down +sick?” + +“But we are Israel, and surely Israel’s God—” + +“The Lord had His chance the other day if He’d wanted it, when they +took the town. No, Joel, He means us to gether out and become strong +enough to beat ’em in our own might. But you _wait_; our day will come, +and all the more credit to us then for doin’ it ourselves. Then we’ll +consecrate the herds and flocks of the Gentile and his store and +basket, his gold and silver, and his myrrh and frankincense. But for +the present—well, we got to be politic and kind of modest about such +doin’s. The big Fan, the Sons of Dan, done good work in Missouri and +better in Nauvoo, and it’ll do still better where we’re goin’. But we +must be patient. Only next time we’ll get to work quicker. If the +Gentiles had been seen to quicker in Nauvoo, Joseph would be with us +now. We learned our lesson there. Now the Lord has unfurled a Standard +of Zion for the gathering of Israel, and this time we’ll fix the +Gentiles early.” + +“Amen! Brother Seth.” + +A look of deep hatred had clouded the older man’s face as he spoke. He +continued. + +“Let the wrath of God abide upon ’em, and remember that we’re bein’ +tried and proved for a purpose. And we got to be more practical. You +been too theoretical yourself and too high-flyin’ in your notions. The +Kingdom ain’t to be set up on earth by faith alone. The Lord has got to +have _works_, like I told you about the other day.” + +“You were right, Bishop, I need to be more practical. The olive-branch +and not the sword would Ephraim extend to Japheth, but if—” + +“If Japheth don’t toe the mark the Lord’s will must be worked upon +him.” + +“So be it, Brother Seth! I am ready now to be a Son of Dan.” + +The Bishop rose from in front of their fire and looked about. No one +was near. Here and there a fire blazed, and the embers of many more +could be seen dying out in the distance. The nearest camp was that of +the fever-stricken man who had fled on to the boat that morning with +his child in his arms. They could see his shaven head in the firelight, +and a woman hovering over him as he lay on the ground with a tattered +quilt fixed over him in lieu of a tent. From another group came the +strains of an accordion and the chorus of a hymn. + +“That’s right,” said the Bishop. “I knew you’d come to it. I saw that +long ago. Brother Brigham saw it, too. We knew you could be relied on. +You want the oath, do you?” + +“Yes, yes, Brother Seth. I was ready for it this morning when they told +me about father.” + +“Hold up your right hand and repeat after me: + +“‘In the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, I do covenant and agree +to support the first Presidency of the Church of Jesus Christ of +Latter-day Saints, in all things right or wrong; I will faithfully +guard them and report to them the acts of all men as far as in my power +lies; I will assist in executing all the decrees of the first +President, Patriarch, or President of the Twelve, and I will cause all +who speak evil of the Presidency or Heads of the Church to die the +death of dissenters or apostates, unless they speedily confess and +repent, for pestilence, persecution, and death shall follow the enemies +of Zion. I will be a swift herald of salvation and messenger of peace +to the Saints, and I will never make known the secret purposes of this +Society called the Sons of Dan, my life being the forfeiture in a fire +of burning tar and brimstone. So help me God and keep me steadfast.’” + +He repeated the words without hesitation, with fervour in his voice, +and the light of a holy and implacable zeal in his face. + +“Now I’ll give you the blessing, too. Wait till I get my bottle of +oil.” + +He stepped to the nearest wagon, felt under the cover, and came back +with a small bottle in his hand. + +“Stand jest here—so—now!” + +They stood at the edge of the wavering firelight, and he put his hand +on the other’s head. + +“‘In the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and by the authority of +the Holy Priesthood, the first President, Patriarch, and High Priest of +the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, representing the +first, second, and third Gods in Heaven, the Father, Son, and Holy +Ghost, I do now anoint you with holy consecrated oil, and by the +imposition of my hands do ordain and set you apart for the holy calling +whereunto you are called; that you may consecrate the riches of the +Gentiles to the House of Israel, bring swift destruction upon apostate +sinners, and execute the decrees of Heaven without fear of what man can +do with you. So mote it be. Amen.’ + +“There, boy, if I ain’t mistaken, that’s the best work for Zion that I +done for some time. Now be off to your rest!” + +“Good night, Bishop, and thank you for being kind to me! The Church +Poet called me the Lute of the Holy Ghost, but I feel to-night, that I +must be another Lion of the Lord. Good night!” + +He went out of the firelight and stumbled through the dark to his own +wagons. But when he came to them he could not stop. Under all the +exhilaration he had been conscious of the great pain within him, +drugged for the moment, but never wholly stifled. Now the stimulus of +the drink had gone, and the pain had awakened to be his master. + +He went past the wagons and out on to the prairie that stretched away, +a sea of silvery gray in the moonlight. As he walked, the whole +stupendous load of sorrow settled upon him. His breath caught and his +eyes burned with the tears that lay behind them. He walked faster to +flee from it, but it came upon him more heavily until it made a +breaking load,—the loss of his sister by worse than death, his father +and mother driven out at night and their home burned, his father killed +by a mob whose aim had lacked even the dignity of the murderer’s—for +they had seemingly intended but a brutal piece of horse-play; his +mother dead from exposure due to Gentile persecutions; the girl he had +loved taken from him by Gentile persuasions. If only she had been left +him so that now he could put his head down upon her shoulder, slight as +that shoulder was, and feel the supreme soothing of a woman’s touch; if +only the hurts had not all come at once! The pain sickened him. He was +far out on the prairie now, away from the sleeping encampment, and he +threw himself down to give way to his grief. Almost silently he wept, +yet with sobs that choked him and cramped him from head to foot. He +called to his mother and to his father and to the sister who had gone +before them, crying their names over and over in the night. But under +all his sorrow he felt as great a rage against the Gentile nation that +had driven them into the wilderness. + +When the spasm of grief had passed, he still lay there a long time. +Then becoming chilled he walked again over the prairie, watching the +moon go down and darkness come to make the stars brighter, and then the +day show gray in the east. And as he walked against his sorrow, the +burden of his thought came to be: “God has tried me more than most men; +therefore he expects more of me; and my reward shall be greater. New +visions shall be given to me, and a new power, and this poor, hunted, +plundered remnant of Israel shall find me their staff. Much has been +taken from me, but much will be given unto me.” + +And under this ran a minor strain born of the rage that still burned +within him: + +“But, oh, the day of wrath that shall dawn on yonder Gentiles!” + +So did he chasten himself through the night; and when the morning came +he took his place in the train, strangely exalted by this new sense of +the singular favour that was to be conferred upon him. + +For seven weeks the little caravan crept over the prairies of Iowa, and +day after day his conviction strengthened that he had been chosen for +large works. In this fervour he cheered the sick and the weak of the +party by picturing for them a great day to come when the Lord should +exalt the valleys of humility and abase the mountains of Gentile pride; +when the Saints should have their reward, and retribution should +descend upon the wicked nation they were leaving behind. Scourges, +afflictions, and depredations by fire, famine, and the tyrant’s hand he +besought them to regard as marks of Heaven’s especial favour. + +The company came to look upon him as its cloud by day and its pillar of +fire by night. Old women—mothers in Israel—lavished attentions upon him +as a motherless boy; young women smiled at him with soft pity, and were +meek and hushed when he spoke. And the men believed that the things he +told them concerning their great day to come were true revelations from +God. They did not hesitate to agree with the good Bishop Wright, who +declared in words of pointed admiration, “When that young man gets all +het up with the Holy Ghost, the Angel of the Lord jest _has_ to give +down!” + + + + +Chapter VII. +Some Inner Mysteries Are Expounded + + +The hosts of Israel had been forced to tarry for the winter on the +banks of the Missouri. A few were on the east side at Council Bluffs on +the land of the Pottawattamie Indians. Across the river on the land of +the Omahas the greater part of the force had settled at what was known +as Winter Quarters. Here in huts of logs, turf, and other primitive +materials, their town had been laid out with streets and byways, a +large council-house, a mill, a stockade, and blockhouses. The Indians +had received them with great friendliness, feeling with them a common +cause of grievance, since the heavy hand of the Gentile had pushed them +also to this bleak frontier. + +To this settlement early in November came the last train from Nauvoo, +its members wearied and wasted by the long march, but staunch in their +faith and with hope undimmed. It was told in after years how there had +leaped from the van of this train a very earnest young man, who had at +once sought an audience with Brigham Young and certain other members of +the Twelve who had chanced to be present at the train’s arrival; and +how, being closeted with these, he had eagerly inquired if it might not +be the will of the Lord that they should go no farther into the +wilderness, but stand their ground and give battle to the Gentiles +forthwith. He made the proposal as one who had a flawless faith that +the God of Battles would be with them, and he appeared to believe that +something might be done that very day to force the matter to an issue. +When he had made his proposal, he waited in a modest attitude to hear +their views of it. To his chagrin, all but two of those who had +listened laughed. One of these two, Bishop Snow,—a man of holy aspect +whom the Church Poet had felicitously entitled the Entablature of +Truth,—had looked at him searchingly, then put his hand upon his own +head and shaken it hopelessly to the others. + +The other who had not laughed was Brigham himself. For to this great +man had been given the gift to look upon men and to know in one slow +sweep of his wonderful eyes all their strength and all their weakness. +He had listened with close attention to the remarkable plan suggested +by this fiery young zealot, and he studied him now with a gaze that was +kind. A noticeable result of this attitude of Brigham’s was that those +who had laughed became more or less awkwardly silent, while the +Entablature of Truth, in the midst of his pantomime, froze into +amazement. + +“We’d better consider that a little,” said Brigham, finally. “You can +talk it over with me tonight. But first you go get your stuff unloaded +and get kind of settled. There’s a cabin just beyond my two up the +street here that you can move into.” He put his large hand kindly on +the other’s shoulder. “Now run and get fixed and come to my house for +supper along about dark.” + +Somewhat cooled by the laughter of the others, but flattered by this +consideration from the Prophet, the young man had gone thoughtfully out +to his wagons and driven on to the cabin indicated. + +“I _did_ think he was plumb crazy,” said Bishop Snow, doubtfully, as if +the reasons for changing his mind were even yet less than compelling. + +“He _ain’t_ crazy,” said Brigham. “All that’s the matter with him, he’s +got more faith than the whole pack of us put together. You just +remember he ain’t like us. We was all converted after we got our second +teeth, while he’s had it from the cradle up. He’s the first one we’ve +caught young. He’s what the priesthood can turn out when they get a +full swing with the rising generation. We got to remember that. We old +birds had to learn to crow in middle life. These young ones will crow +stronger; they’ll out-crow us. But all the better for that. They’ll be +mighty brash at first, but all they need is to be held in a little, and +then they’ll be a power in the Kingdom.” + +“Well, of course you’re right, Brother Brigham, but that boy certainly +needs a check-rein and a curb-bit right now,” said Snow. + +“He’ll have his needings,” answered Brigham, shortly, and the informal +council dispersed. + +Brigham talked to him late that night, advancing many cogent reasons +why it should be unwise to make war at once upon the nation of Gentiles +to the east. Of these reasons the one that had greatest weight with his +listener was the assurance that such a course would not at present be +pleasing in the sight of God. To others, touching upon the matter of +superior forces they might have to contend with, he was loftily +inattentive. + +Having made this much clear, Brigham went on in his fatherly way to +impress him anew with the sinfulness of all temporal governments +outside the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Again he +learned from the lips of authority that any people presuming to govern +themselves by laws of their own making and officers of their own +appointing, are in wicked rebellion against the Kingdom of God; that +for seventeen hundred years the nations of the Western Hemisphere have +been destitute of this Kingdom and destitute of all legal government; +and that the Lord was now about to rend all earthly governments, to +cast down thrones, overthrow nations, and make a way for the +establishment of the everlasting Kingdom, to which all others would +have to yield, or be prostrated never more to rise. Thus was the rebuff +of the afternoon gracefully atoned for. + +From matters of civil government the talk ranged to affairs domestic. + +“Tell me,” said the young man, “the truth of this new order of +celestial marriage.” And Brigham had become animated at once. + +“Yes,” he said, “when the family organisation was revealed from Heaven, +and Joseph began on the right and the left to add to his family, oh, +dear, what a quaking there was in Israel! But there it was, plain +enough. When you have received your endowments, keys, blessings, all +the tokens, signs, and every preparatory ordinance that can be given to +a man for his entrance through the celestial gate, then you can see +it.” + +He gazed a moment into the fire of hickory logs before which they sat, +and then went on, more confidentially: + +“Now you take that promise to Abraham—‘Lift up your eyes and behold the +stars. So shall thy seed be as numberless as the stars. Go to the +seashore and look at the sand, and behold the smallness of the +particles thereof’—I am giving you the gist of the Lord’s words, you +understand—‘and then realise that your seed shall be as numberless as +those sands.’ Now think for a minute how many particles there are, say +in a cubit foot of sand—about one thousand million particles. Think of +that! In eight thousand years, if the inhabitants of earth increased +one trillion a century, three cubic yards of sand would still contain +more particles than there would be people on the whole globe. Yet there +you got the promise of the Lord in black and white. Now how was Abraham +to manage to get a foundation laid for this mighty kingdom? Was he to +get it all through one wife? Don’t you see how ridiculous that is? +Sarah saw it, and Sarah knew that unless seed was raised to Abraham he +would come short of his glory. So what did Sarah do? She gave Abraham a +certain woman whose name was Hagar, and by her a seed was to be raised +up unto him. And was that all? No. We read of his wife Keturah, and +also of a plurality of wives which he had in the sight and favour of +God, and from whom he raised up many sons. There, then, was a +foundation laid for the fulfilment of that grand promise concerning his +seed.” + +He peered again into the fire, and added, by way of clenching his +argument: “I guess it would have been rather slow-going, if the Lord +had confined Abraham to one wife, like some of these narrow, contracted +nations of modern Christianity. You see, they don’t know that a man’s +posterity in this world is to constitute his glory and kingdom and +dominion in the world to come, and they don’t know, either, that there +are thousands of choice spirits in the spirit world waiting to +tabernacle in the flesh. Of course, there are lots of these things that +you ain’t ready to hear yet, but now you know that polygamy is +necessary for our exaltation to the fulness of the Lord’s glory in the +eternal world, and after you study it you’ll like the doctrine. I do; I +can swallow it without greasing _my_ mouth!” + +He prayed that night to be made “holy as Thy servant Brigham is holy; +to hear Thy voice as he hears it; to be made as wise as he, as true as +he, even as another Lion of the Lord, so that I may be a rod and staff +and comforter to these buffeted children of Thine.” + +His prayer also touched on one of the matters of their talk. “But, O +Lord, teach me to be content without thrones and dominion in Thy +Kingdom if to gain these I must have many wives. Teach me to abase +myself, to be a servant, a lowly sweeper in the temple of the Most +High, for I would rather be lowly with her I love than exalted to any +place whatsoever with many. Keep in my sinful heart the face of her who +has left me to dwell among the Gentiles, whose hair is melted gold, +whose eyes are azure deep as the sky, and whose arms once opened warm +for me. Guard her especially, O Lord, while she must company with +Gentiles, for she is not wonted to their wiles; and in Thine own good +time bring her head unharmed to its home on Thy servant’s breast.” + +He fasted often, that winter, waiting and watching for his great +Witness—something that should testify to his mortal eyes the direct +favour of Heaven. He fasted and kept vigils and studied the mysteries; +for now he was among the favoured to whom light had been given in +abundance—men at whose feet he was eager to sit. He learned of baptism +for the dead; of the Godship of Adam, and his plurality of wives; of +the laws of adoption and the process by which the Saints were to +people, and be Gods to, earths yet formless. + +There was much work out of doors to be done, and of this he performed +his share, working side by side with the tireless Brigham. But there +were late afternoons and long evenings in which he sat with the Prophet +to his great advantage. For, strangely enough, the two men, so unlike, +were drawn closely together—Brigham Young, the broad-headed, +square-chinned buttress of physical vitality, the full-blooded, +clarion-voiced Lion of the Lord, self-contained, watchful, radiating +the power that men feel and obey without knowing why, and Joel Rae, of +the long, narrow, delicately featured face, sensitive, nervous, glowing +with a spiritual zeal, the Lute of the Holy Ghost, whose veins ran fire +instead of blood. One born to command, to domineer; the other to +believe, to worship, and to obey. For the younger man it was a winter +of limitless aspiration and chastening discipline. In spite of the +great sorrows that weighed upon him, the sudden sweeping away of those +he had held most dear and the blasting of his love hopes, he remembered +it through all the eventful years that followed as a time of strange +happiness. Memories of it came gratefully to him even on the awful day +when at last his Witness came; when, as he lay fainting in the desert, +driven thence by his sin, the heavens unfolded and a vision was +vouchsafed him;—when the foundations of his world were shattered, the +tables of the law destroyed, and but one little feather saved to his +famished soul from the wings of the dove of truth. After all these +years, the memory of this winter was a spot of joy that never failed to +glow when he recalled it. + +At night he went to his bunk in the little straw-roofed hut and fell +asleep to the howling of the wolves, his mind cradled in the thought of +his mission. He had a part in the great work of bringing into harmony +the labours of the prophets and apostles of all ages. In due time, by +the especial favour of Heaven, he would be wrapped in a sea of vision, +shown an eternity of knowledge, and be intrusted with singular powers. +And he was content to wait out the days in which he must school, +chasten, and prove himself. + +“You have built me up,” he confided to Brigham, one day. “I feel to +rejoice in my strength.” And Brigham was highly pleased. + +“That’s good, Brother Joel. The host of Israel will soon be on the +move, and I shouldn’t wonder if the Lord had a great work for you. I +can see places where you’ll be just the tool he needs. I mistrust we +sha’n’t have everything peaceful even now. The priest in the pulpit is +thorning the politician against us, gouging him from underneath—he’d +never dare do it openly, for our Elders could crimson his face with +shame—and the minions of the mob may be after us again. If they do, I +can see where you will be a tower of strength in your own way.” + +“It’s all of my life, Brother Brigham.” + +“I believe it. I guess the time has come to make you an Elder.” + +And so on a late winter afternoon in the quiet of the Council-House, +Joel Rae was ordained an Elder after the order of Melchisedek; with +power to preach and administer in all the ordinances of the Church, to +lay on hands, to confirm all baptised persons, to anoint the afflicted +with oil, and to seal upon them the blessings of health. + +In his hard, narrow bed that night, where the cold came through the +unchinked logs and the wind brought him the wailing of the wolves, he +prayed that he might not be too much elated by this extraordinary +distinction. + + + + +Chapter VIII. +A Revelation from the Lord and a Toast from Brigham + + +From his little one-roomed cabin, dark, smoky, littered with hay, old +blankets, and skins, he heard excited voices outside, one early morning +in January. He opened the door and found a group of men discussing a +miracle that had been wrought overnight. The Lord had spoken to Brigham +and word had come to Zion to move toward the west. + +He hurried over to Brigham’s house and by that good man was shown the +word of the Lord as it had been written down from his lips. With +emotions of reverential awe he read the inspired document. + +“The Word and Will of the Lord Concerning the Camp of Israel in its +Journeyings to the West.” Such was its title. + +“Let all the people,” it began, “of the Church of Jesus Christ of +Latter-day Saints, be organised into companies with a covenant and a +promise to keep all the statutes of the Lord our God. + +“Let the companies be organised with captains of hundreds and captains +of fifties and captains of tens, with a President and Counsellor at +their head under the direction of the Twelve Apostles. + +“Let each company provide itself with all the teams, wagons, +provisions, and all other necessaries for the journey. + +“Let every man use all of his influence and property to remove this +people to the place where the Lord shall locate a stake of Zion, and +let them share equally in taking the poor, the widows, and the +fatherless, so that their cries come not up into the ears of the Lord +against His people. + +“And if ye do this with a pure heart, with all faithfulness, ye shall +be blessed in your flocks and in your herds and in your fields and in +your families. For I am the Lord your God, even the God of your +fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and of Jacob. I am He who led the +children of Israel out of the land of Egypt, and my arm is stretched +out in these last days to save my people of Israel. + +“Fear not thine enemies, for they are in my hands, and I will do my +pleasure with them. + +“My people must be tried in all things, that they may be worthy to +receive the glory that I have in store for them, even the glory of +Zion; and he that will not receive chastisement is not worthy of my +Kingdom. So no more at present. Amen and Amen!” + +This was what he had longed for each winter night when he had seen the +sun go down,—the word of the Lord to follow that sun on over the rim +into the pathless wilderness, infested by savage tribes and ravenous +beasts, abounding in terrors unknown. There was an adventure worth +while in the sight of God. It had never ceased to thrill him since he +first heard it broached,—the mad plan of a handful of persecuted +believers, setting out from civilisation to found Zion in the +wilderness,—to go forth a thousand miles from Christendom with nothing +but stout arms and a very living faith in the God of Israel, and in +Joseph Smith as his prophet, meeting death in famine, plagues, and +fevers, freezing in the snows of the mountains, thirsting to death on +the burning deserts, being devoured by ravening beasts or tortured to +death by the sinful Lamanites; but persisting through it all with +dauntless courage to a final triumph so glorious that the very Gods +would be compelled to applaud the spectacle of their devoted heroism. + +And now he was face to face with the awful, the glorious, the divinely +ordained fact. It was like standing before the Throne of Grace itself. +Out over that western skyline was a spot, now hidden and defended by +all the powers of Satan, where the Ten Tribes would be restored, where +Zion would be rebuilt, where Christ would reign personally on earth a +thousand years, and from whence the earth would be renewed and receive +again its paradisiac glory. The thought overwhelmed. + +“If we could only start at once!” he said to Bishop Wright, who had +read the revelation with him. But the canny Bishop’s religious zeal was +henceforth to be tempered by the wisdom of the children of darkness. + +“No more travelling in this kind of a time for the Saints,” the Bishop +replied. “We got our full of that when we first left Nauvoo. We had to +scrape snow from the ground and set up tents when it was fifteen or +twenty below zero, and nine children born one night in that weather. Of +course it was better than staying at Nauvoo to be shot; but no one is +going to shoot us here, so here we’ll tarry till grass grows and water +runs.” + +“But there was a chance to show devotion, Brother Seth. Think how +precious it must have been in the sight of the Lord.” + +“Well, the Lord knows we’re devoted now, so we’ll wait till it fairs +up. We’ll have Zion built in good time and a good gospel fence built +around it, elk-high and bull-tight, like we used to say in Missouri. +But it’s a long ways over yender, and while I ain’t ever had any +revelations myself, I’m pretty sure the Lord means to have me toler’bly +well fed, and my back kept bone-dry on the way. And we got to have fat +horses and fat cattle, not these bony critters with no juice in ’em. +Did you hear what Brother Heber got off the other day? He butchered a +beef and was sawing it up when Brother Brigham passed by. ‘Looks hard, +Brother Heber,’ says Brother Brigham. ‘Hard, Brother Brigham? Why, I’ve +had to grease the saw to make it work!’ Yes, sir, had to grease his saw +to make it work through that bony old heifer. Now we already passed +through enough pinches not to go out lookin’ for ’em any more. Why, I +tell you, young man, if I knew any place where the pinches was at, +you’d see me comin’ the other way like a bat out of hell!” + +And so the ardent young Elder was compelled to curb his spirit until +the time when grass should grow and water run. Yet he was not alone in +feeling this impatience for the start. Through all the settlement had +thrilled a response to the Lord’s word as revealed to his servant +Brigham. The God of Israel was to be with them on the march, and old +and young were alike impatient. + +Early in April the life began to stir more briskly in the great camp +that sprawled along either side of the swollen, muddy river. From dawn +to dark each day the hills echoed with the noise of many works, the +streets were alive with men and women going and coming on endless +errands, and with excited children playing at games inspired by the +occasion. Wagons were mended and loaded with provisions and tools, oxen +shod, ox-bows renewed, guns put in order, bullets moulded, and the +thousand details perfected of a migration so hazardous. They were busy, +noisy, excited, happy days. + +At last, in the middle of April, the signs were seen to be right. Grass +grew and water ran, and their part, allotted by the Lord, was to brave +the dangers of that forbidding land that lay under the western sun. +Then came a day of farewells and merry-making. In the afternoon, the +day being mild and sunny, there was a dance in the bowery,—a great +arbour made of poles and brush and wattling. Here, where the ground had +been trodden firm, the age and maturity as well as the youth and beauty +of Israel gathered in such poor festal array as they had been able to +save from their ravaged stores. + +The Twelve Apostles led off in a double cotillion, to the moving +strains of a violin and horn, the lively jingle of a string of +sleigh-bells, and the genial snoring of a tambourine. Then came +dextrous displays in the dances of our forbears, who followed the +fiddle to the Fox-chase Inn or Garden of Gray’s Ferry. There were +French Fours, Copenhagen jigs, Virginia reels,—spirited figures +blithely stepped. And the grave-faced, square-jawed Elders seemed as +eager as the unthinking youths and maidens to throw off for the moment +the burden of their cares. + +From midday until the April sun dipped below the sharp skyline of the +Omaha hills, the modest revel endured. Then silence was called by a +grim-faced, hard-voiced Elder, who announced: + +“The Lute of the Holy Ghost will now say a word of farewell from our +pioneers to those who must stay behind.” + +He stood before them erect, brave, confident; and the fire of his faith +warmed his voice into their hearts. + +“Children of Israel, we are going into the wilderness to lay the +foundations of a temple to the most high God, so that when his Son, our +elder Brother, shall come on earth again, He may have a place where He +can lay His head and spend, not only a night or a day, but rest until +He can say, ‘I am satisfied!’—a place, too, where you can obtain the +ordinances of salvation for yourselves, your living, and your dead. Let +your prayers go with us. We have been thrust out of Babylon, but to our +eternal salvation. We care no more for persecution than for the whistle +of the north wind, the croaking of the crane that flies over our heads, +or the crackling of thorns under a pot. True, some of our dearest, our +best-loved, have dropped by the way; they have fallen asleep, but what +of that?—and who cares? It is as well to live as to die, or to die as +to live—as well to sleep as to be awake. It is all one. They have only +gone a little before us; and we shall soon strike hands with them +across those poor, mean, empty graves back there on the forlorn +prairies of Iowa. For you must let me clench this God’s truth into your +minds; that you stand now in your last lot, in the end of your days +when the Son of Man cometh again. Afflictions shall be sent to humble +and to prove you, but oh! stand fast to your teachings so that not one +of you may be lost. May sinners in Zion become afraid henceforth, and +fearfulness surprise the hypocrite from this hour! And now may the +favour and blessing of God be manifest upon you while we are absent +from one another!” + +When the fervent amens had died away they sang the farewell hymn:— + +“Thrones shall totter, Babel fall, +Satan reign no more at all; + +“Saints shall gain the victory, +Truth prevail o’er land and sea; + +“Gentile tyrants sink to hell; +Now’s the day of Israel.” + + +The words of the young Elder were felt to be highly consoling; but a +toast given by Brigham that night was longer talked of. It was at a +farewell party at the house of Bishop Wright. On the hay-covered floor +of the banquet-room, amid the lights of many candles hung from the +ceiling and about the walls in their candelabra of hollowed turnips, +the great man had been pleased to prophesy blessings profusely upon the +assembled guests. + +“I am awful proud,” he began, “of the way the Lord has favoured us. I +am proud all the time of his Elders, his servants, and his handmaids. +And when they do well I am prouder still. I don’t know but I’ll get so +proud that I’ll be four or five times prouder than I am now. As I once +said to Sidney Rigdon, our boat is an old snag boat and has never been +out of Snag-harbour. But it will root up the snags, run them down, +split them, and scatter them to the four quarters. Our ship is the old +ship of Zion; and nothing that runs foul of her can withstand her shock +and fury.” + +Then had followed the toast, which was long remembered for its +dauntless spirit. + +“Here’s wishing that all the mobocrats of the nineteenth century were +in the middle of the sea, in a stone canoe, with an iron paddle; that a +shark would swallow the canoe, and the shark be thrust into the +nethermost part of hell, with the door locked, the key lost, and a +blind man looking for it!” + + + + +Chapter IX. +Into the Wilderness + + +Onto the West at last to build the house of God in the mountains. On to +what Daniel Webster had lately styled “a region of savages and wild +beasts, of deserts, of shifting sands and whirlwinds of dust, of cactus +and prairie-dogs.” + +The little band of pioneers chosen to break a way for the main body of +the Saints consisted of a hundred and forty-three men, three women, and +two children. They were to travel in seventy-three wagons, drawn by +horses and oxen. They knew not where they were to stop, but they were +men of eager initiative, fearless and determined; and their consolation +was that, while their exodus into the desert meant hardship and +grievous suffering, it also promised them freedom from Gentile +interference. It was not a fat land into which they were venturing; but +at least it was a land without a past, lying clean as it came from the +hand of its maker, where they could be free to worship God without +fearing the narrow judgment of the frivolous. Instructed in the sacred +mysteries revealed to Joseph Smith through the magic light of the Urim +and Thummim, and sustained by the divine message engraved on the golden +plates he had dug up from the hill of Cumorah, they were now ready to +feel their way across the continent and blaze a trail to the new +Jerusalem. + +They went in military style with due precautions against surprise by +the Lamanites—the wretched red remnant of Abraham’s seed—that swarmed +on every side. + +Brigham Young was lieutenant-general; Stephen Markham was colonel; the +redoubtable John Pack was first major, and Shadrach Roundy, second. +There were two captains of hundreds and fourteen captains of tens. The +orders of the lieutenant-general required each man to walk constantly +beside his wagon, leaving it only by his officer’s commands. To make +the force compact, the wagons were to move two abreast where they +could. Every man was to keep his weapons loaded. If the gun was a +caplock, the cap was to be taken off and a piece of leather put on to +exclude moisture and dirt; if a flintlock, the filling was to be taken +out and the pan filled with tow or cotton. + +Their march was not only cautious but orderly. At five A.M. the bugle +sounded for rising, two hours being allowed for prayers and breakfast. +At night each man had to retire to his wagon for prayer at +eight-thirty, and to rest at nine. If they camped by a river they drew +the wagons into a semicircle with the river at its base. Other times +the wagons made a circle, a fore-wheel of one touching a rear wheel of +the next, thus providing a corral for the stock. In such manner was the +wisdom of the Lord concerning this hegira supplemented in detail by the +worldly forethought of his servant Brigham. + +They started along the north bank of the Platte River under the +auspicious shine of an April sun. A better route was along the south +bank where grass was more plentiful and the Indians less troublesome. +But along the south bank parties of migrating Gentiles might also be +met, and these sons of perdition were to be avoided at any cost—“at +least for the present,” said Brigham, in tones of sage significance. + +And so for two hundred miles they broke a new way over the plains, to +be known years after as “the old Mormon trail,” to be broadened later +by the gold-seekers of forty-nine, and still later to be shod with +steel, when the miracle of a railway was worked in the desert. + +To Joel Rae, Elder after the order of Melchisedek, unsullied product of +the temple priesthood, it was a time of wondrous soul-growth. In that +mysterious realm of pathless deserts, of illimitable prairies and +boundless plains, of nameless rivers and colossal hills, a land of +dreams, of romance, of marvellous adventure, he felt strange powers +growing within him. It seemed that in such a place the one who opened +his soul to heaven must become endowed with all those singular gifts he +had longed for. He looked confidently forward to the time when they +should regard him as a man who could work miracles. + +At the head of Grand Island they came to vast herds of buffalo—restless +brown seas of humped, shaggy backs and fiercely lowered heads. In their +first efforts to slay these they shot them full in the forehead, and +were dismayed to find that their bullets rebounded harmlessly. They +solved the mystery later, discovering the hide on the skull of a dead +bull to be an inch thick and covered with a mat of gnarled hair in +itself almost a shield against bullets. Joel Rae, with the divine right +of youth, drew for them from this circumstance an instructive parallel. + +So was the head of their own church protected against Gentile shafts by +the hide of righteousness and the matted hair of faith. + +The Indians killed buffalo by riding close and striking them with an +arrow at the base of the spine; whereupon the beast would fall +paralysed, to be hamstrung at leisure. Only by some such infernal +strategy, the young Elder assured them, could the Gentiles ever +henceforth cast them down. + +For many days their way lay through these herds of buffalo—herds so +far-reaching that none could count their numbers or even see their +farther line, lost in the distance over the swell of the plains. Often +their way was barred until a herd would pass, making the earth tremble, +and with a noise like muffled thunder. They waited gladly, feeling that +these were obstacles on the way to Zion. + +Thus far it had been a land of moderate plenty, one in which they were, +at least, not compelled to look to Heaven for manna. Besides the +buffalo which the hunters learned to kill, they found deer, antelope, +great flocks of geese and splendid bronzed wild turkeys. Even the +truculent grizzly came to be numbered among their trophies. + +Day after day marched the bearded host,—farmers with ploughs, mechanics +with tools, builders, craftsmen, woodsmen, all the needed factors of a +colony, led by the greatest coloniser of modern times, their one great +aim being to make ready some spot in the wilderness for the second +advent of the Messiah. All about them was the prairie, its long grass +gently billowed by the spring breeze. On the far right, blue in the +haze, was a continuous range of lofty bluffs. On the left the waters of +the Platte, muddied by the spring freshets, flowed over beds of +quicksand between groves of cottonwood that pleasantly fringed its +banks. The hard labour and the constant care demanded by the dangers +that surrounded them prevented any from feeling the monotony of the +landscape. + +Besides the regular trials of the march there were wagons to be +“snaked” across the streams, tires to be reset and yokes to be mended +at each “lay-by,” strayed stock to be hunted, and a thousand +contingencies sufficient to drive from their minds all but the one +thought that they had been thrown forth from a Christian land for the +offence of worshipping God according to the dictates of their own +consciences. + +Joel Rae, walking beside his wagon, meditated chiefly upon the manner +in which his Witness would first manifest itself. The wonder came, in a +way, while he thus meditated. Late one afternoon the scouts thrown in +advance came hurrying back to report a large band of Indians strung out +in battle array a few miles ahead. The wagons were at once formed five +abreast, their one cannon was wheeled to the front, and the company +advanced in close formation. Perceiving these aggressive manoeuvres, +the Indians seemed to change their plan and, instead of coming on to +attack, were seen to be setting fire to the prairie. + +The result might well have been disastrous, as the wind was blowing +toward the train. Joel Rae saw it; saw that the time had come for a +miracle if the little company of Saints was to be saved a serious +rebuff. He quickly entered his wagon and began to pray. He prayed that +the Lord might avert this calamity and permit the handful of faithful +ones to proceed in peace to fashion His temple on earth. + +When he began to pray there had been outside a woful confusion of +sounds,—scared and plunging horses, bellowing oxen, excited men +shouting to the stock and to one another, the barking of dogs and the +rattling of the wagons. Through this din he prayed, scarcely hearing +his own voice, yet feeling within himself the faith that he knew must +prevail. And then as he prayed he became conscious that these noises +had subsided to a wonderful silence. A moment this lasted, and then he +heard it broken by a mighty shout of gladness, followed by excited +calls from one man to another. + +He looked out in calm certainty to observe in what manner the Lord had +consented to answer his petition. He saw that the wind had veered and, +even as he looked, large drops of rain came pounding musically upon his +wagon-cover. Far in front of them a long, low line of flame was +crawling to the west, while above it lurid clouds of smoke rolled away +from them. In another moment the full force of the shower was upon them +from a sky that half an hour before had been cloudless. Far off to the +right scurried the Indians, their feathery figures lying low upon the +backs of their small ponies. His heart swelled within him, and he fell +again to his knees with many earnest words of thanksgiving for the +intercession. + +They at once made camp for the night, and by Brigham’s fire later in +the evening Joel Rae confided the truth of his miracle to that good +man, taking care not to utter the words with any delight or pride in +himself. He considered that Brigham was unduly surprised by the +occurrence; almost displeased in fact; showing a tendency to attribute +the day’s good fortune to phenomena wholly natural. Although the +miracle had seemed to him a small, simple thing, he now felt a little +ashamed of his performance. He was pleased to note, however, that +Brigham became more gracious to him after a short period of reflection. +He praised him indeed for the merit which he seemed to have gained in +the Lord’s sight; taking occasion to remind him, however, that he, +Brigham, had meant to produce the same effects by a prayer of his own +in due time to save the train from destruction; that he had chosen to +wait, however, in order to try the faith of the Saints. + +“As a matter of fact, Brother Joel,” he concluded, “I don’t know as +there is any limit to the power with which the Lord has blessed me. I +tell you I feel equal to any miracle—even to raising the dead, I +sometimes think—I feel that fired up with the Holy Ghost!” + +“I am sure you will do even that, Brother Brigham.” And the young man’s +eyes swam with mingled gratitude and admiration. He resolved in his +wagon that night, that when the time came for another miracle, he would +not selfishly usurp the honour of performing it. He would not again +forestall the able Brigham. + +By the first of June they had wormed their way over five hundred miles +of plain to the trading post of Fort Laramie. Here they were at last +forced to cross the Platte and to take up their march along the Oregon +trail. They were now in the land of alkaline deserts, of sage-brush and +greasewood, of sad, bleak, deadly stretches; a land where the favour of +Heaven might have to be called upon if they were to survive. Yet it was +a land not without inspiration,—a land of immense distances, of long, +dim perspectives, and of dreamy visions in the far, vague haze. In such +a land, thought Joel Rae, the spirit of the Lord must draw closer to +the children of earth. In such a land no miracle should be too +difficult. And so it came that he was presently enabled to put in +Brigham’s way the opportunity of performing a work of mercy which he +himself would have been glad to do, but for the fear of affronting the +Prophet. + +A band of mounted Sioux had met them one day with friendly advances and +stopped to trade. Among the gaudy warriors Joel Rae’s attention was +called to a boy who had lost an arm. He made inquiries, and found him +to be the son of the chief. The chief himself made it plain to Joel +that the young man had lost his arm ten moons before in a combat with a +grizzly bear. Whereupon the young Elder cordially bade the chief bring +his crippled son to their own great chief, who would, by the gracious +power of God, miraculously restore the missing member. + +A few moments later the three were before Brigham, who was standing by +his wagon; Joel Rae, glowing with a glad and confident serenity; the +tawny chief with his sable braids falling each side of his painted +face, gay in his head-dress of dyed eagle plumes, his buckskin shirt +jewelled with blue beads and elk’s teeth, warlike with his bow and +steel-pointed arrows; and the young man, but little less ornate than +his splendid father, stoical, yet scarce able to subdue the flash of +hope in his eyes as he looked up to the great white chief. + +Brigham looked at them questioningly. Joel announced their errand. + +“It’s a rare opportunity, Brother Brigham, to bring light to these +wretched Lamanites. This boy had his arm torn off a year ago in a fight +with a grizzly. You know you told me that day I brought the rain-storm +that you could well-nigh raise the dead, so this will be easy for you.” + +Brigham still looked puzzled, so the young man added with a flash of +enthusiasm: “Restore this poor creature’s arm and the noise of the +miracle will go all through these tribes;” he paused expectantly. + +It is the mark of true greatness that it may never be found unprepared. +Now and again it may be made to temporise for a moment, cunningly +adopting one expedient or another to hide its unreadiness—but never +more than briefly. + +Brigham had looked slowly from the speaker to the Indians and slowly +back again. Then he surveyed several bystanders who had been attracted +to the group, and his eyelids were seen to work rapidly, as if in +sympathetic pace with his thoughts. Then all at once he faced Joel. + +“Brother Rae, have you reflected about this?” + +“Why—Brother Brigham—no—not reflected—perhaps if we both prayed with +hearts full of faith, the Lord might—” + +“Brother Rae!” + +There was sternness in the voice now, and the young man trembled before +the Lion of the Lord. + +“You mistake me. I guess I’m a good enough servant of the Lord, so my +own prayer would restore this arm without any of your help; yes, I +guess the Lord and me could do it without _you_—if we thought it was +best. Now pay attention. Do you believe in the resurrection of the +body?” + +“I do, Brother Brigham, and of course I didn’t mean to”—he was blushing +now. + +“Do you believe the day of judgment is at hand?” + +“I do.” + +“How near?” + +“You and our priests and Elders say it will come in 1870.” + +“Correct! How many years is that from now?” + +“Twenty-three, Brother Brigham.” + +“Yes, twenty-three. Now then, how many years are there to be after +that?” + +“How many—surely an eternity!” + +“More than twenty-three years, then—much more?” + +“Eternity means endless time.” + +“Oh, it does, does it?” + +There had been gradually sounding in his voice a ring of triumph which +now became distinct. + +“Well, then, answer me this—and remember it shall be as you say to the +best of my influence with the Lord—you shall be responsible for this +poor remnant of the seed of Cain. Now, don’t be rash! Is it better for +this poor creature to continue with his one arm here for the +twenty-three years the world is to endure, and then pass on to eternity +where he will have his two arms forever; or, do you want me to renew +his arm now and let him go through eternity a freak, a monstrosity? Do +you want him to suffer a little inconvenience these few days he has +here, or do you want him to go through an endless hereafter with _three +arms_?” + +The young man gazed at him blankly with a dropped jaw. + +“Come, what do you say? I’m full of faith. Shall I—” + +“No—no, Brother Brigham; don’t—for God’s sake, don’t! Of course he +would be resurrected with three arms. You think of everything, Brother +Brigham!” + +The Indians had meanwhile been growing puzzled and impatient. He now +motioned them to follow him. + +By dint of many crude efforts in the sign language and an earnest use +of the few words known to both, he succeeded, after a long time, in +putting the facts before the chief and his son; They, after an animated +conversation, succeeded with much use of the sign language in conveying +to Joel Rae the information that the young man was not at all dismayed +by the prospect of having three arms during the next life. He gathered, +indeed, that both father and son would be rather elated than otherwise +by this circumstance, seeming to suspect that the extra member must +confer superior prowess and high distinction upon its possessor. + +But he shook his head with much determination, and refused to take them +again before the great white chief. The thought troubled him +exceedingly and would not be gone—yet he knew not how to account for +it—that Brigham would not receive this novel view of the matter with +any cordiality. + +When they were camped that night, Brigham made a suggestion to him. + +“Brother Rae, it ain’t just the best plan in the world to come on a man +sudden that way for so downright a miracle. A man can’t be always fired +up with the Holy Ghost, with all the cares of this train on his mind. +You come and have a private talk with me beforehand after this, when +you got a miracle you want done.” + +He prayed more fervently than ever that night to be made “wise and good +like thy servant Brigham”—also for the gift of tongues to come upon him +so that he might instruct the Indians in the threefold character of the +Godhead and in other matters pertaining to their salvation. + + + + +Chapter X. +The Promised Land + + +So far on their march the Lord had protected them from all but ordinary +hardships. True, some members of the company had suffered from a fever +which they attributed to the clouds of dust that enveloped the column +of wagons when in motion, and to the great change of temperature from +day to night. Again, the most of them were for many weeks without +bread, saving for the sick the little flour they had and subsisting +upon the meat provided by the hunters. Before reaching Fort Laramie, +too, their stock had become weakened for want of food; an extended +drought, the vast herds of buffalo, and the Indian fires having +combined to destroy the pasturage. + +This weakness of the animals made the march for many days not more than +five or six miles a day. At the last they had fed to the stock not only +all their grain but the most of their crackers and other breadstuffs. +But these were slight matters to a persecuted people gathering out of +Babylon. + +Late in June they reached the South Pass. For many hundred miles they +had been climbing the backbone of the continent. Now they had reached +the summit, the dividing ridge between streams that flowed to the +Atlantic and streams that flowed to the Pacific. From the level +prairies they had toiled up into the fearsome Rockies where bleak, grim +crags lowered upon them from afar, and distant summits glistening with +snow warned them of the perils ahead. + +Through all this time of marching the place where they should pitch the +tent of Israel was not fixed upon. When Brigham was questioned around +the camp-fire at night, his only reply was that he would know the site +of their new home when he saw it. And it came to be told among the men +that he had beheld in vision a tent settling down from heaven and +resting over a certain spot; and that a voice had said to him, “Here is +the place where my people Israel shall pitch their tents and spread +wide the curtains of Zion!” It was enough. He would recognise the spot +when they reached it. + +From the trappers, scouts, and guides encountered along the road they +had received much advice as to eligible locations; and while this was +various as to sites recommended, the opinion had been unanimous that +the Salt Lake Valley was impossible. It was, they were told, sandy, +barren, rainless, destitute of timber and vegetation, infested with +hordes of hungry crickets, and roamed over by bands of the most savage +Indians. In short, no colony could endure there. + +One by one the trappers they met voiced this opinion. There was +Bordeaux, the grizzled old Frenchman, clad in ragged buckskin; Moses +Harris; “Pegleg” Smith, whose habit of profanity was shocking; Miles +Goodyear, fresh from captivity among the Blackfeet; and James Bridger. +The latter had discovered Great Salt Lake twenty-five years before, and +was especially vehement in his condemnation of the valley. They had +halted a day at his “fort,” two adjoining log houses with dirt roofs, +surrounded by a high stockade of logs, and built on one of several +small islands formed by the branches of Black’s Fork. Here they had +found the old trapper amid a score of nondescript human beings, white +men, Indian women, and half-breed children. + +Bridger had told them very concisely that he would pay them a thousand +dollars for the first ear of corn raised in Salt Lake Valley. It is +true that Bridger seemed to have become pessimistic in many matters. +For one, the West was becoming overcrowded and the price of furs was +falling at a rate to alarm the most conservative trapper. He referred +feelingly to the good old days when one got ten dollars a pound for +prime beaver skins in St. Louis; but “now it’s a skin for a plug of +tobacco, and three for a cup of powder, and other fancies in the same +proportion.” And so, had his testimony been unsupported, they might +have suspected he was underestimating the advantages of the Salt Lake +Valley. But, corroborated as he had been by his brother trappers, they +began to descend the western slope of the Rockies strong in the opinion +that this same Salt Lake Valley was the land that had been chosen for +them by the Lord. + +They dared not, indeed, go to a fertile land, for there the Gentiles +would be tempted to follow them—with the old bloody end. Only in a +desert such as these men had described the Salt Lake Valley to be could +they hope for peace. From Fort Bridger, then, their route bent to the +southwest along the rocky spurs of the Uintah Mountains, whose +snow-clad tops gleamed a bluish white in the July sun. + +By the middle of July the vanguard of the company began the descent of +Echo Cañon,—a narrow slit cut straight down a thousand feet into the +red sandstone,—the pass which a handful of them was to hold a few years +later against a whole army of the hated Gentiles. + +The hardest part of their journey was still before them. Their road had +now to be made as they went, lying wholly among the mountains. Lofty +hills, deep ravines with jagged sides, forbidding cañons, all but +impassable streams, rock-bound and brush-choked,—up and down, through +or over all these obstacles they had now to force a passage, cutting +here, digging there; now double-locking the wheels of their wagons to +prevent their crashing down some steep incline; now putting five teams +to one load to haul it up the rock-strewn side of some water-way. + +From Echo Cañon they went down the Weber, then toward East Cañon, a +dozen of the bearded host going forward with spades and axes as +sappers. Sometimes they made a mile in five hours; sometimes they were +less lucky. But at length they were fighting their way up the choked +East Cañon, starting fierce gray wolves from their lairs in the rocks +and hearing at every rod of their hard-fought way the swift and +unnerving song of the coiled rattlesnake. + +Eight fearful miles they toiled through this gash in the mountain; then +over another summit,—Big Mountain; down this dangerous slide, all +wheels double-locked, on to the summit of another lofty hill,—Little +Mountain; and abruptly down again into the rocky gorge afterwards to +become historic as Immigration Cañon. + +Following down this gorge, never doubting they should come at last to +their haven, they found its mouth to be impassable. Rocks, brush, and +timber choked the way. Crossing to the south side, they went sheerly up +the steep hill—so steep that it was all but impossible for the +straining animals to drag up the heavy wagons, and so narrow that a +false step might have dashed wagon and team half a thousand feet on to +the rocks below. + +But at last they stood on the summit,—and broke into shouts of rapture +as they looked. For the wilderness home of Israel had been found. Far +and wide below them stretched their promised land,—a broad, open valley +hemmed in by high mountains that lay cold and far and still in the blue +haze. Some of these had slept since the world began under their +canopies of snow, and these flashed a sunlit glory into the eager eyes +of the pilgrims. Others reared bare, scathed peaks above slopes that +were shaggy with timber. And out in front lay the wondrous lake,—a +shield of deepest glittering turquois held to the dull, gray breast of +the valley. + +Again and again they cried out, “Hosanna to God and the Lamb!” and many +of the bearded host shed tears, for the hardships of the way had +weakened them. + +Then Brigham came, lying pale and wasted in his wagon, and when they +saw him gaze long, and heard him finally say, “Enough—drive on!” they +knew that on this morning of July 24, 1847, they had found the spot +where in vision he had seen the tent of the Lord come down to earth. + +Joel Rae had waited with a beating heart for Brigham’s word of +confirmation, and when he heard it his soul was filled to overflowing. +He knew that here the open vision would enfold him; here the angel of +the Lord would come to him fetching his great Witness. Here he would +rise to immeasurable zeniths of spirituality. And here his people would +become a mighty people of the Lord. He foresaw the hundred unwalled +cities that Brigham was to found, and the green gardens that were to +make the now desert valley a fit setting for the temple of God. Here +was a stricken Rachel, a barren Sarah to be transformed by the touch of +the Saints to a mother of many children. Here would the lambs of the +Lord be safe at last from the Gentile wolves—safe for a time at least, +until so long as it might take the Lions of the Lord to come to their +growth. And that was to be no indefinite period; for had not Brigham +just said, with a snap of his great jaws and a cold flash of his blue +eyes, “Let us alone ten years here, and we’ll ask no odds of Uncle Sam +or the Devil!” + +There on the summit they knelt to entreat the mercy of God upon the +land. The next day, by their leader’s direction, they consecrated the +valley to the Lord, and planted six acres of potatoes. + + + + +Chapter XI. +Another Miracle and a Temptation in the Wilderness + + +The floor of the valley was an arid waste, flat and treeless, a far +sweep of gray and gold, of sage-brush spangled with sunflowers, patched +here and there with glistening beds of salt and soda, or pools of the +deadly alkali. Here crawled the lizard and the rattlesnake; and there +was no music to the desolation save the petulant chirp of the cricket. +At the sides an occasional stream tumbled out of the mountains to be +all but drunk away at once by the thirsty sands. Along the banks of +these was the only green to be found, sparse fringes of willow and wild +rose. On the borders of the valley, where the steeps arose, were little +patches of purple and dusty brown, oak-bush, squaw-berry, a few dwarfed +cedars, and other scant growths. At long intervals could be found a +marsh of wire-grass, or a few acres of withered bunch-grass. But these +served only to emphasise the prevailing desert tones. + +The sun-baked earth was so hard that it broke their ploughs when they +tried to turn it. Not until they had spread water upon it from the +river they had named Jordan could the ploughs be used. Such was the new +Canaan, the land held in reserve by the Lord for His chosen people +since the foundations of the world were laid. + +Dreary though it was, they were elated. Had not a Moses led them out of +bondage up into this chamber of the mountains against the day of wrath +that was to consume the Gentile world? And would he not smite the rocks +for water? Would he not also be a Joshua to sit in judgment and divide +to Israel his inheritance? + +They waited not nor demurred, but fell to work. Within a week they had +explored the valley and its cañons, made a road to the timber eight +miles away, built a saw-pit, sawed lumber for a skiff, ploughed, +planted, and irrigated half a hundred acres of the parched soil, and +begun the erection of many dwellings, some of logs, some of adobes. +Ground had also been chosen and consecrated by Brigham, whereon, in due +time, they would build up their temple to the God of Jacob. + +Meantime, they would continue to gather out of Babylon. During the late +summer and fall many wagons arrived from the Missouri, so that by the +beginning of winter their number was nearly two thousand. They lived +rudely, a lucky few in the huts they had built; more in tents and +wagon-boxes. Nor did they fail to thank Providence for the mild winter +vouchsafed to them during this unprotected period, permitting them not +only to survive, but to continue their labours—of logging, +home-building, the making of rough furniture, and the repairing of +wagons and tools. + +When the early spring came they were again quickly at the land with +their seeds. Over five thousand acres were sown to needful produce. +When this began to sprout with every promise of a full harvest, their +joy was boundless; for their stock of breadstuffs and provisions had +fallen low during the winter, and could not last later than +harvest-time, even with rigid economy. + +But early in June, in the full flush of this springtide of promise, it +appeared that the Lord was minded to chasten them. For into their +broad, green fields came the ravenous crickets in wide, black streams +down the mountain sides. Over the growing grain they spread as a pall, +and the tender sprouts were consumed to the ground. In their track they +left no stalk nor growing blade. + +Starvation now faced the Saints. In their panic they sought to fight +the all-devouring pest. While some went wildly through the fields +killing the crickets, others ran trenches and tried to drown them. +Still others beat them back with sticks and brooms, or burned them by +fires set in the fields. But against the oncoming horde these efforts +were unavailing. Where hundreds were destroyed hundreds of thousands +appeared. + +Despair seized the Saints, the bitter despair of a cheated, famished +people—deluded even by their God. In their shorn fields they wept and +cursed, knowing at last they could not stay the pest. + +Then into the fields came Joel Rae, rebuking the frenzied men and +women. The light of a high faith was upon him as he called out to them: + +“Have I not preached to you all winter the way to salvation in times +like this? Does faith mean one thing in my mouth and another thing +here? Why waste yourselves with those foolish tricks of fire and water? +They only make you forget Jehovah—you fools—you poor, blind fools—to +palter so!” + +He raised his voice, and the wondering group about him grew large. + +“Down, down on your knees and pray—pray—pray! I tell you the Lord shall +_not_ suffer you to perish!” + +Then, as but one or two obeyed him— + +“So your hearts have been hardened? Then my own prayer shall save you!” + +Down he knelt in the midst of the group, while they instinctively drew +back from him on all sides. But as his voice rose, a voice that had +never failed to move them, they, too, began to kneel, at first those +near him, then others back of them, until a hundred knelt about him. + +He had not observed them, but with eyes closed he prayed on, pouring +out his heart in penitent supplication. + +“These people are but little children, after all, seeing not, groping +blindly, attempting weakly, blundering always, yet never faltering in +love for Thee. Now I, Thy servant, humble and lowly, from whom Thou +hast already taken in hardest ways all that his heart held dear, who +will to-day give his body to be crucified, if need be, for this +people—I implore Thee to save these blundering children now, in this +very moment. I ask nothing for myself but that—” + +As his words rang out, there had been quick, low, startled murmurs from +the kneeling group about him; and now loud shouts interrupted his +prayer. He opened his eyes. From off toward the lake great flocks of +gulls had appeared, whitening the sky, and now dulling all other sounds +with the beating of their wings and their high, plaintive cries. +Quickly they settled upon the fields in swirling drifts, so that the +land all about lay white as with snow. + +A groan went up,—“They will finish what the crickets have left.” + +He had risen to his feet, looking intently. Then he gave an exultant +shout. + +“No! No!—they are eating only the _crickets_!—the white birds are +devouring the black pests; the hosts of heaven and hell have met, and +the powers of light have triumphed once more over darkness! _Pray_—pray +now with all your hearts in thanksgiving for this mercy!” + +And again they knelt, many with streaming eyes, while he led them in a +prayer of gratitude for this wondrous miracle. + +All day long the white birds fed upon the crickets, and when they left +at night the harvest had been saved. Thus had Heaven vouchsafed a +second miracle to the Lute of the Holy Ghost. It is small wonder then +if his views of the esteem in which he was held by that power were now +greatly enlarged. + +In August, thanks to the Heaven-sent gulls, they were able to celebrate +with a feast their first “Harvest Home.” In the centre of the big +stockade a bowery was built, and under its shade tables were spread and +richly laden with the first fruits their labours had won from the +desert,—white bread and golden butter, green corn, watermelons, and +many varieties of vegetables. Hoisted on poles for exhibition were +immense sheaves of wheat, rye, barley, and oats, coaxed from the arid +level with the water they had cunningly spread upon it. + +There were prayers and public thanksgiving, songs and speeches and +dancing. It was the flush of their first triumph over the desert. Until +nightfall the festival lasted, and at its close Elder Rae stood up to +address them on the subject of their past trials and present blessings. +The silence was instant, and the faces were all turned eagerly upon +him, for it was beginning to be suspected that he had more than even +priestly power. + +“To-day,” he said, “the favour and blessing of God have been manifest +upon us. But let us not forget our debts and duties in this feasting of +the flesh. Afflictions are necessary to humble and prove us, and we +shall have them as often as they are needed. Oh, never doubt it! I +have, indeed, but one fear concerning this people in the valleys of the +mountains—but one trembling fear in the nerves of my spirit—and that is +lest we do not live the religion we profess. If we will only cleave to +that faith in our practise, I tell you we are at the defiance of all +hell. But if we transgress the law God has given us, and trample His +mercies, blessings, and ordinances under our feet, treating them with +the indifference I have thought some occasionally do, not realising +their sins, I tell you that in consequence we shall be overcome, and +the Lord will let us be again smitten and scattered. Take it to heart. +May the God of heaven fill you with the Holy Ghost and give you light +and joy in His Kingdom.” + +When he was done many pressed forward to take his hand, the young and +the old, for they had both learned to reverence him. + +Near the outer edge of the throng was a red-lipped Juno, superbly +rounded, who had gleaned in the fields until she was all a Gipsy brown, +and her movements of a Gipsy grace in their freeness. She did not greet +the young Elder as did the others, seeming, indeed, to be unconscious +of his presence. Yet she lingered near as they scattered off into the +dusk, in little groups or one by one; and still she stood there when +all were gone, now venturing just a glance at him from deep gray eyes +set under black brows, turning her splendid head a little to bring him +into view. He saw the figure and came forward, peeringly. + +“Mara Cavan—yes, yes, so it is!” He took her hand, somewhat timidly, an +observer would have said. “Your father is not able to be out? I shall +walk down with you to see him—if you’re ready now.” + +She had been standing much like a statue, in guarded restraint, but at +his words and the touch of his hand she seemed to melt and flow into +eager acquiescence, murmuring some hurried little words of thanks for +her father, and stepping by his side with eyes down. + +They went out into the soft summer night, past the open doors where +rejoicing groups still lingered, the young standing, the old sitting in +chairs by the doors of their huts. Then they were out of the stockade +and off toward the southern end of the settlement. A big, golden moon +had come up over the jagged edge of the eastern hills,—a moon that left +the valley in a mystic sheen of gold and blue, and threw their shadows +madly into one as they walked. They heard the drowsy chirp of the +cricket, now harmless, and the low cry of an owl. They felt the +languorous warmth of the night, spiced with a hint of chilliness, and +they felt each other near. They had felt this nearness before. One of +them had learned to fear it, to tremble for himself at the thought of +it. The other had learned to dream of it, and to long for it, and to +wonder why it should be denied. + +Now, as they stepped side by side, their hands brushed together, and he +caught hers in his grasp, turning to look full upon her. Her ecstasy +was poignant; she trembled in her walk. But she looked straight +ahead,—waiting. To both of them it seemed that the earth rocked under +their feet. He looked long at her profile, softened in the magic light. +She felt his eyes upon her, and still she waited, in a trembling +ecstasy, stepping closely by his side. She felt him draw a long breath, +and then another, quickly,—and then he spoke. + +In words that were well-chosen but somewhat hurried, he proceeded to +instruct her in the threefold character of the Godhead. The voice at +first was not like his own, but as he went on it grew steadier. After +she drew her hand gently out of his, which she presently did, it seemed +to regain its normal pitch and calmness. + +He saw her to the door of the cabin on the outskirts of the settlement, +and there he spoke a few words of cheer to her ailing father. + +Then he was off into the desert, pacing swiftly into the grim, sandy +solitude beyond the farthest cabin light and the bark of the outmost +watch-dog. Feverishly he walked, and far, until at last, as if naught +in himself could avail, he threw himself to the ground and prayed. + +“Keep me _good_! Keep me to my vows! Help me till my own strength +grows, for I am weak and wanting. Let me endure the pain until this +wicked fire within me hath burned itself out. Keep me for _her_!” + +Back where the houses were, in the shadow of one of them, was the +flushed, full-breathing woman, hurt but dumb, wondering, in her bruised +tenderness, why it must be so. + +Still farther back, inside the stockade, where the gossiping groups yet +lingered, they were saying it was strange that Elder Rae waited so long +to take him a wife or two. + + + + +Chapter XII. +A Fight for Life + + +The stream of Saints to the Great Basin had become well-nigh +continuous—Saints of all degrees of prosperity, from Parley Pratt, the +Archer of Paradise, with his wealth of wives, wagons, and cattle, to +Barney Bigler, unblessed with wives or herds, who put his earthly goods +on a wheelbarrow, and, to the everlasting glory of God, trundled it +from the Missouri River to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. Train +after train set out for the new Zion with faith that God would drop +manna before them. + +Each train was a little migrating State in itself. And never was the +natural readiness of the American pioneer more luminously displayed. At +every halt of the wagons a shoemaker would be seen searching for a +lapstone; a gunsmith would be mending a rifle, and weavers would be at +their wheels or looms. The women early discovered that the jolting +wagons would churn their cream to butter; and for bread, very soon +after the halt was made, the oven hollowed out of the hillside was +heated, and the dough, already raised, was in to bake. One mother in +Israel brought proudly to the Lake a piece of cloth, the wool for which +she had sheared, dyed, spun, and woven during her march. + +Nor did the marches ever cease to be fraught with peril and, hardship. +There were tempests, droughts, famines, stampedes of the stock, prairie +fires, and Indian forays. Hundreds of miles across the plain and +through the mountains the Indians would trail after them, like sharks +in the wake of a ship, tirelessly watching, waiting for the right +moment to stampede the stock, to fire the prairie, or to descend upon +stragglers. + +One by one the trains worked down into the valley, the tired Saints +making fresh their covenants by rebaptism as they came. In the waters +of the River Jordan, Joel Rae made hundreds to be renewed in the +Kingdom, swearing them to obey Brigham, the Lord’s anointed, in all his +orders, spiritual or temporal, and the priesthood or either of them, +and all church authorities in like manner; to regard this obligation as +superior to all laws of the United States and all earthly laws +whatsoever; to cherish enmity against the government of the United +States, that the blood of Joseph Smith and the Apostles slain in that +generation might be avenged; and to keep the matter of this oath a +profound secret then and forever. And from these waters of baptism the +purified Saints went to their inheritances in Zion—took their humble +places, and began to sweat and bleed in the upbuilding of the new +Jerusalem. + +[Illustration: “_I’M_ THE ONE WILL HAVE TO BE CAUGHT”] + +From a high, tented wagon in one such train, creaking its rough way +down Emigration Cañon, with straining oxen and tired but eager people, +there had leaped one late afternoon the girl whose eyes were to call to +him so potently,—incomparable eyes, large and deep, of a velvety +grayness, under black brows splendidly bent. Nor had the eyes alone +voiced that call to his starved senses. He had caught the free, +fearless confidence of her leap over the wheel, and her graceful +abandon as she stood there, finely erect and full-curved, her head with +its Greek lines thrown well back, and her strong hands raised to +readjust the dusky hair that tumbled about her head like a storm-cloud. + +Men from the train were all about, and others from the settlement, and +these spoke to her, some in serious greeting, some with jesting words. +She returned it all in good part without embarrassment,—even the sally +of the winking wag who called out, “Now then, Mara Cavan! Here we are, +and a girl like yourself ought to catch an Elder, at the very lowest.” + +She laughed with easy good-nature, still fumbling in the dusk of blown +hair at the back of her head, showing a full-lipped mouth, beautifully +large, with strong-looking, white teeth. “I’ll catch never a one +myself, if you please, Nathan Tanner! I’ll do no catching at _all_, +now! _I’m_ the one will have to be caught!” + +Her voice was a contralto, with the little hint of roughness that made +it warm and richly golden; that made it fall, indeed, upon the ears of +the listening Elder like a cathedral chime calling him to forget all +and worship—forget all but that he was five and twenty with the hot +blood surging and crowding and crying out in his veins. + +Now, having a little subdued the tossing storm-cloud of hair, she stood +with one hand upon her hip and the other shading her eyes, looking +intently into the streets of the new settlement. And again there was +bantering jest from the men about, and the ready, careless response +from her, with gestures of an impishly reckless unconcern, of a full +readiness to give and take in easy good-fellowship. But then, in the +very midst of a light response to one of the bantering men, her gray +eyes met for the first time the very living look of the young Elder +standing near. She was at once confused, breaking off her speech with +an awkward laugh, and looking down. But, his eyes keeping steadily upon +her, she, as if defiantly, returned his look for a fluttering second, +trying to make her eyes survey him slowly from head to foot with her +late cool carelessness; but she had to let them fall again, and he saw +the colour come under the clear skin. + +He knew by these tokens that he possessed a power over this splendid +woman that none of the other men could wield,—she had lowered her eyes +to no other but him—and all the man in him sang exultantly under the +knowledge. He greeted her father, the little Seumas Cavan of +indomitable spirit, fresh, for all his march of a thousand miles, and +he welcomed them both to Zion. Again and again while he talked to them +he caught quick glances from the wonderful eyes;—glances of interest, +of inquiry,—now of half-hearted defiance, now of wondering submission. + +The succeeding months had been a time of struggle with him—a struggle +to maintain his character of Elder after the Order of Melchisedek in +the full gaze of those velvety gray eyes, and in the light of her +reckless, full-lipped smile; to present to the temptress a shield of +austere piety which her softest glances should not avail to melt. For +something in her manner told him that she divined all his weakness; +that, if she acknowledged his power over her, she recognised her own +power over him, a power equal to and justly balancing the other. Even +when he discoursed from the pulpit, his glance would fasten upon hers, +as if there were but the one face before him instead of a thousand, and +he knew that she mocked him in her heart; knew she divined there was +that within him which strongly would have had her and himself far +away—alone. + +Nor was the girl’s own mind all of a piece. For, if she flaunted +herself before him, as if with an impish resolve to be his undoing, +there were still times when he awed her by his words of fire, and by +his high, determined stand in some circle to which she knew she could +never mount. That night when he walked with her in the moonlight, she +knew he had trembled on the edge of the gulf fixed so mysteriously +between them. She had even felt herself leaning over to draw him down +with her own warm arms; and then all at once he had strangely moved +away, widening this mysterious gulf that always separated them, leaving +her solitary, hurt, and wondering. She could not understand it. Life +called through them so strongly. How could he breast the mighty rush? +And why, why must it be so? + +During the winter that now came upon them, it became even a greater +wonder to her; for it was a time when all of them were drawn closer in +a common suffering—a time of dark days which she felt they might have +lightened for each other, and a time when she knew that more than ever +she drew him. + +For hardly had the feast of the Harvest Home gone by when food once +more became scarce. The heaven-sent gulls had, after all, saved but +half a crop. Drought and early frost had diminished this; and those who +came in from the East came all too trustingly with empty meal-sacks. + +By the beginning of winter there were five thousand people in the +valley to be fed with miraculous loaves and fishes. Half of these were +without decent shelter, dwelling under wagon-covers or in flimsy tents, +and forced much of the time to be without fuel; for wood had to be +hauled through the snow from the distant cañons, and so was precious +stuff. For three months the cutting winds came down from the north, and +the pitiless winter snows raged about them. An inventory was early +taken of the food-stuffs, and thereafter rations were issued alike to +all, whether rich or poor. Otherwise many of the latter must have +perished. It was a time of hard expedients, such as men are content to +face only for the love of God. They ranged the hills and benches to dig +sego and thistle roots, and in the last days of winter many took the +rawhides from their roofs, boiling and eating them. When spring came, +they watched hungrily for the first green vegetation, which they +gathered and cooked. Truly it seemed they had stopped in a desert as +cruel in its way as the human foes from whom they had fled. + +It was now that the genius of their leader showed. He was no longer +Brigham Young, the preacher, but a father in Israel to his starving +children. When prayers availed not for a miracle, his indomitable +spirit saved them. Starvation was upon them and nakedness to the blast; +yet when they desponded or complained, the Lion of the Lord was there +to check them. He scolded, pleaded, threatened, roared prophecies, and +overcame them, silencing every murmur. He made them work, and worked +himself, a daily example before them of tireless energy. He told them +what to do, and how, both for their material salvation and their +spiritual; when to haul wood, and how to distinguish between false and +true spirits; how to thatch roofs and in what manner the resurrection +would occur; how to cook thistle roots to best advantage, and how God +was man made perfect; he reminded them of the day of wrath, and told +them mirthful anecdotes to make them laugh. He pictured God’s anger +upon the sinful, and encouraged them to dance and to make merry; +instructed them in the mysteries of the Kingdom and instigated +theatrical performances to distract their minds. He was bland and +bullying by turns; affable and gruff; jocose and solemn—always what he +thought their fainting spirits needed. He was feared and loved—feared +first. They learned to dread the iron of his hand and the steel of his +heart—the dauntless spirit of him that left them no longer their own +masters, yet kept them loving their bondage. Through the dreadful cold +and famine, the five thousand of them ceased not to pray nor lost their +faith—their great faith that they had been especially favoured of God +and were at the last to be saved alone from the wreck of the world. + +The efforts of Brigham to put heart into the people were ably seconded +by Joel Rae. He was loved like Brigham, but not feared. He preached +like Brigham submission to the divine will as interpreted by the +priesthood, but he was more extravagant than Brigham in his promises of +blessings in store for them. He never resorted to vagueness in his +pictures of what the Lord was about to do for them. He was literal and +circumstantial to a degree that made Brigham and the older men in +authority sometimes writhe in public and chide him in private. They +were appalled at the sweeping victories he promised the Saints over the +hated Gentiles at an early day. They suggested, too, that the Lord +might withhold an abundance from them for a few years until He had more +thoroughly tried them. But their counsel seemed only to inflame him to +fresh absurdities. In the very days of their greatest scarcity that +winter, when almost every man was dressed in skins, and the daily fare +was thistle roots, he declared to them at a Sunday service: + +“A time of plenty is at hand—of great plenty. I cannot tell you how I +know these things. I do not know how they come to me. I pray—and they +come to life in my spirit; that is how I have found this fact: in less +than a year States-goods of all needed kinds will be sold here cheaper +than they can be bought in Eastern cities. You shall have an abundance +at prices that will amaze you.” + +And the people thrilled to hear him, partaking of his faith, +remembering the gulls that ate the crickets, and the rain and wind that +came to save the pioneer train from fire. To the leaders such +prophesying was merely reckless, inviting further chastisements from +heaven, and calculated to cause a loss of faith in the priesthood. + +And yet, wild as it was, they saw this latter prophecy fulfilled; for +now, so soon after the birth of this new empire, while it suffered and +grew weak and bade fair to perish in its cradle of faith, there was +made for it a golden spoon of plenty. + +Over across the mountains the year before, on the decayed granite +bed-rock of the tail-race at the mill of one Sutter, a man had picked +up a few particles of gold, the largest as big as grains of wheat. The +news of the wonder had spread to the East, and now came frenzied hordes +of gold-seekers. The valley of the mountains where the Saints had hoped +to hide was directly in their path, and there they stopped their richly +laden trains to rest and to renew their supplies. + +The harvest of ’49 was bountiful in all the valley; and thus was the +wild prophecy of Joel Rae made sober truth. Many of the gold-seekers +had loaded their wagons with merchandise for the mining’ camps; but in +their haste to be at the golden hills, they now sold it at a sacrifice +in order to lighten their loads. The movement across the Sierras became +a wild race; clothing, provisions, tools, and arms—things most needful +to the half-clad, half-starved community on the shores of the lake—were +bartered to them at less than half-price for fresh horses and light +wagons. Where a twenty-five dollar pack-mule was sold for two hundred +dollars, a set of joiner’s tools that had cost a hundred dollars back +in St. Louis would be bought for twenty-five. + +The next year the gain to the Saints was even greater, as the tide of +gold-seekers rose. Early that summer they sold flour to the oncoming +legions for a dollar a pound, taking their pay in the supplies they +most needed on almost their own terms. + +Thus was the valley of the mountains a little fattened, and thus was +Joel Rae exalted in the sight of men as one to whom the secrets of +heaven might at any time be unfolded. But the potent hand of Brigham +was still needed to hold the Saints in their place and in their faith. + +Many would have joined the rush for sudden riches. A few did so. +Brigham issued a mild warning, in which such persons were described as +“gainsayers in behalf of Mammon.” They were warned, also, that the +valley of the Sacramento was unhealthful, and that, in any event, “the +true use of gold is for paving streets, covering houses, and making +culinary dishes; and when the Saints shall have preached the gospel, +raised grain, and built cities enough, the Lord will open up the way +for a supply of gold to the satisfaction of his people.” + +A few greed-stung Saints persisted in leaving in the face of this +friendly admonition. Then the Lion of the Lord roared: “Let such men +remember that they are not wanted in our midst. Let them leave their +carcasses where they do their work. We want not our burying-grounds +polluted with such hypocrites. Let the souls of them go down to hell, +poverty-stricken and naked, and lie there until they are burned out +like an old pipe!” The defections ceased from that moment, and Zion was +preserved intact. Brigham was satisfied. If he could hold them together +under the alluring tales of gold-finds that were brought over the +mountains, he had no longer any fear that they might fall away under +mere physical hardship. And he held them,—the supreme test of his power +over the bodies and minds of his people. + +This passing of the gold-seekers was not, however, a blessing without +drawbacks. For the Saints had hoped to wax strong unobserved, +unmolested, forgotten, in this mountain retreat. But now obscurity +could no longer be their lot. The hated Gentiles had again to be +reckoned with. + +First, the United States had expanded on the west to include their +territory—the fruit of the Mexican War—the poor bleak desert they were +making to blossom. Next, the government at Washington had sent to +construe and administer their laws men who were aliens from the +Commonwealth of Israel. True, Millard Fillmore had appointed Brigham +governor of the new Territory—but there were chief justices and +associate justices, secretaries, attorneys, marshals, and Indian agents +from the wicked and benighted East; men who frankly disbelieved that +the voice of Brigham was as the voice of God, and who did not hesitate +to let their heresy be known. A stream of these came and +went—trouble-mongers who despised and insulted the Saints, and returned +to Washington with calumnies on their lips. It was true that Brigham +had continued, as was right, to be the only power in the Territory; but +the narrow-minded appointees of the Federal government persisted in +misconstruing this circumstance; refusing to look upon it as the just +mark of Heaven’s favour, and declaring it to be the arrogance of a mere +civil usurper. + +Under such provocation Joel Rae longed more than ever to be a Lion of +the Lord, for those above him in the Church endured too easily, he +considered, the indignities that were put upon them by these +evil-minded Gentile politicians. He would have rejected them forthwith, +as he believed the Lord would have had them do,—nay, as he believed the +Lord would sooner or later punish them for not doing. He would have +thrust them into the desert, and called upon the Lord for strength to +meet the storm that would doubtless be raised by such a course. He was +impatient when the older men cautioned moderation and the petty wiles +of diplomacy. Yet he was not altogether discouraged; for even they lost +patience at times, and were almost as outspoken as he could have +wished. + +Even Brigham, on one notable occasion, had thrilled him, when in the +tabernacle he had bearded Brocchus and left him white and cowering +before all the people, trembling for his life,—Brocchus, the unworthy +Associate Justice, who had derided their faith, insulted their prophet, +and slandered their women. How he rejoiced in that moment when Brigham +for once lost his temper and let his eyes flash their hate upon the +frightened official. + +“But you,” Brigham had roared, “standing there white and shaking at the +hornets’ nest you have stirred up—you are a coward—and that is why you +praise men that are not cowards—why you praise Zachary Taylor!” + +Brigham had a little time before declared that Zachary Taylor was dead +and in hell, and that he, Brigham, was glad of it. + +“President Taylor you can’t praise,” he had gone on to the gradually +whitening Brocchus. “What was he? A mere soldier with regular army +buttons on—no better to go at the head of troops than a dozen men I +could pick up between Leavenworth and Laramie. As to what you have +intimated about our morals—you miserable cringing coward, you—I won’t +notice it except to make my personal request of every brother and +husband present not to give your back what your impudence deserves. You +talk of things you have on hearsay since you came among us. I’ll talk +of hearsay, then—the hearsay that you are mad and will go home because +we can’t make it worth your while to stay. What it would satisfy you to +get out of us it wouldn’t be hard to tell; but I know it’s more than +you’ll get. We don’t want you. You are such a baby-calf that we would +have to sugar your soap to coax you to wash yourself on Saturday night. +Go home to your mammy, straightaway, and the sooner the better.” + +This was the manner, thought Joel Rae, that Federal officials should be +treated when they were out of sympathy with Zion—though he thought he +might perhaps have chosen words that would be more dignified had the +task been entrusted to him. He told Brigham his satisfaction with the +address when the excited congregation had dispersed, and the alarmed +Brocchus had gone. + +“That is the course we must take, Brother Brigham—do more of it. Unless +we take our stand now against aggression, the Lord will surely smite us +again with famine and pestilence.” And Brigham had answered, in the +tones of a man who knows, “Wait just a little!” + +But there came famine upon them again; in punishment, declared Joel +Rae, for their ungodly temporising with the minions of the United +States government. In ’54 the grasshoppers ate their growing crops. In +’55 they came again with insatiate maws—and on what they left the +drought and frost worked their malignant spells. The following winter +great numbers of their cattle and sheep perished on the range in the +heavy snows. + +The spring of ’56 found them again digging roots and resorting to all +the old pitiful makeshifts of famine. + +“This,” declared Joel Rae, to the starving people, “is a judgment of +Heaven upon us for permitting Gentile aggression. It is meant to clench +into our minds the God’s truth that we must stand by our faith with the +arms of war if need be.” + +“Brother Rae is just a little mite soul-proud,” Brigham thereupon +confided to his counsellors, “and I wouldn’t wonder if the Lord would +be glad to see some of it taken out of him. Anyway, I’ve got a job for +him that will just about do it.” + + + + +Chapter XIII. +Joel Rae Is Treated for Pride of Soul + + +Brigham sent for him the next day and did him the honour to entrust to +him an important mission. He was to go back to the Missouri River and +bring on one of the hand-cart parties that were to leave there that +summer. The three years of famine had left the Saints in the valley +poor, so that the immigration fund was depleted. The oncoming Saints, +therefore, who were not able to pay their own way, were this summer, +instead of riding in ox-carts, to walk across the plains and mountains, +and push their belongings before them in hand-carts. It had become +Brigham’s pet scheme, and the Lord had revealed to him that it would +work out auspiciously. Joel prepared to obey, though it was not without +aversion that he went again to the edge of the Gentile country. + +He was full of bitterness while he was obliged to tarry on the banks of +the Missouri. The hatred of those who had persecuted him and his +people, bred into him from boyhood, flashed up in his heart with more +fire than ever. Even when a late comer from Nauvoo told him that +Prudence Corson had married Captain Girnway of the Carthage Grays, two +years after the exodus from Nauvoo, his first feeling was one of +blazing anger against the mobocrats rather than regret for his lost +love. + +“They moved down to Jackson County, Missouri, too,” concluded his +informant, thus adding to the flame. They had gone to set up their home +in the very Zion that the Gentiles with so much bloodshed had wrested +from the Saints. + +Even when the first anger cooled and he could face the thing calmly in +all its deeper aspects, he was still very bitter. While he had stanchly +kept himself for her, cherishing with a single heart all the old +memories of her dearness, she had been a wife these seven years,—the +wife, moreover, of a mob-leader whose minions had put them out of their +home, and then wantonly tossed his father like a dead branch into the +waters. She had loved this uniformed murderer—his little Prue—perhaps +borne him children, while he, Joel Rae, had been all too scrupulously +true to her memory, fighting against even the pleased look at a woman; +fighting—only the One above could know with what desperate +valour—against the warm-hearted girl with the gray eyes and the red +lips, who laughed in her knowledge that she drew him—fighting her away +for a sentimental figment, until she had married another. + +Now when he might have let himself turn to her, his heart freed of the +image of that yellow-haired girl so long cherished, this other was the +wife of Elder Pixley—the fifth wife—and an unloving wife as he knew. + +She had sought him before the marriage, and there had been some wholly +frank and simple talk between them. It had ended by his advising her to +marry Elder Pixley so that she might be saved into the Kingdom, and by +her replying, with the old reckless laugh, a little dry and strained, +and with the wonderful gray eyes full upon him,—“Oh, I’ll marry him! +Small difference to me what man of them I marry at all,—now!” + +And while he, by a mighty effort, had held down his arms and let her +turn away, the woman for whose memory he did it was the wife of an +enemy, caring nothing for his fidelity, sure to feel not more than +amused pity for him should she ever know of it. Surely, it had been a +brave struggle—for nothing. + +But again the saving thought came that he was being tried for a +purpose, for some great work. And now it seemed that the time of it +must be near. As to what it was there could be little question: it must +be to free his people forever from Gentile aggression or interference. +Everything pointed to that. He was to be entrusted with great powers, +and be made a Lion of the Lord to lead them to their rightful glory. + +He was eager to be back to the mountains where he could fitly receive +this new power, and becomingly make it known that he had been chosen of +Heaven to free them forever from the harassing Gentile. He felt +instinctively that a climax was close at hand—some dread moment of +turning that would try the faith of the Saints once for all—try his own +faith as well, and at last bring his great Witness before him, if his +soul should survive the perilous ordeal. For he had never ceased to +wait for this heavenly Witness—something he needed—he knew not +what—some great want of his soul unsatisfied despite all the teachings +of the temple priesthood. The hunger gnawed in his heart,—a hunger that +only his Witness could feed. + +When the hand-cart party came in across the prairies of Iowa he made +all haste to be off with it to the valley of the Lake. Several such +parties had left the Missouri earlier in the season. His own was to be +the last. There were six hundred of them, young and old, men, women, +and children. Their carts moved on two light wheels with two projecting +shafts of hickory joined by a cross-piece. He was indignant to learn +that the Gentiles along the route of their march across Iowa had tried +to beguile these people from their faith. And even while they were in +camp on the Missouri there were still ungodly ones to warn them that +they were incurring grave dangers by starting across the plains so late +in the season. + +With rare fervour he rallied the company from these attacks, pointed +out the divine source of the hand-cart plan, prophesied blessings and +abundance upon them for their faith in starting, and dwelt warningly +upon the sin they would be guilty of should they disobey their leader +and refuse to start. + +They responded bravely, and by the middle of August all was ready for +the march. He divided them into hundreds, allotting to each hundred +five tents, twenty hand-carts, and one wagon, drawn by three yokes of +oxen, to carry the tents and provisions. Families with more young men +than were needed to push their own carts helped families not so well +provided; but many carts had to be pushed by young girls and women. + +He put the company on rations at the time of starting; ten ounces of +flour to each adult, four ounces to children, with bacon, sugar, +coffee, and rice served occasionally; for he had been unable to obtain +a full supply of provisions. Even in the first days of the march some +of the men would eat their day’s allowance for breakfast, depending on +the generosity of settlers by the way, so long as there were any, for +what food they had until another morning. They were sternly rebuked by +their leader for thus, without shame, eating the bread of ungodliness. + +Their first trouble after leaving the Missouri was with the carts; +their construction in all its details had been dictated from on high, +but the dust of the parched prairie sifted into the wooden hubs, and +ground the axles so that they broke. This caused delay for repairs, and +as there was no axle grease, many of them, hungry as they were, used +their scanty allowance of bacon to grease the wheels. + +Yet in spite of these hardships they were cheerful, and in the early +days of the march they sang with spirit, to the tune of “A Little More +Cider,” the hymn of the hand-cart written by one of their number: + +“Hurrah for the Camp of Israel! Hurrah for the hand-cart scheme! +Hurrah, hurrah! ’tis better far Than the wagon and ox-team. +“Oh, our faith goes with the hand-carts, And they have our hearts’ best +love; ’Tis a novel mode of travelling Designed by the Gods above. +“And Brigham’s their executive, He told us their design; And the Saints +are proudly marching on Along the hand-cart line. +“Who cares to go with the wagons? Not we who are free and strong. Our +faith and arms with a right good will Shall push our carts along.” + + +At Wood River the plains seethed with buffalo, a frightened herd of +which one night caused a stampede of their cattle. After that the frail +carts had to relieve the wagons of a part of their loads, in order that +the remaining animals could draw them, each cart taking on a hundred +more pounds. + +Thus, overworked and insufficiently fed, they pushed valiantly on under +burning suns, climbing the hills and wading the streams with their +burdens, the vigorous in the van. For a mile behind the train straggled +the lame and the sick. Here would be an aged sire in Israel walking +painfully, supported by a son or daughter; there a mother carrying a +child at her breast, with others holding by her skirts; a few went on +crutches. + +As they toiled painfully forward in this wise, they were heartened by a +visit from a number of Elders who overtook them in returning to the +valley. These good men counselled them to be faithful, prayerful, and +obedient to their leader in all things, prophesying that they should +reach Zion in safety,—that though it might storm on their right and on +their left, the Lord would open their way before them. They cried +“Amen!” to this, and, at the request of the Elders, killed one of their +few remaining cattle for them, cheering them as they drove on in the +morning in their carriages. + +They took up the march with new courage; but then in a few days came a +new danger to threaten them,—the cold. A rule made by Brigham had +limited each cart’s outfit of clothing and bedding to seventeen pounds. +This had now become insufficient. As they advanced up the Sweetwater, +the mountains on either side took on snow. Frequent wading of the +streams chilled them. Morning would find them numb, haggard, +spiritless, unfitted for the march of the day. + +A week of this cold weather, lack of food, and overwork produced their +effect. The old and the weak became too feeble to walk; then they began +to die, peacefully, smoothly, as a lamp ceases to burn when the oil is +gone. At first the deaths occurred irregularly; then they were +frequent; soon it was rarely that they left a camp-ground without +burying one or more of their number. + +Nor was death long confined to the old and the infirm. Young men, +strong at the start, worn out now by the rigours of the march, began to +drop. A father would pull his cart all day, perhaps with his children +in it, and die at night when camp was reached. Each day lessened their +number. + +But they died full of faith, murmuring little, and having for their +chief regret, apparently, that they must be left on the plains or +mountains, instead of resting in the consecrated ground of Zion—this, +and that they must die without looking upon the face of their prophet, +seer, and revelator. + +Their leader cheered them as best he could. He was at first puzzled at +the severity of their hardships in the face of past prophecies. But +light at last came to him. He stopped one day to comfort a wan, weak +man who had halted in dejection by the road. + +“You have had trouble?” he asked him, and the man had answered, +wearily: + +“No, not what you could call trouble. When we left Florence my mother +could walk eighteen or twenty miles a day. She did it for weeks. But +then she wore out, and I had to haul her in my cart; but it was only +for three days. She gave up and died before we started out, the morning +of the fourth day. We buried her by the roadside without a coffin—that +was hard, to put her old, gray head right down into the ground with no +protection. It made us mourn, for she had always been such a good +friend. Then we went on a few days, and my sister gave out. I carried +her in the cart a few days, but she died too. Then my youngest child, +Ephraim, died. Then I fell sick myself, and my wife has pushed the cart +with me in it for two days. She looked so tired to-day that I got out +to rest her. But we don’t call it trouble, only for the cold—my wife +has a chill every time she has to wade one of those icy streams. She’s +not very used to rough life.” + +As he listened to the man’s tale, the truth came to him in a great +light. Famine not sufficing, the Lord was sending this further +affliction upon them. He was going to goad them into asserting and +maintaining their independence of his enemies, the Gentiles. The +inspiration of this thought nerved him anew. Though they all died, to +the last child, he would live to carry back to Zion the message that +now burned within him. They had temporised with the Gentile and had +grown lax among themselves. They must be aroused to repentance, and God +would save him to do the work. + +So, when the snow came at last, the final touch of hardship, driving +furiously about the unprotected women and children, putting wild fear +into the heart of every man, he remained calm and sure and defiant. The +next morning the snow lay heavily about them, and they had to dig +through it to bury five of their number in one grave. The morning +before, they had issued their last ration of flour. Now he divided +among the company a little hard bread they had kept, and waited in the +snow, for they could travel no further without food. + +One of their number was sent ahead to bring aid. After a day in which +they ate nothing, supplies reached them from the valley; but now they +were so weakened that food could not fortify them against the extreme +cold that had set in. They wrapped themselves in their few poor quilts, +and struggled bravely on into a white, stinging fog of snow. Each +morning there were more and more of them to bury. And even the burial +was a mockery, for wolves were digging at the graves almost before the +last debilitated straggler had left the camping-place. The heavy snows +continued, but movement was necessary. Into the white jaws of the +beautiful, merciless demon they went. + +Among the papers of a man he helped to bury, Joel Rae found a journal +that the dead man had kept until within a few days of his death. By the +light of his last candle he read it until late into the night. + +“The weather grew colder each day; and many got their feet so badly +frozen that they could not walk and had to be lifted from place to +place. Some got their fingers frozen; others their ears; and one woman +lost her sight by the frost. These severities of the weather also +increased our number of deaths, so that we buried several each day. + +“The day we crossed the Rocky Ridge it was snowing a little—the wind +hard from the northwest, and blowing so keenly that it almost pierced +us through. We had to wrap ourselves closely in blankets, quilts, or +whatever else we could get, to keep from freezing. Elder Rae this day +appointed me to bring up the rear. My duty was to stay behind +everything and see that nobody was left along the road. I had to bury a +man who had died in my hundred, and I finished doing so after the +company had started. In about half an hour I set out on foot alone to +do my duty as rear-guard to the camp. The ascent of the ridge commenced +soon after leaving camp, and I had not gone far up it before I overtook +the carts that the folks could not pull through the snow, here about +knee-deep. I helped them along, and we soon overtook another. By all +hands getting to one cart we could travel; so we moved one of the carts +a few rods, and then went back and brought up the others. After moving +in this way for awhile, we overtook other carts at different points of +the hill, until we had six carts, not one of which could be moved by +the parties owning it. I put our collective strength to three carts at +a time, took them a short distance, and then brought up the other +three. Thus by travelling over the hill three times—twice forward and +once back—I succeeded after hours of toil in bringing my little company +to the summit. The carts were then trotted on gaily down-hill, the +intense cold stirring us to action. + +“One or two parties who were with these carts gave up entirely, and but +for the fact that we overtook one of our ox-teams that had been +detained on the road, they must have perished on the Rocky Ridge. One +old man named James, a farmer from Gloucestershire, who had a large +family, and who had worked very hard all the way, I found sitting by +the roadside unable to pull his cart any farther. I could not get him +into the wagon, as it was already overcrowded. He had a shotgun, which +he had brought from England, and which had been a great blessing to him +and his family, for he was a good shot, and often had a mess of +sage-hens or rabbits for his family. I took the gun from his cart, put +a bundle on the end of it, placed it on his shoulder, and started him +out with his little boy, twelve years old. His wife and two daughters, +older than the boy, took the cart along finely after reaching the +summit. + +“We travelled along with the ox-team and overtook others, all so laden +with the sick and helpless that they moved very slowly. The oxen had +almost given out. Some of our folks with carts went ahead of the team, +for where the roads were good they could out-travel oxen; but we +constantly overtook stragglers, some with carts, some without, who had +been unable to keep pace with the body of the company. We struggled +along in this weary way until after dark, and by this time our rear +numbered three wagons, eight hand-carts, and nearly forty persons. + +“With the wagons were Millen Atwood, Levi Savage, and William Woodward, +captains of hundreds, faithful men who had worked all the way. We +finally came to a stream of water which was frozen over. We could not +see where the company had crossed. If at the point where we struck the +creek, then it had frozen over since they passed it. We started one +team across, but the oxen broke through the ice, and would not go over. +No amount of shouting and whipping could induce them to stir an inch. +We were afraid to try the other teams, for even could they cross, we +could not leave the one in the creek and go on. + +“There was no wood in the vicinity, so we could make no fire, and we +were uncertain what to do. We did not know the distance to the camp, +but supposed it to be three or four miles. After consulting about it, +we resolved that some one should go on foot to the camp to inform the +captain of our situation. I was selected to perform the duty, and I set +out with all speed. In crossing the creek I slipped through the ice and +got my feet wet, my boots being nearly worn out. I had not gone far +when I saw some one sitting by the roadside. I stopped to see who it +was, and discovered the old man, James, and his little boy. The poor +old man was quite worn out. + +“I got him to his feet and had him lean on me, and he walked a little +distance, but not very far. I partly dragged, partly carried, him a +short distance farther, but he was quite helpless, and my strength +failed me. Being obliged to leave him to go forward on my own errand, I +put down a quilt I had wrapped around me, rolled him in it, and told +the little boy to walk up and down by his father, and on no account to +sit down, or he would be frozen to death. He asked me very bravely why +God or Brigham Young had not sent us some food or blankets. + +“I again set out for the camp, running all the way and frequently +falling down, for there were many obstructions and holes in the road. +My boots were frozen stiff, so that I had not the free use of my feet, +and it was only by rapid motion that I kept them from being badly +frozen. As it was, both feet have been nipped. + +“After some time, I came in sight of the camp-fires, which encouraged +me. As I neared the camp, I frequently overtook stragglers on foot, all +pressing forward slowly. I stopped to speak to each one, cautioning +them all against resting, as they would surely freeze to death. +Finally, about eleven P.M., I reached the camp almost exhausted. I had +exerted myself very much during the day, and had not eaten anything +since breakfast. I reported to Elder Rae the situation of the folks +behind. He immediately got up some horses, and the boys from the valley +started back about midnight to help the ox-teams in. The night was very +severe, and many of the animals were frozen. It was five A.M. before +the last team reached the camp. + +“I told my companions about the old man James and his little boy. They +found the little fellow keeping faithful watch over his father, who lay +sleeping in my quilt just as I left him. They lifted him into a wagon, +still alive, but in a sort of stupor, and he died just as they got him +up by the fire. His last words were an inquiry as to the safety of his +shotgun. + +“There were so many dead and dying that it was decided to lay by for +the day. In the forenoon I was appointed to go around the camp and +collect the dead. I took with me two young men to assist me in the sad +task, and we collected together, of all ages and both sexes, thirteen +corpses, all stiffly frozen. We had a large square hole dug, in which +we buried these thirteen people, three or four abreast and three deep. +When they did not fit in, we put one or two crosswise at the head or +feet of the others. We covered them with willows and then with the +earth. When we buried these thirteen people, some of their relatives +refused to attend the services. They manifested an utter indifference +about it. The numbness and cold in their physical natures seemed to +have reached the soul, and to have crushed out natural feeling and +affection. Had I not myself witnessed it, I could not have believed +that suffering could produce such terrible results. But so it was. Two +others died during the day, and we buried them in the same big grave, +making fifteen in all. Even so it has been better for them than to stay +where their souls would have been among the rejected at the day of +resurrection. + +“But for Elder Rae, our leader, we should all have perished by now. He +is at times severe and stern with those who falter, but only for their +good. He is all along the line, helping the women, who well-nigh +worship him, and urging on the men. He cheers us by prophesying that we +shall soon prevail over all conditions and all our enemies. I think he +must never sleep and never eat. At all hours of the night he is awake. +As to eating, a girl in our hundred, Fidelia, daughter of Jabez +Merrismith, who has been much attracted by him and stays near him when +she can, called him aside the other day, so she has told me, and gave +him a biscuit—_soaked, perfectly soaked, with bacon grease_. She had +saved it for many days. He took it and thanked her, but later she saw +him giving it to the wife of Henry Glines, who is hauling Henry and the +two babies in the cart. She taxed him with not eating it himself; but +he told her that she had given him more than bread, which was the power +to _give_ bread. The _giving_ happiness, he told her, is always a +little more than the _taking_ happiness, even when we are starving. He +says the one kind of happiness always keeps a little ahead of the +other.” + +December 1st, the remnant of the caravan reached the city of the +Saints. Of six hundred setting out from the Missouri River, over one +quarter had died by the way. + +And to Joel Rae had now come another mission,—one that would not let +him wait, for the spirit was moving him strangely and strongly,—a +mission of reformation. + + + + +Chapter XIV. +How the Saints Were Brought to Repentance + + +He put his torch to the tinder of irreligion at the first Sunday +meeting after his return. There were no premonitions, no warnings, no +signs. + +A few of the Elders had preceded him to rejoice at the escape of the +last hand-cart party from death in the mountains; and Brigham, after +giving the newcomers some practical hints about their shelter during +the winter now upon them, had invited Elder Rae to address the +congregation. + +He arose and came uncertainly forward, apparently weak, able hardly to +stand without leaning upon the desk in front of him; his face waxen and +drawn, hollowed at the cheeks and temples, his long hands thin to +transparency. Life was betrayed in him only by the eyes. These burned +darkly, far back under his brows, and flashed fiercely, as his glance +darted swiftly from side to side. + +At first he spoke weakly and slowly, his opening words almost +inaudible, so that the throng of people before him leaned forward in +sympathetic intentness, and silence became absolute in the great hall +except for the high quavering of his tones. But then came a miracle of +reinvigoration. Little by little his voice swelled until it was full, +sonorous, richly warm and compelling, the words pouring from him with a +fluency that enchained. Little by little his leaning, drooping posture +of weakness became one of towering strength, the head flung back, the +gestures free and potent. Little by little his burning eyes seemed to +send their flash and glow through all his body, so that he became a +creature of life and fire. + +They heard each word now, but still they leaned forward as when he +spoke at first, inaudibly—caught thrilled and breathless in his spell, +even to the Elders, Priests, and Apostles sitting near him. Nor was his +manner alone impressive. His words were new. He was calling them +sinners and covenant-breakers, guilty of pride, covetousness, +contention, lying, stealing, moral uncleanness—and launching upon them +the curse of Israel’s God unless they should repent. + +“It has been told you again and again,” he thundered, “that if you wish +to be great in the Kingdom of God you must be good. It has been told +you many times, and now I burn the words once more into the bones of +your soul, that in this kingdom which the great Elohim has again set up +on earth, no man, no woman, can become great without being good, +without being true to his integrity, faithful to his trust, full of +charity and good works. + +“Hear it now: if you do not order your lives to do all the good you +can, if you are false to one trust, you shall be stripped naked before +Jehovah of all your anticipations of greatness. And you have failed in +your work; you have been false to your trust; you have been lax and +wicked, and you have temporised, nay, affiliated with Gentiles. I have +asked myself if this, after all, may not have been the chief cause of +God’s present wrath upon us. The flesh is weak. I have had my own hours +of wrestling with Satan. We all know his cunning to take shapes that +most weaken, beguile, and unman us, and small wonder if many of us +succumb. But this other sin is wilful. Not only have Gentile officers, +Federal officers, come among us and been let to insult, abuse, +calumniate, and to trample upon our most sacred ordinances, but we have +consorted, traded, and held relations with the Gentiles that pass by +us. You have the term ‘winter Mormons,’ a generation of vipers who come +here, marry your daughters in the fall, rest with you during the +winter, and pass on to the gold fields in the spring, never to return. +You, yourselves, coined the Godless phrase. But how can you utter it +without crimson faces? I tell you now, God is to make a short work upon +this earth. His lines are being drawn, and many of you before me will +be left outside. The curtains of Zion have been spread, but you are +gone beyond their folds. You are no longer numbered in the household of +faith. For your weak souls the sealing keys of power have been +delivered in vain. You have become waymarks to the kingdom of folly. +This is truth I tell you. It has been frozen and starved into me, but +it will be burned into you. For your sins, the road between here and +the Missouri River is a road between two lines of graves. For your +sins, from the little band I have just brought in, one hundred and +fifty faithful ones fell asleep by the wayside, and their bodies went +to be gnawed by the wolves. How long shall others die for you? Forever, +think you? No! Your last day is come. Repent, confess your sins in all +haste, be buried again in the waters of baptism, then cast out the +Gentile, and throw off his yoke,—and thereafter walk in trembling all +your days,—for your wickedness has been great.” + +Such was the opening gun in what became known as the “reformation.” The +conditions had been ripe for it, and in that very moment a fever of +repentance spread through the two thousand people who had cowered under +his words. Alike with the people below, the leaders about him had been +fired with his spirit, and when he sat down each of them arose in turn +and echoed his words, denouncing the people for their sins and +exhorting them to repentance. + +After another hour of this excitement, priests and people became alike +demoralised, and the meeting broke up in a confusion of terror. + +As the doors of the tabernacle flew open, and the Saints pushed out of +that stifling atmosphere of denunciation, a cry came to the lips of the +dozen that first escaped: + +“To the river—the waters of baptism!” + +The words were being taken up by others until the cry had run back +through the crowd to the leaders, still talking in excited groups about +the pulpit. These comprehended when they heard it, and straightway a +line of conscience-stricken Saints was headed toward the river. + +There in the icy Jordan, on that chill December afternoon, when the +snows lay thick on the ground, the leaders stood and buried the sinful +ones anew in the cleansing waters. From the sinners themselves came +cries of self-accusation; from the crowd on the banks came the strains +of hymns to fortify them for the icy ordeal and the public confession. + +There in the freezing current stood Joel Rae until long after the +December sun had gone below the Oquirrh hills, performing his office of +baptism, and reviving hope in those his words had smitten with fear. + +His strength already depleted by the long march with the hand-cart +party and by the exhausting strain of the day, he was early chilled by +the water into which he plunged the repentant sinners. For the last +hour that he stood in the stream, his whole body was numb; he had +ceased to feel life in his feet, and his arms worked with a mechanical +stiffness like the arms of some automaton over which his mind had +control. + +For there was no numbness as yet in his mind. It was wonderfully clear +and active. He had begun a great work. His words had been words of +fire, and the flames of them had spread so that in a little while every +sinner in Zion should burn in them and be purified. Even the leaders—a +great wave of exultation surged through him at this thought—even +Brigham had felt the glow, and henceforth would be a fiercer Lion of +the Lord to resist the Godless Gentile. + +Long after sensation had left his body his thoughts were rushing in +this fever of realisation, while his chilled hands made new in the +Kingdom such sinners as came there repenting. + +Not until night fell did the hymns cease and the crowd dwindle away. +The air grew colder, and he began to feel pain again, the water cutting +against his legs like a blade. Little groups were now hurrying off in +the darkness, and the last Saint he had baptised was standing for the +moment, chill and dripping, on the bank. + +Seeing there was no one else to come, he staggered out of the stream +where he had stood for three hours, finding his feet curiously clumsy +and uncontrollable. Below him in the stream another Elder still waited +to baptise a man and woman; but those who had been above him in the +river were gone, and his own work was done. + +He ascended the bank, and stood looking back at the Elder who remained +in the stream. This man was now coming out of the water, having +performed his office for the last one who waited. He called to Joel +Rae: + +“Don’t stand there, Brother Rae. Hurry and get to your fire and your +warm drink and your supper, or you’ll be bed-fast with the chills.” + +“It has been a glorious day, Brother Maltby!” + +“Truly, a great work has been begun, thanks to you—but hurry, man! you +are freezing. Get to your fireside. We can’t lose you now.” + +With a parting word he turned and set off down the dark street, walking +unsteadily through the snow, for his feet had to be tossed ahead of +him, and he could not always do it accurately. And the cold, now that +he was out of the water, came more keenly upon him, only it seemed to +burn him through and through with a white heat. He felt his arms +stiffening in his wet sleeves, and his knees grow weak. He staggered on +past a row of cabins, from which the light of fires shone out on the +snow. At almost every step he stumbled out of the narrow path that had +been trodden. + +“To your own fireside.” He recalled the words of Elder Maltby, and +remembered his own lone, dark cabin, himself perhaps without strength +to build a fire or to get food, perhaps without even strength to reach +the place, for he felt weaker now, all at once, and put his hand out to +support himself against the fence. + +He had been hearing footsteps behind him, creaking rapidly over the +packed snow-path. He might have to ask for help to reach his home. Even +as the steps came close, he felt himself swaying. He leaned over on the +fence, but to his amazement that swayed, too, and threw him back. Then +he felt himself falling toward the street; but the creaking steps +ceased, now by his side, and he felt under him something soft but +firm—something that did not sway as the fence had unaccountably done. +With his balance thus regained, he discovered the thing that held him +to be a woman’s arm. A woman’s face looked close into his, and then she +spoke. + +“You are so cold. I knew you would be. And I waited—I wanted to do for +you—let me!” + +At once there came back to him the vision of a white-faced woman in the +crowd along the river bank, staring at him out of deep, gray eyes under +heavy, black brows. + +“Mara—Mara!” + +“Yes, yes—you are so cold!” + +“But you must not stand so close—see, I am wet—you will be chilled!” + +“But _you_ are already chilled; your clothes are freezing on you; and +you were falling just now. Can you walk?” + +“Yes—yes—my house is yonder.” + +“I know; it’s far; it’s beyond the square. You must come with me.” + +“But your house is still farther!” + +She had started him now, with a firm grasp of his arm, walking beside +him in the deep snow, and trying to keep him in the narrow path. + +“No—I am staying here with Hubert Plimon’s two babies, while the mother +has gone to Provo where Hubert lies sick. See—the light there. Come +with me—here’s the gate—you shall be warmed.” + +Slowly and with many stumblings, leaning upon her strong arm, he made +his way to the cabin door. She pushed it open before him and he felt +the great warm breath of the room rush out upon him. Then he was +inside, swaying again uncertainly upon his feet. In the hovering light +that came from the fireplace he saw the bed in the far corner where the +two small children were sleeping, saw Mara with her back to the door, +facing him breathlessly, saw the heavy shadows all about; but he was +conscious of hardly more than the vast heavenly warmth that rolled out +from the fire and enfolded him and made him drunk. + +Again he would have fallen, but she steadied him down on to a wide +couch covered with buffalo robes, beside the big fireplace; and here he +fell at once into a stupor. She drew out the couch so that it caught +more of the heat, pulled off the water-soaked boots and the stiffened +coat, wrapped him in a blanket which she warmed before the fire, and +covered him still again with one of the buffalo robes. + +She went then to bring food and to make a hot drink, which she +strengthened with brandy poured from a little silver flask. + +Presently she aroused him to drink the hot liquor, and then, after +another blank of stupor, she aroused him again, to eat. He could take +but little of the food, but called for more of the drink, and felt the +soul of it thrill along his frozen nerves until they awoke, sharpened, +alert, and eager. He lay so, with closed eyes a little time, floating +in an ecstasy that seemed to be half stupor and half of keenest +sensibility. Then he opened his eyes. She was kneeling by the couch on +which he lay. He felt her soft, quick breathing, and noted the +unnatural shining of her eyes and lips where the firelight fell upon +them. All at once he threw out his arms and drew her to him with such a +shuddering rush of power that she cried aloud in quick alarm—but the +cry was smothered under his kisses. + +For ages the transport seemed to endure, the little world of his senses +whirling madly through an illimitable space of sensuous light, his lips +melting upon hers, his neck bending in the circle of pulsing warmth +that her soft arms wove about it, his own arms crushing to his breast +with frenzied fervour the whole yielding splendour of her womanhood. A +moment so, then he fell back upon the couch, all his body quivering +under the ecstasy from her parted lips, his triumphant senses rioting +insolently through the gray, cold garden of his vows. + +She drew a little back, her hands resting on his shoulders, and he saw +again the firelight shining in her eyes and upon her lips. Yet the eyes +were now lighted with a strange, sad reluctance, even while the +mutinous lips opened their inciting welcome. + +He was floating—floating midway between a cold, bleak heaven of denial +and a luring hell of consent; floating recklessly, as if careless to +which his soul should go. + +His gaze was once more upon her face, and now, in a curiously cool +little second of observation, he saw mirrored there the same +conflicting duality that he knew raged within himself. In her eyes +glowed the pure flame of fear and protest—but on her mad lips was the +curl of provocation. And as the man in him had waited carelessly, in a +sensuous luxury of unconcern, for his soul to go where it might—far up +or far down—so now the woman waited before him in an incurious, +unbiassed calm—the clear eyes with their grave, stern “_No_!”—the +parted lips all but shuddering out their “_Yes_!” + +Still he looked and still the leaning woman waited—waited to welcome +with impartial fervour the angel or the devil that might come forth. + +And then, as he lay so, there started with electric quickness, from +some sudden coldness of recollection, the image of Prue. Sharp and +vivid it shone from this chill of truth like a glittering star from the +clean winter sky outside. Prue was before him with the tender blue of +her eyes and the fleecy gold of her hair and her joy of a child—her +little figure shrugging and nestling in his arms in happy faith—calling +as she had called to him that morning—“_Joel—Joel—Joel_!” + +He shivered in this flood of cold, relentless light, yet unflinchingly +did he keep his face turned full upon the truth it revealed. + +And this was now more than the image of the sweetheart he had sworn to +cherish—it was also the image of himself vowed to his great mission. He +knew that upon neither of these could he suffer a blemish to come if he +would not be forever in agony. With appalling clearness the thing was +lined out before him. + +The woman at his side stirred and his eyes were again upon her. At once +she saw the truth in them. Her parted lips came together in a straight +line, shutting the red fulness determinedly in. Then there shone from +her eyes a glad, sweet welcome to the angel that had issued. + +His arms seemed to sicken, falling limply from her. She arose without +speaking, and busied herself a little apart, her back to him. + +He sat up on the couch, looking about the little room curiously, as one +recovering consciousness in strange surroundings. Then he began slowly +to pull on the wet boots that she had placed near the fire. + +When he stood up, put on his coat, and reached for his hat, she came up +to him, hesitating, timid. + +“You are so cold! If you would only stay here—I am afraid you will be +sick.” + +He answered very gently: + +“It is better to go. I am strong again, now.” + +“I would—I would not be near you—and I am afraid for you to go out +again in the cold.” + +He smiled a little. “_Nothing_ can hurt me now—I am strong.” + +He opened the door, breathing his fill of the icy air that rushed in. +He stepped outside, then turned to her. She stood in the doorway, the +light from the room melting the darkness about them. + +They looked long at each other. Then in a sudden impulse of gratitude, +of generous feeling toward her, he put out his arm and drew her to him. +She was cold, impassive. He bent over and lightly kissed her closed, +unresponding lips. As he drew away, her hand caught his wrist for a +second. + +“I’m _glad_!” she said. + +He tried to answer, but could only say, “Good night, Mara!” + +Then he turned, drew the wide collar of his coat well up, and went down +the narrow path through the snow. She stood, framed in the light of the +doorway, leaning out to look after him until he was lost in the +darkness. + +As she stepped back and closed the door, a man, who had halted by a +tree in front of the next house when the door first opened, walked on +again. + +It had been a great day, but, for one cause or another, it came near to +being one of the last days of the man who had made it great. + +Late the next afternoon, Joel Rae was found in his cabin by a messenger +from Brigham. He had presumably lain there unattended since the night +before, and now he was delirious and sick unto death; raving of the +sins of the Saints, and of his great work of reformation. So tenderly +sympathetic was his mind, said those who came to care for him, that in +his delirium he ranked himself among the lowest of sinners in Zion, +imploring them to take him out and bury him in the waters of baptism so +that he might again be worthy to preach them the Word of God. + +He was at once given every care, and for six weeks was not left alone +night or day; the good mothers in Israel vying with each other in +kindly offices for the sick Elder, and the men praying daily that he +might not be taken so soon after his great work had begun. + +The fifth wife of Elder Pixley came once to sit by his bedside, but +when she heard him rave of some great sin that lay black upon his soul, +beseeching forgiveness for it while the tears rained down his fevered +face, she had professed that his suffering sickened her so she could +not stay. Thereafter she had contented herself with inquiring at his +door each day—until the day when they told her that the sickness was +broken; that he was again rational and doubtless would soon be well. +After that she went no more; which was not unnatural, for Elder Pixley +was about to return from his three years’ mission abroad, and there was +much to do in the community-house in preparation for the master’s +coming. + +But the long sickness of the young Elder did not in any manner stay the +great movement he had inaugurated. From that first Sunday the +reformation spread until it had reached every corner of the new Zion. +The leaders took up the accusing cry,—the Elders, Bishops, High +Priests, and Counsellors. Missionaries were appointed for the outlying +settlements, and meetings were held daily in every center, with a +general renewing of covenants. + +Brigham, who had warmly seconded Joel Rae’s opening discourse, was now, +not unnaturally, the leader of the reformation, and in his preaching to +the Saints while Joel Rae lay sick he committed no faults of vagueness. +For profane swearing he rebuked his people: “You Elders in Israel will +go to the cañons for wood, get a little brush-whipped, and then curse +and swear—damn and curse your oxen and swear by Him who created you. +You rip and curse as bad as any pirates ever did!” + +For the sin of cattle-stealing he denounced them. A fence high enough +to keep out cattle-thieves, he told them, must be high enough to keep +out the Devil. + +Sometimes his grievance would have a personal basis, as when he told +them: “I have gone to work and made roads to the cañon for wood; and I +have cut wood down and piled it up, and then I have not got it. I +wonder if any of you can say as much about the wood I have left there. +I could tell stories of Elders that found and took my wood that should +make professional thieves blush. And again I have proof to show that +Bishops have taken thousands of pounds of wheat in tithing which they +have never reported to the general tithing-office,—proof that they +stole the wheat to let their friends speculate upon.” + +Under this very pointed denunciation many of the flock complained +bitterly. But Brigham only increased the flow of his wrath upon them. +“You need,” said he, “to have it rain pitchforks, tines downward, from +this pulpit, Sunday after Sunday.” + +Still there were rebellious Saints to object, and, as Brigham drew the +lines of his wrath tighter, these became more prominent in the +community. When they voiced their discontent, they angered the +priesthood. But when they indicated their purpose to leave the valley, +as many soon did, they gave alarm. An exodus must be prevented at any +cost, and so the priesthood let it be known that migrations from the +valley would be considered as nothing less than apostasy. In Brigham’s +own words: “The moment a person decides to leave this people, he is cut +off from every object that is desirable in time or eternity. Every +possession and object of affection will be taken from those who forsake +the truth, and their identity will eventually cease.” + +But, as the reform wave swept on, it became apparent that these words +had been considered merely figurative by many who were about to seek +homes outside the valley. From every side news came privately that this +family or that was preparing to leave. + +And so it came about that the first Sunday Joel Rae was able to walk to +the tabernacle, still weak and wasted and trembling, he heard a sermon +from Brigham which made him question his own soul in an agony of +terror. For, on this day, was boldly preached, for the first time in +Zion, something which had never before been more than whispered among +the highest elect,—the doctrine of blood-atonement—of human sacrifice. + +“I am preaching St. Paul, this morning,” began Brigham, easily. +“Hebrews, Chapter ix., and Verse 22: ‘And almost all things are by the +law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission.’ +Also, and more especially, first Corinthians, Chapter v., Verse 5: ‘To +deliver such an one unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that +the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus.’ Remember these +words of Paul’s. The time has come when justice will be laid to the +line and righteousness to the plummet; when we shall take the old +broadsword, and ask, ‘Are you for God?’ And if you are not heartily on +the Lord’s side, you will be hewn down.” + +There was a rustling movement in the throng before him, and he paused +until it subsided. + +“I tell you there are men and women amongst you who ought to come and +ask me to select a place and appoint a committee to shed their blood. +Only in that way can they be saved, for water will not do. Their sins +are too deep for that. I repeat—there are covenant-breakers here, and +we need a place set apart and men designated to shed their blood for +their own salvation. If any of you ask, do I mean you, I answer yes. We +have tried long enough with you, and now I shall let the sword of the +Almighty be unsheathed, not only in words but in deed. I tell you there +are sins for which men cannot otherwise receive forgiveness in this +world nor in the world to come; and if you guilty ones had your eyes +opened to your true condition, you would be willing to have your blood +spilt upon the ground that the smoke thereof might go up to heaven for +your sins. I know when you hear this talk about cutting people off from +the earth you will consider it strong doctrine; but it is to save them, +and not destroy them. Take a person in this congregation who knows the +principles of that kind of life and sees the beauties of eternity +before him compared with the vain and foolish things of the world—and +suppose he is overtaken in a gross fault which he knows will rob him of +that exaltation which he desires and which he now cannot obtain without +the shedding of his blood; and suppose he knows that by having his +blood shed he will atone for that sin and be saved and exalted with the +Gods. Is there a man or woman here but would say, ‘Save me—shed my +blood, that I may be exalted.’ And how many of you love your neighbour +well enough to save him in that way? That is what Christ meant by +loving our neighbours as ourselves. I could refer you to plenty of +instances where men have been righteously slain to atone for their sin; +I have seen scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have +been a chance in the last day if their lives had been taken and their +blood spilt upon the ground as a smoking incense to the Almighty, but +who are now angels to the Devil because it was not done. The weakness +and ignorance of the nations forbids this law being in full and open +force; yet, remember, if our neighbour needs help we must help him. If +his soul is in danger we must save it. + +“Now as to our enemies—apostates and Gentiles—the tree that brings not +forth good fruit shall be hewn down. ‘What,’ you ask, ‘do you believe +that people would do right to put these traitors to death?’ Yes! What +does the United States government do with traitors? Examine the doings +of earthly governments on this point and you will find but one practise +universal. A word to the wise is enough; just remember that there are +sins that the blood of a lamb, of a calf, or of a turtle-dove, cannot +remit.” + +Under this discourse Joel Rae sat terrified, with a bloodless face, +cowering as he had made others to cower six weeks before. The words +seemed to carry his own preaching to its rightful conclusion; but now +how changed was his world!—a whirling, sickening chaos of sin and +remorse. + +As he listened to Brigham’s words, picturing the blood of the sinner +smoking on the ground, his thoughts fled back to that night, that night +of wondrous light and warmth, the last he could remember before the +great blank came. + +Now the voice of Brigham came to him again: “And almost all things are +by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no +remission!” + +Then the service ended, and he saw Bishop Wright pushing toward him +through the crowd. + +“Well, well, Brother Rae you do look peaked, for sure! But you’ll pick +up fast enough, and just in time, too. Lord! what won’t Brother Brigham +do when the Holy Ghost gets a strangle-holt on him? Now, then,” he +added, in a lower tone, “if I ain’t mistaken, there’s going to be some +work for the Sons of Dan!” + + + + +Chapter XV. +How the Souls of Apostates Were Saved + + +The Wild Ram of the Mountains had spoken truly; there was work at hand +for the Sons of Dan. When his Witness at last came to Joel Rae, he +tried vainly to recall the working of his mind at this time; to +remember where he had made the great turn—where he had faced about. +For, once, he knew, he had been headed the way he wished to go, a long, +plain road, reaching straight toward the point whither all the +aspirations of his soul urged him. + +And then, all in a day or in a night, though he had seen never a turn +in the road, though he had gone a true and straight course, suddenly he +had looked up to find he was headed the opposite way. After facing his +goal so long, he was now going from it—and never a turn! It was the +wretched paradox of a dream. + +The day after Brigham’s sermon on blood-atonement, there had been a +meeting in the Historian’s office, presided over by Brigham. And here +for the first time Joel Rae found he was no longer looked upon as one +too radical. Somewhat dazedly, too, he realised at this close range the +severely practical aspects of much that he had taught in theory. It was +strange, almost unnerving, to behold his own teachings naked of their +pulpit rhetoric; to find his long-cherished ideals materialised by +literal-minded, practiced men. + +He heard again the oath he had sworn, back on the river-flat: “_I will +assist in executing all the decrees of the First President, Patriarch, +or President of the Twelve, and I will cause all who speak evil of the +Presidency or Heads of the Church to die the death of dissenters or +apostates—_” And then he had heard the business of the meeting +discussed. Decisions were reached swiftly, and orders given in words +that were few and plain. Even had these orders been repugnant to him, +they were not to be questioned; they came from an infallible +priesthood, obedience to which was the first essential to his soul’s +salvation; and they came again from the head of an organisation to +which he was bound by every oath he had been taught to hold sacred. +But, while they left him dazed, disconcerted, and puzzled, he was by no +means certain that they were repugnant. They were but the legitimate +extension of his teachings since childhood, and of his own preaching. + +In custody at Kayesville, twenty-five miles north of Salt Lake City, +were six men who had been arrested by church authority while on their +way east from California. They were suspected of being federal spies. +The night following the meeting which Joel Rae had attended, these +prisoners were attacked while they slept. Two were killed at once; two +more after a brief struggle; and the remaining two the following day, +after they had been pursued through the night. The capable Bishop +Wright declared in confidence to Joel Rae that it reminded him of old +days at Nauvoo. + +The same week was saved Rosmas Anderson, who had incurred rejection +from Israel and eternal wrath by his misbehaviour. Becoming submissive +to the decree of the Church, when it was made known to him by certain +men who came in the night, it was believed that his atonement would +suffice to place him once more in the household of faith. He had asked +but half a day to prepare for the solemn ceremony. His wife, regretful +but firm in the faith, had provided clean garments for her sinful +husband, and the appointed executioners dug his grave. They went for +him at midnight. By the side of the grave they had let him kneel and +pray. His throat had then been cut by a deft hand, and he was held so +that his blood ran into the grave, thus consummating the sacrifice to +the God of Israel. The widow, obeying priestly instructions, announced +that her husband had gone to California. + +Then the soul of William Parrish at Springville was saved to eternal +glory; also the soul of his son, Beason. For both of these sinful ones +were on the verge of apostasy; had plotted, indeed, and made secret +preparations to leave the valley, all of which were discovered by +church emissaries, fortunately for the eternal welfare of the two most +concerned. Yet a few years later, when the hated Gentiles had gained +some shadow of authority in the new Zion, their minions were especially +bitter as to this feat of mercy, seeking, indeed, to indict the +performers of it. + +As to various persons who met death while leaving the valley, opinion +was divided on the question of their ultimate salvation. For it was +announced concerning these, as their bodies were discovered from time +to time, that the Indians had killed them. This being true, they had +died in apostasy, and their rejection from the Kingdom was assured. Yet +after awhile the Saints at large took hope touching the souls of these; +for Bishop Wright, the excellent and able Wild Ram of the Mountains, +took occasion to remark one Sabbath in the course of an address +delivered in the tabernacle: “And it amazes me, brethren, to note how +the spirit has been poured out on the Lamanites. It really does seem as +if an Injun jest naturally hates an apostate, and it beats me how they +can tell ’em the minute they try to sneak out of this valley of the +Lord. They must lie out in them hills jest a-waiting for apostates; and +they won’t have anything else; they never touch the faithful. You +wouldn’t think they had so much fine feeling to look at ’em. You +wouldn’t suspect they was so sensitive, and almost bigoted, you might +say. But there it is—and I don’t believe the critters will let many of +these vile apostates get beyond the rocky walls of Zion.” Those who +could listen between the words began to suspect that the souls of such +apostates had been duly saved. + +Yet one apostate the very next day was rash enough to controvert the +Bishop’s views. To a group of men in the public street at high noon and +in a loud voice he declared his intention of leaving for California, +and he spoke evil of the Church. + +“I tell you,” he said, in tones of some excitement, “men are murdered +here. Their murder is planned by Bishops, Priests, Elders, and +Apostles, by the President and his Counsellors, and then it is done by +men they send to do it. Their laying it on to the Indians don’t fool me +a minute. That’s the kind of a church this is, and you don’t ketch me +staying in it any longer!” + +Trees had been early planted in the new settlement, and owing to the +care bestowed upon them by the thrifty colonists, many were now +matured. From a stout limb of one of these the speaker was found +hanging the following morning. A coroner’s jury hastily summoned from +among the Saints found that he had committed suicide. + +Another whose soul was irrevocably lost was Frederick Loba, who had +refused to take more than one wife in spite of the most explicit advice +from his superiors that he could attain to but little glory either in +this world or that to come with less than three. He crowned his offense +by speaking disrespectfully of Brigham Young. Orders were issued to +save his soul; but before his tabernacle could be seized by those who +would have saved him, the wretched man had taken his one wife and fled +to the mountains. There they wandered many days in the most inclement +weather, lost, famished, and several times but narrowly escaping the +little band that had been sent in pursuit of them; whose members would, +had they been permitted, not only have terminated their bodily +suffering, but saved their souls to a worthy place in the life to come. +As it was, they wandered a distance of three hundred miles, and three +days after their last food was eaten, the man carrying the woman in his +arms the last six miles, they reached a camp of the Snake Indians. +These, not sharing with their Utah brethren the prejudice against +apostates, gave them a friendly welcome, and guided them to Fort +Laramie, thereby destroying for the unhappy man and his wife their last +chance of coming forth in the final resurrection. But few at this time +were so unlucky as this pair; for judgment had begun at the house of +the Lord, and Israel was attentively at work. + +It was now that Joel Rae became conscious that he was facing directly +away from the glory he had so long sought and suffered for. Though as +yet no blood for Israel had been shed in his actual presence, he had +attended the meetings of the Sons of Dan, and was kept aware of their +operations. It seemed to him in after years that his faculties had at +this time been in trance. + +He was seized at length with an impulse to be away from it all. As the +days went by with their tragedies, he became half wild with +restlessness and a strange fear of himself. In spite of his lifelong +training, he knew there was wrong in the air. He could not question the +decrees of the priesthood, but this much became clear to him,—that only +one thing could carry with it more possibilities of evil than this +course of the Church toward dissenters—and that was to doubt that +Brigham Young’s voice was as the voice of God. Not yet could he bring +himself to this. But the unreasoning desire to be away became so strong +that he knew he must yield to it. + +Turning this in his mind one day he met a brother Elder, a man full of +zeal who had lately returned from a mission abroad. There had been, he +said, a great outpouring of the spirit in Wales. + +“And what a glorious day has dawned here,” he continued. “Thank God, +there is a way to save the souls of the blind! That reminds me—have you +heard of the saving work Brother Pixley was obliged to do?” + +“Brother Pixley?—no.” He heard his own voice tremble, in spite of his +effort at self-control. The other became more confidential, stepping +closer and speaking low. + +“Of course, it ain’t to be talked of freely, but you have a right to +know, for was it not your own preaching that led to this glorious +reformation? You see, Brother Pixley came back with me, after doing +great works abroad. Naturally, he came full of love for his wives. But +he had been here only a few days when he became convinced that one of +them had forgotten him; something in her manner made him suspect it, +for she was a woman of singularly open, almost recklessly open, nature. +Then a good neighbour came and told him that one night, while on his +way for the doctor, he had seen this woman take leave of her lover—had +seen the man, whom he could not recognise, embrace her at parting. He +taxed her with this, and she at once confessed, though protesting that +she had not sinned, save in spirit. You can imagine his grief, Brother +Rae, for he had loved the woman. Well, after taking counsel from +Brigham, he talked the matter over with her very calmly, telling her +that unless her blood smoked upon the ground, she would be cast aside +in eternity. She really had spiritual aspirations, it seems, for she +consented to meet the ordeal. Then, of course, it was necessary to +learn from her the name of the man—and when all was ready for the +sacrifice, Brother Pixley commanded her to make it known.” + +“Tell me which of Brother Pixley’s wives it was.” He could feel the +little cool beads of sweat upon his forehead. + +“The fifth, did I not say? But to his amazement and chagrin, she +refused to give him the name of the man, and he had no way of learning +it otherwise, since there was no one he could suspect. He pointed out +to her that not even her blood could save her should she die shielding +him. But she declared that he was a good man, and that rather than +bring disgrace upon him she would die—would even lose her soul; that in +truth she did not care to live, since she loved him so that living away +from him was worse than death. I have said she was a woman of a large +nature, somewhat reckless and generous, and her mistaken notion of +loyalty led her to persist in spite of all the threats and entreaties +of her distressed husband. She even smiled when she told him that she +would rather die than live away from this unknown man, smiled in a way +that must have enraged him—since he had never won that kind of love +from her for himself—for then he let her meet the sacrifice without +further talk. He drew her on to his knee, kissed her for the last time, +then held her head back—and the thing was done. How sad it is that she +did not make a full confession. Then, by her willing sacrifice, she +would have gone direct to the circle of the Gods and Goddesses; but +now, dying as she did, her soul must be lost—” + +“Which wife did you say—” + +“The fifth—she that was Mara Cavan—but, dear me, Brother Rae! you +should not be out so soon! Why, man, you’re weak as a cat! Come, I’ll +walk with you as far as your house, and you must lie abed again until +you are stronger. I can understand how you wished to be up as soon as +possible; how proud you must feel that your preaching has led to this +glorious awakening and made it possible to save the souls of many +sinful ones—but you must be careful not to overtax yourself.” + +Four days later, a white-faced young Elder applied to Brigham for +permission to go to the settlements on the south. He professed to be +sick, to have suffered a relapse owing to incautious exposure so soon +after his long illness. He seemed, indeed, not only to be weak, but to +be much distressed and torn in his mind. + +Brigham was gracious enough to accord the desired permission, adding +that the young Elder could preach the revived gospel and rebaptise on +his way south, thus combining work with recreation. He was also good +enough to volunteer some advice. + +“What ails you mostly, Brother Joel, is your single state. What you +need is wives. You’ve been here ten years now, and it’s high time. +You’re given to brooding over things that are other people’s to brood +on, and then, you’re naturally soul-proud. Now, a few wives will humble +you and make you more reasonable, like the rest of us. I don’t want to +be too downright with you, like I am with some of the others, because +I’ve always had a special kind of feeling for you, and so I’ve let you +go on. But you think it over, and talk to me about it when you come +back. It’s high time you was building up your thrones and dominions in +the Kingdom.” + +He started south the next day, riding down between the two mountain +ranges that bordered the valley, stopping at each settlement, breathing +more freely, resting more easily, as each day took him farther away. +Yet, when he closed his eyes, there, like an echo, was the vision of a +woman’s face with shining eyes and lips,—a vision that after a few +seconds was washed away by a great wave of blood. + +But after a few days, certain bits of news caught up with him that +happily drove this thing from his sight for a time by stirring within +him all his old dread of Gentile persecution. + +First he heard that Parley Pratt, the Archer of Paradise and one of the +Twelve Apostles, had been foully murdered back in Arkansas while +seeking to carry to their mother the children of his ninth wife. The +father of these children, so his informant reported, had waylaid and +shot him. + +Then came rumours of a large wagon-train going south through Utah on +its way to California. Reports said it was composed chiefly of +Missourians, some of whom were said to be boasting that they had helped +to expel the Saints from Jackson County in that State. Also in this +train were reported to be several men from Arkansas who had been +implicated in the assassination of Apostle Pratt. + +But news of the crowning infamy reached him the following day,—news +that had put out all thought of his great sin and his bloody secret, +news of a thing so monstrous that he was unable to give it credence +until it had been confirmed by other comers from the north. President +Buchanan, inspired by tales that had reached him of various deeds +growing out of the reformation, and by the treatment which various +Federal officers were said to have received, had decided that rebellion +existed in the Territory of Utah. He had appointed a successor to +Brigham Young as governor, so the report ran, and ordered an army to +march to Salt Lake City for the alleged purpose of installing the new +executive. + +Three days later all doubt of the truth of this story was banished. +Word then came that Brigham was about to declare martial law, and that +he had promised that Buchanan’s army should never enter the valley. + +Now his heart beat high again, with something of the old swift fervour. +The Gentile yoke was at last to be thrown off. War would come, and the +Lord would surely hold them safe while they melted away the Gentile +hosts. + +He reached the settlement of Parowan that night, and when they told him +there that the wagon-train coming south—their ancient enemies who had +plundered and butchered them in Jackson County—was to be cut off before +it left the basin, it seemed but right to him, the just vengeance of +Heaven upon their one-time despoilers, and a fitting first act in the +war-drama that was now to be played. + +Once more the mob was marching upon them to despoil and murder and put +them into the wilderness. But now God had nerved and strengthened them +to defend the walls of Zion, even against a mighty nation. And as a +token of His favour and His wish, here was a company of their bitterest +foes delivered into their hands. Beside the picture was another; he saw +his sister, the slight, fair girl, in the grasp of the fiends at Haun’s +Mill; the face of his father tossing on the muddy current and sucked +under to the river-bottom; and the rough bark cylinder, festooned with +black cloth, holding the worn form of the mother whose breast had +nursed him. + +When he started he had felt that he could never again preach while that +secret lay upon him,—that he could no longer rebuke sinners +honestly,—but this matter of war was different. + +He preached a moving sermon that day from a text of Samuel: “As thy +sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among +women.” And when he was done the congregation had made the little dimly +lighted meeting-house at Parowan ring with a favourite hymn:— + +“Up, awake, ye defenders of Zion! +The foe’s at the door of your homes; +Let each heart be the heart of a lion, +Unyielding and proud as he roams. +Remember the wrongs of Missouri, +Remember the fate of Nauvoo! +When the God-hating foe is before ye, +Stand firm and be faithful and true.” + + + + +Chapter XVI. +The Order from Headquarters + + +He left Parowan the next morning to preach at one of the little +settlements to the east. He was gone three days. When he came back they +told him that the train of Missourians had passed through Parowan and +on to the south. He attended a military council held that evening in +the meeting-house. Three days of reflection, while it had not cooled +the anger he felt toward these members of the mob that had so brutally +wronged his people, had slightly cooled his ardour for aggressive +warfare. + +It was rather a relief to know that he was not in a position of +military authority; to feel that this matter of cutting off a +wagon-train was in the hands of men who could do no wrong. The men who +composed the council he knew to be under the immediate guidance of the +Lord. Their names and offices made this certain. There was George A. +Smith, First Counsellor to Brigham, representing as such the second +person of the Trinity, and also one of the Twelve Apostles. There was +Isaac Haight, President of the Cedar City Stake of Zion and High Priest +of Southern Utah; there were Colonel Dame, President of the Parowan +Stake of Zion, Philip Klingensmith, Bishop from Cedar City, and John +Doyle Lee, Brigham’s most trusted lieutenant in the south, a major of +militia, probate judge, member of the Legislature, President of Civil +Affairs at Harmony, and farmer to the Indians under Brigham. + +When a call to arms came as a result of this council, and an official +decree was made known that the obnoxious emigrant train was to be cut +off, he could not but feel that the deed had heavenly sanction. As to +worldly regularity, the proceeding seemed to be equally faultless. The +call was a regular military call by the superior officers to the +subordinate officers and privates of the regiment, commanding them to +muster, armed and equipped as directed by law, and prepared for field +operations. Back of the local militia officers was his Excellency, +Brigham Young, not only the vicar of God on earth but governor of Utah +and commander-in-chief of the militia. It seemed, indeed, a foretaste +of those glorious campaigns long promised them, when they should go +through the land of the Gentiles “like a lion among the flocks of +sheep, cutting down, breaking in pieces, with none to deliver, leaving +the land desolate.” + +The following Tuesday he continued south to Cedar City, the most +populous of the southern settlements. Here he learned of the campaign’s +progress. Brigham’s courier had preceded the train on its way south, +bearing written orders to the faithful to hold no dealings with its +people; to sell them neither forage for their stock nor food for +themselves. They had, it was reported, been much distressed as a result +of this order, and their stock was greatly weakened. At Cedar City, it +being feared that they might for want of supplies be forced to halt +permanently so near the settlement that it would be inconvenient to +destroy them, they were permitted to buy fifty bushels of wheat and to +have it and some corn the Indians had sold them ground at the mill of +Major Lee. + +As Joel’s informant, the fiery Bishop Klingensmith, remarked, this was +not so generous as it seemed, since, while it would serve to decoy them +on their way toward San Bernardino, they would never get out of the +valley with it. The train had started on, but the animals were so weak +that three days had been required to reach Iron Creek, twenty miles +beyond, and two more days to reach Mountain Meadows, fifteen miles +further south. + +Here at daybreak the morning before, Klingensmith told him, a band of +Piede Indians, under Lee’s direction, had attacked the train, killing +and wounding a number of the men. It had been hoped, explained +Klingensmith, that the train would be destroyed at once by the Indians, +thus avoiding any call upon the militia; but the emigrants had behaved +with such effectiveness that the Indians were unable to complete the +task. They had corralled their wagons, dug a rifle-pit in the center, +and returned the fire, killing one Indian and wounding two of the +chiefs. The siege was being continued. + +The misgiving that this tale caused Joel Rae he put down to unmanly +weakness—and to an unfamiliarity with military affairs. A sight of the +order in Brigham’s writing for the train’s extermination would have set +his mind wholly at rest; but though he had not been granted this, he +was assured that such an order existed, and with this he was obliged to +be content. He knew, indeed, that an order from Brigham, either oral or +written, must have come; otherwise the local authorities would never +have dared to proceed. They were not the men to act without orders in a +matter so grave after the years in which Brigham had preached his right +to dictate, direct, and control the affairs of his people from the +building of the temple “down to the ribbons a woman should wear, or the +setting up of a stocking.” + +Late on the following day, Wednesday, while they were anxiously waiting +for news, a messenger from Lee came with a call for reinforcements. The +Indians, although there were three hundred of them, had been unable to +prevail over the little entrenched band of Gentiles. Ten minutes after +the messenger’s arrival, the militia, which had been waiting under +arms, set out for the scene in wagons. From Cedar City went every +able-bodied man but two. + +Joel Rae was with them, wondering why he went. He wanted not to go. He +preferred that news of the approaching victory should be brought to +him; yet invisible hands had forced him, even while it seemed that +frenzied voices—voices without sound—warned him back. + +The ride was long, but not long enough for his mind to clear. It was +still clouded with doubts and questionings and fears when they at last +saw the flaring of many fires with figures loitering or moving busily +about them. As they came nearer, a strange, rhythmic throbbing crept to +his ears; nearer still, he resolved it into the slow, regular beatings +of a flat-toned drum. The measure, deliberate, incessant, +changeless,—the same tones, the same intervals,—worked upon his +strained nerves, at first soothingly and then as a pleasant stimulant. + +The wagons now pulled up near the largest camp fire, and the arrivals +were greeted by a dozen or so of the Saints, who, with Major Lee, had +been directing and helping the Indians in their assaults upon the +enemy. Several of these had disguised themselves as Indians for the +better deception of the besieged. + +At the right of their camp went the long line of the Indians’ fires. +From far down this line came a low ringing chant and the strangely +insistent drum-beats. + +“They’re mourning old Chief Moqueetus,” explained Lee. “He fell asleep +before the fire just about dark, while his corn and potatoes were +cooking, and he had a bad nightmare. The old fellow woke up screaming +that he had his double-hands full of blood, and he grabbed his gun and +was up on top of the hill firing down before he was really awake, I +guess. Anyway, one of the cusses got him—like as not the same one that +did this to-day while I was peeking at them,” and he showed them a +bullet-hole in his hat. + +At fires near by the Indians were broiling beef cut from animals they +had slaughtered belonging to the wagon-train. Still others were cutting +the hides into strips to be made into lariats. As far down as the line +could be seen, there were dusky figures darting in and out of the +firelight. + +A council was at once called of the Presidents, Bishops, Elders, High +Priests, and the officers of the militia who were present. Bishop +Klingensmith bared his massive head in the firelight and opened the +council with prayer, invoking the aid of God to guide them aright. Then +Major Higbee, presiding as chairman, announced the orders under which +they were assembled and under which the train had been attacked. + +“It is ordered from headquarters that this party must be used up, +except such as are too young to tell tales. We got to do it. They been +acting terrible mean ever since we wouldn’t sell them anything. If we +let them go on now, they been making their brag that they’ll raise a +force in California and come back and wipe us out—and Johnston’s army +already marching on us from the east. Are we going to submit again to +what we got in Missouri and in Illinois? No! Everybody is agreed about +that. Now the Indians have failed to do it like we thought they would, +so we got to finish it up, that’s all.” + +Joel Rae spoke for the first time. + +“You say except such as are too young to tell tales, Brother Higbee; +what does that mean?” + +“Why, all but the very smallest children, of course.” + +“Are there children here?” + +Lee answered: + +“Oh, a fair sprinkling—about what you’d look for in a train of a +hundred and thirty people. The boys got two of the kids yesterday; the +fools had dressed them up in white dresses and sent them out with a +bucket for water. You can see their bodies lying over there this side +of the spring.” + +“And there are women?” he asked, feeling a great sickness come upon +him. + +“Plenty of them,” answered Klingensmith, “some mighty fine women, too; +I could see one yesterday, a monstrous fine figure and hair shiny like +a crow’s wing, and a little one, powerful pretty, and one kind of +between the two—it’s a shame we can’t keep some of them, but orders is +orders!” + +“These women must be killed, too?” + +“That’s the orders from headquarters, Brother Rae.” + +“From the military headquarters at Parowan, or from the spiritual +headquarters at Salt Lake?” + +“Better not inquire how far back that order started, Brother Rae—not of +me, anyway.” + +“But women and children—” + +“The great Elohim has spoken from the heavens, Brother Rae—that’s +enough for me. I can’t put my human standards against the revealed will +of God.” + +“But women and children—” He repeated the words as if he sought to +comprehend them. He seemed like a man with defective sight who has come +suddenly against a wall that he had thought far off. Higbee now +addressed him. + +“Brother Rae, in religion you have to eat the bran along with the +flour. Did you suppose we were going to milk the Gentiles and not ever +shed any blood?” + +“But innocent blood—” + +“There ain’t a drop of innocent blood in the whole damned train. And +what are you, to be questioning this way about orders from on high? +I’ve heard you preach many a time about the sin of such doings as that. +You preach in the pulpit about stubborn clay in the hands of the potter +having to be put through the mill again, and now that you’re out here +in the field, seems to me you get limber like a tallowed rag when an +order comes along.” + +“Defenseless women and little children—” He was still trying to regain +his lost equilibrium. Lee now interposed. + +“Yes, Brother Rae, as defenseless as that pretty sister of yours was in +the woods there, that afternoon at Haun’s Mill.” + +The reminder silenced him for the moment. When he could listen again, +he heard them canvassing a plan of attack that should succeed without +endangering any of their own numbers. He walked away from the group to +see if alone, out of the tumult and torrent of lies and half-truths, he +could not fetch some one great unmistakable truth which he felt +instinctively was there. + +And then his ears responded again to the slow chant and the constant +measured beat of the flat-toned, vibrant drum. Something in its rhythm +searched and penetrated and swayed and seemed to overwhelm him. It came +as the measured, insistent beat of fate itself, relentless, inexorable; +and all the time it was stirring in him vague, latent instincts of +savagery. He wished it would stop, so that he might reason, yet dreaded +that it might stop at any moment. Fascinated by the weird rhythm and +the hollow beat, he could not summon the will to go beyond its sway. + +He walked about the fires or lingered by the groups in consultation +until the first signs of dawn. Then he climbed the low, rocky hill to +the east and peered over the top, the drum-beats still pulsing through +him, still coercing him. As the light grew, he could make out the +details of the scene below. He was looking down into a narrow valley +running north and south, formed by two ranges of rugged, rocky hills +five hundred yards or so apart. To the north this valley widened; to +the south it narrowed until it became a mere gap leading out into the +desert. + +Directly below him, half-way between the ranges of hills, was a circle +of covered wagons wheel to wheel. In the center of this a pit had been +dug, and here the besieged were finding such protection as they could +from the rifle-fire that came down from the hills on either side. Even +now he could see Indians lying in watch for any who might attempt to +escape. The camp had been attacked on Monday morning after the wagons +had moved a hundred yards away from the spring. It was now Friday. For +four days, therefore, with only what water they could bring by dashes +to the spring under fire, they had held their own in the pit. + +When it grew still lighter he descried, out on his left near the +spring, two spots of white close together, and remembered Lee’s tale +the night before of the two little girls sent for water. + +At that instant, the chanting and the beat of the drum stopped, and in +the silence a flood of light seemed to shine in upon his mind, showing +him in something of its true aspect the thing they were about to do. +Not clearly did he see it, for he was still torn and dazed—and not in +its real proportions, moreover; for he saw it against the background of +his teaching from the cradle; the murder of their Prophet, the +persecution of the Saints, the outrages put upon his own family, the +fate of his sister, the murder of his father, and the death of his +mother; the coming of an army upon them now to repeat these +persecutions; the reported offenses of this particular lot of Gentiles. +And then, too, he saw it against his own flawless faith in the +authority of the priesthood, his implicit belief that whatsoever they +ordered was to be obeyed as the literal command of God, his unshaken +conviction that to disobey the priesthood was to commit the +unforgivable sin of blasphemy against the Holy Ghost. “If you trifle +with the commands of any of the priesthood,” he himself had preached +but a few days before, “you are trifling with Brigham; if you trifle +with Brigham, you are trifling with God; and if you do that, you will +trifle yourselves down to hell.” + +Yet as he looked upon the doomed camp, lying still and quiet in the +gray light,—in spite of breeding, training, habit of thought, and +passionate belief, he felt the horror of it, and a hope came to him out +of that horror. He hurried down the hill and searched among the groups +of Indians until he found Lee. + +“Major, isn’t there a chance that Brother Brigham didn’t order this?” + +“Brother Rae, no one has said he did—it wouldn’t be just wise.” + +“But _did_ he—has any one seen the written order or heard who brought +the oral order?” + +“Brother Rae, look here, now—you know Brother Brigham. You know his +authority, and you know Dame and Haight. You know they wouldn’t either +of them dare do as much as take another wife without asking Brigham +first. Well, then, do you reckon they’d dare order this militia around +in this reckless way to cut off a hundred and thirty people unless they +had mighty good reason to know he wanted it?” + +He stood before Lee with bent head; the hope had died. Lee went on: + +“And look here, Elder, just as a friendly hint, I wouldn’t do any more +of this sentimental talk. Why, in the last six months I’ve known men to +get blood-atoned for less than you’ve said.” + +He saw they were holding another council. Bishop Klingensmith again led +in prayer. He prayed for revelation, for the gifts of the spirit for +each of them, and for every order of the priesthood; that they might +prevail over the army marching against them; that Israel might grow and +multiply and cover the earth with cities and become a people so great +that no man could number them; and that the especial favour of Heaven +might attend them on their righteous smiting of the Gentile host now +delivered over to them by an all-wise Jehovah. + +The plan of assault was now again rehearsed, and its details +communicated to their Indian allies. By ten o’clock all was ready. + + + + +Chapter XVII. +The Meadow Shambles + + +They chose William Bateman to go forward with a flag of truce. He was +short and plump, with a full, round, ingenuous face. He was chosen, so +said Klingensmith, for his plausible ways. He could look right at you +when he said anything; and the moment needed a man of this talent. He +was to enter the camp and say to the people that the Mormons had come +to save them; that on giving up their arms they would be safely +conducted to Cedar City, there to await a proper time for continuing +their journey. + +From the hill to the west of the besieged camp they watched the +plausible Bateman with his flag of truce meet one of the emigrants who +came out, also with a white flag, and saw them stand talking a little +time. Bateman then came back around the end of the hill that separated +the two camps. His proposal had been gratefully accepted. The besieged +emigrants were in desperate straits; their dead were unburied in the +narrow enclosure, and they were suffering greatly for want of water. + +Major Higbee, in command of the militia, now directed Lee to enter the +camp and see that the plan was carried out. With him went two men with +wagons. Lee was to have them load their weapons into one wagon, to +separate the adults from the children and wounded, who were to be put +into the other, and then march the party out. + +As Lee approached the corral its occupants swarmed out to meet +him,—gaunt men, unkempt women and children, with the look of hunted +animals in their eyes. Some of the men cheered feebly; some were silent +and plainly distrustful. But the women laughed and wept for joy as they +crowded about their deliverer; and wide-eyed children stared at him in +a friendly way, understanding but little of it all except that the +newcomer was a desirable person. + +It took Lee but a little time to overcome the hesitation of the few +suspicious ones. The plan he proposed was too plainly their only way of +escape from a terrible death. Their animals had been shot down or run +off so that they could neither advance nor retreat. Their ammunition +was almost gone, so that they could not give battle. And, lastly, their +provisions were low, with no chance to replenish them; for on the south +was the most to be dreaded of all American deserts, while on the north +they had for some reason unknown to themselves been unable to buy of +the abundance through which they passed. + +Arrangements for the departure were quickly completed under Lee’s +supervision. In one wagon were piled the guns and pistols of the +emigrants, together with half a dozen men who had been wounded in the +four days’ fighting. In the other wagon a score of the smaller children +were placed, some with tear-stained faces, some crying, and some +gravely apprehensive. At Lee’s command the two wagons moved forward. +After these the women followed, marching singly or in pairs; some with +little bundles of their most precious belongings; some carrying babes +too young to be sent ahead in the wagon. A few had kept even their +older children to walk beside them, fearing some evil—they knew not +what. + +One such, a young woman near the last of the line, was leading by the +hand a little girl of three or four, while on her left there marched a +sturdy, pink-faced boy of seven or eight, whose almost white hair and +eyebrows gave him a look of fright which his demeanour belied. The +woman, looking anxiously back over her shoulder to the line of men, +spoke warningly to the boy as the line moved slowly forward. + +“Take her other hand, and stay close. I’m afraid something will +happen-that man who came is not an honest man. I tried to tell them, +but they wouldn’t believe me. Keep her hand in yours, and if anything +does happen, run right back there and try to find her father. Remember +now, just as if she were your own little sister.” + +The boy answered stoutly, with shrewd glances about for possible +danger. + +“Of course I’ll stay by her. I wouldn’t run away. If I’d only had a +gun,” he continued, in tones of regretful enthusiasm, “I know I could +have shot some of those Indians—but these, what do you call +them?—Mormons—they’ll keep the Indians away now.” + +“But remember—don’t leave my child, for I’m afraid—something warns me.” + +Farther back the others had now fallen in, so that the whole company +was in motion. The two wagons were in the lead; then came the women; +and some distance back of these trailed the line of men. + +When the latter reached the place where the column of militia stood +drawn up in line by the roadside, they swung their hats and cheered +their deliverers; again and again the cheers rang in tones that were +full of gratitude. As they passed on, an armed Mormon stepped to the +side of each man and walked with him, thus convincing the last doubter +of their sincerity in wishing to guard them from any unexpected attack +by the Indians. + +In such fashion marched the long, loosely extended line until the rear +had gone some two hundred yards away from the circle of wagons. At the +head, the two wagons containing the children and wounded had now fallen +out of sight over a gentle rise to the north. The women also were well +ahead, passing at that moment through a lane of low cedars that grew +close to the road on either side. The men were now stepping briskly, +sure at last of the honesty of their rescuers. + +Then, while all promised fair, a call came from the head of the line of +men,—a clear, high call of command that rang to the very rear of the +column: + +_“Israel, do your duty!”_ + +Before the faces of the marching men had even shown surprise or +questioning, each Mormon had turned and shot the man who walked beside +him. The same instant brought piercing screams from the column of women +ahead; for the signal had been given while they were in the lane of +cedars where the Indian allies of the Saints had been ambushed. Shots +and screams echoed and reëchoed across the narrow valley, and clouds of +smoke, pearl gray in the morning sun, floated near the ground. + +The plan of attack had been well laid for quick success. Most of the +men had fallen at the first volley, either killed or wounded. Here and +there along the all but prostrate line would be seen a struggling pair, +or one of the emigrants running toward cover under a fire that always +brought him low before he reached it. + +On the women, too, the quick attack had been almost instantly +successful. The first great volume of mad shrieks had quickly died low +as if the victims were being smothered; and now could be heard only the +single scream of some woman caught in flight,—short, despairing +screams, and others that seemed to be cut short—strangled at their +height. + +Joel Rae found himself on the line after the first volley, drawn by +some dread power he could not resist. Yet one look had been enough. He +shut his eyes to the writhing forms, the jets of flame spitting through +the fog of smoke, and turned to flee. + +Then in an instant—how it had come about he never knew—he was +struggling with a man who shouted his name and cursed him,—a dark man +with blood streaming from a wound in his throat. He defended himself +easily, feeling his assailant’s strength already waning. Time after +time the man called him by name and cursed him, now in low tones, as +they swayed. Then the Saint whose allotted victim this man had been, +having reloaded his pistol, ran up, held it close to his head, fired, +and ran back to the line. + +He felt the man’s grasp of his shoulders relax, and his body grow +suddenly limp, as if boneless. He let it down to the ground, looking at +last full upon the face. At first glance it told him nothing. Then a +faint sense of its familiarity pushed up through many old memories. +Sometime, somewhere, he had known the face. + +The dying man opened his eyes wide, not seeing, but convulsively, and +then he felt himself enlightened by something in their dark +colour,—something in the line of the brow under the black hair;—a face +was brought back to him, the handsome face of the jaunty militia +captain at Nauvoo, the man who had helped expel his people, who had +patronised them with his airs of protector,—the man who had— + +It did not come to him until that instant—this man was Girnway. In the +flash of awful comprehension he dropped, a sickened and nerveless heap, +beside the dead man, turning his head on the ground, and feeling for +any sign of life at his heart. + +Forward there, where the yells of the Indians had all but replaced the +screams of frantic women—butchered already perhaps, subjected to he +knew not what infamy at the hands of savage or Saint—was the +yellow-haired, pink-faced girl he had loved and kept so long imaged in +his heart; yet she might have escaped, she might still live—she might +even not have been in the party. + +He sprang up and found himself facing a white-haired boy, who held a +little crying girl by a tight grasp of her arm, and who eyed him +aggressively. + +“What did you hurt Prudence’s father for? He was a good man. Did you +shoot him?” + +He seized the boy roughly by the shoulder. + +“Prudence—Prudence—where is she?” + +“Here.” + +He looked down at the little girl, who still cried. Even in that glance +he saw her mother’s prettiness, her pink and white daintiness, and the +yellow shine of her hair. + +“Her mother, then,—quick!” + +The boy pointed ahead. + +“Up there—she told me to take care of Prudence, and when the Indians +came out she made me run back here to look for him.” He pointed to the +still figure on the ground before them. And then, making a brave effort +to keep back the tears: + +“If I had a gun I’d shoot some Indians;—I’d shoot you, too—you killed +him. When I grow up to be a man, I’ll have a gun and come here—” + +He had the child in his arms, and called to the boy: + +“Come, fast now! Go as near as you can to where you left her.” + +They ran forward through the gray smoke, stepping over and around +bodies as they went. When they reached the first of the women he would +have stopped to search, but the boy led him on, pointing. And then, +half-way up the line, a little to the right of the road, at the edge of +the cedars, his eye caught the glimpse of a great mass of yellow hair +on the ground. She seemed to have been only wounded, for, as he looked, +she was up on her knees striving to stand. + +He ran faster, leaving the boy behind now, but while he was still far +off, he saw an Indian, knife in hand, run to her and strike her down. +Then before he had divined the intent, the savage had gathered the long +hair into his left hand, made a swift circling of the knife with his +right,—and the thing was done before his eyes. He screamed in terror as +he ran, and now he was near enough to be heard. The Indian at his cry +arose and for one long second shook, almost in his face as he came +running up, the long, shining, yellow hair with the gory patch at the +end. Before his staring eyes, the hair was twisting, writhing, and +undulating,—like a golden flame licking the bronzed arm that held it. +And then, as he reached the spot, the Indian, with a long yell of +delight and a final flourish of his trophy, ran off to other prizes. + +He stood a moment, breathless and faint, looking with fearful eyes down +at the little, limp, still figure at his feet. One slender, bare arm +was flung out as if she had grasped at the whole big earth in her last +agony. + +The spell of fear was broken by the boy, who came trotting up. He had +given way to his tears now, and was crying loudly from fright. Joel +made him take the little girl and sit under a cedar out of sight of the +spot. + + + + +Chapter XVIII. +In the Dark of the Aftermath + + +He was never able to recall the events of that day, or of the months +following, in anything like their proper sequence. The effort to do so +brought a pain shooting through his head. Up to the moment when the +yellow hair had waved in his face, everything had kept a ghastly +distinctness. He remembered each instant and each emotion. After that +all was dark confusion, with only here and there a detached, +inconsequent memory of appalling vividness. + +He could remember that he had buried her on the other side of the hill +where a gnarled cedar grew at the foot of a ledge of sandstone, using a +spade that an Indian had brought him from the deserted camp. By her +side he had found the scattered contents of the little bundle she had +carried,—a small Bible, a locket, a worn gold bracelet, and a picture +of herself as he had known her, a half-faded daguerreotype set in a +gilt oval, in a square rubber case that shut with a snap. The little +limp-backed Bible had lain flung open on the ground in the midst of the +other trinkets. He remembered picking these things up and retying them +in the blue silk handkerchief, and then he had twice driven away an +Indian who, finding no other life, came up to kill the two children +huddled at the foot of the cedar. + +He recalled that he had at some time passed the two wagons; one of them +was full of children, some crying, some strangely quiet and observant. +The other contained the wounded men whom Lee and the two drivers had +dispatched where they lay. + +He remembered the scene close about him where many of the women and +older children had fallen under knife and tomahawk. At intervals had +come a long-drawn scream, terrifying in its shrillness, from some woman +struggling with Saint or savage. + +Later he remembered becoming aware that the bodies were being stripped +and plundered; of seeing Lee holding his big white hat for valuables, +while half a dozen men searched pockets and stripped off clothing. The +picture of the naked bodies of a dozen well-grown children tangled in +one heap stayed with him. + +Still later, when the last body had been stripped and the smaller +treasures collected, he had known that these and the stock and wagons +were being divided between the Mormons and the Indians; a conflict with +these allies being barely averted, the Indians accusing the Saints of +withholding more than their share of the plunder. + +After the division was made he knew that the Saints had all been called +together to take an oath that the thing should be kept secret. He knew, +too, that he had gone over the spot that night, the moon lighting the +naked forms strewn about. Many of them lay in attitudes strangely +lifelike,—here one resting its head upon its arm, there a white face +falling easily back as if it looked up at the stars. He could not +recall why he had gone back, unless to be sure that he had made the +grave under the cedar secure from the wolves. + +Some of the men had camped on the spot. Others had gone to Hamblin’s +ranch, near the Meadows, where the children were taken. He had sent the +boy there with them, and he could recall distinctly the struggle he had +with the little fellow; for the boy had wished not to be taken from the +girl, and had fought valiantly with fists and feet and his sharp little +teeth. The little girl with her mother’s bundle he had taken to another +ranch farther south in the Pine Mountains. He told the woman the child +was his own, and that she was to be kept until he came again. + +Where he slept that night, or whether he slept at all, he never knew. +But he had been back on the ground in the morning with the others who +came to bury the naked bodies. He had seen heaps of them piled in +little depressions and the dirt thrown loosely over them, and he +remembered that the wolves were at them all a day later. + +Then Dame and Haight and others of high standing in the Church had come +to look over the spot and there another oath of secrecy was taken. Any +informer was to be “sent over the rim of the basin”—except that one of +their number was to make a full report to the President at Salt Lake +City. Klingensmith was then chosen by vote to take charge of the goods +for the benefit of the Church. Klingensmith, Haight, and Higbee, he +recalled, had later driven two hundred head of the cattle to Salt Lake +City and sold them. Klingensmith, too, had put the clothing taken from +the bodies, blood-stained, shredded by bullets and knives, into the +cellar of the tithing office at Cedar City. Here there had been, a few +weeks later, a public auction of the property taken, the Bishop, who +presided as auctioneer, facetiously styling it “plunder taken at the +siege of Sebastopol.” The clothing, however, with the telltale marks +upon it, was reserved from the auction and sold privately from the +tithing office. Many stout wagons and valuable pieces of equipment had +thus been cheaply secured by the Saints round about Cedar City. + +He knew that the surviving children, seventeen in number, had been +“sold out” to Saints in and about Cedar City, Harmony, and Painter’s +Creek, who would later present bills for their keep. + +He knew that Lee, whom the Bishops had promised a crown of glory for +his work that day, had gone to Salt Lake City and made a confidential +report to Brigham; that Brigham had at first professed to regard the +occurrence as unfortunate for the Church, though admitting that no +innocent blood had been shed; that he had sworn Lee never to tell the +story again to any person, instructing him to make a written report of +the affair to himself, as Indian agent, charging the deed to the +Indians. He was said to have added on this point, after a period of +reflection, “Only Indians, John, don’t save even the little children.” +He was reported to have told Lee further, on the following day, that he +had asked God to take the vision from his sight if the killing had been +a righteous thing, and that God had done so, thus proving the deed in +the sight of heaven to have been a just vengeance upon those who had +once made war upon the Saints in Missouri. + +With these and with many another disjointed memory of the day Joel Rae +was cursed; of how Hamblin the following spring had gathered a hundred +and twenty skulls on the ground where the wolves had left them, and +buried them again; of how an officer from Camp Floyd had built a cairn +on the spot and erected a huge cross to the memory of the slain; of how +the thing became so dire in the minds of those who had done it, that +more than one man lost his reason, and two were known to have killed +themselves to be rid of the death-cries of women. + +But the clearest of all among the memories of the day itself was the +prayer offered up as they stood amid the heaps of fresh earth, after +they had sworn the oath of secrecy; how God had been thanked for +delivering the enemy into their hands, and how new faith and better +works were promised to Him for this proof of His favour. + +The memory of this prayer stayed with him many years: “Bless Brother +Brigham—bless him; may the heavens be opened unto him, and angels visit +and instruct him. Clothe him with power to defend Thy people and to +overthrow all who may rise against us. Bless him in his basket and in +his store; multiply and increase him in wives, children, flocks and +herds, houses and lands. Make him very great to be a lawgiver and God +to Thy people, and to command them in all things whatsoever in the +future as in the past.” + +Nor did he forget that, soon after he had listened to this prayer, and +the forces had dispersed, he had made two discoveries;—first, that his +hair was whitening; second, that he could not be alone at night and +keep his reason. + + + + +Chapter XIX. +The Host of Israel Goes forth to Battle + + +He went north in answer to the call for soldiers. He went gladly. It +promised activity—and company. + +A score of them left Cedar City with much warlike talk, with many +ringing prophecies of confusion to the army now marching against them, +and to the man who had sent it. They cited Fremont, Presidential +candidate of the newly organised Republican party the year before, with +his catch phrase, “The abolition of slavery and polygamy, the twin +relics of barbarism.” Fremont had been defeated. And there was Stephen +A. Douglas, once their staunch friend and advocate in Illinois; but the +year before he had turned against them, styling polygamy “the loathsome +ulcer of the body politic,” asserting that the people of Utah were +bound by oath to recognise only the authority of Brigham Young; that +they were forming alliances with Indians and organising Danite bands to +rob and murder American citizens; and urging a rigid investigation into +these enormities. For this slander Brigham had hurled upon him the +anathema of the priesthood, in consequence of which Douglas had failed +to secure even a nomination for the high office which he sought. + +And now Buchanan was in a way to draw upon himself that retribution +which must ever descend upon the foes of Israel. Brigham was at last to +unleash the dogs of war. They recalled his saying when they came into +the valley, “If they will let us alone for ten years, we will ask no +odds of Uncle Sam or the Devil.” The ten years had passed and the Devil +was taking them at their word. One of them recalled the prophecy of +another inspired leader, Parley Pratt, the Archer of Paradise: “Within +ten years from now the people of this country who are not Mormons will +be entirely subdued by the Latter-day Saints or swept from the face of +the earth; and if this prophecy fails, then you may know the Book of +Mormon is not true.” + +Their great day was surely at hand. Their God of Battles reigned. All +through the Territory the leaders preached, prayed, and taught nothing +but war; the poets made songs only of war; and the people sang only +these. Public works and private were alike suspended, save the +manufacture of new arms, the repairing of old, and the sharpening of +sabers and bayonets. + +On the way, to fire their ardour, they were met by Brigham’s +proclamation. It recited that “for the last twenty-five years we have +trusted officials of the government from constables and justices to +judges, governors, and presidents, only to be scorned, held in +derision, insulted, and betrayed. Our houses have been plundered and +burned, our fields laid waste, our chief men butchered while under the +pledged faith of the government for their safety; and our families +driven from their homes to find that shelter in the wilderness and that +protection among hostile savages which were denied them in the boasted +abodes of Christianity and civilisation.” It concluded by forbidding +all armed forces of every description to enter the Territory under any +pretence whatever, and declaring martial law to exist until further +notice. The little band hurried on, eager to be at the front. + +The day he reached Salt Lake City, Joel Rae was made major of militia. +The following day, he attended the meeting at the tabernacle. He +needed, for reasons he did not fully explain to himself, to receive +fresh assurance of Brigham’s infallibility, of his touch with the Holy +Ghost, of his goodness as well as his might; to be caught once more by +the compelling magnetism of his presence, the flash of his eye, and the +inciting tones of his voice. All this he found. + +“Is there,” asked Brigham, “a collision between us and the United +States? No, we have not collashed—that is the word that sounds nearest +to what I mean. But the thread is cut between us and we will never gybe +again, no, never—worlds without end. I am not going to have their +troops here to protect the priests and rabble in their efforts to drive +us from the land we possess. The Lord does not want us to be driven. He +has said to me, ‘If you will assert your rights and keep my +commandments, you shall never again be brought into bondage by your +enemies.’ The United States says that their army is legal, but I say +that such a statement is false as hell, and that those States are as +rotten as an old pumpkin that has been frozen seven times over and then +thawed in a harvest sun. We can’t have that army here and have +peace—you might as well tell me you could make hell into a +powder-house. And so we shall melt those troops away. I promise you our +enemies shall never ‘slip the bow on old Bright’s neck again.’” + +Joel Rae was again under the sway of his old warlike feelings. Brigham +had revived his fainting faith. He went out into the noise and hurry of +war preparations in a sort of intoxication. Underneath he never ceased +to be conscious of the dreadful specter that would not be gone—that +stood impassive and immovable as one of the mountains about him, +waiting for him to come to it and face it and live his day of +reckoning,—the day of his own judgment upon himself. But he drank +thirstily of the martial draught and lived the time in a fever of +tumultuous drunkenness to the awful truth. + +He saw to it that he was never alone by day or night. Once a new +thought and a sudden hope came to him, and he had been about to pray +that in the campaign he was entering he might be killed. But a second +thought stayed him; he had no right to die until he had faced his own +judgment. + +The army of Israel was now well organised. It had taken all able-bodied +males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. There were a +lieutenant-general, four generals, eleven colonels, and six majors. In +addition to the Saints’ own forces there were the Indians, for Brigham +had told a messenger who came to ascertain his disposition toward the +approaching army that he would “no longer hold the Indians by the +wrist.” This messenger had suggested that, while the army might be kept +from entering the valley that winter, it would assuredly march in, the +following spring. Brigham’s reply had not lacked the point that +sharpened most of his words. + +“Before we shall suffer what we have in times gone by we will burn and +lay waste our improvements, and you will find the desert here again. +There will not be left one building, nor one foot of lumber, nor a +stick or tree or particle of grass or hay that will burn. I will lay +this valley utterly waste in the name of Israel’s God. We have three +years’ provisions, which we will cache, and then take to the +mountains.” The messenger had returned to Fort Bridger and the measures +of defense went forward in the valley. + +Forces were sent into Echo Cañon, the narrow defile between the +mountains through which an army would have to pass. On the east side +men were put to building stone ramparts as a protection for riflemen. +On the west, where the side was sloping, they dug pits for the same +purpose. They also built dams to throw large bodies of water along the +west side of the cañon so that an army would be forced to the east +side; and here at the top of the cliff, great quantities of boulders +were placed so that a slight leverage would suffice to hail them down +upon the army as it marched below. + +When word came that the invaders had crossed the Utah line, Brigham +sent forward a copy of his proclamation and a friendly note of warning +to the officer in command. In this he directed that officer to retire +from the Territory by the same route he had entered it; adding, +however, “should you deem this impracticable and prefer to remain until +spring in the vicinity of your present position at Black’s Fork or +Green River, you can do so in peace and unmolested on condition that +you deposit your arms and ammunition with Lewis Robinson, +Quartermaster-General of the Territory, and leave as soon in the spring +as the roads will permit you to march. And should you fall short of +provisions they will be furnished you upon making the proper +application.” The officer who received this note had replied somewhat +curtly that the forces he commanded were in Utah by order of the +President of the United States and that their future movements would +depend wholly upon orders issued by competent military authority. Thus +the issue was forced. + +In addition to the defense of Echo Cañon, certain aggressive moves were +made. To Joel Rae was allotted command of one of these. His orders +promised all he could wish of action. He read them and felt something +like his old truculent enthusiasm. + +“You will proceed with all possible dispatch, without injuring your +animals, to the Oregon Road near the bend of Bear River, north by east +of this place. When you approach the road, send scouts ahead to +ascertain if the invading troops have passed that way. Should they have +passed, take a concealed route and get ahead of them. On ascertaining +the locality of the troops, proceed at once to annoy them in every +possible way. Use every exertion to stampede their animals and set fire +to their trains. Burn the whole country before them and on their +flanks. Keep them from sleeping, by night surprises; blockade the road +by felling trees, or destroying river fords where you can. Watch for +opportunities to set fire to the grass on their windward, so as to +envelope their trains if possible. Leave no grass before them that can +be burned. Keep your men concealed as much as possible, and guard +against surprise. God bless you and give you success. + +“YOUR BROTHER IN CHRIST.” + +Forty-four men were placed under his command to perform this work, and +all of them were soon impressed, even to alarm, by the very evident +reliance of their leader upon the God of Israel rather than upon any +merely human wisdom of his own. + +The first capture was not difficult. After an all-night ride they came +up with a supply-train of twenty-five wagons drawn by oxen. The captain +of this train was ordered to “go the other way” until he reached the +States. He started; but as he retraced his steps as often as they moved +away, they at length burned his train and left him. + +And then the recklessness of the new-fledged major became manifest. He +sent one of his captains with twenty men to capture or stampede the +mules of the Tenth Regiment, while he with the remainder of his force +set off toward Sandy Fork in search of more wagon-trains. When his +scouts late in the day reported a train of twenty-six wagons, he was +advised by them that he ought not to attack it with so small a force; +but to this advice he was deaf, rebuking the men for their little +faith. + +He allowed the train to proceed until after dark, and then drew +cautiously near. Learning, however, that the drivers were drunk, he had +his force lie concealed for a time, fearing that they might prove +belligerent and thus compel him to shed blood, which he wished not to +do. + +At midnight the scouts reported that the train was drawn up in two +lines for the night and that all was quiet. He mounted his command and +ordered an advance. Approaching the camp, they discovered a fact that +the scouts had failed to note; a second train had joined the first, and +the little host of Israel was now confronted by twice the anticipated +force. This discovery was made too late for them to retire unobserved. +The men, however, expected their leader to make some inquiry concerning +the road and then ride on. But they had not plumbed the depth of his +faith. + +As the force neared the camp-fire close to the wagons, the rear of the +column was lost in the darkness. What the teamsters about the fire saw +was an apparently endless column of men advancing upon them. Their +leader halted the column, called for the captain of the train, ordered +him to have his men stack their arms, collect their property, and stand +by under guard. Dismounting from his horse, he fashioned a torch and +directed one of the drivers to apply it to the wagons, in order that +“the Gentiles might spoil the Gentiles.” By the time the teamsters had +secured their personal belongings and a little stock of provisions for +immediate necessity the fifty wagons were ablaze. The following day, on +the Big Sandy, they destroyed another train and a few straggling +sutlers’ wagons. + +And so the campaign went forward. As the winter came on colder, the +scouts brought in moving tales of the enemy’s discomfiture. Colonel +Alexander of the Federal forces, deciding that the cañons could be +defended by the Saints, planned to approach Salt Lake City over a +roundabout route to the north. He started in heavy snow, cutting a road +through the greasewood and sage-brush. Often his men made but three +miles a day, and his supply-train was so long that sometimes half of it +would be camped for the night before the rear wagons had moved. As +there was no cavalry in the force the hosts of Israel harassed them +sorely on this march, on one day consecrating eight hundred head of +their oxen and driving them to Salt Lake. + +Albert Sidney Johnston, commanding the expedition, had also suffered +greatly with his forces. The early snows deprived his stock of forage, +and the unusual cold froze many oxen and mules. + +Lieutenant-Colonel Cooke of the Second Dragoons, with whom travelled +the newly appointed governor, was another to suffer. At Fort Laramie so +many of his animals had dropped out that numbers of his men were +dismounted, and the ambulances used to carry grain. Night after night +they huddled at the base of cliffs in the fearful eddies of the snow, +and heard above the blast the piteous cries of their famished and +freezing stock. Day after day they pushed against the keen blades of +the wind, toiling through frozen clouds and stinging ice blasts. The +last thirty-five miles to Fort Bridger had required fifteen days, and +at one camp on Black’s Fork, which they called the “camp of Death,” +five hundred animals perished in a night. + +Nor did the hardships of the troops end when they had all reached what +was to be their winter quarters. Still a hundred and fifteen miles from +the City of the Saints, they were poorly housed against the bitter +cold, poorly fed, and insufficiently clothed, for the burning of the +trains by the Lord’s hosts had reduced all supplies. + +Reports of this distress were duly carried to Brigham and published to +the Saints. Their soldiers had made good their resolve to prevent the +Federal army from passing the Wasatch Mountains. Aggressive operations +ceased for the winter, and the greater part of the militia returned to +their homes. A small outpost of fifty men under the command of Major +Joel Rae—who had earnestly requested this assignment—was left to guard +the narrows of Echo Cañon and to keep watch over the enemy during the +winter. This officer was now persuaded that the Lord’s hand was with +them. For the enemy had been wasted away even by the elements from the +time he had crossed the forbidden line. + +In Salt Lake City that winter, the same opinion prevailed. They were +henceforth to be the free and independent State of Deseret. + +“Do you want to know,” asked Brigham, in the tabernacle, “what is to be +done with the enemy now on our borders? As soon as they start to come +into our settlements, let sleep depart from their eyes until they sleep +in death! Men shall be secreted along the route and shall waste them +away in the name of the God of Battles. The United States will have to +make peace with us. Never again shall we make peace with them.” + +And they sang with fervour:— + +“By the mountains our Zion’s surrounded, + Her warriors are noble and brave; +And their faith on Jehovah is founded, + Whose power is mighty to save. +Opposed by a proud, boasting nation, + Their numbers compared may be few; +But their Ruler is known through creation, + And they’ll always be faithful and true.” + + + + +Chapter XX. +How the Lion of the Lord Roared Soft + + +But with the coming of spring some fever that had burned in the blood +of the Saints from high to low was felt to be losing its heat. They had +held the Gentile army at bay during the winter—with the winter’s help. +But spring was now melting the snows. Reports from Washington, +moreover, indicated that a perverse generation in the States had +declined to accept the decrees of Israel’s God without further proofs +of their authenticity. + +With a view to determining this issue, Congress had voted more money +for troops. Three thousand men were to march to the reinforcement of +the army of Johnston on Black’s Fork; forty-five hundred wagons were to +transport their supplies; and fifty thousand oxen and four thousand +mules were to pull these wagons. War, in short, was to be waged upon +this Israel hidden in the chamber of the mountains. To Major Rae, +watching on the outposts of Zion from behind the icy ramparts of Echo +Cañon, the news was welcome, even enlivening. The more glory there +would be in that ultimate triumph which the Lord was about to secure +for them. + +In Brigham and the other leaders, however, this report induced deep +thought. And finally, on a day, they let it be known that there could +no longer be any thought of actual war with the armies of the Gentile. +Joel Rae in Echo Cañon was incredulous. There must be battle given. The +Lord would make them prevail; the living God of Abraham, of Isaac, and +of Jacob, would hold them up. And battle must be given for another +reason, though he hardly dared let that reason be plain to himself. For +only by continuing the war, only by giving actual battle to armed +soldiers, by fighting to the end if need be—only so could that day in +Mountain Meadows be made to appear as anything but—he shuddered and +could not name it. Even if actual war were to be fought on and on for +years, he believed that day could hardly be justified; but at least it +could be made in years of fighting to stand less horribly high and +solitary. They must fight, he thought, even if it were to lose all. But +the Lord would stay them. How much more wicked and perverse, then, to +reject the privilege! + +When he heard that the new governor, who had been in the snow with +Johnston’s army all winter, was to enter Salt Lake City and take his +office—a Gentile officer to sit on the throne of Brigham—he felt that +the Ark of the Covenant had been thrown down. “Let us not,” he implored +Brigham in a letter sent him from Echo Cañon, “be again dragooned into +servile obedience to any one less than the Christ of God!” + +But Brigham’s reply was an order to pass the new governor through Echo +Cañon. According to the terms of this order he was escorted through at +night, in a manner to convince him that he was passing between the +lines of a mighty and far-flung host. Fires were kindled along the +heights and the small force attending him was cunningly distributed and +duplicated, a few of its numbers going ahead from time to time, halting +the rest of the party and demanding the countersign. + +Joel Rae found himself believing that he could now have been a fiercer +Lion of the Lord than Brigham was; for he would have fought, while +Brigham was stooping to petty strategies—as if God were needing to rely +upon deceits. + +He was only a little appeased when, on going to Salt Lake City, he +learned Brigham’s intentions more fully. The new governor had been +installed; but the army of Johnston was to turn back. This was +Brigham’s first promise. Soon, however, this was modified. The +government, it appeared, was bent upon quartering its troops in the +valley; and Zion, therefore, would be again led into the wilderness. +The earlier promise was repeated—and the earlier threat—to the peace +commissioners now sent on from Washington. + +“We are willing those troops should come into our country, but not stay +in our city. They may pass through if need be, but must not be +quartered within forty miles of us. And if they come here to disturb +this people, before they reach here this city will be in ashes; every +house and tree and shrub and blade of grass will be destroyed. Here are +twenty years’ gathering, but it will all burn. You will have won back +the wilderness, barren again as on the day we entered it, but you will +not have conquered the people. Our wives and children will go to the +cañons and take shelter in the mountains, while their husbands and sons +will fight you. You will be without fuel, without subsistence for +yourselves or forage for your animals. You will be in a strange land, +while we know every foot of it. We will haunt and harass you and pick +you off by day and by night, and, as God lives, we will waste your army +away.” + +This was hopeful. Here at least was another chance to suffer +persecution, and thus, in a measure, atone for any monstrous wrong they +might have done. He hoped the soldiers would come despoiling, +plundering, thus compelling them to use the torch and to flee. Another +forced exodus would help to drive certain memories from his mind and +silence the cries that were now beginning to ring in his ears. + +Obedient to priestly counsel, the Saints declined, in the language of +Brigham, “to trust again in Punic faith.” In April they began to move +south, starting from the settlements on the north. During that and the +two succeeding months thirty thousand of them left their homes. They +took only their wagons, bedding, and provisions, leaving their other +possessions to the mercy of the expected despoiler. Before locking the +doors of their houses for the last time, they strewed shavings, straw, +and other combustibles through the rooms so that the work of firing the +city could be done quickly. A score of men were left behind to apply +the torch the moment it became necessary,—should a gate be swung open +or a latch lifted by hostile hands. Their homes and fields and orchards +might be given back to the desert from which they had been won; but +never to the Gentile invaders. + +To the south the wagons crept, day after day, to some other unknown +desert which their prophet should choose, and where, if the Lord +willed, they would again charm orchards and gardens and green fields +from the gray, parched barrens. + +Late in June the army of Johnston descended Emigration Cañon, passed +through the echoing streets of the all but deserted city and camped on +the River Jordan. But, to the deep despair of one observer, these +invaders committed no depredation or overt act. After resting +inoffensively two days on the Jordan, they marched forty miles south to +Cedar Valley, where Camp Floyd was established. + +Thus, no one fully comprehending how it had come about, peace was seen +suddenly to have been restored. The people, from Brigham down, had been +offered a free pardon for all past treasons and seditions if they would +return to their allegiance to the Federal government; the new officers +of the Territory were installed, sons of perdition in the seats of the +Lord’s mighty; and sermons of wrath against Uncle Sam ceased for the +moment to resound in the tabernacle. Early in July, Brigham ordered the +people to return to their homes. They had offered these as a sacrifice, +even as Abraham had offered Isaac, and the Lord had caught them a +timely ram in the thicket. + +In the midst of the general rejoicing, Joel Rae was overwhelmed with +humiliation and despair. He was ashamed for having once wished to be +another Lion of the Lord. It was a poor way to find favour with God, he +thought,—this refusing battle when it had been all but forced upon +them. It was plain, however, that the Lord meant to try them +further,—plain, too, that in His inscrutable wisdom He had postponed +the destruction of the wicked nation to the east of them. + +He longed again to rise before the people and call them to repentance +and to action. Once he would have done so, but now an evil shadow lay +upon him. Intuitively he knew that his words would no longer come with +power. Some virtue had gone out of him. And with this loss of +confidence in himself came again a desire to be away from the crowded +center. + +Off to the south was the desert. There he could be alone; there face +God and his own conscience and have his inmost soul declare the truth +about himself. In his sadness he would have liked to lead the people +with him, lead them away from some evil, some falsity that had crept in +about them; he knew not what it was nor how it had come, but Zion had +been defiled. Something was gone from the Church, something from +Brigham, something from himself,—something, it almost seemed, even from +the God of Israel. When the summer waned, his plan was formed to go to +one of the southern settlements to live. Brigham had approved. The +Church needed new blood there. + +He rode out of the city one early morning in September, facing to the +south over the rolling valley that lay between the hills now flaunting +their first autumn colours. He was in haste to go, yet fearful of what +he should meet there. + +A little out of the city he passed a man from the south, huddled high +on the seat under the bow of his wagon-cover, who sang as he went one +of the songs that had been so popular the winter before:— + +“Old squaw-killer Harney is on the way +The Mormon people for to slay. +Now if he comes, the truth I’ll tell, +Our boys will drive him down to hell— Du dah, du dah, day!” + + +He smiled grimly as the belated echo of war came back to him. + + + + +Chapter XXI. +The Blood on the Page + + +Along the level lane between the mountain ranges he went, a lane that +runs almost from Bear Creek on the north to the Colorado on the south, +with a width of twenty miles or so. But for Joel Rae it became a ride +down the valley of lost illusions. Some saving grace of faith was gone +from the people. He passed through sturdy little settlements, bowered +in gardens and orchards, and girded about by now fertile acres where +once had been the bare, gray desert. Slowly, mile by mile, the Saints +had pushed down the valley, battling with the Indians and the elements +for every acre of land they gained. Yet it seemed to him now that they +had achieved but a mere Godless prosperity. They had worked a miracle +of abundance in the desert—but of what avail? For the soul of their +faith was gone. He felt or heard the proof of it on every hand. + +Through Battle Creek, Provo, and Springville he went; through Spanish +Fork, Payson, Salt Creek, and Fillmore. He stopped to preach at each +place, but he did it perfunctorily, and with shame for himself in his +secret heart. Some impalpable essence of spirituality was gone from +himself and from the people. He felt himself wickedly agreeing with a +pessimistic elder at Fillmore, who remarked: “I tell you what, Brother +Rae, it seems like when the Book of Mormon goes again’ the Constitution +of the United States, there’s sure to be hell to pay, and the Saints +allus has to pay it.” He could not tell the man in words of fire, as +once he would have done, that they had been punished for lack of faith. + +Another told him it was madness to have thought they could “whip” the +United States. “Why,” said this one, “they’s more soldiers back there +east of the Missouri than there is fiddlers in hell!” By the orthodox +teachings of the time, the good man of Israel had thus indicated an +overwhelming host. + +He passed sadly on. They would not understand that they had laid by and +forgotten their impenetrable armour of faith. + +Between Beaver and Paragonah that day, toiling intently along the dusty +road in the full blaze of the August sun, he met a woman,—a tall, +strong creature with a broad, kind face, burned and seamed and hardened +by life in the open. Yet it was a face that appealed to him by its look +of simple, trusting earnestness. Her dress was of stout, gray homespun, +her shoes were coarse and heavy, and she was bareheaded, her gray, +straggling hair half caught into a clumsy knot at the back of her head. +She turned out to pass him without looking up, but he stopped his horse +and dismounted before her. It seemed to him that here was one whose +faith was still fresh, and to such a one he needed to talk. He called +to her: + +“You need something on your head; you are burned.” + +She looked up, absently at first, as if neither seeing nor hearing him. +Then intelligence came into her eyes. + +“You mean my Timothy needs something on his head—poor man! You see he +broke out of the house last night, because the Bishop told him I was to +take another husband. Cruel! Oh, so cruel!—the poor foolish man, he +believed it, and he cared so for me. He thought I was bringing home a +new man with me—a new wedding for time and eternity, to build myself up +in the Kingdom—a new wedding night—with him sitting off, cold and +neglected. But something burst in his head. It made a roar like the +mill at Cedar Creek when it grinds the corn—just like that. So he went +out into the cold night—it was sleeting—thinking I’d never miss him, +you see, me being fondled and made over by the new man—wouldn’t miss +him till morning.” A scowl of indignation darkened her face for an +instant, and she paused, looking off toward the distant hills. + +“But that was all a lie, a mean lie! I don’t see how he could have +believed it. I think he couldn’t have been right up here—” she pointed +to her head. + +“But of course I followed him, and I’ve been following him all day. He +must have got quite a start of me—poor dear—how could he think I’d +break his heart? But I’ll have him found by night. I must hurry, so +good day, sir!” She curtsied to him with a curious awkward sort of +grace. He stopped her again. + +“Where will you sleep to-night?” + +“In his arms, thank God!” + +“But if you happen to miss him—you might not find him until to-morrow.” + +A puzzled look crossed her face, and then came the shadow of a +disquieting memory. + +“Now you speak so, I remember that it wasn’t last night he left—it was +the night before—no?—perhaps three or four nights. But not as much as a +fortnight. I remember my little baby came the night he left. I was so +mad to find him I suffered the mother-pains out in the cold rain—just a +little dead baby—I could take no interest in it. And there has been a +night or two since then, of course. Sleep?—oh, I’ll sleep some easy +place where I can hear him if he passes—sometimes by the road, in a +barn, in houses—they let me sleep where I like. I must hurry now. He’s +waiting just over that hill ahead.” + +He saw her ascend the rise with a new spring in her step. When she +reached the top, he saw her pause and look from side to side below her, +then start hopefully down toward the next hill. + +A mile beyond, back of a great cloud of dust, He found a drove of +cattle, and back of these, hot and voiceful, came the good Bishop +Wright. He described the woman he had just met, and inquired if the +Bishop knew her. + +The Wild Ram of the Mountain mopped his dusty, damp brow, took an +easier seat in his saddle, and fanned himself. “Oh, yes, that’s the +first wife of Elder Tench. When he took his second, eight or ten years +ago, something went wrong with this one in her head. She left the house +the same night, and she’s been on the go ever since. She don’t do any +harm, jest tramps back and forth between Paragonah and Parowan and +Summit and Cedar City. I always _have_ said that women is the contrary +half of the human race and man is the sanifying half!” + +The cattle were again in motion, and the Bishop after them with strong +cries of correction and exhortation. + +Toward evening Joel Rae entered Paragonah, a loose group of log houses +amid outlying fields, now shorn and yellow. Along the street in front +of him many children followed and jeered in the wake of a man who +slouched some distance ahead of them. As Joel came nearer, one boy, +bolder than the others, ran forward and tugged sharply at the victim’s +ragged gray coat. At this he turned upon his pursuers, and Joel Rae saw +his face,—the face of an imbecile, with unsteady eyes and weakly +drooping jaw. He raised his hand threateningly at his tormentors, and +screamed at them in rage. Then, as they fell back, he chuckled to +himself. As Joel passed him, he was still looking back at the group of +children now jeering him from a safe distance, his eyes bright for the +moment, and his face lighted with a weak, loose-lipped smile. + +“Who is that fellow, Bishop?” he asked of his host for the night, a few +moments later, when he dismounted in front of the cabin. The Bishop +shaded his eyes with his hand and peered up the road at the shambling +figure once more moving ahead of the tormenting children. + +“That? Oh, that’s only Tom Potwin. You heard about him, I guess. No? +Well, he’s a simple—been so four years now. Don’t you recollect? He’s +the lad over at Manti who wouldn’t give up the girl Bishop Warren Snow +wanted. The priesthood tried every way to make him; they counselled +him, and that didn’t do; then they ordered him away on mission, but he +wouldn’t go; and then they counselled the girl, but she was stubborn +too. The Bishop saw there wasn’t any other way, so he had him called to +a meeting at the schoolhouse one night. As soon as he got there, the +lights was blowed out, and—well, it was unfortunate, but this boy’s +been kind of an idiot ever since.” + +“Unfortunate! It was awful!” + +“Not so awful as refusing to obey counsel.” + +“What became of the girl?” + +“Oh, she saw it wasn’t no use trying to go against the Lord, so she +married the Bishop. He said at the time that he knew she’d bring him +bad luck—she being his thirteenth—and she did, she was that hifalutin. +He had to put her away about a year ago, and I hear she’s living in a +dugout somewhere the other side of Cedar City, a-starving to death they +tell me, but for what the neighbours bring her. I never did see why the +Bishop was so took with her. You could see she’d never make a worker, +and good looks go mighty fast.” + +He dreamed that night that the foundations of the great temple they +were building had crumbled. And when he brought new stones to replace +the old, these too fell away to dust in his hands. + +The next evening he reached Cedar City. Memories of this locality began +to crowd back upon him with torturing clearness; especially of the +morning he had left Hamblin’s ranch. As he mounted his horse two of the +children saved from the wagon-train had stood near him,—a boy of seven +and another a little older, the one who had fought so viciously with +him when he was separated from the little girl. He remembered that the +younger of the two boys had forgotten all but the first of his name. He +had told them that it was John Calvin—something; he could not remember +what, so great had been his fright; the people at the ranch, because of +his forlorn appearance, had thereupon named him John Calvin Sorrow. + +These two boys had watched him closely as he mounted his horse, and the +older one had called to him, “When I get to be a man, I’m coming back +with a gun and kill you till you are dead yourself,” and the other, +little John Calvin Sorrow, had clenched his fists and echoed the +threat, “We’ll come back here and kill you! Mormons is worse’n +Indians!” + +He had ridden quickly away, not noting that some of the men standing by +had looked sharply at the boys and then significantly at one another. +One of those who had been present, whom he now met, told him of these +two boys. + +“You see, Elder, the orders from headquarters was to save only them +that was too young to give evidence in a court. But these two was very +forward and knowing. They shouldn’t have been kept in the first place. +So two men—no need of naming names—took both of them out one night. +They got along all right with the little one, the one they called John +Calvin Sorrow—only the little cuss kicked and scrambled so that we both +had to see to him for a minute, and when we was ready for the other, +there he was at least ten rods away, a-legging it into the scrub oak. +Well, they looked and looked and hunted around till daybreak, but he’d +got away all right, the moon going under a cloud. They tracked him +quite a ways when it come light, till his tracks run into the trail of +a big band of Navajos that had been up north trading ponies and was +going back south. He was the one that talked so much about you, but you +needn’t ever have any fear of his talking any more. He’d be done for +one way or another.” + +For the first time in his life that night, he was afraid to +pray,—afraid even to give thanks that others were sleeping in the room +with him so that he could hear their breathing and know that he was not +alone. + +He was up betimes to press on to the south, again afraid to pray, and +dreading what was still in store for him. For sooner or later he would +have to be alone in the night. Thus far since that day in the Meadows +he had slept near others, whether in cabins or in camp, in some +freighter’s wagon or bivouacking in the snows of Echo Cañon. Each night +he had been conscious, at certain terrible moments of awakening, that +others were near him. He heard their breathing, or in the silence a +fire’s light had shown him a sleeping face, the lines of a form, or an +arm tossed out. What would happen on the night he found himself alone, +he knew not—death, or the loss of reason. He knew what the torture +would be,—the shrieks of women in deadly terror, the shrill cries of +children, the low, tense curses of men, the rattle of shots, the yells +of Indians, the heavy, sickening smell of blood, the still forms fallen +in strange positions of ease, the livid faces distorted to grins. He +had not been able to keep the sounds from his ears, but thus far the +things themselves had stayed behind him, moving always, crawling, +writhing, even stepping furtively close at his back, so that he could +feel their breath on his neck. When the time came that these should +move around in front of him, he thought it would have to be the end. +They would go before him, a wild, bleeding, raving procession, until +they tore his heart from his breast. One sight he feared most of all,—a +bronzed arm with a wide silver bracelet at the wrist, the hand +clutching and waving before him heavy strands of long, yellow hair with +a gory patch at the end,—living hair that writhed and undulated to +catch the light, coiling about the arm like a golden serpent. + +His way lay through the Meadows, yet he hardly realised this until he +was fairly on the ground in the midst of a thousand evil signs of the +day. Here, a year after, were skulls and whitening bones, some in +heaps, some scattered through the sage-brush where the wolves had left +them. Many of the skulls were pierced with bullet-holes, shattered as +by heavy blows, or cleft as with a sharp-edged weapon. Even more +terrifying than these were certain traces caught here and there on the +low scrub oaks along the way,—children’s sunbonnets; shreds of coarse +lace, muslin, and calico; a child’s shoe, the tattered sleeve of a +woman’s dress—all faded, dead, whipped by the wind. + +He pressed through it all with set jaws, trying to keep his eyes fixed +upon the ground beyond his horse’s head; but his ears were at the mercy +of the cries that rang from every thicket. + +Once out of it, he rode hard, for it must not come yet—his first night +alone. By dusk he had reached the new settlement of Amalon, a little +off the main road in a valley of the Pine Mountains. Here he sought the +house where he had left the child. When he had picketed his horse he +went in and had her brought to him,—a fresh little flower-like +woman-child, with hair and eyes that told of her mother, with reminders +of her mother’s ways as she stood before him, a waiting poise of the +head, a lift of the chin. They looked at each other in the +candle-light, the child standing by the woman who had brought her, +looking up at him curiously, and he not daring to touch her or go +nearer. She became uneasy and frightened at last, under his scrutiny, +and when the woman would have held her from running away, began to cry, +so that he gave the word to let her go. She ran quickly into the other +room of the cabin, from which she called back with tears of indignation +in her voice, “You’re not my papa—not my _real_ papa!” + +When the people were asleep, he sat before the blaze in the big +fireplace, on the hearth cleanly swept with its turkey-wing and +buffalo-tail. There was to be one more night of his reprieve from +solitude. The three women of the house and the man were sleeping around +the room in bunks. The child’s bed had been placed near him on the +floor after she slept, as he had asked it to be. He had no thought of +sleep for himself. He was too intensely awake with apprehension. On the +floor beside his chair was a little bundle the woman had brought +him,—the bundle he had found loosened by her side, that day, with the +trinkets scattered about and the limp-backed little Bible lying open +where it had fallen. + +He picked the bundle up and untied it, touching the contents timidly. +He took up the Bible last, and as he did so a memory flooded back upon +him that sickened him and left him trembling. It was the book he had +given her on her seventeenth birthday, the one she had told him she was +keeping when they parted that morning at Nauvoo. He knew the truth +before he opened it at the yellowed fly-leaf and read in faded ink, +“From Joel to Prudence on this day when she is seventeen years old—June +2d, 1843.” + +In a daze of feeling he turned the pages, trying to clear his mind, +glancing at the chapter headings as he turned,—“Abram is Justified by +Faith,” “God Instructeth Isaac,” “Pharaoh’s Heart Is Hardened,” “The +Laws of Murder,” “The Curses for Disobedience.” He turned rapidly and +at last began to run the leaves from between his thumb and finger, and +then, well over in the book something dark caught his eye. He turned +the leaves back again to see what it was; but not until the book was +opened flat before him and he held the page close to the light did he +see what it was his eye had caught. A wash of blood was across the +page. + +He stared blankly at the reddish, dark stain, as if its spell had been +hypnotic. Little by little he began to feel the horror of it, +remembering how he picked the book up from where it had fallen before +her. Slowly, but with relentless certainty, his mind cleared to what he +saw. + +Now for the first time he began to notice the words that showed dimly +through the stain, began to read them, to puzzle them out, as if they +were new to him:— + +“But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them +which hate you, + “Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully + use you. + “And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek, offer also the + other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy + coat also. + “Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away + thy goods ask them not again. + “And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them + likewise.” + + +Again and again he read them. They were illumined with a strangely +terrible meaning by the blood of her he had loved and sworn to keep +himself clean for. + +He could no longer fight off the truth. It was facing him now in all +its nakedness, monstrous to obscenity, demanding its due measure from +his own soul’s blood. He aroused himself, shivering, and looked out +into the room where the shadows lay heavy, and from whence came the +breathing of the sleepers. He picked up the now sputtering candle, set +in its hole bored in a block of wood, and held it up for a last look at +the little woman-child. He was full of an agony of wonder as he gazed, +of piteous questioning why this should be as it was. The child stirred +and flung one arm over her eyes as if to hide the light. He put out the +candle and set it down. Then stooping over, he kissed the pillow beside +the child’s head and stepped lightly to the door. He had come to the +end of his subterfuges—he could no longer delay his punishment. + +Outside the moon was shining, and his horse moved about restlessly. He +put on the saddle and rode off to the south, galloping rapidly after he +reached the highway. Off there was a kindly desert where a man could +take in peace such punishment as his body could bear and his soul +decree; and where that soul could then pass on in decent privacy to be +judged by its Maker. + + + + +Chapter XXII. +The Picture in the Sky + + +If something of the peace of the night-silence came to him as he rode, +he counted it only the peace of surrender and despair. He knew now that +he had been cheated of all his great long-nursed hopes of some superior +exaltation. Nor this only; for he had sinned unforgivably and incurred +perdition. He who had fasted, prayed, and endured, waiting for his +Witness, for the spreading of the heavens and the glory of the open +vision, had overreached himself and was cast down. + +When at last he slowed his horse to a walk, it was the spring of the +day. The moon had gone, and over on his left a soft grayness began to +show above the line of the hills. The light grew until it glowed with +the fire of opals; through the tree-tops ran little stirs of +wakefulness, and all about him were faint, furtive rustlings and +whispers of the new day. Then in this glorified dusk of the dawn a +squirrel loosed his bark of alarm, a crested jay screamed in answer, +and he knew his hour of atonement was come. + +He pressed forward again toward the desert, eager to be on with it. The +page with the wash of blood across it seemed to take on a new vividness +in the stronger light. Under the stain, the letters of the words were +magnified before his mind,—_“And as ye would that men should do to +you—”_ It seemed to him that the blood through which they came heated +the words so that they burned his eyes. + +An hour after daybreak the trail led him down out of the hills by a +little watercourse to the edge of the desert. Along the sides of this +the chaparral grew thickly, and the spring by which he halted made a +little spot of green at the edge of the gray. But out in front of him +was the infinite stretch of death, far sweeps of wind-furrowed sand +burning under a sun made sullen red by the clouds of fine dust in the +air. Sparsely over the dull surface grew the few shrubs that could +survive the heat and dryness,—stunted, unlovely things of burr, spine, +thorn, or saw-edged leaf,—all bent one ways by the sand blown against +them,—bristling cactus and crouching mesquite bushes. + +In the vast open of the blue above, a vulture wheeled with sinister +alertness; and far out among the dwarfed growing things a coyote +skulked knowingly. The weird, phantom-like beauty of it stole upon him, +torn as he was, while he looked over the dry, flat reaches. It was a +good place to die in, this lifeless waste languishing under an angry +sun. And he knew how it would come. Out to the south, as many miles as +he should have strength to walk, away from any road or water-hole, a +great thirst would come, and then delirium, perhaps bringing visions of +cool running water and green trees. He would hurry toward these madly +until he stumbled and fell and died. Then would come those cynical +scavengers of the desert, the vulture wheeling lower, the coyote +skulking nearer, pausing suspiciously to sniff and to see if he moved. +Then a few poor bones, half-buried by the restless sand, would be left +to whiten and crumble into particles of the same desert dust he looked +upon. As for his soul, he shuddered to think its dissolution could not +also be made as sure. + +He stood looking out a long time, held by the weak spirit of a hope +that some reprieve might come, from within or from on high. But he saw +only the page wet with blood, and the words that burned through it into +his eyes; heard only the cries of women in their death-agony and the +stealthy movements of the bleeding shapes behind him. There was no ray +of hope to his eye nor note of it to his ear—only the cries and the +rustlings back of him, driving him out. + +At last he gave his horse water, tied the bridle-rein to the horn of +the saddle, headed him back over the trail to the valley and turned him +loose. Then, after a long look toward the saving green of the hills, he +started off through the yielding sand, his face white and haggard but +hard-set. He was already weakened by fasting and loss of sleep, and the +heat and dryness soon told upon him as the chill was warmed from the +morning air. + +When he had walked an hour, he felt he must stop, at least to rest. He +looked back to see how far he had come. He was disappointed by the +nearness of the hills; they seemed but a stone’s throw away. If +delirium came now he would probably wander back to the water. He lay +down, determining to gather strength for many more miles. The sand was +hot under him, and the heat of a furnace was above, but he lay with his +head on his arm and his hat pulled over his face. Soon he was +half-asleep, so that dreams would alternate with flashes of +consciousness; or sometimes they merged, so that he would dream he had +wandered into a desert, or that the stifling heat of a desert came to +him amid the snows of Echo Cañon. He awakened finally with a cry, +brushing from before his eyes a mass of yellow hair that a dark hand +shook in his face. + +He sat up, looked about a moment, and was on his feet again to the +south, walking in the full glare of the sun, with his shadow now +straight behind him. He went unsteadily at first, but soon felt new +vigour from his rest. + +He walked another hour, then turned, and was again disappointed—it was +such a little distance; yet he knew now he must be too far out to find +his way back when the madness came. So it was with a little sigh of +contentment that he lay down again to rest or to take what might come. + +Again he lay with his head on his arm in the scorching sands, with his +hat above his face, and again his dreams alternated with consciousness +of the desolation about him—alternated and mingled so that he no longer +knew when he did not sleep. And again he was tortured to wakefulness, +to thirst, and to heat, by the yellow hair brandished before him. + +He sat up until he was quite awake, and then sank back upon the sand +again, relieved to find that he felt too weak to walk further. His mind +had become suddenly cleared so that he seemed to see only realities, +and those in their just proportions. He knew he had passed sentence of +death upon himself, knew he had been led to sin by his own arrogance of +soul. It came to him in all its bare, hard simplicity, stripped of the +illusions and conceits in which his pride had draped it, thrusting +sharp blades of self-condemnation through his heart. In that moment he +doubted all things. He knew he had sinned past his own forgiveness, +even if pardon had come from on high; knew that no agony of spear and +thorns upon the cross could avail to take him from the hell to which +his own conscience had sent him. + +He was quite broken. Not since the long-gone night on the river-flat +across from Nauvoo had tears wet his eyes. But they fell now, and from +sheer, helpless grief he wept. And then for the first time in two days +he prayed—this time the prayer of the publican:— + +_“God be merciful to me, a sinner.”_ + +Over and over he said the words, chokingly, watering the hot sands with +his tears. When the paroxysm had passed, it left him, weak and prone, +still faintly crying his prayer into the sand, “O God, be merciful to +me, a sinner.” + +When he had said over the words as long as his parched throat would let +him, he became quiet. To his amazement, some new, strange peace had +filled him. He took it for the peace of death. He was glad to think it +was coming so gently—like a kind mother soothing him to his last sleep. + +His head on his arm, his whole tired body relaxing in this new +restfulness, he opened his eyes and looked off to the south, idly +scanning the horizon, his eyes level with the sandy plain. Then +something made him sit quickly up and stare intently, his bared head +craning forward. To the south, lying low, was a mass of light clouds, +volatile, changing with opalescent lights as he looked. A little to the +left of these clouds, while his head was on the sand, he thought his +eyes had detected certain squared lines. + +Now he scanned the spot with a feverish eagerness. At first there was +only the endless empty blue. Then, when his wonder was quite dead and +he was about to lie down, there came a miracle of miracles,—a vision in +the clear blue of the sky. And this time the lines were coherent. He, +the dying sinner, had caught, clearly and positively for one awful +second in that sky, the flashing impression of a cross. It faded as +soon as it came, vanished while he gazed, leaving him in gasping, +fainting wonder at the marvel. + +And then, before he could think or question himself, the sky once more +yielded its vision; again that image of a cross stayed for a second in +his eyes, and this time he thought there were figures about it. Some +picture was trying to show itself to him. Still reaching his body +forward, gazing fearfully, his aroused body pulsing swiftly to the +wonder of the thing, he began to pray again, striving to keep his +excitement under. + +“O God, have mercy on me, a sinner!” + +Slowly at first, it grew before his fixed eyes, then quickly, so that +at the last there was a complete picture where but an instant before +had been but a meaningless mass of line and colour. Set on a hill were +many low, square, flat-topped houses, brown in colour against the gray +ground about them. In front of these houses was a larger structure of +the same material, a church-like building such as he had once seen in a +picture, with a wooden cross at the top. In an open square before this +church were many moving persons strangely garbed, seeming to be +Indians. They surged for a moment about the door of the church, then +parted to either side as if in answer to a signal, and he saw a +procession of the same people coming with bowed heads, scourging +themselves with short whips and thorned branches. At their head walked +a brown-cowled monk, holding aloft before him a small cross, attached +by a chain to his waist. As he led the procession forward, another +crowd, some of them being other brown-cowled monks, parted before the +church door, and there, clearly before his wondering eyes was erected a +great cross upon which he saw the crucified Saviour. + +He saw those in the procession form about the cross and fling +themselves upon the ground before it, while all the others round about +knelt. He saw the monk, standing alone, raise the smaller cross in his +hands above them, as if in blessing. High above it all, he saw the +crucified one, the head lying over on the shoulder. + +Then he, too, flung himself face down in the sand, weeping +hysterically, calling wildly, and trying again to utter his prayer. +Once more he dared to look up, in some sudden distrust of his eyes. +Again he saw the prostrate figures, the kneeling ones farther back, the +brown-cowled monk with arms upraised, and the face of agony on the +cross. + +He was down in the sand again, now with enough control of himself to +cry out his prayer over and over. When he next looked, the vision was +gone. Only a few light clouds ruffled the southern horizon. + +He sank back on the sands in an ecstasy. His Witness had come—not as he +thought it would, in a moment of spiritual uplift; but when he had been +sunk by his own sin to fearful depths. Nor had it brought any message +of glory for himself, of gifts or powers. Only the mission of suffering +and service and suffering again at the end. But it was enough. + +How long he lay in the joy of the realisation he never knew, but sleep +or faintness at last overcame him. + +He was revived by the sharp chill of night, and sat up to find his mind +clear, alert, and active with new purposes. He had suffered greatly +from thirst, so that when he tried to say a prayer of thanksgiving he +could not move his swollen tongue. He was weakened, too, but the +freezing cold of the desert night aroused all his latent force. He +struggled to his feet, and laid a course by the light of the moon back +to the spring he had left in the morning. How he reached the hills +again he never knew, nor how he made his way over them and back to the +settlement. But there he lay sick for many days, his mind, when he felt +it at all, tossing idly upon the great sustaining consciousness of that +vision in the desert. + +The day which he next remembered clearly, and from which he dated his +new life, was one when he was back in the Meadows. He had ridden there +in the first vagueness and weakness of his recovery, without purpose, +yet feeling that he must go. What he found there made him believe he +had been led to the spot. Stark against the glow of the western sky as +he rode up, was a huge cross. He stopped, staring in wonder, believing +it to be another vision; but it stayed before him, rigid, bare, and +uncompromising. He left his horse and climbed up to it. At its base was +piled a cairn of stones, and against this was a slab with an +inscription:— + +“Here 120 Men, Women, and Children Were Massacred in Cold Blood Early +in September, 1857.” + +On the cross itself was carved in deep letters:— + +“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” + +He fell on his knees at the foot and prayed, not weeping nor in any +fever of fear, but as one knowing his sin and the sin of his Church. +The burden of his prayer was, “O God, my own sin cannot be forgiven—I +know it well—but let me atone for the sins of this people and let me +guide them aright. Let me die on this cross a hundred deaths for each +life they put out, or as many more as shall be needed to save them.” + +He was strong in his faith again, conscious that he himself was lost, +but burning to save others, and hopeful, too, for he believed that a +miracle had been vouchsafed to him in the desert. + +Nor would the good _padre_, at the head of his procession of penitents +in his little mission out across the desert, have doubted less that it +was a miracle than did this unhappy apostle of Joseph Smith, had he +known the circumstance of its timeliness; albeit he had become familiar +with such phenomena of light and air in the desert. + + + + +Chapter XXIII. +The Sinner Chastens himself + + +How to offer the greatest sacrifice—how to do the greatest +service—these had become his problems. He concerned himself no longer +with his own exaltation either in this world or the world to come. + +He resolved to stay south, fearing vaguely that in the North he would +be in conflict with the priesthood. He knew not how; he felt that he +was still sound in his faith, but he felt, too, some undefined +antagonism between himself and those who preached in the tabernacle. +For his home he chose the settlement of Amalon, set in a rich little +valley between the shoulders of the Pine Mountains. + +Late in October there was finished for him on the outer edge of the +town, near the bank of a little hill-born stream, a roomy log-house, +mud-chinked, with a water-tight roof of spruce shakes and a floor of +whipsawed plank,—a residence fit for one of the foremost teachers in +the Church, an Elder after the Order of Melchisedek, an eloquent +preacher and one true to the blessed Gods. At one end of the cabin, a +small room was partitioned off and a bunk built in it. A chair and a +water-basin on a block comprised its furniture. This room he reserved +for himself. + +As to the rest of the house, his ideas were at first cloudy. He knew +only that he wished to serve. Gradually, however, as his mind worked +over the problem, the answer came with considerable clearness. He +thought about it much on his way north, for he was obliged to make the +trip to Salt Lake City to secure supplies for the winter, some needed +articles of furniture for the house, and his wagons and stock. + +He was helped in his thinking on a day early in the journey. Near a +squalid hut on the outskirts of Cedar City he noticed a woman +staggering under an armful of wood. She was bareheaded, with hair +disordered, her cheeks hollowed, and her skin yellow and bloodless. He +remembered the tale he had heard when he came down. He thought she must +be that wife of Bishop Snow who had been put away. He rode up to the +cabin as the woman threw her wood inside. She was weak and +wretched-looking in the extreme. + +“I am Elder Rae. I want to know if you would care to go to Amalon with +me when I come back. If you do, you can have a home there as long as +you like. It would be easier for you than here.” + +She had looked up quickly at him in much embarrassment. She smiled a +little when he had finished. + +“I’m not much good to work, but I think I’d get stronger if I had +plenty to eat. I used to be right strong and well.” + +“I shall be along with my wagons in two weeks or a little more. If you +will go with me then I would like to have you. Here, here is money to +buy you food until I come.” + +“You’ve heard about me, have you—that I’m a divorced woman?” + +“Yes, I know.” + +She looked down at the ground a moment, pondering, then up at him with +sudden resolution. + +“I can’t work hard and—I’m not—pretty any longer—why do you want to +marry me?” + +Her question made him the more embarrassed of the two, and she saw as +much, but she could not tell why it was. + +“Why,” he stammered, “why,—you see—but never mind. I must hurry on now. +In about two weeks—“ And he put the spurs so viciously to his horse +that he was nearly unseated by the startled animal’s leap. + +Off on the open road again he thought it out. Marriage had not been in +his mind when he spoke to the woman. He had meant only to give her a +home. But to her the idea had come naturally from his words, and he +began to see that it was, indeed, not an unnatural thing to do. He +dwelt long on this new idea, picturing at intervals the woman’s lack of +any charm or beauty, her painful emaciation, her weakness. + +Passing through another village later in the day, he saw the youth who +had been so unfortunate as to love this girl in defiance of his Bishop. +Unmolested for the time, the imbecile would go briskly a few steps and +then pause with an important air of the deepest concern, as if he were +engaged on an errand of grave moment. He was thinly clad and shivering +in the chill of the late October afternoon. + +Again, still later in the day, he overtook and passed the gaunt, gray +woman who forever sought her husband. She was smiling as he passed her. +Then his mind was made up. + +As he entered Brigham’s office in Salt Lake City some days later, there +passed out by the same door a woman whom he seemed dimly to remember. +The left half of her face was disfigured by a huge flaming scar, and he +saw that she had but one hand. + +“Who was that woman?” he asked Brigham, after they had chatted a little +of other matters. + +“That’s poor Christina Lund. You ought to remember her. She was in your +hand-cart party. She’s having a pretty hard time of it. You see, she +froze off one hand, so now she can’t work much, and then she froze her +face, so she ain’t much for looks any longer—in fact, I wouldn’t say +Christina was much to start with, judging from the half of her face +that’s still good—and so, of course, she hasn’t been able to marry. The +Church helps her a little now and then, but what troubles her most is +that she’ll lose her glory if she ain’t married. You see, she ain’t a +worker and she ain’t handsome, so who’s going to have her sealed to +him?” + +“I remember her now. She pushed the cart with her father in it from the +Platte crossing, at Fort Laramie, clear over to Echo Cañon, when all +the fingers of one hand came off on the bar of the cart one afternoon; +and then her hand had to be amputated. Brother Brigham, she shouldn’t +be cheated of her place in the Kingdom.” + +“Well, she ain’t capable, and she ain’t a pretty person, so what can +she do?” + +“I believe if the Lord is willing I will have her sealed to me.” + +“It will be your own doings, Brother Rae. I wouldn’t take it on myself +to counsel that woman to anybody.” + +“I feel I must do it, Brother Brigham.” + +“Well, so be it if you say. She can be sealed to you and be a star in +your crown forever. But I hope, now that you’ve begun to build up your +kingdom, you’ll do a little better, next time. There’s a lot of pretty +good-looking young women came in with a party yesterday—” + +“All in good time, Brother Brigham! If you’re willing, I’ll pick up my +second on the way south.” + +“Well, well, now that’s good!” and the broad face of Brigham glowed +with friendly enthusiasm. “You know I’d suspicioned more than once that +you wasn’t overly strong on the doctrinal point of celestial marriage. +I hope your second, Brother Joel, is a little fancier than this one.” + +“She’ll be a better worker,” he replied. + +“Well, they’re the most satisfactory in the long run. I’ve found that +out myself. At any rate, it’s best to lay the foundations of your +kingdom with workers, the plainer the better. After that, a man can +afford something in the ornamental line now and then. Now, I’ll send +for Christina and tell her what luck she’s in. She hasn’t had her +endowments yet, so you might as well go through those with her. Be at +the endowment-house at five in the morning.” + +And so it befell that Joel Rae, Elder after the Order of Melchisedek, +and Christina Lund, spinster, native of Denmark, were on the following +day, after the endowment-rites had been administered, married for time +and eternity. + +At the door of the endowment-house they were separated and taken to +rooms, where each was bathed and anointed with oil poured from a horn. +A priest then ordained them to be king and queen in time and eternity. +After this, they were conducted to a large apartment, and left in +silence for some moments. Then voices were heard, the voice of Elohim +in converse with Jehovah. They were heard to declare their intention of +visiting the earth, and this they did, pronouncing it good, but +deciding that one of a higher order was needed to govern the brutes. +Michael, the Archangel, was then called and placed on earth under the +name of Adam, receiving power over the beasts, and being made free to +eat of the fruit of every tree but one. This tree was a small +evergreen, with bunches of raisins tied to its branches. + +Discovering that it was not good for man to be alone, Brigham, as God, +then caused a sleep to fall upon Adam, and fashioned Eve from one of +his ribs. Then the Devil entered, in black silk knee-breeches, +approaching with many blandishments the woman who was enacting the rôle +of Eve. The sin followed, and the expulsion from the garden. + +After this impressive spectacle, Joel and the rapturous Christina were +taught many signs, grips, and passwords, without which one may not pass +by the gatekeepers of heaven. They were sworn also to avenge the murder +of Joseph Smith upon the Gentiles who had done it, and to teach their +children to do the same; to obey without questioning or murmur the +commands of the priesthood; and never to reveal these secret rites +under penalty of having their throats cut from ear to ear and their +hearts and tongues cut out. + +When this oath had been taken, they passed into a room containing a +long, low altar covered with red velvet. At one end, in an armchair, +sat Brigham, no longer in the rôle of God, but in his proper person of +Prophet, Seer, and Revelator. They knelt on either side of this altar, +and, with hands clasped above it in the secret grip last given to them, +they were sealed for time and eternity. + +From the altar they went to the wagons and began their journey south. +Christina came out of the endowment-house, glowing, as to one side of +her face. She was, also, in a state of daze that left her able to say +but little. Proud and happy and silent, her sole remark, the first day +of the trip, was: “Brigham—now—he make such a lovely, _bee-yoo-tiful_ +God in heaven!” + +Nor, it soon appeared, was she ever talkative. The second day, too, she +spoke but once, which was when a sudden heavy shower swept down from +the hills and caught her some distance from the wagons, helping to +drive the cattle. Then, although she was drenched, she only said: “It +make down somet’ing, I t’ink!” + +For this taciturnity her husband was devoutly thankful. He had married +her to secure her place in the Kingdom and a temporal home, and not +otherwise did he wish to be concerned about her. He was glad to note, +however, that she seemed to be of a happy disposition; which he did at +certain times when her eyes beamed upon him from a face radiant with +gratitude. + +But his work of service had only begun. As they went farther south he +began to make inquiries for the wandering wife of Elder Tench. He came +upon her at length as she was starting north from Beaver at dusk. He +prevailed upon her to stop with his party. + +“I don’t mind to-night, sir, but I must be off betimes in the morning.” + +But in the morning he persuaded her to stay with them. + +“Your husband is out of the country now, but he’s coming back soon, and +he will stop first at my house when he does come. So stay with me there +and wait for him.” + +She was troubled by this at first, but at last agreed. + +“If you’re sure he will come there first—” + +She refused to ride in the wagon, however, preferring to walk, and +strode briskly all day in the wake of the cattle. + +At Parowan he made inquiries for Tom Potwin, that other derelict, and +was told that he had gone south. Him, too, they overtook on the road +next day, and persuaded to go with them to a home. + +When they reached Cedar City a halt was made while he went for the +other woman—not without some misgiving, for he remembered that she was +still young. But his second view of her reassured him—the sallow, +anemic face, the skin drawn tightly over the cheek-bones, the drooping +shoulders, the thin, forlorn figure. Even the certainty that her life +of hardship was ended, that she was at least sure not to die of +privation, had failed to call out any radiance upon her. They were +married by a local Bishop, Joel’s first wife placing the hand of the +second in his own, as the ceremony required. Then with his wives, his +charges, his wagons, and his cattle he continued on to the home he had +made at the edge of Amalon. + +Among the women there was no awkwardness or inharmony; they had all +suffered; and the two wives tactfully humoured the whims of the insane +woman. On the day they reached home, the husband took them to the door +of his own little room. + +“All that out there is yours,” he said. “Make the best arrangements you +can. This is my place; neither of you must ever come in here.” + +They busied themselves in unpacking the supplies that had been brought, +and making the house home-like. The big gray woman had already gone +down the road toward the settlement to watch for her husband, +promising, however, to return at nightfall. The other derelict helped +the women in their work, doing with a childish pleasure the things they +told him to do. The second wife occasionally paused in her tasks to +look at him from eyes that were lighted to strange depths; but he had +for her only the unconcerned, unknowing look that he had for the +others. + +At night the master of the house, when they had assembled, instructed +them briefly in the threefold character of the Godhead. Then, when he +had made a short prayer, he bade them good night and went to his room. +Here he permitted himself a long look at the fair young face set in the +little gilt oval of the rubber case. Then, as if he had forgotten +himself, he fell contritely to his knees beside the bunk and prayed +that this face might never remind him of aught but his sin; that he +might have cross after cross added to his burden until the weight +should crush him; and that this might atone, not for his own sins, +which must be punished everlastingly, but in some measure for the sins +of his misguided people. + +In the outer room his wives, sitting together before the big fireplace, +were agreeing that he was a good man. + + + + +Chapter XXIV. +The Coming of the Woman-Child + + +The next day he sent across the settlement for the child, waiting for +her with mixed emotions,—a trembling merge of love and fear, with +something, indeed, of awe for this woman-child of her mother, who had +come to him so deviously and with a secret significance so mighty of +portent to his own soul. When they brought her in at last, he had to +brace himself to meet her. + +She came and stood before him, one foot a little advanced, several +dolls clutched tightly under one arm, and her bonnet swinging in the +other hand. She looked up at him fearlessly, questioningly, but with no +sign of friendliness. He saw and felt her mother in all her being, in +her eyes and hair, in the lines of her soft little face, and +indefinably in her way of standing or moving. He was seized with a +sudden fear that the mother watched him secretly out of the child’s +eyes, and with the child’s lips might call to him accusingly, with what +wild cries of anguish and reproach he dared not guess. He strove to say +something to her, but his lips were dry, and he made only some +half-articulate sound, trying to force a smile of assurance. + +Then the child spoke, her serious, questioning eyes upon him +unwaveringly. + +“Are you a damned Mormon?” + +It broke the spell of awe that had lain upon him, so that he felt for +the moment only a pious horror of her speech. He called Christina to +take charge of her, and Martha, the second wife, to put away her little +bundle of clothing, and Tom Potwin to fetch water for her bath. He +himself went to be alone where he could think what must be done for +her. From an entry in the little Bible, written in letters that seemed +to shout to him the accusation of his crime, he had found that she must +now be five years old. It was plainly time that he should begin to +supply her very apparent need of religious instruction. + +When she had become a little used to her surroundings later in the day, +he sought to beguile her to this end, beginning diplomatically with +other matters. + +“Come, tell me your name, dear.” + +She allowed her attention to be diverted from her largest doll. + +“My name is Prudence—” She hesitated. + +“Prudence—what?” + +“I—I lost my mind of it.” She looked at him hopefully, to be prompted. + +“Prudence Rae.” + +She repeated the name, doubtingly, “Prudence Rae?” + +“Yes—remember now—Prudence Rae. You are my little girl—Prudence Rae.” + +“But you’re not my really papa—he’s went far off—oh, ten ninety miles +far!” + +“No, Prudence—God is your Father in heaven, and I am your father on +earth—” + +“But not my _papa_!” + +“Listen, Prudence—do you know what you are?” + +The puzzled look she had worn fled instantly from her face. + +“I’m a generation of vipers.” + +She made the announcement with a palpable ring of elation in her tones, +looking at him proudly, and as if waiting to hear expressions of +astonishment and delight. + +“Child, child, who has told you such things? You are not that!” + +She retorted, indignantly now, the lines drawing about her eyes in +signal of near-by tears: + +“I _am_ a generation of vipers—the Bishop said I was—he told that other +mamma, and I _am_ it!” + +“Well, well, don’t cry—all right—you shall be it—but I can tell you +something much nicer.” He assumed a knowing air, as one who withheld +knowledge of overwhelming fascinations. + +“Tell me—_what_?” + +[Illustration: “BUT YOU’RE NOT MY REALLY PAPA!”] + +And so, little by little, hardly knowing where to begin, but feeling +that any light whatsoever must profit a soul so benighted, he began to +teach her. When she had been put to bed at early candle-light, he went +to see if she remembered her lesson. + +“What is the name of God in pure language?” + +And she answered, with zest, “Ahman.” + +“What is the name of the Son of God?” + +“Son Ahman,—the greatest of all the parts of God excepting Ahman.” + +“What is the name of man?” + +“Sons Ahman.” + +“That is good—my little girl shall be chosen of the Lord.” + +He waited by her until sleep should come, but her mind had been +stirred, and long after he thought she slept she startled him by +asking, in a voice of entire wakefulness: “If I am a good little girl, +and learn all the _right_ things—_then_ can I be a generation of +vipers?” She lingered with relish on the phrase, giving each syllable +with distinctness and gusto. When he was sure that she slept, he leaned +over very carefully and kissed the pillow beside her head. + +In the days that followed he wooed her patiently, seeking constantly to +find some favour with her, and grateful beyond words when he succeeded +ever so little. At first, he could win but slight notice of any sort +from her, and that only at rare and uncertain intervals. But gradually +his unobtrusive efforts told, and, little by little, she began to take +him into her confidence. The first day she invited him to play with her +in one of her games was a day of rejoicing for him. She showed him the +dolls. + +“Now, this is the mother and this is the little baby of it, and we will +have a tea-party.” + +She drew up a chair, placed the two dolls under it, and pointed to the +opening between the rungs. + +“Here is the house, and here is a little door where to go in at. You +must be very, very particulyar when you go in. Now what shall we cook?” +And she clasped her hands, looking up at him with waiting eagerness. + +He suggested cake and tea. But this answer proved to be wrong. + +“Oh, _no_!”—there was scorn in her tones—“Buffalo-hump and marrowbones +and vebshtulls and lemon-coffee.” + +He received the suggestion cordially, and tried to fall in with it, but +she soon detected that his mind was not pliable enough for the game. +She was compelled at last to dismiss him, though she accomplished the +ungracious thing tactfully. + +“Perhaps you have some farming to do out at the barn, because my +dollies can’t _be_ very well with you at a tea-party, because you are +too much.” + +But she had shown a purpose of friendliness, and this sufficed him. And +that night, before her bed-time, when he sat in front of the fire, she +came with a most matter-of-fact unconsciousness to climb into his lap. +He held her a long time, trying to breathe gently and not daring to +move lest he make her uncomfortable. Her head pillowed on his arm, she +was soon asleep, and he refused to give her up when Martha came to put +her to bed. + +Though their intimacy grew during the winter, so that she called him +her father and came confidingly to him at all times, in tears or in +laughter, yet he never ceased to feel an aloofness from her, an +awkwardness in her presence, a fear that the mother who looked from her +eyes might at any moment call to him. + +That winter was also a time for the other members of the household to +adapt themselves to their new life. The two wives attended capably to +the house. The imbecile boy, who had once loved one of them to his own +undoing, but who no longer knew her, helped them a little with the +work, though for the most part he busied himself by darting off upon +mysterious and important errands which he would appear to recall +suddenly, but which, to his bewilderment, he seemed never able to +finish. The other member of the household, Delight Tench, the gaunt, +gray woman, still made sallies out to the main road to search for her +deceived husband; but they taught her after a little never to go far +from the settlement, and to come back to her home each night. + +During the winter evenings, when they sat about the big fireplace, the +master of the house taught them the mysteries of the Kingdom as +revealed by God to Joseph, and then to Brigham, who had been chosen by +Joseph as was Joshua by Moses to be a prophet and leader. + +In time Brigham would be gathered to his Father, and in the celestial +Kingdom, his wives having been sealed to him for eternity, he would +beget millions and myriads of spirits. During this period of increase +he would grow in the knowledge of the Gods, learning how to make matter +take the form he desired. Noting the vast increase in his family, he +would then say: “Let us go and make a world upon which my family of +spirits may live in bodies of grosser matter, and so gain valuable +experience.” + +At the word of command, thereupon spoken by Brigham, the elements would +come together in a new world. This he would beautify, planting seeds +upon it, telling the waters where to flow, placing fishes in them, +putting fowls in the air and beasts in the field. Then, calling it all +good, he would say to his favourite wife: “Let us go down and inhabit +this new home.” And they would go down, to be called Adam and Eve by +some future Moses. + +Eve would presently be tempted by Satan to eat fruit from the one tree +they had been forbidden to touch, and Brigham as Adam would then +partake of it, too, so she should not have to suffer alone. In a +thousand years they would die, after raising many tabernacles of flesh +into which their spirit children from the celestial world would have +come to find abode. + +Brigham, going back to the celestial world, would keep watch over these +earthly children of his. Yet in their fallen nature they would in time +forget their father Brigham, the world whence they came, and the world +whither they were going. Sometimes he would send messages to the purest +of them, and at all times he would keep as near to them as they would +let him. At last he would lay a plan to bring them all again into his +presence. For he would now have become the God they should worship. He +would send to these children of earth his oldest son, entrusted with +the mission of redeeming them, and only faith in the name of this son +would secure the favour of the father. + +Joel Rae instructed his wondering household, further, that such glory +as this would be reserved, not for Brigham alone, but for the least of +the Saints. Each Saint would progress to Godhead, and go down with his +Eve to make and people worlds without end. This, he explained, was why +God had made space to be infinite, since nothing less could have room +for the numberless seed of man. In conclusion, he gave them the words +of the Heaven-gifted Brigham: “Let all who hear these doctrines pause +before they make light of them or treat them with indifference, for +they will prove your salvation or your damnation.” + +Yet often during that winter while he talked these doctrines he would +find his mind wandering, and there would come before his eyes a little +printed page with a wash of blood across it, and he would be forced to +read in spite of himself the verses that were magnified before his +eyes. The priesthood of which he was a product dealt but little with +the New Testament. They taught from the Old almost wholly, when they +went outside the Book of Mormon and the revelations to Joseph Smith—of +the God of Israel who was a God of Battle, loving the reek of blood and +the smell of burnt flesh on an altar—rather than of the God of the +Nazarene. + +He found himself turning to this New Testament, therefore, with a +curious feeling of interest and surprise, dwelling long at a time upon +its few, simple, forthright teachings, being moved by them in ways he +did not comprehend, and finding certain of the dogmas of his Church +sounding strangely in his ears even when his own lips were teaching +them. + +One of the verses he especially dreaded to see come before him: “But +whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it +were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and +that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” He taught the child to +pray, “O God, let my father have due punishment for all his sins, but +teach him never to offend any little child from this day forth.” + +He used to listen for this and to be soothed when he heard it. +Sometimes the words would come to him when he was shut in his room; for +if neither of the women was by her when she prayed, it was her custom +to raise her voice as high as she could, in the belief that otherwise +her prayer would not be heard by the Power she addressed. In high, +piping tones this petition for himself would come through his door, +following always after the request that the Lord would bless Brigham +Young in his basket and in his store, multiplying and increasing him in +wives, children, flocks and herds, houses and lands. + + + + +Chapter XXV. +The Entablature of Truth Makes a Discovery at Amalon + + +The house of Rae became a house of importance in the little settlement +in the Pine Valley. It was not only the home of the highest Church +official in the community, but it was the largest and best-furnished +house, so that visiting dignitaries stayed there. It stood a little way +from the loose-edged group of cabins that formed the nucleus of the +settlement, on ground a little higher, and closer to the wooded cañon +that gashed the hills on the east. + +The style of house most common in the village was long, low-roofed, of +hewn logs, its front pierced by alternating doors and windows. From the +number of these might usually be inferred the owner’s current prospects +for glory in the Kingdom; for behind each door would be a wife to exalt +him, and to be exalted herself thereby in the sole way open to her, to +thrones, dominion, and power in the celestial world. There were many of +these long, profusely doored houses; but many, too, of less external +promise; of two doors or even one. Yet in a hut of one door a +well-wived Saint might be building up the Kingdom temporarily, until he +could provide a more spacious setting for the several stars in his +crown. + +Then there was the capable Bishop Wright, whose long domestic barracks +were the first toward the main road beyond Bishop Coltrin’s modest +two-doored hut. The Wild Ram of the Mountains, having lately been +sealed to his twelfth wife, and having no suitable apartment for her, +had ingeniously contrived a sleeping-place in a covered wagon-box at +the end of the house,—an apartment which was now being occupied, not +without some ungraceful remonstrance, by his first wife, a lady +somewhat far down in the vale of years and long past the first glamour +of her enthusiasm for the Kingdom. It had been her mischance to occupy +previously in the community-house that apartment which the good man saw +to be most suitable for his young and somewhat fastidious bride. Not +without makeshifts, indeed, many of which partook of this infelicity, +was the celestial order of marriage to be obeyed and the world brought +back to its primitive purity and innocence. + +And of all persons in any degree distressed about these or other +matters of faith, Joel Rae was made the first confidant and chief +comforter. In the case just cited, for example, Bishop Wright had +confessed to him that, if anything could make him break asunder the +cable of the Church of Christ, it would be the perplexity inevitable to +a maintenance of domestic harmony under the celestial order. The first +wife also distressed this adviser with a moving tale of her expulsion +from a comfortable room into the incommodious wagon-box. + +Many of these confidences, as the days went by, he found +spirit-grieving in the extreme, so that he was often weary and longed +for refuge in a wilderness. Yet he never failed to let fall some word +that might be monitory or profitable to those who took him their +troubles; nor did he forget to exult in these burdens that were put +upon him, for he had resolved that his cross should be made as heavy as +he could bear. + +In addition to his duties as spiritual adviser to the community, it was +his office to preach; also to hold himself at the call of the +afflicted, to anoint their heads with oil and rebuke their fevers. He +took an especial pleasure in this work of healing, being glad to leave +his fields by day or his bed by night for the sickroom. By couches of +suffering he watched and prayed, and when they began to say in Amalon +that his word of rebuke to fevers came with strange power, that his +touch was marvellously healing, and his prayers strangely potent, he +prayed not to be set up thereby, nor to forget that the power came, not +by him but through him, because of his knowing his own unworthiness. He +fasted and prayed to be trusted still more until he should be worthy of +that complete power which the Master had said came only by prayer and +fasting. + +The conscientious manner in which he performed his offices was +favourably commented upon by Bishop Wright. This good man believed +there had been a decline of late in the ardour of the priesthood. + +“I tell you, Elder, I wish they was all as careful as you be, but +they’re falling into shiftless ways. If I’m sick and have to depend on +myself, all right. I’ll dose up with lobelia or gamboge, or put a +blister-plaster on the back of my neck or take a drink of catnip tea or +composition, and then the cure of my misery is with the Lord God of +Hosts. But if I send for an administrator, it’s different. He takes the +responsibility and I want him to fulfil every will of the Lord. When an +Elder comes to administer to me and is afraid of greasing his fingers +or of dropping a little oil on his vest, and says, ‘Oh, never mind the +oil! there ain’t any virtue in the olive-oil; besides, I might grease +my gloves,’ why I feel like telling such a Godless critter to walk off. +When God says anoint with oil, _anoint_, I don’t care if it runs down +his beard as it ran down Aaron’s. And I don’t want to talk anybody down +or mention any names; but, well, next time when I got a cold and Elder +Beil Wardle is the only administrator free, why, I’ll just stand or +fall by myself. A basin of water-gruel, hot, with half a quart of old +rum in it and lots of brown sugar, is better than all _his_ anointing.” + +To make his days busier there were the affairs of the Church to +oversee, for he was now President of the local Stake of Zion; reports +of the teachers to consider in council meeting, of their weekly visits +to each family, and of the fidelity of each of its members to the +Kingdom. And there were the Deacons and Priests of the Aaronic Order +and other Elders and Bishops of the Order of Melchisedek to advise with +upon the temporal and spiritual affairs of Israel; to labour and pray +with Peregrine Noble, who had declared that he would no longer be as +limber as a tallowed rag in the hands of the priesthood, and to deliver +him over to the buffetings of Satan in the flesh if he persisted in his +blasphemy; to rebuke Ozro Cutler for having brazenly sought to pay on +his tithing some ten pounds of butter so redolent of garlic that the +store had refused to take it from him in trade; to counsel Mary +Townsley that Pye Townsley would come short of his glory before God if +she remained rebellious in the matter of his sealing other jewels to +his crown; to teach certain unillumined Saints something of the ethics +of unbranded cattle; and to warn settlers against isolating themselves +in the outlying valleys where they would be a temptation to the red +sons of Laman. + +Again there was the rite of baptism to be administered,—not an onerous +office in the matter of the living, but apt to become so in the case of +the dead; for the whole world had been in darkness and sin since the +apostolic gifts were lost, ages ago, and the number of dead whose souls +now waited for baptism was incalculable; and not until the living had +been baptised for them could they enter the celestial Kingdom. In +consequence, all earnest souls were baptised tirelessly for their loved +ones who had gone behind the veil before Peter, James, and John +ordained Joseph Smith. + +But the unselfish did not confine their efforts to friends and +relatives. In the village of Amalon that winter and spring, Amarintha, +third wife of Sarshell Sweezy, bethought her to be baptised for Queen +Anne; whereupon Ezra Colver at once underwent the same rite for this +lamented queen’s husband, Prince George of Denmark; thereby securing +the prompt admission of the royal couple to the full joys of the +Kingdom. + +Attention being thus turned to royalty, the first Napoleon and his +first consort were baptised into heaven by thoughtful proxies; then +Queen Elizabeth and Henry the Eighth. Eric Glines, being a +liberal-minded man, was baptised for George Washington, thus adding the +first President of the Gentile nation to the galaxy of Mormon Saints +reigning in heaven. Gilbroid Sumner thereupon won the fervent +commendation of his Elder by submitting twice to burial in the waters +of baptism for the two thieves on the cross. + +From time to time the little settlement was visited by officials of the +Church who journeyed south from Salt Lake City; perhaps one of the +powerful Twelve Apostles, those who bind on earth that which is bound +in heaven; or High Priests, Counsellors, or even Brigham himself with +his favourite wife and a retinue of followers in stately procession. + +Late in the spring, also, came the Patriarch in the Church, Uncle John +Young, eldest brother of Brigham. It was the office of this good man to +dispense blessings to the faithful; blessings written and preserved +reverently in the family archives as charms to ward off misfortune. +Through all the valleys Uncle John was accustomed to go on his mission +of light. When he reached a settlement announcement was made of his +headquarters, and the unblessed were invited to wait upon him. + +The cynical had been known to complain that Uncle John was a hard man +to deal with, especially before money was current in the Territory, +when blessings had to be paid for in produce. Many a Saint, these said, +had long gone unblessed because the only produce he had to give chanced +to meet no need of Uncle John. Further, they gossiped, if paid in +butter or fine flour or fat turkeys when these were scarce, Uncle John +was certain to give an unusually strong blessing, perhaps insuring, on +top of freedom from poverty and disease, the prolongation of life until +the coming of the Messiah. Yet it is not improbable that all these +tales were insecurely based upon a single instance wherein one Starling +Driggs, believing himself to stand in urgent need of a blessing, had +offered to pay Uncle John for the service in vinegar. It had been +unexceptionable vinegar, as Uncle John himself admitted, but being a +hundred miles from home, and having no way to carry it, the Patriarch +had been obliged to refuse; which had seemed to most people not to have +been more than fell within the lines of reason. + +As for the other stories, it is enough to say that Uncle John was +himself abundantly blessed with wives and children needing to be fed, +that the labourer is worthy of his hire, and that it was sometimes +vexatious to follow rapid fluctuations in the market value of butter, +eggs, beef, potatoes, beet-molasses, and the like. Certain it is that +after money came to circulate it was a much more satisfactory business +all around; two dollars a blessing—flat, and no grievances on either +side, with a slight reduction if several were blessed in one family. +When Uncle John laid his hands upon a head after that, every one knew +the exact pecuniary significance of the act. + +When the Patriarch stopped at Amalon that spring, at the house of Joel +Rae, there were many blessings to be made, and from morning until night +for several days he was busy with the writing of them. Two members of +the household he interested to an uncommon degree,—the child, Prudence, +who forthwith began daily to promise her dolls that they should not +taste of death till Christ came, and Tom Potwin, the imbecile, who +became for some unknown reason covetous of a blessing for himself. He +stayed about the Patriarch most of the time, bothering him with appeals +for one of his blessings. But Uncle John, though a good man, had been +gifted by Heaven with slight imagination, and Tom Potwin would +doubtless have had to go without this luxury but for a chance visitor +to the house one day. + +This was no less a person than Bishop Snow, he who had once been Tom +Potwin’s rival for the hand of her who was now the second Mrs. Rae. +With his portly figure, his full, florid face with its massive jaw, and +his heavy locks of curling white hair, the good Bishop seemed indeed to +have deserved the title put upon him years ago by the Church Poet,—The +Entablature of Truth. + +He alighted from his wagon and greeted Uncle John, busy with the +writing of his blessings in the cool shade just outside the door. + +“Good for you, Uncle John! Be a fountain of living waters to the +thirsty in Zion. Say, who’s that?” and he pointed to Tom Potwin who had +been wistfully watching the pen of the Patriarch as it ran over his +paper. Uncle John regarded the Bishop shrewdly. + +“You ought to know, Brother Snow. ’Tain’t so long since you and him +were together.” + +The Bishop looked closely again, and the boy now returned his gaze with +his own weakly foolish look. + +“Well! If it ain’t that Tom Potwin. The Lord certainly hardened _his_ +heart against counsel to his own undoing. I tried every way in the +world—say, what’s he doing here?” + +“Oh, Brother Rae has given him a home here along with that first woman +of Brother Tench’s. The crazy loon has been bothering me all week to +give him a blessing.” + +The Entablature of Truth chuckled, being not without a sense of humour. + +“Well, say, give him one if he wants it. Here—here’s your two +dollars—write him a good one now.” + +Uncle John took the money, and at once began writing upon a clean sheet +of paper. The boy stood by watching him eagerly, and when the Patriarch +had finished the document took it from him with trembling hands. The +Bishop spoke to him. + +“Here, boy, let’s see what Uncle John gives us for our money.” + +With some misgiving the owner of the blessing relinquished it into the +Bishop’s hand, watching it jealously, though listening with delight +while his benefactor read it. + +“Patriarchal blessing of Tom Potwin by John Young, Patriarch, given at +Amalon June 1st, 1859. Brother Tom Potwin, in the name of Jesus of +Nazareth and by authority of the Holy Priesthood in me vested, I confer +upon thee a Patriarch’s blessing. Thou art of Ephraim through the loins +of Joseph that was sold into Egypt. And inasmuch as thou hast obeyed +the requirements of the Gospel thy sins are forgiven thee. Thy name is +written in the Lamb’s book of life never more to be blotted out. Thou +art a lawful heir to all the blessings of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in +the new and everlasting covenant. Thou shalt have a numerous posterity +who shall rise up to call thee blessed. Thou shalt have power over +thine enemies. They that oppose thee shall yet come bending unto thee. +Thou shalt come forth in the morning of the first resurrection, and no +power shall hinder except the shedding of innocent blood or the +consenting thereto. I seal thee up to eternal life in the name of the +Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen and amen!” + +The worthy Bishop handed the paper back to the enraptured boy, and +turned to Joel Rae, who now came up. + +“Hello, Brother Rae. I hear you took on that thirteenth woman of mine. +Much good it’ll do you! She was unlucky for me, sure +enough—rambunctious when she was healthy, and lazy when she was sick!” + +When they came out of the house half an hour later, he added in tones +of confidential warning: + +“Say, you want to look out for her—I see she’s getting the red back in +her blood!” + + + + +Chapter XXVI. +How the Red Came Back to the Blood to be a Snare + + +The watchful eyes of the Bishop had seen truly. Not only was the red +coming back to the blood of Martha, but the fair flesh to her meagre +frame, the spring of youth to her step and living fire to her voice and +the glance of her eyes. Her husband was pleased. He had made a new +creature of the poor, worn wreck found by the wayside, weak, emaciated, +reeling under her burden. He rejoiced to know he had done a true +service. He was glad, moreover, to know that she made an admirable +mother to the little woman-child. Prudence, indeed, had brought them +closer to each other, slowly, subtly, in little ways to disarm the most +timid caution. + +And this mothering and fathering of little Prudence was a work by no +means colourless or uneventful. The child had displayed a grievous +capacity for remaining unimpressed by even the best-weighed opinions of +her protector. She was also appallingly fluent in and partial to the +idioms and metaphors of revealed religion,—a circumstance that would +not infrequently cause the sensitive to shudder. + +Thus, when she chose to call her largest and least sightly doll the +Holy Ghost, the ingenuity of those about her was taxed to rebuke her in +ways that would be effective without being harsh. It was felt, too, +that her offence had been but slightly mitigated when she called the +same doll, thereafter, “Thou son of perdition and shedder of innocent +blood.” Not until this disfigured effigy became Bishop Wright, and the +remaining dolls his more or less disobedient wives, was it felt that +she had approached even remotely the plausible and the decorous. + +A glance at some of the verses she was from time to time constrained to +learn will perhaps indicate the line of her transgressions, and yet +avert a disclosure of details that were often tragic. She was taught +these verses from a little old book bound in the gaudiest of Dutch gilt +paper, as if to relieve the ever-present severity of the text and the +distressing scenes portrayed in the illustrating copperplates. For +example, on a morning when there had been hasty words at breakfast, +arising from circumstances immaterial to this narrative, she might be +made to learn:— + +“That I did not see Frances just now I am glad, +For Winifred says she looked sullen and sad. +When I ask her the reason, I know very well +That Frances will blush the true reason to tell. + +“And I never again shall expect to hear said +That she pouts at her milk with a toast of white bread, +When both are as good as can possibly be— +Though Betsey, for breakfast, perhaps may have tea.” + + +With no sort of propriety could be set down in printed words the +occurrence that led to her reciting twenty times, somewhat defiantly in +the beginning, but at last with the accents and expression of +countenance proper to remorse, the following verses:— + +“Who was it that I lately heard +Repeating an improper word? +I do not like to tell her name +Because she is so much to blame.” + + +Indeed, she came to thunder the final verse with excellent gestures of +condemnatory rage:— + +“Go, naughty child! and hide your face, +I grieve to see you in disgrace; +Go! you have forfeited to-day +All right at trap and ball to play.” + + +Nor is it necessary to go back of the very significant lines themselves +to explain the circumstance of her having the following for a +half-day’s burden:— + +“Jack Parker was a cruel boy, +For mischief was his sole employ; +And much it grieved his friends to find +His thoughts so wickedly inclined. + +“But all such boys unless they mend +May come to an unhappy end, +Like Jack, who got a fractured skull +Whilst bellowing at a furious bull.” + + +Nor is there sufficient reason to say why she was often counselled to +regard as her model:— + +“Miss Lydia Banks, though very young, +Will never do what’s rude or wrong; +When spoken to she always tries +To give the most polite replies.” + + +And painful, indeed, would it be to relate the events of one sad day +which culminated in her declaiming at night, with far more than +perfunctory warmth, and in a voice scarce dry of tears:— + +“Miss Lucy Wright, though not so tall, +Was just the age of Sophy Ball; +But I have always understood +Miss Sophy was not half so good; +For as they both had faded teeth, +Their teacher sent for Doctor Heath. + +“But Sophy made a dreadful rout +And would not have hers taken out; +While Lucy Wright endured the pain, +Nor did she ever once complain. +Her teeth returned quite sound and white, +While Sophy’s ached both day and night.” + + +Yet her days were by no means all of reproof nor was her reproof ever +harsher than the more or less pointed selections from the moral verses +could inflict. Under the watchful care of Martha she flourished and was +happy, her mother in little, a laughing whirlwind of tender flesh, +tireless feet, dancing eyes, hair of sunlight that was darkening as she +grew older, and a mind that seemed to him she called father a miracle +of unfoldment. It was a mind not so quickly receptive as he could have +wished to the learning he tried patiently to impart; he wondered, +indeed, if she were not unduly frivolous even for a child of six; for +she would refuse to study unless she could have the doll she called +Bishop Wright with her and pretend that she taught the lesson to him, +finding him always stupid and loth to learn. He hoped for better things +from her mind as she aged, watching anxiously for the buddings of +reason and religion, praying daily that she should be increased in +wisdom as in stature. He had become so used to the look of her mother +in her face that it now and then gave him an instant of unspeakable +joy. But the sound of his own voice calling her “Prudence” would shock +him from this as with an icy blast of truth. + +When the children of Amalon came to play with her, the little Nephis, +Moronis, Lehis, and Juabs, he saw she was a creature apart from them, +of another fashion of mind and body. He saw, too, that with some native +intuition she seemed to divine this, and to assume command even of +those older than herself. Thus Wish Wright and his brother, Welcome, +both her seniors by several years, were her awe-bound slaves; and the +twin daughters of Zebedee Bloom obeyed her least whim without question, +even when it involved them in situations more or less delicate. With +her quick ear for rhythm she had been at once impressed by their +names—impressed to a degree that savoured of fascination. She would +seat the two before her, range the other children beside them, and then +lead the chorus in a spirited chant of these names:— + +“Isa Vinda Exene Bloom! +Ella Minda Almarine Bloom!” + + +repeating this a long time until they were all breathless, and the +solemn twins themselves were looking embarrassed and rather foolishly +pleased. + +As he observed her day by day in her joyous growth, it was inevitable +that he came more and more to observe the woman who was caring for her, +and it was thus on one night in late summer that he awoke to an awful +truth,—a truth that brought back the words of the woman’s former +husband with a new meaning. + +He had heard Prudence say to her, “You are a pretty mamma,” and +suddenly there came rushing upon him the sum of all the impressions his +eyes had taken of her since that day when the Bishop had spoken. He +trembled and became weak under the assault, feeling that in some +insidious way his strength had been undermined. He went out into the +early evening to be alone, but she, presently, having put the child to +bed, came and stood near, silently in the doorway. + +He looked and saw she was indeed made new, restored to the lustre and +fulness of her young womanhood. He remembered then that she had long +been silent when he came near her, plainly conscious of his presence +but with an apparent constraint, with something almost tentative in her +manner. With her return to health and comeliness there had come back to +her a thousand little graces of dress and manner and speech. She drew +him, with his starved love of beauty and his need of companionship; +drew him with a mighty power, and he knew it at last. He remembered how +he had felt and faintly thrilled under a certain soft suppression in +her tones when she had spoken to him of late; this had drawn him, and +the new light in her eyes and her whole freshened womanhood, even +before he knew it. Now that he did know it he felt himself shaken and +all but lost; clutching weakly at some support that threatened every +moment to give way. + +And she was his wife, his who had starved year after year for the light +touch of a woman’s hand and the tones of her voice that should be for +him alone. He knew now that he had ached and sickened in his yearning +for this, and she stood there for him in the soft night. He knew she +was waiting, and he knew he desired above all things else to go to her; +that the comfort of her, his to take, would give him new life, new +desires, new powers; that with her he would revive as she had done. He +waited long, indulging freely in hesitation, bathing his wearied soul +in her nearness—yielding in fancy. + +Then he walked off into the night, down through the village, past the +light of open doors, and through the voices that sounded from them, out +on to the bare bench of the mountain—his old refuge in temptation—where +he could be safe from submitting to what his soul had forbidden. He had +meant to take up a cross, but before his very eyes it had changed to be +a snare set for him by the Devil. + +He stayed late on the ground in the darkness, winning the battle for +himself over and over, decisively, he thought, at the last. But when he +went home she was there in the doorway to meet him, still silent, but +with eyes that told more than he dared to hear. He thought she had in +some way divined his struggle, and was waiting to strengthen the odds +against him, with her face in the light of a candle she held above her +head. + +He went by her without speaking, afraid of his weakness, and rushed to +his little cell-like room to fight the battle over. As a last source of +strength he took from its hiding-place the little Bible. And as it fell +open naturally at the blood-washed page a new thing came, a new +torture. No sooner had his eyes fallen on the stain than it seemed to +him to cry out of itself, so that he started back from it. He shut the +book and the cries were stilled; he opened it and again he heard +them—far, loud cries and low groans close to his ear; then long +piercing screams stifled suddenly too low, horrible gurglings. And +before him came the inscrutable face with the deep gray eyes and the +shining lips, lifting, with love in the eyes, above a gashed throat. + +He closed the book and fell weakly to his knees to pray brokenly, and +almost despairingly: “Help me to keep down this self within me; let it +ask for nothing; fan the fires until they consume it! _Bow me, bend me, +break me, burn me out—burn me out_!” + +In the morning, when he said, “Martha, the harvest is over now, and I +want you to go north with me,” she prepared to obey without question. + +He talked freely to her on the way, though it is probable that he left +in her mind little more than dark confusion, beyond the one clear fact +of his wish. As to this, she knew she must have no desire but to +comply. Reaching Salt Lake City, they went at once to Brigham’s office. +When they came out they came possessed of a document in duplicate, +reciting that they both did “covenant, promise, and agree to dissolve +all the relations which have hitherto existed between us as husband and +wife, and to keep ourselves separate and apart from each other from +this time forth.” + +This was the simple divorce which Brigham was good enough to grant to +such of the Saints as found themselves unhappily married, and wished +it. As Joel Rae handed the Prophet the fee of ten dollars, which it was +his custom to charge for the service, Brigham made some timely remarks. +He said he feared that Martha had been perverse and rebellious; that +her first husband had found her so; and that it was doubtless for the +good of all that her second had taken the resolution to divorce her. He +was afraid that Brother Joel was an inferior judge of women; but he had +surely shown himself to be generous in the provision he was making for +the support of this contumacious wife. + +They parted outside the door of the little office, and he kissed her +for the first time since they had been married—on the forehead. + + + + +Chapter XXVII. +A New Cross Taken up and an Old Enemy Forgiven + + +Christina would now be left alone with the cares of the house, and he +knew he ought to have some one to help her. The fever of sacrifice was +also upon him. And so he found another derelict, to whom he was sealed +forever. + +At a time of more calmness he might have balked at this one. She was a +cross, to be sure, and it was now his part in life to bear crosses. But +there were plenty of these, and even one vowed to a life of sacrifice, +he suspected, need not grossly abuse the powers of discrimination with +which Heaven had seen fit to endow him. But he had lately been on the +verge of a seething maelstrom, balancing there with unholy desire and +wickedly looking far down, and the need to atone for this sin excited +him to indiscretions. + +It was not that this star in his crown was in her late thirties and +less than lovely. He had learned, indeed, that in the game which, for +the chastening of his soul, he now played with the Devil, it were best +to choose stars whose charms could excite to little but conduct of a +saintlike seemliness. The fat, dumpy figure of this woman, therefore, +and her round, flat, moonlike face, her mouse-coloured wisps of hair +cut squarely off at the back of her neck, were points of a merit that +was in its whole effect nothing less than distinguished. + +But she talked. Her tones played with the constancy of an ever-living +fountain. Artlessly she lost herself in the sound of their music, until +she also lost her sense of proportion, of light and shade, of simple, +Christian charity. Her name was Lorena Sears, and she had come in with +one of the late trains of converts, without friends, relatives, or +means, with nothing but her natural gifts and an abiding faith in the +saving powers of the new dispensation. And though she was so alive in +her faith, rarely informed in the Scriptures, bubbling with enthusiasm +for the new covenant, the new Zion, and the second coming of the +Messiah, there had seemed to be no place for her. She had not been +asked in marriage, nor had she found it easy to secure work to support +herself. + +“She’s strong,” said Brigham, to his inquiring Elder, “and a good +worker, but even Brother Heber Kimball wouldn’t marry her; and between +you and me, Brother Joel, I never knew Heber to shy before at anything +that would work. You can see that, yourself, by looking over his +household.” + +But, after the needful preliminaries, and a very little coy hesitation +on the part of the lady, Lorena Sears, spinster, native of Elyria, +Ohio, was duly sealed to, for time and eternity, and became a star +forever in the crown of, Joel Rae, Elder after the Order of Melchisedek +in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and President of the +Amalon Stake of Zion. + +In the bustle of the start south there were, of necessity, moments in +which the crown’s new star could not talk; but these blessed respites +were at an end when at last they came to the open road. + +At first, as her speech flowed on, he looked sidelong at her, in a +trouble of fear and wonder; then, at length, absently, trying to put +his mind elsewhere and to leave her voice as the muted murmur of a +distant torrent. He succeeded fairly well in this, for Lorena combined +admirably in herself the parts of speaker and listener, and was not, he +thankfully noted, watchful of his attention. + +But in spite of all he could do, sentences would come to seize upon his +ears: “... No chance at all back there for a good girl with any heart +in her unless she’s one of the doll-baby kind, and, thank fortune, I +never was _that_! Now there was Wilbur Watkins—his father was president +of the board of chosen freeholders—Wilbur had a way of saying, +‘Lorena’s all right—she weighs a hundred and seventy-eight pounds on +the big scales down to the city meatmarket, and it’s most of it heart—a +hundred and seventy-eight pounds and most all heart—and she’d be a +prize to anybody,’ but then, that was his way,—Wilbur was a good deal +of a take-on,—and there was never anything between him and me. And when +the Elder come along and begun to preach about the new Zion and tell +about the strange ways that the Lord had ordered people to act out +here, something kind of went all through me, and I says, ‘That’s the +place for _me_!’ Of course, the saying is, ‘There ain’t any Gawd west +of the Missouri,’ but them that says it ain’t of the house of +Israel—lots of folks purtends to be great Bible readers, but pin ’em +right down and what do you find?—you find they ain’t really studied +it—not what you could call _pored_ over it. They fuss through a chapter +here and there, and rush lickety-brindle through another, and ain’t got +the blessed truth out of any of ’em—little fine points, like where the +Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart every time, for why?—because if He hadn’t +’a’ done it Pharaoh would ’a’ give in the very first time and spoiled +the whole thing. And then the Lord would visit so plumb natural and +commonlike with Moses—like tellin’ him, ‘I appeared unto Abraham, unto +Isaac, and unto Jacob by the name of God Almighty, for by my name +Jehovah was I not known unto them.’ I thought that was awful cute and +friendly, stoppin’ to talk about His name that way. Oh, I’ve spent +hours and hours over the blessed Book. I bet I know something you +don’t, now—what verse in the Bible has every letter in the alphabet in +it except ‘J’? Of course you wouldn’t know. Plenty of preachers don’t. +It’s the twenty-first verse of the seventh chapter of the book of Ezra. +And the Book of Mormon—I do love to git set down in a rocker with my +shoes off—I’m kind of a heavy-footed person to be on my feet all +day—and that blessed Book in my hands—such beautiful language it +uses—that verse I love so, ‘He went forth among the people waving the +rent of his garment in the air that all might see the writing which he +had wrote upon the rent,’—that’s sure enough Bible language, ain’t it? +And yet some folks say the Book of Mormon ain’t inspired. And that +lovely verse in Second Niphi, first chapter, fourteenth verse: ‘Hear +the words of a trembling parent whose limbs you must soon lay down in +the cold and silent grave from whence no traveller can return.’ Back +home the school-teacher got hold of that—he’s an awful smarty—and he +says, ‘Oh, that’s from Shakespeare,’ or some such book, just like +that—and I just give him one look, and I says, ‘Mr. Lyman Hickenlooper, +if you’ll take notice,’ I says, ‘you’ll see those words was composed by +the angel Moroni over two thousand years ago and revealed to Joseph +Smith in the sacred light of the Urim and Thummim,’ I says, and the +plague-oned smarty snickered right in my face—and say, now, what did +you and your second git a separation for?” + +He was called back by the stopping of her voice, but she had to repeat +her question before he understood it. The Devil tempted him in that +moment. He was on the point of answering, “Because she talked too +much,” but instead he climbed out of the wagon to walk. He walked most +of the three hundred miles in the next ten days. Nights and mornings he +falsely pretended to be deaf. + +He found himself in this long walk full of a pained discouragement; not +questioning or doubting, for he had been too well trained ever to do +either. But he was disturbed by a feeling of bafflement, as might be a +ground-mole whose burrow was continually destroyed by an enemy it could +not see. This feeling had begun in Salt Lake City, for there he had +seen that the house of Israel was no longer unspotted of the world. +Since the army with its camp-followers had come there was drunkenness +and vice, the streets resounded with strange oaths, and the midnight +murder was common. Even Brigham seemed to have become a gainsayer in +behalf of Mammon, and the people, quick to follow his lead, were +indulging in ungodly trade with Gentiles; even with the army that had +come to invade them. And more and more the Gentiles were coming in. He +heard strange tales of the new facilities afforded them. There was +actually a system of wagon-trains regularly hauling freight from the +Missouri to the Pacific; there was a stage-route bringing passengers +and mail from Babylon; even Horace Greeley had been publicly +entertained in Zion,—accorded honour in the Lord’s stronghold. There +was talk, too, of a pony-express, to bring them mail from the Missouri +in six days; and a few visionaries were prophesying that a railroad +would one day come by them. The desert was being peopled all about +them, and neighbours were forcing a way up to their mountain retreat. + +It seemed they were never to weld into one vast chain the broken links +of the fated house of Abraham; never to be free from Gentile +contamination. He groaned in spirit as he went—walking well ahead of +his wagon. + +But he had taken up a new cross and he had his reward. The first night +after they reached home he took the little Bible from its hiding-place +and opened it with trembling hands. The stain was there, red in the +candle-light. But the cries no longer rang in his ears as on that other +night when he had been sinful before the page. And he was glad, knowing +that the self within him had again been put down. + +Then came strange news from the East—news of a great civil war. The +troops of the enemy at Camp Floyd hurried east to battle, and even the +name of that camp was changed, for the Gentile Secretary of War, said +gossip from Salt Lake City, after doing his utmost to cripple his +country by sending to far-off Utah the flower of its army, had now +himself become not only a rebel but a traitor. + +Even Johnston, who had commanded the invading army, denouncing the +Saints as rebels, had put off his blue uniform for a gray and was +himself a rebel. + +When the news came that South Carolina had actually flung the palmetto +flag to the breeze and fired the first gun, he was inclined to exult. +For plainly it was the Lord’s work. There was His revelation given to +Joseph Smith almost thirty years before: “Verily, thus saith the Lord +concerning the wars that will come to pass, beginning at the rebellion +of South Carolina.” And ten years later the Lord had revealed to Joseph +further concerning this prophecy that this war would be “previous to +the coming of the Son of Man.” Assuredly, they were now near the time +when other Prophets of the Church had said He would come—the year 1870. +He thrilled to be so near the actual moving of the hand of God, and +something of the old spirit revived within him. + +From Salt Lake City came news of the early fighting and of meetings for +public rejoicing held in the tabernacle, with prophecies that the +Gentile nation would now be rent asunder in punishment for its +rejection of the divine message of the Book of Mormon and its +persecution of the prophets of God. In one of these meetings of public +thanksgiving Brigham had said from the tabernacle pulpit: “What is the +strength of this man Lincoln? It is like a rope of sand. He is as weak +as water,—an ignorant, Godless shyster from the backwoods of Illinois. +I feel disgraced in having been born under a government that has so +little power for truth and right. And now it will be broken in pieces +like a potter’s vessel.” + +These public rejoicings, however, brought a further trial upon the +Saints. The Third California Infantry and a part of the Second Cavalry +were now ordered to Utah. The commander of this force was one Connor, +an officer of whom extraordinary reports were brought south. It was +said that he had issued an order directing commanders of posts, camps, +and detachments to arrest and imprison “until they took the oath of +allegiance, all persons who from this date shall be guilty of uttering +treasonable sentiments against the government of the United States.” +Even liberty of opinion, it appeared, was thus to be strangled in these +last days before the Lord came. + +Further, this ill-tempered Gentile, instead of keeping decently remote +from Salt Lake City, as General Johnston had done, had marched his +troops into the very stronghold of Zion, despite all threats of armed +opposition, and in the face of a specific offer from one Prophet, Seer, +and Revelator to wager him a large sum of money that his forces would +never cross the River Jordan. To this fair offer, so reports ran, the +Gentile officer had replied that he would cross the Jordan if hell +yawned below it; that he had thereupon viciously pulled the ends of a +grizzled, gray moustache and proceeded to behave very much as an +officer would be expected to behave who was commonly known as “old Pat +Connor.” + +Knowing that the forces of the Saints outnumbered his own, and that he +was, in his own phrase, “six hundred miles of sand from +reinforcements,” he had halted his command two miles from the city, +formed his column with an advance-guard of cavalry and a light battery, +the infantry and the commissary-wagons coming next, and in this order, +with bayonets fixed, cannon shotted, and two bands playing, had marched +brazenly in the face of the Mormon authorities and through the silent +crowds of Saints to Emigrant Square. Here, in front of the governor’s +residence, where flew the only American flag to be seen in the whole +great city, he had, with entire lack of dignity, led his men in three +cheers for the country, the flag, and the Gentile governor. + +After this offensive demonstration, he had perpetrated the supreme +indignity by going into camp on a bench at the base of Wasatch +Mountain, in plain sight of the city, there in the light of day +training his guns upon it, and leaving a certain twelve-pound howitzer +ranged precisely upon the residence of the Lion of the Lord. + +Little by little these galling reports revived the military spirit in +an Elder far to the south, who had thought that all passion was burned +out of him. But this man chanced to open a certain Bible one night to a +page with a wash of blood across it. From this page there seemed to +come such cries and screams of fear in the high voices of women and +children, such sounds of blows on flesh, and the warm, salt smell of +blood, that he shut the book and hastily began to pray. He actually +prayed for the preservation of that ancient first enemy of his Church, +the government of the United States. Individually and collectively, as +a nation, as States, and as people, he forgave them and prayed the Lord +to hold them undivided. + +Then he knew that an astounding miracle of grace had been wrought +within him. For this prayer for the hostile government was thus far his +greatest spiritual triumph. + + + + +Chapter XXVIII. +Just Before the End of the World + + +The years of the Civil War passed by, and the prayer of Joel Rae was +answered. But the time was now rapidly approaching when the Son of Man +was to come in person to judge Israel and begin his reign of a thousand +years on the purified earth. The Twelve, confirmed by Brigham, had long +held that this day of wrath would not be deferred past 1870. In the +mind of Joel Rae the time had thus been authoritatively fixed. The date +had been further confirmed by the fulfilment of Joseph’s prophecy of +war. The great event was now to be prepared for and met in all +readiness. + +It was at this time that he betrayed in the pulpit a leaning toward +views that many believed to be heterodox. “A likely man is a likely +man,” he preached, “and a good man is a good man—whether in this Church +or out of it.” He also went so far as to intimate that being in the +Church would not of itself suffice to the attainment of glory; that +there were, to put it bluntly, all kinds of fish in the gospel net; +sinners not a few in Zion who would have to be forgiven their misdeeds +seventy times seven on that fateful day drawing near. + +Bishop Wright, who followed him on this Sabbath, was bold to speak to +another effect. + +“Me and my brethren,” he insisted, “have received our endowments, keys, +and blessings—all the tokens and signs that can be given to man for his +entrance through the celestial gate. If you have had these in the house +of the Lord, when you depart this life you will be able to walk back to +the presence of the Father, passing the angels that stand as sentinels; +because why?—because you can give them the tokens, signs, and grips +pertaining to the holy priesthood and gain your eternal exaltation in +spite of earth and hell. But how about the likely and good man outside +this Church who has rejected the message of the Book of Mormon and +ain’t got these signs and passwords? If he’s going to be let in, too, +why have doorkeepers, and what’s the use of the whole business? Why in +time did the Lord go to all this trouble, any way, if Brother Rae is +right? Why was Joseph Smith visited by an angel clad in robes of light, +who told him where the golden plates had been hid up by the Lord, and +the Urim and Thummim, and who laid hands on him and give him the Holy +Ghost? And after all that trouble He’s took, do you think He’s going to +let everybody in? Not much, Mary Ann! The likely men may come the roots +on some of our soft-hearted Elders, but they won’t fool the Lord’s +Christ and His angel gatekeepers.” + +Elder Beil Wardle, on the other hand, showed a tendency to side with +the liberalism of Brother Rae. He cited the fact that not all +revelations were from God. Some were from perverse human spirits and +some from the very Devil himself. There was Elder Sidney Roberts, who +had once suffered a revelation that a certain brother must give him a +suit of finest broadcloth and a gold watch, the best to be had; and +another revelation directing him to salute all the younger sisters, +married or single, with a kiss of holiness. Urged to confess that these +revelations were from the Devil, he had refused, and so had been cut +off and delivered over to the buffetings of Satan in the flesh. + +“And you can’t always be sure of the Holy Ghost, either,” he continued. +“When the Lord pours out the Holy Ghost on an individual, he will have +spasms, and you would think he was going to have fits; but it don’t +make him get up and go pay his debts—not by a long shot. Of course I +don’t feel to mention any names, but what can you expect, anyway? A +flock of a thousand sheep has got to be mighty clean if some of them +ain’t smutty. This is a large flock of sheep that has come up into this +valley of the mountains, and some of them have got tag-locks hanging +about them. But it don’t seem to pester the Lord any. He sifted us good +in Missouri, and He put us into another sieve at Nauvoo, and I reckon +His sieve will be brought along with Him on the day of judgment. And if +there are some lost sheep in the fold of Zion, maybe, on the other +hand, there’s some outside the fold that will be worth saving; that +will be broke off from the wild olive-tree and grafted on to the tame +olive-tree to partake of its sap and fatness.” + +Joel Rae would have taken more comfort in this championship of his +views if it were not for his suspicion that Elder Wardle sometimes +spoke in a tone of levity, and had indeed more than once been reckoned +as a doubter. It was even related of him that a perverted sense of +humour had once inspired him to deliver an irreverent and wholly +immaterial address in pure Choctaw at a service where many others of +the faithful had been moved to speak in tongues; and that an earnest +sister, believing the Holy Ghost to be strong upon her, had thereupon +arisen and interpreted his speech to be the Lord’s description of the +glories of their new temple, which it had not been at all. Such a man +might have a good heart, as he knew Elder Wardle to have; but he must +be an inferior guide to the Father’s presence. He was even less +inclined to trust him when Wardle announced confidentially at the close +of the meeting that day, “Brother Wright talks a good deal jest to hear +his head roar. You’d think he’d been the midwife at the borning of the +world, and helped to nurse it and bring it up—he’s that knowing about +it. My opinion is he don’t know twice across or straight up about the +Lord’s secret doings!” + +Yet if he had sought to render a little elastic the rigid teachings of +the priesthood, he had done so innocently. The foundations of his faith +were unshaken; for him the rock upon which his Church was built had +never been more stable. As to doubting its firmness, he would as soon +have blasphemed the Holy Ghost or disputed the authority of Brigham, +with whom was the sacred deposit of doctrine and all temporal and +spiritual power. + +So he sighed often for those Gentile sheep on whom the wrath of God was +so soon to fall. Even with the utmost stretching of the divine mercy, +the greater part of them must perish; and for the lost souls of these +he grieved much and prayed each day. + +It was more than ten years since that day in the Meadows, and the +blight there put upon his person had waxed with each year. His hair +showed now but the faintest sprinkle of black, his shoulders were bent +and rounded as if bearing invisible burdens, and his face had the look +of drooping in grief and despair, as one who was made constantly to +look upon all the suffering of all the world. Yet he wore always, +except when alone, a not unpleasant little effort of a smile, as if he +would conceal his pain. But this deceived few. The women of the +settlement had come to call him “the little man of sorrows.” Even his +wife, Lorena, had divined that his mind was not one with hers; that, +somehow, there was a gulf between them which her best-meant +cheerfulness could not span. In a measure she had ceased to try, doing +little more than to sing, when he was near, some hymn which she +considered suitable to his condition. One favourite at such times +began:— + +“Lord, we are vile, conceived in sin, +And born unholy and unclean; +Sprung from the man whose guilty fall +Corrupts his race and taints us all. + +“Soon as we draw our infant breath, +The seeds of sin grow up for death; +The law demands a perfect heart, +But we’re defiled in every part.” + + +She would sing many verses of this with appealing unction, so long as +he was near; yet when he came upon her unawares he might hear her +voicing some cheerful, secular ballad, like— + +“As I went down to Coffey’s mills + Some pleasure for to see, +I fell in love with a railroad-er, + He fell in love with me.” + + +The stolid Christina listened entranced to all of Lorena’s songs, +charmed by the melody not less than she was awed by her sister-wife’s +superior gifts of language. The husband, too, listened not without +resignation, reflecting that, when Lorena did not sing, she talked. For +the unspeaking Christina he had learned to feel an admiration that +bordered upon reverence, finding in her silence something spiritually +great. Yet of the many-worded Lorena he was never heard to complain +through all the years. The nearest he approached to it was on a day +when Elder Beil Wardle had sought to condole with him on the affliction +of her ready speech. + +“That woman of yours,” said this observant friend, “sure takes large +pie-bites out of any little talk that happens to get going.” + +“She _does_ have the gift of continuance,” her husband had admitted. +But he had added, hastily, “Though her heart is perfect with the Lord.” + +The fact that she was sealed to him for eternity, and that she believed +she would constitute one of his claims to exaltation in the celestial +world, were often matters of pious speculation with him. He wondered if +he had done right by her. She deserved a husband who would be saved +into the kingdom, while he who had married her was irrevocably lost. + +There had been a time when he read with freshened hope the promises of +forgiveness in that strange New Testament. Once he had even believed +that these might save him; that he was again numbered with the elect. +But when this belief had grown firm, so that he could seem to rest his +weight upon it, he felt it fall away to nothing under him, and the +truth he had divined that day in the desert was again bared before him. +He saw that how many times soever God might forgive the sins of a man, +it would avail that man nothing unless he could forgive himself. He +knew at last that in his own soul was fixed a gauge of right, unbending +and implacable when wrong had been done, waiting to be reckoned with at +the very last even though the great God should condone his sin. It +seemed to him that, however surely his endowments took him through the +gates of the Kingdom, with whatsoever power they raised him to +dominion; even though he came into the Father’s presence and sat a +throne of his own by the side of Joseph and Brigham, that there would +still ring in his ears the cries of those who had been murdered at the +priesthood’s command; that there would leap before his eyes fountains +of blood from the breasts of living women who knelt and clung to the +knees of their slayers—to the knees of the Church of Jesus Christ of +Latter-day Saints; that he would see two spots of white in the dim +light of a morning where the two little girls lay who had been sent for +water; that he would see the two boys taken out to the desert, one to +die at once, the other to wander to a slower death; that before his +sinful eyes would come the dying face of the woman who had loved him +and lost her soul rather than betray him. He knew that, even in +celestial realms exalted beyond the highest visions of their +priesthood, his soul would still burn in this fire that he could not +extinguish within his own breast. He knew that he carried hell as an +inseparable part of himself, and that the forgiveness of no other power +could avail him. He no longer feared God, but himself alone. + +From this fire of his own building it seemed to him that he could +obtain surcease only by reducing the self within him. As surely as he +let it feel a want, all the torture came back upon him. When his pride +lifted up its head, when he desired any satisfaction for himself, when +he was tempted for a moment to lay down his cross, the cries came back, +the sea of blood surged before him, and close behind came the shapes +that crawled or moved furtively, ever about to spring in front and turn +upon him. Small wonder, then, that his shoulders bent beneath unseen +burdens, that his air was of one who suffered for all the world, and +that they called him “the little man of sorrows.” + +With this knowledge he learned to permit himself only one great love, a +love for the child Prudence. He was sure that no punishment could come +through that. It was his day-star and his life, the one pleasure that +brought no suffering with it. She was a child of fourteen now, a +half-wild, firm-fleshed, glowing creature of the out-of-doors, who had +lost with her baby softness all her resemblance to her mother. Her hair +and eyes had darkened as she grew, and she was to be a larger woman, +graver, deeper, more reserved; perhaps better calculated for the +Kingdom by reason of a more reflective mind. He adored her, and was +awed by her even when he taught her the truths of revealed religion. He +closed his eyes at night upon a never-ending prayer for her soul; and +opened them each day to a love of her that grew insidiously to enthrall +him while he was all unconscious of its power—even while he knew with +an awful certainty that he must have no treasure of his own which he +could not willingly relinquish at the first call. She, in turn, loved +and confided in her father, the shy, bent, shrunken little man with the +smile. + +“He always smiles as if he’d hurt himself and didn’t want to show it +before company,” were the words in which she announced one of her early +discoveries about him. But she liked and ruled him, and came to him for +comfort when she was hurt or when Lorena scolded. For the third wife +did not hesitate to characterise the child as “ready-made sin,” and to +declare that it took all her spare time, “and a lot that ain’t spare,” +to neat up the house after her. “And her paw—though Lord knows who her +maw was—a-dressing her to beat the cars; while he ain’t never made over +me since the blessed day I married him—not that _much_! But, thank +heavens, it can’t last very long, with the Son of Man already started, +like you might say.” + + + + +Chapter XXIX. +The Wild Ram of the Mountains Offers to Become a Saviour on Mount Zion + + +In the valley of which Amalon was the centre, they made ready for the +end of the world. It is true that in the north, as the appointed year +drew nigh, an opinion had begun to prevail that the Son of Man might +defer his coming; and presently it became known that Brigham himself +was doubtful about the year 1870, and was inspiring others to doubt. +But in Amalon they were untainted by this heresy, choosing to rely upon +what Brigham had said in moments more inspired. + +He had taught that Joseph was to be the first person resurrected; that +after his frame had been knit together and clothed with immortal flesh +he would resurrect those who had died in the faith, according to their +rank in the priesthood; then all his wives and children. Resurrected +Elders, having had the keys of the resurrection conferred upon them by +Joseph, would in turn call from the grave their own households; and +when the last of the faithful had come forth, another great work would +be performed; the Gentiles would then be resurrected to act as servants +and slaves to the Saints. In his lighter moments Brigham had been wont +to name a couple of Presidents of the United States who would then act +as his valets. + +Some doubt had been expressed that the earth’s surface could contain +the resurrected host, but Apostle Orson Pratt had removed this. He +cited the prophet who had foretold that the hills should be laid low, +the valleys exalted, and the crooked places made straight. With the +earth thus free of mountains and waste places, he had demonstrated that +there would be an acre and a quarter of ground for each Saint that had +ever lived from the morning of creation to the day of doom. And, lest +some carping mathematician should dispute his figures, he had declared +that if, by any miscalculation, the earth’s surface should not suffice +for the Saints and their Gentile slaves, the Lord “would build a +gallery around the earth.” Thus had confusion been brought to the last +quibbler in Zion. + +It was this earlier teaching that the faithful of Amalon clung to, +perhaps not a little by reason that immediately over them was a +spiritual guide who had been trained from infancy to know that +salvation lay in belief,—never in doubt. For a sign of the end they +believed that on the night before the day of it there would be no +darkness. This would be as it had been before the birth of the Saviour, +as told in the Book of Mormon: “At the going down of the sun there was +no darkness, and the people began to be astonished because there was no +darkness when the night came; and there was no darkness in all that +night, but it was as light as if it were midday.” + +They talked of little but this matter in that small pocket of the +intermountain commonwealth, in Sabbath meetings and around the hearths +at night. The Wild Ram of the Mountains thought all proselyting should +cease in view of the approaching end; that the Elders on mission should +withdraw from the vineyard, shake the dust from their feet, and seal up +the rebellious Gentiles to damnation. To this Elder Beil Wardle had +replied, somewhat testily: + +“Well, now, since these valleys of Ephraim have got a little fattened a +whole lot of us have got the sweeny, and our skins are growing too +tight on our flesh.” He had been unable to comprehend that the Gentiles +were a rejected lot, the lost sheep of the house of Israel. On this +occasion it had required all the tact of Elder Rae to soothe the two +good men into an amiable discussion of the time when Sidney Rigdon went +to the third heaven and talked face to face with God. They had agreed +in the end, however, that they were both of the royal seed of Abraham, +and were on the grand turnpike to exaltation. + +To these discussions and sermons the child, Prudence, listened with +intense interest, looking forward to the last day as an occasion +productive of excitement even superior to that of her trips to Salt +Lake City, where her father went to attend the October conference, and +where she was taken to the theatre. + +Of any world outside the valley she knew but little. Somewhere, far +over to the east, was a handful of lost souls for whom she sometimes +indulged in a sort of luxurious pity. But their loss, after all, was a +part of the divine plan, and they would have the privilege of serving +the glorified Saints, even though they were denied Godhood. She +half-believed that even this mission of service was almost more of +glory than they merited; for, in the phrasing of Bishop Wright, they +“made a hell all the time and raised devils to keep it going.” They had +slain the Prophets of the Lord and hunted his people, and the best of +them were lucky, indeed, to escape the fire that burns unceasingly; a +fire hotter than any made by beech or hickory. Still she sometimes +wondered if there were girls among them like her; and she had visions +of herself as an angel of light, going down to them with the precious +message of the Book of Mormon, and bringing them into the fold. + +One day in this spring when she was fourteen, the good Bishop Wright, +on his way down from Box Cañon with a load of wood, saw her striding up +the road ahead of him. Something caught his eye, either in her step +which had a child’s careless freedom, or in the lines of her swinging +figure that told of coming womanhood, or in the flashing, laughing +appeal of her dark eyes where for the moment both woman and child +looked out. He set the brake on his wagon and waited for her to pass. +She came by with a smile and a word of greeting, to which his rapt +attention prevented any reply except a slight nod. When she had passed, +he turned and looked after her until she had gone around the little +hill on the road that entered the cañon. + +After the early evening meal that day, along the many-roomed house of +this good man, from door to door there ran the words, starting from her +who had last been sealed to him: + +“He’s making himself all proud!” + +They knew what it meant, and wondered whom. + +A little later the Bishop set out, his face clean-shaven to the ruffle +of white whisker that ran under his chin from ear to ear, his scant +hair smooth and shining with grease from the largest bear ever trapped +in the Pine Mountains, and his tall form arrayed in his best suit of +homespun. As he went he trolled an ancient lay of love, and youth was +in his step. For there had come all day upon this Prince of Israel +those subtle essences distilled by spring to provoke the mating urge. +At the Rae house he found only Christina. + +“Where’s Brother Joel, Sister Rae?” + +“Himself has gone out there,” Christina had answered with a wave of her +hand, and using the term of respect which she always applied to her +husband. + +He went around the house, out past the stable and corrals and across +the irrigating ditch to where he saw Joel Rae leaning on the rail fence +about the peach orchard. Far down between two rows of the blossoming +trees he could see the girl reaching up to break off a pink-sprayed +bough. He quickened his pace and was soon at the fence. + +“Brother Joel,—I—the—” + +The good man had been full of his message a moment before, but now he +stammered and hesitated because of something cold in the other’s eye as +it seemed to note the unwonted elegance of his attire. He took a quick +breath and went on. + +“You see the Lord has moved me to add another star to my crown.” + +“I see; and you have come to get me to seal you?” + +“Well, of course I hadn’t thought of it so soon, but if you want to do +it to-night—” + +“As soon as you like, Bishop,—the sooner the better if you are to save +the soul of another woman against the day of desolation. Where is she?” +and he turned to go back to the house. But the Bishop still paused, +looking toward the orchard. + +“Well, the fact is, Brother Joel, you see the Lord has made me feel to +have Prudence for another star in my crown of glory—your daughter +Prudence,” he repeated as the other gazed at him with a sudden change +of manner. + +“My daughter Prudence—little Prue—that child—that _baby_?” + +“_Baby_?—she’s fourteen; she was telling my daughter Mattie so jest the +other day, and the Legislatur has made the marrying age twelve for +girls and fifteen for boys, so she’s two years overtime already. Of +course, I ain’t fifteen, but I’m safer for her than some young cub.” + +“But Bishop—you don’t consider—” + +“Oh, of course, I know there’s been private talk about her; nobody +knows who her mother was, and they say whoever she was you was never +married to her, so she couldn’t have been born right, but I ain’t +bigoted like some I could name, and I stand ready to be her Saviour on +Mount Zion.” + +He waited with something of noble concession in his mien. + +The other seemed only now to have fully sensed the proposal, and, with +real terror in his face, he began to urge the Bishop toward the house, +after looking anxiously back to where the child still lingered with the +mist of pink blossoms against the leafless boughs above her. + +“Come, Brother Seth—come, I beg of you—we’ll talk of it—but it can’t +be, indeed it can’t!” + +“Let’s ask _her_,” suggested the Bishop, disinclined to move. + +“Don’t, _don’t_ ask her!” He seized the other by the arm. + +“Come, I’ll explain; don’t ask her now, at any rate—I beg of you as a +gentleman—as a gentleman, for you are a gentleman.” + +The Bishop turned somewhat impatiently, then remarked with a dignified +severity: + +“Oh, I can be a gentleman whenever it’s _necessary_!” + +They went across the fields toward the house, and the Bishop spoke +further. + +“There ain’t any need to get into your high-heeled boots, Brother Rae, +jest because I was aiming to save her to a crown of glory,—a girl +that’s thought to have been born on the wrong side of the blanket!” + +They stopped by the first corral, and Joel Rae talked. He talked +rapidly and with power, saying many things to make it plain that he was +determined not to look upon the Wild Ram of the Mountains as an +acceptable son-in-law. His manner was excited and distraught, terrified +and indignant,—a manner hardly justified by the circumstances, about +which there was nothing extraordinary, nothing not pleasing to God and +in conformity to His revealed word. Bishop Wright indeed was puzzled to +account for the heat of his manner, and in recounting the interview +later to Elder Wardle, he threw out an intimation about strong drink. +“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I suspicion he’d jest been putting a +new faucet in the cider barrel.” + +When Prudence came in from the blossoming peach-trees that night her +father called her to him to sit on his lap in the dusk while the +crickets sang, and grow sleepy as had been her baby habit. + +“What did Bishop Wright want?” she asked, after her head was pillowed +on his arm. Relieved that it was over, now even a little amused, he +told her: + +“He wanted to take my little girl away, to marry her.” + +She was silent for a moment, and then: + +“Wouldn’t that be fine, and we could build each other up in the +Kingdom.” + +He held her tighter. + +“Surely, child, you couldn’t marry him?” + +“But of course I could! Isn’t he tried in the Kingdom, so he is sure to +have all those thrones and dominions and power?” + +“But child, child! That old man with all his wives—” + +“But they say old men are safer than young men. Young men are not tried +in the Kingdom. I shouldn’t like a young husband anyway—they always +want to play rough games, and pull your hair, and take things away from +you, and get in the way.” + +“But, baby,—don’t, _don’t_—” + +“Why, you silly father, your voice sounds as if you were almost +crying—please don’t hold me so tight—and some one must save me before +the Son of Man comes to judge the quick and the dead; you know a woman +can’t be saved alone. I think Bishop Wright would make a fine husband, +and I should have Mattie Wright to play with every day.” + +“And you would leave me?” + +“Why, that’s so, Daddy! I never thought—of course I can’t leave my +little sorry father—not yet. I forgot that. I couldn’t leave you. Now +tell me about my mother again.” + +He told her the story she already knew so well—how beautiful her mother +was, the look of her hair and eyes, her slenderness, the music of her +voice, and the gladness of her laugh. + +“And won’t she be glad to see us again. And she will come before +Christina and Lorena, because she was your first wife, wasn’t she?” + +He was awake all night in a fever of doubt and rebellion. By the light +of the candle, he read in the book of Mormon passages that had often +puzzled but never troubled him until now when they were brought home to +him; such as, “And now it came to pass that the people Nephi under the +reign of the second king began to grow hard in their hearts, and +indulged themselves somewhat in wicked practises, like unto David of +old, desiring many wives—” + +Again he read, “Behold, David and Solomon truly had many wives, which +thing was abominable before me, saith the Lord.” + +Still again, “For there shall not be any man among you have save it +shall be one wife.” + +Then he turned to the revelation on celestial marriage given years +after these words were written, and in the first paragraph read: + +“Verily, thus saith the Lord unto you my servant Joseph, that inasmuch +as you have inquired of my hand to know and understand wherein I, the +Lord, justified my servants Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, as also Moses, +David, and Solomon, my servants, as touching the principle and doctrine +of their having many wives—” + +He turned from one to the other; from the many explicit admonitions and +commands against polygamy, the denunciations of the patriarchs for +their indulgence in the practise, to this last passage contradicting +the others, and vexed himself with wonder. In the Book of Mormon, David +was said to be wicked for doing this thing. Now in the revelation to +Joseph he read, “David’s wives were given unto him of me, by the hand +of Nathan, my servant.” + +He recalled old tales that were told in Nauvoo by wicked apostates and +the basest of Gentile scandalmongers; how that Joseph in the day of his +great power had suffered the purity of his first faith to become +tainted; how his wife, Emma, had upbraided him so harshly for his sins +that he, fearing disgrace, had put out this revelation as the word of +God to silence her. He remembered that these gossips had said the +revelation itself proved that Joseph had already done, before he +received it, that which it commanded him to do, citing the clause, “And +let my handmaid, Emma Smith, receive all those that have been given +unto my servant Joseph, and who are virtuous and pure before me.” + +They had gossiped further, that still fearing her rebellion, he had +worded a threat for her in the next clause, “And I command my handmaid, +Emma Smith, to abide and cleave unto my servant Joseph and to none +else. But if she will not abide this commandment she shall be +destroyed, saith the Lord; for I am the Lord thy God, and will destroy +her if she abide not in my law ... and again verily I say, let mine +handmaid forgive my servant Joseph his trespasses and then shall she be +forgiven her trespasses.” + +This was the calumny the Gentile gossips back in Nauvoo would have had +the world believe,—that this great doctrine of the Church had been +given to silence the enraged wife of a man detected in sin. + +But in the midst of his questionings he seemed to see a truth,—that +another snare had been set for him by the Devil, and that this time it +had caught his feet. He, who knew that he must have nothing for +himself, had all unconsciously so set his heart upon this child of her +mother that he could not give her up. And now so fixed and so great was +his love that he could not turn back. He knew he was lost. To cling to +her would be to question, doubt, and to lose his faith. To give her up +would kill him. + +But at least for a little while he could put it off. + + + + +Chapter XXX. +How the World Did not Come to an End + + +In doubt and fear, the phantom of a dreadful certainty creeping always +closer, the final years went by. When the world came to be in its very +last days, when the little bent man was drooping lower than ever, and +Prudence was seventeen, there came another Prince of Israel to save her +into the Kingdom while there was yet a time of grace. On this occasion +the suitor was no less a personage than Bishop Warren Snow, a holy man +and puissant, upon whom the blessed Gods had abundantly manifested +their favour. In wives and children, in flocks and herds, he was rich; +while, as to spiritual worth, had not that early church poet styled him +the Entablature of Truth? + +But Prudence Rae, once so willing to be saved by the excellent Wild Ram +of the Mountains, had fled in laughing confusion from this later +benefactor, when he had made plain one day the service he sought to do +her soul. A moment later he had stood before her father in all his +years of patriarchal dignity, hale, ruddy, and vast of girth. + +“She’s a woman now, Brother Snow,—free to choose for herself,” the +father had replied to his first expostulations. + +“Counsel her, Brother Rae.” In the mind of the Bishop, “counsel,” +properly applied, was a thing not long to be resisted. + +“She would treat my counsel as shortly as she treated your proposal, +Brother Snow.” + +The Entablature of Truth glanced out of the open door to where Tom +Potwin could be seen, hastening importantly upon his endless and +mysterious errands, starting off abruptly a little way, stopping +suddenly, with one hand raised to his head, as if at that instant +remembering a forgotten detail, and then turning with new impetus to +walk swiftly in the opposite direction. + +“There ain’t any one else after her, is there, Brother Rae,—any of +these young boys?” + +“No, Bishop—no one.” + +“Well, if there is, you let me know. I’ll be back again, Brother Rae. +Meantime, counsel her—counsel her with authority.” + +The Entablature of Truth had departed with certain little sidewise +noddings of his head that seemed to indicate an unalterable purpose. + +The girl came to her father, blushing and still laughing confusedly, +when the rejected one had mounted his horse and ridden away. + +“Oh, Daddy, how funny!—to think of marrying him!” + +He looked at her anxiously. “But you wanted to marry Bishop Wright—at +least, you—” + +She laughed again. “How long ago—years ago—I must have been a baby.” + +“You were old enough to point out that he would save you in the +after-time.” + +“I remember; I could see myself sitting by him on a throne, with the +Saints all around us on other thrones, and the Gentiles kneeling to +serve us. We were in a big palace that had a hundred closets in it, and +in every closet there hung a silk dress for me—a hundred silk dresses, +each a different colour, waiting for me to wear them.” + +“But have you thought sufficiently—now? The time is short. Bishop Snow +could save you.” + +“Yes—but he would kiss me—he wanted to just now.” She put both hands +over her mouth, with a mocking little grimace that the Entablature of +Truth would not have liked to see. + +“He would be certain to exalt you.” + +She took the hands away long enough to say, “He would be certain to +kiss me.” + +“You may be lost.” + +“I’d _rather_!” + +And so it had ended between them. Ever since a memorable visit to Salt +Lake City, where she had gone to the theatre, she had cherished some +entirely novel ideas concerning matrimony. In that fairyland of +delights she had beheld the lover strangely wooing but one mistress, +the husband strangely cherishing but one wife. There had been no talk +of “the Kingdom,” and no home portrayed where there were many wives. +That lover, swearing to cherish but one woman for ever, had thrilled +her to new conceptions of her own womanhood, had seemed to meet some +need of her own heart that she had not until then been conscious of. +Ever after, she had cherished this ideal of the stage, and refused to +consider the other. Yet she had told her father nothing of this, for +with her womanhood had come a new reserve—truths half-divined and +others clearly perceived—which she could not tell any one. + +He, in turn, now kept secret from her the delight he felt at her +refusal. He had tried conscientiously to persuade her into the path of +salvation, when his every word was a blade to cut at his heart. Nor was +he happy when she refused so definitely the saving hand extended to +her. To know she was to come short of her glory in the after-time was +anguish to him; and mingling with that anguish, inflaming and +aggravating it, were his own heretical doubts that would not be gone. + +In a sheer desperation of bewilderment he longed for the end, longed to +know certainly his own fate and hers—to have them irrevocably fixed—so +that he might no more be torn among many minds, but could begin to pay +his own penalties in plain suffering, uncomplicated by this torturing +necessity to choose between two courses of action. + +And the time was, happily, to be short. With the first day of 1870 he +began to wait. With prayer and fasting and vigils he waited. Now was +the day when the earth should be purified by fire, the wicked swept +from the land, and the lost tribes of Israel restored to their own. Now +was to come the Son of Man who should dwell in righteousness with men, +reigning over them on the purified earth for a thousand years. + +He watched the mild winter go, with easy faith; and the early spring +come and go, with a dawning uneasiness. For the time was passing with +never the blast of a trumpet from the heavens. He began to see then +that he alone, of all Amalon, had kept his faith pure. For the others +had foolishly sown their fields, as if another crop were to be +harvested,—as if they must continue to eat bread that was earth-grown. +Even Prudence had strangely ceased to believe as he did. Something from +the outside had come, he knew not what nor how, to tarnish the fair +gold of her certainty. She had not said so, but he divined it when he +shrewdly observed that she was seeking to comfort him, to support his +own faith when day after day the Son of Man came not. + +“It will surely be in another month, Daddy—perhaps next week—perhaps +to-morrow,” she would say cheerfully. “And you did right not to put in +any crops. It would have been wicked to doubt.” + +He quickly detected her insincerity, seeing that she did not at all +believe. As the summer came and went without a sign from the heavens, +she became more positive and more constant in these assurances. As the +evening drew on, they would walk out along the unsown fields, now grown +rankly to weeds, to where the valley fell away from their feet to the +west. There they could look over line after line of hills, each a +little dimmer as it lay farther into the blue through which they saw +it, from the bold rim of the nearest shaggy-sided hill to the farthest +feathery profile all but lost in the haze. Day after day they sat +together here and waited for the sign,—for the going down of the sun +upon a night when there should be no darkness; when the light should +stay until the sun came back over the eastern verge; when the trumpet +should wind through the hills, and when the little man’s perplexities, +if not his punishment, should be at an end. + +And always when the dusk came she would try to cheer him to new hope +for the next night, counting the months that remained in the year, the +little time within which the great white day _must_ be. Then they would +go back through the soft light of the afterglow, he with his bent +shoulders and fallen face, shrunk and burned out, except for the eyes, +and she in the first buoyant flush of her womanhood, free and strong +and vital, a thing of warmth and colour and luring curve, restraining +her quick young step to his, as she suppressed now a world of strange +new fancies to his soberer way of thought. When they reached home +again, her words always were: “Never mind, Daddy—it must come +soon—there’s only a little time left in the year.” + +It was on these occasions that he knew she was now the stronger, that +he was leaning on her, had, in fact, long made her his +support—fearfully, lest she be snatched away. And he knew at last that +another change had come with her years; that she no longer confided in +him unreservedly, as the little child had. He knew there were things +now she could not give him. She communed with herself, and her silences +had come between them. She looked past him at unseen forms, and +listened as if for echoes that she alone could hear, waiting and +wanting, knowing not her wants—yet driven to aloofness by them from the +little bent man of sorrows, whose whole life she had now become. + +His hope lasted hardly until the year ended. Before the time was over, +there had crept into his mind a conviction that the Son of Man would +not come; that the Lord’s favour had been withdrawn from Israel. He +knew the cause,—the shedding of innocent blood. They might have made +war; indeed, many of the revelations to Joseph discriminated even +between murder and that murder in which innocent blood should be shed; +but the truth was plain. They had shed innocent blood that day in the +Meadows. Now the Lord’s favour was withdrawn and His coming deferred, +perhaps another thousand years. The torture of the thing came back to +him with all its early colouring, so that his days and nights were full +of anguish. He no longer dared open the Bible to that reddened page. +The cries already rang in his ears, and he knew not what worse torture +might come if he looked again upon the stain; nor could he free himself +from these by the old expedient of prayer, for he could no longer pray +with an honest heart; he was no longer unselfish, could no longer kneel +in perfect submission; he was wholly bound to this child of her mother, +and the peace of absolute and utter sacrifice could not come back to +him. Full of unrest, feeling that somehow the end, at least for him, +could not be far off, he went north to the April Conference. He took +Prudence with him, not daring to leave her behind. + +She went with high hopes, alive with new sensations. Another world lay +outside her valley of the mountains, and she was going to peep over the +edge at its manifold fascinations. She had been there before as a +child; now she was going as a woman. She remembered the city, bigger +and grander than fifty Amalons, with magnificent stores filled with +exotic novelties and fearsome luxuries from the land of the wicked +Gentile. She recalled even the strange advertisements and signs, from +John and Enoch Reese, with “All necessary articles of comfort for the +wayfarer, such as flour, hard bread, butter, eggs and vinegar, buckskin +pants and whip-lashes,” to the “Surgeon Dentist from Berlin and +Liverpool,” who would “Examine and Extract Teeth, besides keeping +constantly on hand a supply of the Best Matches, made by himself.” From +William Hennefer, announcing that, “In Connection with my Barber Shop, +I have just opened an Eating House, where Patrons will be Accommodated +with every Edible Luxury the Valley Affords,” to William Nixon, who +sold goods for cash, flour, or wheat “at Jacob Hautz’s house on the +southeast corner of Council-House Street and Emigration Square, +opposite to Mr. Orson Spencer’s.” + +She remembered the hunters and trappers in bedraggled buckskin, the +plainsmen with revolvers in their belts, wearing the blue army cloak, +the teamsters in leathern suits, and horsemen in fur coats and caps, +buffalo-hide boots with the hair outside, and rolls of blankets behind +their high Mexican saddles. + +More fondly did she recall two wonderful evenings at the theatre. First +had been the thrilling “Robert Macaire,” then the romantic “Pizarro,” +in which Rolla had been a being of such overwhelming beauty that she +had felt he could not be of earth. + +This time her visit was an endless fever of discovery in a realm of +magic and mystery, of joys she had supposed were held in reserve for +those who went behind the veil. It was a new and greater city she came +to now, where were buildings of undreamed splendour, many of them +reaching dizzily three stories above the earth. And the shops were more +fascinating than ever. She still shuddered at the wickedness of the +Gentiles, but with a certain secret respect for their habits of luxury +and their profusion of devices for adornment. + +And there were strange new faces to be seen, people surely of a +different world, of a different manner from those she had known, +wearing, with apparent carelessness, garments even more strangely +elegant than those in the shop windows, and speaking in strange, soft +accents. She was told that these were Gentiles, tourists across the +continent, who had ventured from Ogden to observe the wonders of the +new Zion. The thought of the railroad was in itself thrilling. To be so +near that wonderful highway to the land of the evil-doers and to a +land, alas! of so many strange delights. She shuddered at her own +wickedness, but fell again and again, and was held in bondage by the +allurements about her. So thrilled to her soul’s center was she that +the pleasure of it hurt her, and the tears would come to her eyes until +she felt she must be alone to cry for the awful joy of it. + +The evening brought still more to endure, for they went to the play. It +was a play that took her out of herself, so that the crowd was lost to +her from the moment the curtain went up in obedience to a little bell +that tinkled mysteriously,—either back on the stage or in her own +heart, she was not sure which. + +It was a love story; again that strangely moving love of one man for +one woman, that seemed as sweet as it was novel to her. But there was +war between the houses in the play, and the young lover had to make a +way to see his beloved, climbing a high wall into her garden, climbing +to her very balcony by a scarf she flung down to him. To the young +woman from Amalon, these lovers’ voices came with a strange compulsion, +so that they played with her heart between them. She was in turn the +youth, pleading in a voice that touched every heart string from low to +high; then she was the woman, soft and timid, hesitating in moments of +delicious doubt, yet almost fearful of her power to +resist,—half-wishing to be persuaded, half-frightened lest she yield. + +When the moment of surrender came, she became both of them; and, when +they parted, it was as if her heart went in twain, a half with each, +both to ache until they were reunited. Between the acts she awoke to +reality, only to say to herself: “So much I shall have to think +about—so much—I shall never be able to think about it enough.” + +Feverishly she followed the heart-breaking tragedy to its close, +suffering poignantly the grief of each lover, suffering death for each, +and feeling her life desolated when the end came. + +But then the dull curtain shut her back into her own little world, +where there was no love like that, and beside the little bent man she +went out into the night. + +The next morning had come a further delight, an invitation to a ball +from Brigham. Most of the day was spent in one of the shops, choosing a +gown of wondrous beauty, and having it fitted to her. + +[Illustration: FULL OF ZEST FOR THE MEASURE AS ANY YOUTH] + +When she looked into the little cracked mirror that night, she saw a +strange new face and figure; and, when she entered the ballroom, she +felt that others noted the same strangeness, for many looked at her +until she felt her cheeks burn. Then Brigham arose from a sofa, where +he had been sitting with his first wife and his last. He came gallantly +toward her; Brigham, whom she knew to be the most favoured of God on +earth and the absolute ruler of all the realm about her—an affable, +unpretentious yet dignified gentleman of seventy, who took her hand +warmly in both his own, looked her over with his kindly blue eyes, and +welcomed her to Zion in words of a fatherly gentleness. Later, when he +had danced with some of his wives, Brigham came to dance with her, +light of foot and full of zest for the measure as any youth. + +Others danced with her, but during it all she kept finding herself back +before the magic square that framed the land where a man loved but one +woman. She remembered that Brigham sat with four of his wives in one of +the boxes, enthusiastically applauding that portrayal of a single love. +As the picture came back to her now, there seemed to have been +something incongruous in this spectacle. She observed the seamed and +hardened features of his earliest wife, who kept to the sofa during the +evening, beside the better favoured Amelia, whom the good man had last +married, and she thought of his score or so of wives between them. + +Then she knew that what she had seen the night before had been the +truth; that she could love no man who did not love her alone. She tried +to imagine the lover in the play going from balcony to balcony, sighing +the same impassioned love-tale to woman after woman; or to imagine him +with many wives at home, to whom would be taken the news of his death +in the tomb of his last. So she thought of the play and not of the +ball, stepping the dances absently, and, when it was all over, she fell +asleep, rejoicing that, before their death, the two dear lovers had +been sealed for time and eternity, so that they could awaken together +in the Kingdom. + +They went home the next day, driving down the valley that rolled in +billows of green between the broken ranges of the Wasatch and the +Oquirrh. It was no longer of the Kingdom she thought, nor of Brigham +and his wives; only of a clean-limbed youth in doublet and hose, a +plumed cap, and a silken cloak, who, in a voice that brought the tears +back of her eyes, told of his undying love for one woman—and of the +soft, tender woman in the moonlight, who had trusted him and let +herself go to him in life and in death. + +The world had not ended. She thought that, in truth, it could not have +ended yet; for had she not a life to live? + + + + +Chapter XXXI. +The Lion of the Lord Sends an Order + + +They reached home in very different states of mind. The girl was eager +for the solitude of her favourite nook in the cañon, where she could +dream in peace of the wonderland she had glimpsed; but the little bent +man was stirred by dread and chilled with forebodings. To him, as well +as to the girl, the change in the first city of Zion had been a thing +to wonder at. But what had thrilled her with amazed delight brought +pain to him. Zion was no longer held inviolate. + +And now the truth was much clearer to him. Not only had the Lord +deferred His coming, but He had set His hand again to scatter Israel +for its sin. Instead of letting them stay alone in their mountain +retreat until the beginning of His reign on earth, He had brought the +Gentiles upon them in overwhelming numbers. Where once a thousand miles +of wilderness lay between them and Gentile wickedness, they were now +hemmed about with it, and even it polluted the streets of the holy city +itself. + +Far on the east the adventurous Gentile had first pushed out of the +timber to the richly grassed prairies; then, later, on to the plains, +scorched brown with their sparse grass, driving herds of cattle ahead, +and stopping to make farms by the way. And now on the west, on the +east, and on the north, the Lord had let them pitch their tents and +build their cabins, where they would barter their lives for gold and +flocks and furs and timber, for orchard fruits and the grains of the +field. Little by little they had ventured toward the outer ramparts of +Israel, their numbers increasing year by year, and the daring of their +onslaughts against the desert and mountain wastes. With the rifle and +the axe they had made Zion but a station on the great highway between +the seas; a place where curious and irreverent Gentiles stopped to gaze +in wonder at and perhaps to mock the Lord’s chosen; a place that would +become but one link in a chain of Gentile cities, that would be forced +to conform to the meretricious customs of Gentile benightedness. + +It had been a fine vengeance upon them for their sin; one not unworthy +of Him who wrought it. It had come so insidiously, with such apparent +naturalness, little by little—a settler here, a settler there; here an +acre of gray desert charmed to yellow wheat; there a pouch of shining +gold washed from the burning sands; another wagon-train with hopeful +men and faithful women; a cabin, two cabins, a settlement, a +schoolhouse, a land of unwalled villages,—and democracy; a wicked +government of men set up in the very face and front of God-governed +Israel. + +At first they had come with ox-teams, but this was slow, and the big +Kentucky mules brought them faster; then had come the great rolling +Concord stages with their six horses; then the folly of an electric +telegraph, so that instant communication might be had with far-off +Babylon; and now the capstone in the arch of the Lord’s vengeance,—a +railway,—flashing its crowded coaches over the Saints’ old trail in +sixty easy hours,—a trail they had covered with their oxen in ninety +days of hardship. The rock of their faith would now be riven, the veil +of their temple rent, and their leaders corrupted. + +Even of Brigham, the daring already told tales that promised this last +thing should come to pass; how he was become fat-souled, grasping, and +tricky, using his sacred office to enlarge his wealth, seizing the +cañons with their precious growths of wood, the life-giving waterways, +and the herding-grounds; taking even from the tithing, of which he +rendered no stewardship, and hiding away millions of the dollars for +which the faithful had toiled themselves into desert graves. Truly, +thought Joel Rae, that bloody day in the Meadows had been cunningly +avenged. + +One morning, a few weeks after he had reached home from the north, he +received a call from Seth Wright. + +“Here’s a letter Brother Brigham wanted me to be sure and give you,” +said this good man. “He said he didn’t know you was allowing to start +back so soon, or he’d have seen you in person.” + +He took the letter and glanced at the superscription, written in +Brigham’s rather unformed but plain and very decided-looking hand. + +“So you’ve been north, Brother Seth? What do you think of Israel +there?” + +The views of the Wild Ram of the Mountains partook in certain ways of +his own discouragement. + +“Zion has run to seed, Brother Rae; the rank weeds of Babylon is +a-goin’ to choke it out, root and branch! We ain’t got no chance to +live a pure and Godly life any longer, with railroads coming in, and +Gentiles with their fancy contraptions. It weakens the spirit, and it +plays the very hob with the women. Soon as they git up there now, and +see them new styles from St. Looey or Chicago, they git downright daft. +No more homespun for ’em, no more valley tan, no more parched corn for +coffee, nor beet molasses nor unbolted flour. Oh, I know what I’m +talkin’ about.” + +The tone of the good man became as of one who remembers hurts put upon +his own soul. He continued: + +“You no sooner let a woman git out of the wagon there now than she’s +crazy for a pink nubia, and a shell breastpin, and a dress-pattern, and +a whole bolt of factory and a set of chiny cups and saucers and some of +this here perfumery soap. And _that_ don’t do ’em. Then they let out a +yell for varnished rockin’-cheers with flowers painted all over ’em in +different colours, and they tell you they got to have bristles +carpet—bristles on it that long, prob’ly!” The injured man indicated a +length of some eighteen or twenty inches. + +“Of course all them grand things would please our feelings, but they +take a woman’s mind off of the Lord, and she neglects her work in the +field, and then pretty soon the Lord gets mad and sics the Gentiles on +to us again. But I made my women toe the mark mighty quick, I told ’em +they could all have one day a week to work out, and make a little +pin-money, hoein’ potatoes or plantin’ corn or some such business, and +every cent they earned that way they could squander on this here +pink-and-blue soap, if they was a mind to; but not a York shilling of +my money could they have for such persuasions of Satan—not while we got +plenty of soap-grease and wood-ashes to make lye of and a soap-kittle +that cost four eighty-five, in the very Lord’s stronghold. I dress my +women comfortable and feed ’em well—not much variety but plenty _of_, +and I’ve done right by ’em as a husband, and I tell ’em if they want to +be led away now into the sinful path of worldliness, why, I ain’t goin’ +to have any ruthers about it at all! But you be careful, Brother Rae, +about turning your women loose in one of them ungodly stores up there. +That reminds me, you had Prudence up to Conference, and I guess you +don’t know what that letter’s about.” + +“Why, no; do you?” + +“Well, Brother Brigham only let a word or two drop, but plain enough; +he don’t have to use many. He was a little mite afraid some one down +here would cut in ahead of him.” + +Joel Rae had torn open the big blue envelope in a sudden fear, and now +he read in Brigham’s well-known script:— + +“DEAR BROT. JOEL:— + +“I was ancus to see more of your daughter, and would of kept her hear +at my house if you had not hurried off. I will let you seal her to me +when I come to Pine valle next, late this summer or after Oct. +conference. If anything happens and I am to bisy will have you bring +her hear. Tell her of this and what it will mean to her in the Lord’s +kingdom and do not let her company with gentiles or with any of the +young brethren around there that might put Notions into her head. Try +to due right and never faint in well duing, keep the faith of the +gospel and I pray the Lord to bless you. BRIGHAM YOUNG.” + +The shrewd old face of the Bishop had wrinkled into a smile of quiet +observation as the other read the letter. In relating the incident to +the Entablature of Truth subsequently, he said of Joel Rae at the +moment he looked up from this letter: “He’ll never be whiter when he’s +dead! I see in a minute that the old man had him on the bark.” + +“You know what’s in this, Brother Seth—you know that Brigham wants +Prudence?” Joel Rae had asked, looking up from the letter, upon which +both his hands had closed tightly. + +“Well, I told you he dropped a word or two, jest by way of keeping off +the Princes of Israel down here.” + +“I must go to Salt Lake at once and talk to him.” + +“Take her along; likely he’ll marry her right off.” + +“But I can’t—I couldn’t—Brother Seth, I wish her not to marry him.” + +The Bishop stared blankly at him, his amazement freezing upon his lips, +almost, the words he uttered. + +“Not—want—her—to marry—Brother Brigham Young, Prophet, Seer, and +Revelator, President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints +in all the world!” + +“I must go up and talk to him at once.” + +“You won’t talk him out of it. Brother Brigham has the habit of +prevailing. Of course, he’s closer than Dick’s hat-band, but she’ll +have the best there is until he takes another.” + +“He may listen to reason—” + +“Reason?—why, man, what more reason could he want,—with that splendid +young critter before him, throwing back her head, and flashing her big, +shiny eyes, and lifting her red lips over them little white +teeth—reason enough for Brother Brigham—or for other people I could +name!” + +“But he wouldn’t be so hard—taking her away from me—” + +Something in the tones of this appeal seemed to touch even the heart of +the Wild Ram of the Mountains, though it told of a suffering he could +not understand. + +“Brigham is very sot in his ways,” he said, after a little, with a +curious soft kindness in his voice,—“in fact, a _sotter_ man I never +knew!” + +He drove off, leaving the other staring at the letter now crumpled in +his hand. He also said, in his subsequent narrative to the Entablature +of Truth: “You know I’ve always took Brother Rae for jest a natural +born _not_, a shy little cuss that could be whiffed around by anything +and everything, but when I drove off he had a plumb ornery fighting +look in them deep-set eyes of his, and blame me if I didn’t someway +feel sorry for him,—he’s that warped up, like an old water-soaked +sycamore plank that gits laid out in the sun.” + +But this look of belligerence had quickly passed from the face of Joel +Rae when the first heat of his resentment had cooled. + +After that he merely suffered, torn by his reverence for Brigham, who +represented on earth no less a power than the first person of the +Trinity, and by the love for this child who held him to a past made +beautiful by his love for her mother,—by a thousand youthful dreams and +fancies and wayward hopes that he had kept fresh through all the years; +torn between Brigham, whose word was as the word of God, and Prudence +who was the living flower of her dead mother and all his dead hopes. + +Could he persuade Brigham to leave her? The idea of refusing him, if he +should persist, was not seriously to be thought of. For twenty-five +years he, in common with the other Saints, had held Brigham’s lightest +command to be above all earthly law; to be indeed the revealed will of +God. His kingship in things material no less than in things spiritual +had been absolute, undisputed, undoubted—indeed, gloried in by the +people as much as Brigham himself gloried when he declared it in and +out of the tabernacle. Their blind obedience had been his by divine +right, by virtue of his iron will, his matchless courage, his tireless +spirit, and his understanding of their hearts and their needs, born of +his common suffering with them. Nothing could be done without his +sanction. No man could enter a business, or change his home from north +to south, without first securing his approval; even the merchants who +went east or west for goods must first report to him their wishes, to +see if he had contrary orders for them! From the invitation list of a +ball to the financing of a corporation, his word was law; in matters of +marriage as well—no man daring even to seek a wife until the Prophet +had approved his choice. The whole valley for five hundred miles was +filled with his power as with another air that the Saints must breathe. +In his oft-repeated own phrase, it was his God-given right to dictate +all matters, “even to the ribbons a woman should wear, or the setting +up of a stocking.” And his people had not only submitted blindly to his +rule, but had reverenced and even loved him for it. + +Twenty-five years of such allegiance, preceded by a youth in which the +same gospel of obedience was bred into his marrow—this was not to be +thrown off by a mere heartache; not to be more than striven against, +half-heartedly, in the first moment of anguish. + +He thought of Brigham’s home in the Lion House, the score or so of +plain, elderly women, hard-working, simple-minded; the few favourites +of his later years, women of sightlier exteriors; and he pictured the +long dining-room, where, at three o’clock each afternoon, to the sound +of a bell, these wives and half a hundred children marched in, while +the Prophet sat benignantly at the head of the table and blessed the +meal. He tried to fix Prudence in this picture, but at every effort he +saw, not her, the shy, sweet woman, full of surprised tenderness, but a +creature hardened, debased, devoid of charm, dehumanised, a brood-beast +of the field. + +And yet this was not rebellion. His mind was clear as to that. He could +not refuse, even had refusal not been to incur the severest penalties +both in this world and in the world to come. The habit of obedience was +all-powerful. + +Presently he saw Prudence coming across the fields in the late +afternoon from the road that led to the cañon. He watched her jealously +until she drew near, then called her to him. In a few words he told her +very gravely the honour that was to be done her. + +When she fully understood, he noted that her mind seemed to attain an +unusual clearness, her speech a new conciseness; that she was +displaying a force of will he had never before suspected. + +Her reply, in effect, was that she would not marry Brigham Young if all +the angels in heaven came to entreat her; that the thought was not a +pretty one; and that the matter might be considered settled at that +very moment. “It’s too silly to talk about,” she concluded. + +Almost fearfully he looked at her, yielding a little to her spirit of +rebellion, yet trying not to yield; trying not to rejoice in the amused +flash of her dark eyes and the decision of her tones. But then, as he +looked, and as she still faced him, radiant in her confidence, he felt +himself going with her—plunging into the tempting wave of apostasy. + + + + +Chapter XXXII. +A New Face in the Dream + + +In a settled despair the little bent man waited for the end. Already he +felt himself an outcast from Israel. In spirit he had disobeyed the +voice of Brigham, which was the voice of God; exulting sinfully in +spite of himself in this rebellion. Praying to be bowed and bent and +broken, to have all trace of the evil self within him burned out, he +had now let that self rise up again to cry out a want. Praying that +crosses might daily be added to his burden, he had now refused to take +up one the bearing of which might have proved to Heaven the extinction +of his last selfish desire. He had been put to the test, as he prayed +to be, and he had failed miserably to meet it. And now he knew that +even his life was waning with his faith. + +During the year when he waited for the end of the world, he had been +nerved to an unwonted vigour. Now he was weak and fit for no further +combat. He waited, with an indifference that amazed him, for the day +when he should openly defy Brigham, and have penalties heaped upon him. + +First he would be ordered on a mission to some far corner of the world. +It would mean that he must go alone, “without purse or scrip,” leaving +Prudence. He would refuse to go. Thereupon he would be sternly +disfellowshiped. Then, having become an apostate, he would be a fair +mark for many things, perhaps for simple persecution—perhaps for blood +atonement. He had heard Brigham himself say in the tabernacle that he +was ready to “unsheathe his bowie knife” and send apostates “to hell +across lots.” + +He was ready to welcome that. It were easier to die now than to live; +and, as for being cut off from his glory in the after-time, he had +already forfeited that; would miss it even if he died in fellowship +with Brigham and full of churchly honours; would miss it even if the +power on high should forgive him,—for he himself, he knew, could not +forgive his own sin. So it was little matter about his apostasy, and +Prudence should be saved from a wifehood that, ever since he had +pictured her in it, had seemed to him for the first time unspeakably +bad. + +They talked but little about it that day, after her first abrupt +refusal. There was too much for each of them to think of. He was +obliged to dwell upon the amazing fact that he must lie in hell until +he could win his own forgiveness, regardless of what gentle pardoning +might be his from God. This, to him, simple and obvious truth, was now +his daily torture. + +As for Prudence, she had to be alone to dream her dreams of a love that +should be always single. Brigham’s letter, far from disturbing these, +had brought them a zest hitherto lacking. Neither the sacrilege of +refusing him, its worldly unwisdom, nor its possible harm to the little +bent man of sorrows, had as yet become apparent to her. Each day, when +such duties as were hers in the house had been performed, she walked +out to be alone,—always to Box Cañon, that green-sided cleft in the +mountain, with the brook lashing itself to a white fury over the +boulders at the bottom. She would go up out of the hot valley into its +cool freshness and its pleasant wood smells, and there, in the softened +blue light of a pine-hung glade, she would rest, and let her fancy +build what heaven-reaching towers it would. On some brown bed of +pine-needles, or on a friendly gray boulder close by the water-side, +where she could give her eyes to its flow and foam, and her ears to its +music,—music like the muffled tinkling of little silver bells in the +distance,—she would let herself go out to her dream with the joyous, +reckless abandon of falling water. + +It was commonly a dream of a youth in doublet and hose, a plumed cap, +and a cloak of purple satin, who came in the moonlight to the balcony +of his love, and sighed his passion in tones so moving that she thought +an angel must have yielded—as did the girl in the balcony who had let +down the scarf to him. She already knew how that girl’s heart must have +fluttered at the moment,—how she must have felt that the hands were +mad, wicked, uncontrollable hands, no longer her own. + +There was one place in the dream that she managed not without some +ingenuity. It had to be made plain that the lover under the window did +not come from a long, six-doored house, with a wife behind each door; +that this girl, pale in the moonlight, with quickening heart and +rebellious hands on the scarf, and arms that should open to him, was to +be not only his first wife but his last; that he was never even to +consider so much as the possibility of another, but was to cleave unto +her, and to love her with a single heart for all the days of her life +and his own. + +There were various ways of bringing this circumstance forward. Usually +she had Brigham march on at the head of his great family and counsel +the youth to take more wives, in order that he should be exalted in the +Kingdom. Whereupon the young man would fold his love in his arms and +speak words of scorn, in the same thrilling manner that he spoke his +other words, for any exaltation which they two could not share alone. +Brigham, at the head of his wives, would then slink off, much abashed. + +She had come naturally to see her own face as the face of this happily +loved girl in the dream. She knew no face for the youth. There was none +in Amalon; not Jarom Tanner, six feet three, who became a helpless, +grinning child in her presence; nor Moroni Peterson, who became a +solemn and ghastly imbecile; nor Ammaron Wright, son of the Bishop, who +had opened the dance of the Young People’s Auxiliary with prayer, and +later tried to kiss her in a dark corner of the room. So the face of +the other person in her dream remained of an unknown heavenly beauty. + +And then one afternoon in early May a strange youth came singing down +the cañon; came while she mused by the brook-side in her best-loved +dream. Long before she saw him, she heard his music, a young, clear, +care-free voice ringing down from the trail that went over the +mountains to Kanab and into Kimball Valley; one of the ways that led +out to the world that she wondered about so much. It was a voice new to +her, and the words of his ballad were also new. At first she heard them +from afar:— + +“There was a young lady came a-tripping along, + And at each side a servant-O, +And in each hand a glass of wine + To drink with the Gypsy Davy-O. + +“And will you fancy me, my dear, + And will you be my Honey-O? +I swear by the sword that hangs by my side + You shall never want for money-O. + +“Oh, yes, I will fancy you, kind sir, + And I will be your Honey-O, +If you swear by the sword that hangs by your side + I shall never want for money-O.” + + +The singer seemed to be making his way slowly. Far up the trail, she +had one fleeting glimpse of a man on a horse, and then he was hid again +in the twilight of the pines. But the music came nearer:— + +“Then she put on her high-heeled shoes, + All made of Spanish leather-O, +And she put on her bonnie, bonnie brown, And they rode off together-O. + +“Soon after that, her lord came home + Inquiring for his lady-O, +When some of the servants made this reply, + She’s a-gone with the Gypsy Davy-O. + +“Then saddle me my milk-white steed, + For the black is not so speedy-O, +And I’ll ride all night and I’ll ride all day + Till I overtake my lady-O.” + + +She stood transfixed, something within her responding to the hidden +singer, as she had once heard a closed piano sound to a voice that sang +near it. Soon she could get broken glimpses of him as he wound down the +trail, now turning around the end of a fallen tree, then passing behind +a giant spruce, now leaning far back while the horse felt a way +cautiously down some sharp little declivity. The impression was +confused,—a glint of red, of blue, of the brown of the horse, a figure +swaying loosely to the horse’s movements, and then he was out of sight +again around the big rock that had once fallen from high up on the side +of the cañon; but now, when he came from behind that, he would be +squarely in front of her. This recalled and alarmed her. She began to +pick a way over the boulders and across the trail that lay between her +and the edge of the pines, hearing another verse of the song, almost at +her ear:— + +“He rode all night and he rode all day, + Till he came to the far deep water-O, +Then he stopped and a tear came a-trickling down his cheek, + For there he saw his lady-O.” + + +Before she could reach a shelter in the pines, while she was poised for +the last step that would take her out of the trail, he was out from +behind the rock, before her, almost upon her, reining his horse back +upon its haunches,—then in another instant lifting off his +broad-brimmed hat to her in a gracious sweep. It was the first time she +had seen this simple office performed outside of the theatre. + +She looked up at him, embarrassed, and stepped back across the narrow +trail, her head down again, so that he was free to pass. But instead of +passing, she became aware that he had dismounted. + +When she looked up, he was busily engaged in adjusting something about +his saddle, with an expression of deepest concern in his blue eyes. His +hat was on the ground and his yellow hair glistened where the band had +pressed it about his head. + +“It’s that latigo strap,” he remarked, in a tone of some annoyance. +“I’ve had to fix it every five miles since I left Kanab!” Then looking +up at her with a friendly smile: “Dandy most stepped on you, I reckon.” + +The amazement of it was that, after her first flurry at the sound of +his voice and his half-seen movements up the trail, it should now seem +all so commonplace. + +“Oh, no, I was well out of his way.” + +She started again to cross the trail, stepping quickly, with her eyes +down, but again his voice came, less deliberate this time, and with +words in something less than intelligible sequence. + +“Excuse me, Miss—but—now how many miles to—what’s the name of the +nearest settlement—I suppose you live hereabouts?” + +“What did you say?” + +“I say is there any place where I could get to stop a day or so in +Amalon?” + +“Oh—I didn’t understand—I think so; at least, my father sometimes—but +there’s Elder Wardle, he often takes in travellers.” + +“You say your father—” + +“Not always—I don’t know, I’m sure—” she looked doubtful. + +“Oh, all right! I’ll ask him,—if you’ll show me his place.” + +“It’s the first place on the left after you leave the cañon—with the +big peach orchard—I’m not going home just yet.” + +He stroked the muzzle of the horse. + +“Oh, I’m in no hurry, I’m just looking over the country a little. Your +father’s name is—” + +“Ask for Elder Rae—or one of his wives will say if they can keep you +over night.” + +She caught something new in his glance, and felt the blood in her face. + +“I must go now—you can find your way—I must go.” + +“Well, if you _must_ go,”—he picked up his hat,—“but I’ll see you +again. You’ll be coming home this evening, I reckon?” + +“The first house on the left,” she answered, and stepped once more +across the trail and into the edge of the pines. She went with the same +mien of importance that Tom Potwin wore on his endless errands; and +with quite as little reason, too; for the direction in which she had +started so earnestly would have led her, after a few steps, straight up +a granite cliff a thousand feet high. As she entered the pines she +heard him mount his horse and ride down the trail, and then the rest of +his song came back to her:— + +“Will you forsake your houses and lands, + Will you forsake your baby-O? +Will you forsake your own wedded lord + To foller a Gypsy Davy-O? + +“Yes, I’ll forsake my houses and lands, + Yes, I’ll forsake my baby-O, +For I am bewitched, and I know the reason why; + It’s a follering a Gypsy Davy-O. + +“Last night I lay on a velvet couch + Beside my lord and baby-O; +To-night I shall lie on the cold, cold ground, + In the arms of a Gypsy Davy-O. + +“To-night I shall lie on the cold, cold ground, + In the arms of a Gypsy Davy-O!” + + +When his voice died away and she knew he must be gone, she came out +again to her nook beside the stream where, a moment before, her dream +had filled her. But now, though nothing had happened beyond the riding +by of a strange youth, the dream no longer sufficed. In place of the +moonlit balcony was the figure of this young stranger swaying with his +horse down between the hollowed shoulders of the Pine Mountains and +reining up suddenly to sweep his broad hat low in front of her. She was +surprised by the clearness with which she could recall the details of +his appearance,—a boyish-looking fellow, with wide-open blue eyes and a +sunbrowned face under his yellow hair, the smallest of moustaches, and +a smile of such winning good-humour that it had seemed to force her own +lips apart in answer. + +Around the broad, gray hat had been a band of braided silver; when he +stepped, the spurs on his high-heeled boots had jingled and clanked of +silver; around his neck with a knot at the back and the corners +flapping down on the front of his blue woollen shirt, had been a +white-dotted handkerchief of scarlet silk; and about his waist was +knotted a long scarf of the same colour; dogskin “chapps” he had worn, +fronted with the thick yellowish hair outside; his saddle-bags, back of +the saddle, showing the same fur; his saddle had been of stamped +Spanish leather with a silver capping on the horn and on the circle of +the cantle; and on the right of the saddle she had seen the coils of a +lariat of plaited horsehair. + +The picture of him stayed in her mind, the sturdy young figure,—rather +loose-jointed but with an easy grace of movement,—and the engaging +naturalness of his manner. But after all nothing had happened save the +passing of a stranger, and she must go alone back to her dream. Yet now +the dream might change; a strange youth might come riding out of the +east, sitting a sorrel horse with a star and a white hind ankle, a long +rangy neck and strong quarters; and he—the youth—would wear a broad, +gray hat, with a band of silver filigree, a scarlet kerchief at his +throat, a scarlet sash at his waist, and yellow dogskin “chapps.” + +Still, she thought, he could hardly have a place in the dream. The real +youth of the dream had been of an unearthly beauty, with a rose-leaf +complexion and lustrous curls massed above a brow of marble. The +stranger had not been of an unearthly beauty. To be sure, he was very +good to look at, with his wide-open blue eyes and his yellow hair, and +he had appeared uncommonly fresh and clean about the mouth when he +smiled at her. But she could not picture him sighing the right words of +love under a balcony in the moonlight. He had looked to be too +intensely business-like. + + + + +Chapter XXXIII. +The Gentile Invasion + + +When she came across the fields late in the afternoon, the strange +youth’s horse was picketed where the bunch-grass grew high, and the +young man himself talked with her father by the corral bars. She had +never realised how old her father was, how weak, and small, and bent, +until she saw him beside this erect young fellow. Her heart went out to +the older man with a new sympathy as she saw his feebleness so sharply +in relief against the well-blooded, hard-muscled vigour of the younger. +When she would have passed them, her father called to her. + +“Prudence, this is Mr. Ruel Follett. He will stay with us to-night.” + +The sombrero was off again and she felt the blue eyes seeking hers, +though she could not look up from the ground when she had given her +little bow. She heard him say: + +“I already met your daughter, sir, at the mouth of the cañon.” + +She went on toward the house, hearing them resume their talk, the +stranger saying, “That horse can sure carry all the weight you want to +put on him and step away good; he’ll do it right at both ends, +too—Dandy will—and he’s got a mighty tasty lope.” + +Later she brought him a towel when he had washed himself in the tin +basin on the bench outside the house. He had doffed the “chapps” and +hung them on a peg, the scarlet kerchief was also off, his shirt was +open at the neck, and soap and water had played freely over his head. +He took the towel from her with a sputtering, “Thank you,” and with a +pair of muscular, brown hands proceeded to scour himself dry until the +yellow hair stood about him as a halo—without, however, in the least +suggesting the angelic or even saintly: for his face, from the friction +inflamed to a high degree, was now a mass of red with two inquiring +spots of blue near the upper edge. But then the clean mouth opened in +its frank smile, and her own dark lashes had to fall upon her cheeks +until she turned away. + +At supper and afterwards Mr. Follett talked freely of himself, or +seemed to. He was from the high plains and the short-grass country, +wherever that might be—to the east and south she gathered. He had grown +up in that country, working for his father, who had been an overland +freighter, until the day the railroad tracks were joined at Promontory. +He, himself, had watched the gold and silver spikes driven into the tie +of California mahogany two years before; and then, though they still +kept a few wagon trains moving to the mining camps north and south of +the railroad, they had looked for other occupations. + +Now their attention was chiefly devoted to mines and cattle. There were +great times ahead in the cattle business. His father remembered when +they had killed cattle for their hides and tallow, leaving the meat to +the coyotes. But now, each spring, a dozen men, like himself, under a +herd boss, would drive five thousand head to Leavenworth, putting them +through ten or twelve miles a day over the Abiline trail, keeping them +fat and getting good prices for them. There was plenty of room for the +business. “Over yonder across the hills,” as Mr. Follett put it. There +was a herding ground four hundred miles wide, east and west, and a +thousand miles north and south, covered with buffalo grass, especially +toward the north, that made good stock feed the year around. He himself +had, in winter, followed a herd that drifted from Montana to Texas; and +in summer he had twice ranged from Corpus Christi to Deadwood. + +Down in the Panhandle they were getting control of a ranch that would +cover five thousand square miles. Some day they would have every one of +its three million acres enclosed with a stout wire fence. It would be a +big ranch, bigger than the whole state of Connecticut—bigger than +Delaware and Rhode Island “lumped together”, he had been told. Here +they would have the “C lazy C” brand on probably a hundred and fifty +thousand head of cattle. He thought the business would settle down to +this conservative basis with the loose ends of it pulled together; with +closer attention paid to branding, for one thing; branding the calves, +so they would no longer have to rope a full-grown steer, and tie it +with a scarf such as he wore about his waist. + +But they were also working some placer claims up around Helena, and +developing a quartz prospect over at Carson City. And the freighting +was by no means “played out.” He, himself, had driven a six-mule team +with one line over the Santa Fé trail, and might have to do it again. +The resources of the West were not exhausted, whatever they might say. +A man with a head on him would be able to make a good living there for +some years to come. + +Both father and daughter found him an agreeable young man in spite of +his being an alien from the Commonwealth of Israel. He remained with +them three days looking over the country about Amalon, talking with its +people and making himself at least not an object of suspicion and +aversion, as the casual Gentile was apt to be. Prudence found herself +usually at ease with him; he was so wholly likable and unassuming. Yet +at times he seemed strangely mature and reserved to her, so that she +was just a little awed. + +He told her in their evenings many wonder-tales of that outside world +where the wicked Gentiles lived; of populous cities on the western edge +of it, and of vast throngs that crowded the interior clear over to the +Atlantic Ocean. She had never realised before what a small handful of +people the Lord had set His hand to save, and what vast numbers He had +made with hearts that should be hardened to the glorious articles of +the new covenant. + +The wastefulness of it rather appalled her. Out of the world with its +myriad millions, only the few thousand in this valley of the mountains +had proved worthy of exaltation. And this young man was doubtless a +fair sample of them,—happy, unthinking, earning perdition by mere +carelessness. If only there were a way to save them—if only there were +a way to save even this one—but she hardly dared speak to him of her +religion. + +When he left he told them he was making a little trip through the +settlements to the north, possibly as far as Cedar City. He did not +know how long he would be gone, but if nothing prevented he might be +back that way. He shook hands with them both at parting, and though he +spoke so vaguely about a return, his eyes seemed to tell Prudence that +he would like very much to come. He had talked freely about everything +but the precise nature of his errand in the valley. + +In her walks to the cañon she thought much of him when he had gone. She +could not put his face into the dream because he was too real and +immanent. He and the dream would not blend, even though she had decided +that his fresh-cheeked, clear-eyed face, with its clean smile and the +yellow hair above it was almost better to look at than the face of the +youth in the play. It was not so impalpable; it satisfied. So she mused +about them alternately, the dream and the Gentile,—taking perhaps a +warmer interest in the latter for his aliveness, for the grasp of his +hand at parting, which she, with astonishment, had felt her own hand +cordially returning. + +Her father talked much of the young man. In his prophetic eye this +fearless, vigorous young stranger was the incarnate spirit of that +Gentile invasion to which the Lord had condemned them for their sins. +He had come, resourceful, determined, talking of mighty enterprises, of +cattle, and gold, and wheat, of wagon-trains, and railroad,—an eloquent +forerunner of the Gentile hordes that should come west upon the +shoulders of Israel, and surround, assimilate, and reduce them, until +they should lose all their powers and gifts and become a mere sect +among sects, their name, perhaps, a hissing and a scorn. He foresaw the +invasion of which this self-poised, vital youth of three or four and +twenty was a sapper; and he knew it was a just punishment from on high +for the innocent blood they had shed. Yet now he viewed it rather +impersonally, for he felt curiously disconnected from the affairs of +the Church and the world. + +He no longer preached on the Sabbath, giving his ill-health as an +excuse. In truth he felt it would not be honest since, in his secret +heart, he was now an apostate. But with his works of healing he busied +himself more than ever, and in this he seemed to have gained new power. +Weak as he was physically, gray-haired, bloodless, fragile, with what +seemed to be all of his remaining life burning in his deep-set eyes, he +yet laid his hands upon the sick with a success so marked that his fame +spread and he was sent for to rebuke plagues and fevers from as far +away as Beaver. + +For two weeks they heard nothing of the wandering Gentile, and Prudence +had begun to wonder if she would ever see him again; also to wonder why +an uncertainty in the matter should seem to be of importance. + +But one evening early in June they saw him walking up in the dusk, the +light sombrero, the scarlet kerchief against the blue woollen shirt, +the holster with its heavy Colt’s revolver at either hip, the easy +moving figure, and the strong, yet boyish face. + +He greeted them pleasantly, though, the girl thought, with some +restraint. She could not hear it in his words, but she felt it in his +manner, something suppressed and deeply hidden. They asked where his +horse was and he replied with a curious air of embarrassment:— + +“Well, you see, I may be obliged to stop around here a quite some +while, so I put up with this man Wardle—not wanting to impose upon you +all—and thanking you very kindly, and not wishing to intrude—so I just +came to say ‘howdy’ to you.” + +They expressed regret that he had not returned to them, Joel Rae urging +him to reconsider; but he declined politely, showing a desire to talk +of other things. + +They sat outside in the warm early evening, the young man and Prudence +near each other at one side of the door, while Joel Rae resumed his +chair a dozen feet the other side and lapsed into silence. The two +young people fell easily into talk as on the other evenings they had +spent there. Yet presently she was again aware, as in the moment of his +greeting, that he laboured under some constraint. He was uneasy and +shifted his chair several times until at length it was so placed that +he could look beyond her to where her father had tilted his own chair +against the house and sat huddled with his chin on his breast. He +talked absently, too, at first, of many things and without sequence; +and when he looked at her, there was something back of his eyes, plain +even in the dusk, that she had not seen there before. He was no longer +the ingenuous youth who had come to them from off the Kanab trail. + +In a little while, however, this uneasiness seemed to vanish and he was +speaking naturally again, telling of his life on the plains with a +boyish enthusiasm; first of the cattle drives, of the stampede of a +herd by night, when the Indians would ride rapidly by in the dark, +dragging a buffalo-robe over the ground at the end of a lariat, sending +the frightened steers off in a mad gallop that made the earth tremble. +They would have to ride out at full speed in the black night, over +ground treacherous with prairie-dog holes, to head and turn the herd of +frenzied cattle, and by riding around and around them many times get +them at last into a circle and so hold them until they became quiet +again. Often this was not until sunrise, even with the lullabys they +sang “to put them to sleep.” + +Then he spoke of adventures with the Indians while freighting over the +Santa Fé trail, and of what a fine man his father, Ezra Calkins, was. +It was the first time he had mentioned the name and her ear caught it +at once. + +“Your father’s name is Calkins?” + +“Yes—I’m only an adopted son.” + +Unconsciously she had been letting her voice fall low, making their +chat more confidential. She awoke to this now and to the fact that he +had done the same, by noting that he raised his voice at this time with +a casual glance past her to where her father sat. + +“Yes—you see my own father and mother were killed when I was eight +years old, and the people that murdered them tried to kill me too, but +I was a spry little tike and give them the slip. It was a bad country, +and I like to have died, only there was a band of Navajos out trading +ponies, and one morning, after I’d been alone all night, they picked me +up and took care of me. I was pretty near gone, what with being scared +and everything, but they nursed me careful. They took me away off to +the south and kept me about a year, and then one time they took me with +them when they worked up north on a buffalo hunt. It was at Walnut +Creek on the big bend of the Arkansas that they met Ezra Calkins coming +along with one of his trains and he bought me of those Navajos. I +remember he gave fifty silver dollars for me to the chief. Well, when I +told him all that I could remember about myself—of course the people +that did the killing scared a good deal of it out of me—he took me to +Kansas City where he lived, and went to law and made me his son, +because he’d lost a boy about my age. And so that’s how we have +different names, he telling me I’d ought to keep mine instead of taking +his.” + +She was excited by the tale, which he had told almost in one breath, +and now she was eager to question, looking over to see if her father +would not also be interested; but the latter gave no sign. + +“You poor little boy, among those wretched Indians! But why were your +father and mother killed? Did the Indians do it?” + +“No, not Indians that did it—and I never did know why they killed +them—they that _did_ do it.” + +“But how queer! Don’t you know who it was?” + +Before answering, he paused to take one of the long revolvers from its +holster, laying it across his lap, his right hand still grasping it. + +“It was tiring my leg where it was,” he explained. “I’ll just rest +myself by holding it here. I’ve practised a good smart bit with these +pistols against the time when I’d meet some of them that did it—that +killed my father and mother and lots of others, and little children, +too.” + +“How terrible! And it wasn’t Indians?” + +“No—I _told_ you that already—it wasn’t Indians.” + +“Don’t you know who it was?” + +“Oh, yes, I know all of them I want to know. The fact is, up there at +Cedar City I met some people that got confidential with me one day, and +told me a lot of their names. There was Mr. Barney Carter and Mr. Sam +Woods, and they talked right freely about some folks. I found out what +I was wanting to know, being that they were drinking men.” + +He had moved slightly as he spoke and she glanced at the revolver still +held along his knee. + +“Isn’t that dangerous—seems to me it’s pointed almost toward father.” + +“Oh, not a bit dangerous, and it rests me to hold it there. You see it +was hereabouts this thing happened. In fact, I came down here looking +for a big man, and a little girl that I remembered, whose father and +mother were killed at the same time mine was. This little girl was +about three or four, I reckon, and she was taken by one of the +murderers. He seemed like an awful big man to me. By the way, that’s +mean whiskey your Bishop sells on the sly up at Cedar City. Why, it’s +worse than Taos lightning. Well, this Barney Carter and Mr. Sam Woods, +they would drink it all right, but they said one drink made a man ugly +and two made him so downright bad that he’d just as lief tear his +wife’s best bonnet to pieces as not. But they seemed to like me pretty +well, and they drank a lot of this whiskey that the Bishop sold me, and +then they got talking pretty freely about old times. I gathered that +this man that took the little girl is a pretty big man around here. Of +course I wasn’t expecting anything like that; I thought naturally he’d +be a low-down sort to have been mixed up in a thing like that.” + +He spoke his next words very slowly, with little pauses. + +“But I found out what his name was—it was—” + +He stopped, for there had been an indistinct sound from where her +father sat, now in the gloom of the evening. She called to him: + +“Did you speak, father?” + +There was no reply or movement from the figure in the chair, and +Follett resumed: + +“I guess he was just asleep and dreaming about something. Well, +anyway—I—I found out afterwards by telling it before him, that Mr. +Barney Carter and his drunken friend had given me his name right, +though I could hardly believe it before.” + +“What an awful, awful thing! What wickedness there is in the world!” + +“Oh, a tolerable lot,” he assented. + +He had been all animation and eagerness in the telling of the story, +but had now become curiously silent and listless; so that, although she +was eager with many questions about what he had said, she did not ask +them, waiting to see if he would not talk again. But instead of +talking, he stayed silent and presently began to fidget in his chair. +At last he said, “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Prudence, your pa and I +have got a little business matter to talk over—to-night. I guess we can +go down here by the corral and do it.” + +But she arose quickly and bade him good night. “I hope I shall see you +to-morrow,” she said. + +She bent over to kiss her father as she went in, and when she had done +so, warned him that he must not sit in the night air. + +“Why your face is actually wet with a cold sweat. You ought to come in +at once.” + +“After a very little, dear. Go to bed now—and always be a good girl!” + +“And you’ve grown so hoarse sitting here.” + +“In a little while,—always be a good girl!” + +She went in with a parting admonition: “Remember your cough—good +night!” + +When she had gone neither man stirred for the space of a minute. The +little man, huddled in his seat, had not changed his position; he still +sat with his chair tilted back against the house, his chin on his +breast. + +The other had remained standing where the girl left him, the revolver +in his hand. After the minute of silence he crossed over and stood in +front of the seated man. + +“Come,” he said, gruffly, “where do you want to go?” + + + + +Chapter XXXIV. +How the Avenger Bungled His Vengeance + + +At last he stood up, slowly, unsteadily, grasping Follett by the arm +for support. He spoke almost in a whisper. + +“Come back here first—to talk—then I’ll go with you.” + +He entered the house, the young man following close, suspicious, +narrowly watchful. + +“No fooling now,—feel the end of that gun in your back?” The other made +no reply. Inside the door he took a candle from the box against the +wall and lighted it. + +“Don’t think I’m trying anything—come here.” + +They went on, the little bent man ahead, holding the candle well up. +His room was at the far end of the long house. When they reached it, he +closed the door and fixed the candle on the table in some of its own +grease. Then he pointed Follett to the one stool in the little +cell-like room, and threw himself face down on the bed. + +Follett, still standing, waited for him to speak. After a moment’s +silence he grew impatient. + +“Come, come! What would you be saying if you were talking? I can’t wait +here all night.” + +But the little man on the bed was still silent, nor did he stir, and +after another wait Follett broke out again. + +“If you want to talk, _talk_, I tell you. If you don’t want to, I can +say all I have to say, _quick_.” + +Then the other turned himself over on the bed and half sat up, leaning +on his elbow. + +“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but you see I’m so weak”—the strained +little smile came to his face—“and tremble so, there’s so much to think +of—do _you_ hear those women scream—_there_! did you hear that?—but of +course not. Now—wait just a moment—have you come to kill me?” + +“You and those two other hellions—the two that took me and that boy out +that night to bury us.” + +“Did you think of the consequences?” + +“I reckoned you’d be called paid for, any time any one come gunning for +you. I didn’t think there’d _be_ any consequences.” + +“Hereafter, I mean; to your soul. What a pity you didn’t wait a little +longer! Those other two are already punished.” + +“Don’t lie to me now?” + +The little smile lighted his face again. + +“I have a load of sin on me—but I don’t think I ever did lie to any +one—I guess I never was tempted—” + +“Oh, you’ve _acted_ lies enough.” + +[Illustration: “OH, MAN ... HOW I’VE LONGED FOR THAT BULLET OF +YOURS!”] + +“You’re right—that’s so. But I’m telling you truth now—those two men +had both been in the Meadows that day and it killed them. One went +crazy and ran off into the desert. They found his bones. The other shot +himself a few years ago. Those of us that live are already in hell—” + +He sat up, now, animated for the moment. + +“—in hell right here, I tell you. I’d have welcomed you, or any other +man that would kill me, any time this fifteen years. I’d have gone out +to meet you. Do you think I like to hear the women scream? Do you think +I’m not crazed myself by this thing—right back of me here, +_now_—crawling, bleeding, breathing on me—trying to come here in front +where I must _see_ it? Don’t you see God has known how to punish me +worse than you could, just by keeping me alive and sane? Oh, man! you +don’t know how I’ve longed for that bullet of yours, right here through +the temples where the cries sound worst. I didn’t dare to do it +myself—I was afraid I’d make my punishment worse if I tried to shirk; +but I used to hope you would come as you said you would. I wonder I +didn’t know you at once.” + +He put his hands to his head and fell back again on the pillow, with a +little moan. + +“Well, it ain’t strange I didn’t know _you_. I was looking for a big +man. You seemed as big as a house to me that day. I forgot that I’d +grown up and you might be small. When those fellows got tight up there +and let on like it was you that some folks hinted had took a child and +kept it out of that muss, I couldn’t hardly believe it; and everybody +seeming to regard you so highly. And I couldn’t believe this big girl +was little Prue Girnway that I remembered. It seemed like you two would +have to be a great big man and a little bit of a baby girl with yellow +hair; and now I find you’re—say, Mister, _honestly_, you’re such a +poor, broke-down, little coot it seems a’most like a shame to put a +bullet through you, in spite of all your doings!” + +The little man sat up again, with new animation in his eyes,—the same +eager boyishness that he had somehow kept through all his years. + +“_Don’t_!” he exclaimed, earnestly. “Let me beg you, don’t kill me! For +your own sake—not for mine. I’m a poor, meatless husk. I’ll die soon at +best, and I’m already in a hell you can’t make any hotter. Let me do +you this service; let me persuade you not to kill me. Have you ever +killed a man?” + +“No, not yet; I’ve allowed to a couple of times, but it’s never come +just that way.” + +“You ought to thank God. Don’t ever. You’ll be in hell as sure as you +do,—a hell right here that you must carry inside of you forever—that +even God can’t take out of you. Listen—it’s a great secret, worth +millions. If you’re so bad you can’t forgive yourself, you have to +suffer hell-fire no matter how much the Lord forgives you. It sounds +queer, but there’s the limit to His power. He’s made us so nearly in +His image that we have to win our own forgiveness; why, you can see +yourself, it _had_ to be that way; there would have been no dignity to +a soul that could swallow all its own wickedness so long as the Lord +could. God has given us to know good and evil for ourselves—and we have +to take the consequences. Look at me. I suffer day and night, and +always must. God has forgiven me, but I can’t forgive myself, for my +own sin and my people’s sin,—for my preaching was one of the things +that led them into that meadow. I know that Christ died for us, but +that can’t put out this fire that I _have_ to build in my own soul. I +tell you a man is like an angel, he can be good or bad; he has a power +for heaven but the same power for hell—” + +“See here, I don’t know anything about all this hell-talk, but I do +know—” + +“I tell you death is the very last thing I have left to look forward +to, but if you kill me it will be your own undoing. You will never get +me out of your eyes or your ears, poor wreck as I am—so feeble. You can +see what my punishment has been. A little while ago I was young, and +strong, and proud like you, fearing nothing and wanting everything, but +something was wrong. I was climbing up as I thought, and then all at +once I saw I had been climbing down—down into a pit I never could get +out of. You will be there if you kill me.” He sank back on the bed +again. + +Follett slowly put the revolver into its holster and sat down on the +low stool. + +“I don’t know anything about all this hell-talk, but I see I can’t kill +you—you’re such a poor, miserable cuss. And I thought you were a big +strong man, handy with a gun and all that, and like as not I’d have to +make a quick draw on you when the time come. And now look at you! Why, +Mister, I’m doggoned if I ain’t almost _sorry_ for you! You sure have +been getting your deservance good and plenty. Say, what in God’s name +did you all do such a hellish thing for, anyway?” + +“We had been persecuted, hunted, and driven, our Prophet murdered, our +women and children butchered, and another army was on the way.” + +“Well, that was because you were such an ornery lot, always setting +yourself up against the government wherever you went, and acting +scandalous—” + +“We did as the Lord directed us—” + +“Oh, shucks!” + +“And then we thought the time had come to stand up for our rights; that +the Lord meant us to be free and independent.” + +“Secesh, eh?” Follett was amused. “You handful of Mormons—Uncle Sam +could have licked you with both hands tied behind him. Why, you crazy +fool, he’d have spit on you and drowned every last one of you, old +Brigham Young and all. Fighting the United States! A few dozen +women-butchers going to do what the whole South couldn’t! Well, I _am_ +danged.” + +He mused over it, and for awhile neither spoke. + +“And the nearest you ever got to it was cutting up a lot of women and +children after you’d cheated the men into giving up their guns!” + +The other groaned. + +“There now, that’s right—don’t you see that hurts worse than killing?” + +“But I certainly wish I could have got those other two that took us off +into the sage-brush that night. I didn’t guess what for, but the first +thing I knew the other boy was scratching, and kicking, and hollering, +and like to have wriggled away, so the cuss that was with me ran up to +help. Then I heard little John making kind of a squeally noise in his +throat like he was being choked, and that was all I wanted. I legged it +into the sage-brush. I heard them swearing and coming after me, and ran +harder, and, what saved me, I tripped and fell down and hurt myself, so +I lay still and they lost track of me. I was scared, I promise you +that; but after they got off a ways I worked in the other direction by +spells till I got to a little wady, and by sunup they weren’t in sight +any longer. When I saw the Indians coming along I wasn’t a bit scared. +I knew _they_ weren’t Mormons.” + +“I used to pray that you might come back and kill me.” + +“I used to wish I would grow faster so I could. I was always laying out +to do it.” + +“But see how I’ve been punished. Look at me—I’m fifty. I ought to be in +my prime. See how I’ve been burnt out.” + +“But look here, Mister, what about this girl? Do you think you’ve been +doing right by keeping her here?” + +“No, no! it was a wrong as great as the other.” + +“Why, they’re even passing remarks about her mother, those that don’t +know where you got her,—saying it was some one you never married, +because the book shows your first wife was this one-handed woman here.” + +“I know, I know it. I meant to let her go back at first, but she took +hold of me, and her father and mother were both dead.” + +“She’s got a grandfather and grandmother, alive and hearty, back at +Springfield.” + +“She is all that has kept me alive these last years.” + +“She’s got to go back to her people now. She’ll want to bad enough when +she knows about this.” + +“About this? Surely you won’t tell her—” + +“Look here now, why not? What do you expect?” + +“But she loves me—she _does_—and she’s all I’ve got. Man, man! don’t +pile it all on me just at the last.” + +He was off the bed and on his knees before Follett. + +“Don’t put it all on me. I’ve rounded up my back to the rest of it, but +keep this off; please, please don’t. Let her always think I’m not bad. +Give me that one thing out of all the world.” + +He tried to reach the young man’s hand, but was pushed roughly away. + +“Don’t do that—get up—stop, I tell you. That ain’t any way to do. There +now! Lie down again. What do you _want_? I’m not going to leave that +ain’t any way to do. There now! Lie down again. What do you want? I’m +not going to leave that girl with you nor with your infernal Church. +You understand that.” + +“Yes, yes, I know it. It was right that you should be the one to come +and take her away. The Lord’s vengeance was well thought out. Oh, how +much more he can make us suffer than you could with your clumsy +killings! She must go, but wait—not yet—not yet. Oh, my God! I couldn’t +stand it to see her go. It would cut into my heart and leave me to +bleed to death. No, no, no—don’t! Please don’t! Don’t pile it all on me +at the last. The end has come anyway. Don’t do that—don’t, don’t!” + +“There, there, be still now.” There was a rough sort of soothing in +Follett’s voice, and they were both silent a moment. Then the young man +went on: + +“But what do you expect? Suppose everything was left to you, Mister. +Come now, you’re _trying_ to talk fair. Suppose I leave it to you—only +you know you can’t keep her.” + +“Yes, it can’t be, but let her stay a little while; let me see her a +few times more; let me know she doesn’t think I’m bad; and promise +never to tell her all of it. Let her always think I was a good man. Do +promise me that. I’d do it for you, Follett. It won’t hurt you. Let her +think I was a good man.” + +“How long do you want her to stay here?—a week, ten days?” + +“It will kill me when she goes!” + +“Oh, well, two weeks?” + +“That’s good of you; you’re kinder at your age than I was—I shall die +when she goes.” + +“Well, I wouldn’t want to live if I were you.” + +“Just a little longer, knowing that she cares for me. I’ve never been +free to have the love of a woman the way you will some day, though I’ve +hungered and sickened for it—for a woman who would understand and be +close. But this girl has been the soul of it some way. See here, +Follett, let her stay this summer, or until I’m dead. That can’t be a +long time. I’ve felt the end coming for a year now. Let her stay, +believing in me. Let me know to the last that I’m the only man who has +been in her heart, who has won her confidence and her love. Oh, I mean +fair. You stay with us yourself and watch. Come—but look there, _look_, +man!” + +“Well,—what?” + +“That candle is going out,—we’ll be in the dark”—he grasped the other’s +arm—“in the dark, and now I’m afraid again. Don’t leave me here! It +would be an awful death to die. Here’s that thing now on the bed behind +me. It’s trying to get around in front where I’ll have to see it—get +another candle. No—don’t leave me,—this one will go out while you’re +gone.” All his strength went into the grip on Follett’s arm. The candle +was sputtering in its pool of grease. + +“There, it’s gone—now don’t, don’t leave me. It’s trying to crawl over +me—I smell the blood—” + +“Well—lie down there—it serves you right. There—stop it—I’ll stay with +you.” + +Until dawn Follett sat by the bunk, submitting his arm to the other’s +frenzied grip. From time to time he somewhat awkwardly uttered little +words that were meant to be soothing, as he would have done to a +frightened child. + +When morning brought the gray light into the little room, the haunted +man fell into a doze, and Follett, gently unclasping the hands from his +arm, arose and went softly out. He was cramped from sitting still so +long, and chilled, and his arm hurt where the other had gripped it. He +pulled back the blue woollen sleeve and saw above his wrist livid marks +where the nails had sunk into his flesh. + +Then out of the room back of him came a sharp cry, as from one who had +awakened from a dream of terror. He stepped to the door again and +looked in. + +“There now—don’t be scared any more. The daylight has come; it’s all +right—all right—go to sleep now—” + +He stood listening until the man he had come to kill was again quiet. +Then he went outside and over to the creek back of the willows to bathe +in the fresh running water. + + + + +Chapter XXXV. +Ruel Follett’s Way of Business + + +By the time the women were stirring that morning, Follett galloped up +on his horse. Prudence saw him from the doorway as he turned in from +the main road, sitting his saddle with apparent carelessness, his arms +loose from the shoulders, shifting lightly with the horse’s motion, as +one who had made the center of gravity his slave. It was a style of +riding that would have made a scandal in any riding-school; but it +seemed to be well calculated for the quick halts, sudden swerves, and +acute angles affected by the yearling steer in his moments of +excitement. + +He dismounted, glowing from his bath in the icy water of the creek and +from the headlong gallop up from Beil Wardle’s corral. + +“Good morning, Miss Prudence.” + +“Good morning, Mr. Follett. Will you take breakfast with us directly?” + +“Yes, and it can’t be too directly for me. I’m wolfish. Miss Prudence, +your pa and me had some talk last night, and I’m going to bunk in with +you all for awhile, till I get some business fixed up.” + +She smiled with unaffected gladness, and he noticed that her fresh +morning colour was like that of the little wild roses he had lately +brushed the dew from along the creek. + +“We shall be glad to have you.” + +“It’s right kind of you; I’m proud to hear you say so.” He had taken +off the saddle with its gay coloured Navajo blanket, and the bridle of +plaited rawhide with its conchos and its silver bit. Now he rubbed the +back of his horse where the saddle had been, ending with a slap that +sent the beast off with head down and glad heels in the air. + +“There now, Dandy! don’t bury your ribs too deep under that new grass.” + +“My father will be glad to have you and Dandy stay a long time.” + +He looked at her quickly, and then away before he spoke. It was a look +that she thought seemed to say more than the words that followed it. + +“Well, the fact is, Miss Prudence, I don’t just know how long I’ll have +to be in these parts. I got some particular kind of business that’s +lasting longer than I thought it would. I reckon it’s one of those jobs +where you have to let it work itself out while you sit still and watch. +Sometimes you get business on hand that seems to know more about itself +than you do.” + +“That’s funny.” + +“Yes, it’s like when they first sent me out on the range. They were +cutting out steers from a big bunch, and they put me on a little blue +roan to hold the cut. Well, cattle hate to leave the bunch, so those +they cut out would start to run back, and I had to head and turn them. +I did it so well I was surprised at myself. No sooner did a steer head +back than I had the spurs in and was after it, and I’d always get it +stopped. I certainly did think I was doing it high, wide, and handsome, +like you might say; only once or twice I noticed that the pony stopped +short when the steer did without my pulling him up, as if he’d seen the +stop before I did. And then pretty soon after, a yearling that was just +the—excuse me—that was awful spry at dodging, led me a chase, the pony +stopped stiff-legged when the steer did, and while I was leaning one +way he was off after the steer the other way so quick that I just +naturally slid off. I watched him head and turn that steer all by +himself, and then I learned something. It seemed like he went to sleep +when I got on him. But after that I didn’t pay any attention to the +cattle. I let him keep the whole lookout, and all I did was to set in +the saddle. He was a wise old cow-pony. He taught me a lot about +chasing steers. He was always after one the minute it left the cut, and +he’d know just the second it was going to stop and turn; he’d never go +a foot farther than the steer did, and he’d turn back just as quick. I +knew he knew I was green, but I thought the other men didn’t, so I just +set quiet and played off like I was doing it all, when I wasn’t really +doing a thing but holding on. He was old, and they didn’t use him much +except when they wanted a rope-horse around the corral. And he’d made a +lifelong study of steers. He knew them from horns to tail, and by +saying nothing and looking wise I thought I’d get the credit of being +smart myself. It’s kind of that way now. I’m holding tight and looking +wise about some business that I ain’t what you could call up in.” + +He carried the saddle and bridle into the house, and she followed him. +They found Lorena annoyed by the indisposition of her husband. + +“Dear me suz! Here’s your pa bed-fast again. He’s had a bad night and +won’t open the door to let me tell him if he needs anything. He says he +won’t even take spoon victuals, and he won’t get up, and his chest +don’t hurt him so that ain’t it, and I never was any hand to be +nattering around a body, but he hadn’t ought to go without his food +like he does, when the Father himself has a tabernacle of flesh like +you or me—though the Holy Ghost has not—and it’s probably mountain +fever again, so I’ll make some composition tea and he’s just _got_ to +take it. Of course I never had no revelations from the Lord and never +did I claim to have, but you don’t need the Holy Ghost coming upon you +to tell you the plain doings of common sense.” + +Whatever the nature of Mr. Follett’s business, his confidence in the +soundness of his attitude toward it was perfect. He showed no sign of +abstraction or anxiety; no sign of aught but a desire to live agreeably +in the present,—a present that included Prudence. When the early +breakfast was over they went out about the place, through the +peach-orchard and the vineyard still dewy, lingering in the shade of a +plum-tree, finding all matters to be of interest. For a time they +watched and laughed at the two calves through the bars of the corral, +cavorting feebly on stiffened legs while the bereaved mothers cast +languishing glances at them from outside, conscious that their milk was +being basely diverted from the rightful heirs. They picked many +blossoms and talked of many things. There was no idle moment from early +morning until high noon; and yet, though they were very busy, they +achieved absolutely nothing. + +In the afternoon Prudence donned her own sombrero, and they went to the +cañon to fish. From a clump of the yellowish green willows that fringed +the stream, Follett cut a slender wand. To this he fixed a line and a +tiny hook that he had carried in his hat, and for the rest of the +distance to the cañon’s mouth he collected such grasshoppers as +lingered too long in his shadow. Entering the cañon, they followed up +the stream, clambering over broken rocks, skirting huge boulders, and +turning aside to go around a gorge that narrowed the torrent and flung +it down in a little cascade. + +Here and there Follett would flicker his hook over the surface of a +shaded pool, poise it at the foot of a ripple, skim it across an eddy, +cast it under a shelf of rock or dangle it in some promising nook by +the willow roots, shielding himself meanwhile as best he could; here +behind a boulder, there bending a willow in front of him, again lying +flat on the bank, taking care to keep even his shadow off the stream +and to go silently. + +From where she followed, Prudence would see the surface of the water +break with a curling gleam of gold, which would give way to a bubbling +splash; then she would see the willow rod bend, see it vibrate and +thrill and tremble, the point working slowly over the bank. Then +perhaps the rod would suddenly straighten out for a few seconds only to +bend again, slowly, gently, but mercilessly. Or perhaps the point +continued to come in until it was well over the bank and the end of the +line close by. Then after a frantic splashing on the margin of the +stream the conquered trout would be gasping on the bank, a thing of +shivering gleams of blended brown and gold and pink. At first she +pitied the fish and regretted the cruelty of man, but Follett had other +views. + +“Why,” he said, “a trout is the crudest beast there is. Look at it +trying to swallow this poor little hopper that it thought tumbled into +the water by accident. It just loves to eat its stuff alive. And it +isn’t particular. It would just as lief eat its own children. Now you +take that one there, and say he was ten thousand times as big as he is, +and you were coming along here and your foot slipped and Mr. Trout was +lying behind this rock here—_hungry_. Say! What a mouthful you’d make, +pink dress and all—he’d have you swallowed in a second, and then he’d +sneak back behind the rock there, wiping his mouth, and hoping your +little sister or somebody would be along in a minute and fall in too.” + +“Ugh!—Why, what horrible little monsters! Let me catch one.” + +And so she fished under his direction. They lurked together in the +shadows of rocks, while he showed her how to flicker the bait in the +current, here holding her hand on the rod, again supporting her while +she leaned out to cast around a boulder, each feeling the other’s +breathless caution and looking deep into each other’s eyes through +seconds of tense silence. + +Such as they were, these were the only results of the lesson; results +that left them in easy friendliness toward each other. For the fish +were not deceived by her. He would point out some pool where very +probably a hungry trout was lying in wait with his head to the current, +and she would try to skim the lure over it. More than once she saw the +fish dart toward it, but never did she quite convince them. Oftener she +saw them flit up-stream in fright, like flashes of gray lightning. Yet +at length she felt she had learned all that could be taught of the art, +and that further failure would mean merely a lack of appetite or spirit +in the fish. So she went on alone, while Follett stopped to clean the +dozen trout he had caught. + +While she was in sight he watched her, the figure bending lithe as the +rod she held, moving lightly, now a long, now a short step, half +kneeling to throw the bait into an eddy; then off again with determined +strides to the next likely pool. When he could no longer see her, he +fell to work on his fish, scouring their slime off in the dry sand. + +When she returned, she found him on his back, his hat off, his arms +flung out above his head, fast asleep. She sat near by on a smooth rock +at the water’s edge and waited—without impatience, for this was the +first time she had been free to look at him quite as she wished to. She +studied him closely now. He seemed to her like some young power of that +far strange eastern land. She thought of something she had heard him +say about Dandy: “He’s game and fearless and almighty prompt,—but he’s +kind and gentle too.” She was pleased to think it described the master +as well as the horse. And she was glad they had been such fine +playmates the whole day long. When the shadow moved off his face and +left it in the slanting rays of the sun, she broke off a spruce bough +and propped it against the rock to shield him. + +And then she sighed, for they could be playmates only in forgetfulness. +He was a Gentile, and by that token wicked and lost; unless—and in that +moment she flushed, feeling the warmth of a high purpose. + +She would save him. He was worth saving, from his crown of yellow hair +to the high heels of his Mexican boots. Strong, clean, gentle, and—she +hesitated for a word—interesting—he must be brought into the Kingdom, +and she would do it. She looked up again and met his wide-open eyes. + +They both laughed. “I sat up with your pa last night,” he said, ashamed +of having slept. “We had some business to palaver about.” + +He had tied the fish into a bundle with aspen leaves and damp moss +around them, and now they went back down the stream. In the flush of +her new rôle as missionary she allowed herself to feel a secret +motherly tenderness for his immortal soul, letting him help her by hand +or arm over places where she knew she could have gone much better +alone. + +Back at the house they were met by the little bent man, who had tossed +upon his bed all day in the fires of his hell. He looked searchingly at +them to be sure that Follett had kept his secret. Then, relieved by the +frank glance of Prudence, he fell to musing on the two, so young, so +fresh, so joyous in the world and in each other, seeing them side by +side with those little half-felt, timidly implied, or unconsciously +expressed confidences of boy and girl; sensing the memory of his own +lost youth’s aroma, his youth that had slipped off unrecked in the haze +of his dreams of glory. For this he felt very tenderly toward them, +wishing that they were brother and sister and his own. + +That evening, while they sat out of doors, she said, very resolutely: + +“I’m going to teach Mr. Follett some truth tomorrow from the Book of +Mormon. He says he has never been baptised in any church.” + +Follett looked interested and cordial, but her father failed to display +the enthusiasm she had expected, and seemed even a little embarrassed. + +“You mean well, daughter, but don’t be discouraged if he is slow to +take our truth. Perhaps he has a kind of his own as good as ours. A +woman I knew once said to me,’ Going to heaven is like going to mill; +if your wheat is good the miller will never ask how you came.’” + +“But, Father, suppose you get to mill and have only chaff?” + +“That is the same answer I made, dear. I wish I hadn’t.” + +Later, when Prudence had gone, the two men made their beds by the fire +in the big room. Follett was awakened twice by the other putting wood +on the fire; and twice more by his pitiful pleading with something at +his back not to come in front of him. + + + + +Chapter XXXVI. +The Mission to a Deserving Gentile + + +Not daunted by her father’s strange lack of enthusiasm, Prudence arose +with the thought of her self-imposed mission strong upon her. Nor was +she in any degree cooled from it by a sight of the lost sheep striding +up from the creek, the first level sunrays touching his tousled yellow +hair, his face glowing, breathing his full of the wine-like air, and +joyously showing in every move his faultless attunement with all +outside himself. The frank simplicity of his greeting, his careless +unenlightenment of his own wretched spiritual state, thrilled her like +an electric shock with a strange new pity for him. She prayed on the +spot for power to send him into the waters of baptism. When the day had +begun, she lost no time in opening up the truth to him. + +If the young man was at all amazed by the utter wholeness of her +conviction that she was stooping from an immense height to pluck him +from the burning, he succeeded in hiding it. He assumed with her at +once that she was saved, that he was in the way of being lost, and that +his behooving was to listen to her meekly. Her very evident alarm for +his lost condition, her earnest desire to save him, were what he felt +moved to dwell upon, rather than a certain spiritual condescension +which he could not wholly ignore. + +After some general counsel, in the morning, she took out her old, +dog-eared “Book of Mormon,” a first edition, printed at Palmyra, New +York, in 1830, “By Joseph Smith, Jr., Author and Proprietor,” and led +the not unworthy Gentile again to the cañon. There in her favourite +nook of pines beside the stream, she would share with him as much of +the Lord’s truth as his darkened mind could be made conscious of. + +When at last she was seated on the brown carpet under the pines, her +back to a mighty boulder, the sacred record in her lap, and the Gentile +prone at her feet, she found it no easy task to begin. First he must be +brought to repent of his sins. She began to wonder what his sins could +be, and from that drifted into an idle survey of his profile, the line +of his throat as his head lay back on the ground, and the strong brown +hand, veined and corded, that curled in repose on his breast. She +checked herself in this; for it could be profitable neither to her soul +nor to his. + +“I’ll teach you about the Book of Mormon first,” she ventured. + +“I’d like to hear it,” said Follett, cheerfully. + +“Of course you don’t know anything about it.” + +“It isn’t my fault, though. I’ve been unfortunate in my bringing up, +that’s all.” He turned on his side and leaned upon his elbow so he +could look at her. + +“You see, I’ve been brought up to believe that Mormons were about as +bad as Mexicans. And Mexicans are so mean that even coyotes won’t touch +them. Down at the big bend on the Santa Fé Trail they shot a Mexican, +old Jesus Bavispee, for running off cattle. He was pretty well dried +out to begin with, but the coyotes wouldn’t have a thing to do with +him, and so he just dried up into a mummy. They propped him up by the +ford there, and when the cowboys went by they would roll a cigarette +and light it and fix it in his mouth. Then they’d pat him on the head +and tell him what a good old boy he was—_star bueno_—the only good +Mexican above ground—and his face would be grinning all the time, as if +it tickled him. When they find a Mexican rustling cattle they always +leave him there, and they used to tell me that the Mormons were just as +bad and ought to be fixed that way too.” + +“I think that was horrible!” + +“Of course it was. They were bigoted. But I’m not. I know right well +there must be good Mexicans alive, though I never saw one, and I +suppose of course there must be—” + +“Oh, you’re worse than I thought!” she cried. “Come now, do try. I want +you to be made better, for my sake.” She looked at him with real +pleading in her eyes. He dropped back to the ground with a thrill of +searching religious fervour. + +“Go on,” he said, feelingly. “I’m ready for anything. I have kind of a +good feeling running through me already. I do believe you’ll be a +powerful lot of benefit to me.” + +“You must have faith,” she answered, intent on the book. “Now I’ll tell +you some things first.” + +Had the Gentile been attentive he might have learned that the Book of +Mormon is an inspired record of equal authority with the Jewish +Scriptures, containing the revelations of Jehovah to his Israel of the +western world as the Bible his revelations to Israel in the Orient,—the +veritable “stick of Joseph,” that was to be one with “the stick of +Judah;” that the angel Moroni, a messenger from the presence of God, +appeared to Joseph Smith, clad in robes of light, and told him where +were hid the plates of gold on which were graven this fulness of the +everlasting gospel; how that Joseph, after a few years of preparation, +was let to take these sacred plates from the hill of Cumorah; also an +instrument called the Urim and Thummim, consisting of two stones set in +a silver bow and made fast to a breast-plate, this having been prepared +by the hands of God for use in translating the record on the plates; +how Joseph, seated behind a curtain and looking through the Urim and +Thummim at the characters on the plates, had seen their English +equivalents over them, and dictated these to his amanuensis on the +other side of the curtain. + +He might have learned that when the book was thus translated, the angel +Moroni had reclaimed the golden plates and the Urim and Thummim, +leaving the sacred deposit of doctrine to be given to the world by +Joseph Smith; that the Saviour had subsequently appeared to Joseph; +also Peter, James, and John, who laid hands upon him, ordained him, +gave him the Holy Ghost, authorised him to baptise for the remission of +sins, and to organise the Kingdom of God on earth. + +“Do you understand so far?” she asked. + +“It’s fine!” he answered, fervently. “I feel kind of a glow coming over +me already.” + +She looked at him closely, with a quick suspicion, but found his +profile uninforming; at least of anything needful at the moment. + +“Remember you must have faith,” she admonished him, “if you are to win +your inheritance; and not question or doubt or find fault, or—or make +fun of anything. It says right here on the title-page, ‘And now if +there be faults, it be the mistake of men; wherefore condemn not the +things of God that ye may be found spotless at the judgment seat of +Christ.’ There now, remember!” + +“Who’s finding fault or making fun?” he asked, in tones that seemed to +be pained. + +“Now I think I’d better read you some verses. I don’t know just where +to begin.” + +“Something about that Urim and Thingamajig,” he suggested. + +“Urim and Thummim,” she corrected—“now listen.” + +Again, had the Gentile remained attentive, he might have learned how +the Western Hemisphere was first peopled by the family of one Jared, +who, after the confusion of tongues at Babel, set out for the new land; +how they grew and multiplied, but waxed sinful, and finally +exterminated one another in fierce battles, in one of which two million +men were slain. + +At this the fallen one sat up. + +“‘And it came to pass that when they had all fallen by the sword, save +it were Coriantumr and Shiz, behold Shiz had fainted with loss of +blood. And it came to pass when Coriantumr had leaned upon his sword +and rested a little, he smote off the head of Shiz. And it came to +pass, after he had smote off the head of Shiz, that Shiz raised up on +his hands and fell; and after he had struggled for breath he died.’” + +The Gentile was animated now. + +“Say, that Shiz was all right,—raised up on his hands and struggled for +breath after his head was cut off!” + +Hereupon she perceived that his interest was become purely carnal. So +she refused to read of any more battles, though he urged her warmly to +do it. She returned to the expedition of Jared, while the lost sheep +fell resignedly on his back again. + +“‘And the Lord said, Go to work and build after the manner of barges +which ye have hitherto built. And it came to pass that the brother of +Jared did go to work, and also his brethren, and built barges after the +manner which they had built, after the instructions of the Lord. And +they were small, and they were light upon the water, like unto the +lightness of a fowl upon the water; and they were built like unto a +manner that they were exceeding tight, even that they would hold water +like unto a dish; and the bottom thereof was tight like unto a dish, +and the ends thereof were peaked; and the top thereof was tight like +unto a dish; and the length thereof was the length of a tree; and the +door thereof when it was shut was tight like unto a dish. And it came +to pass that the brother of Jared cried unto the Lord, saying—’” + +She forgot him a little time, in the reading, until it occurred to her +that he was singularly quiet. She glanced up, and was horrified to see +that he slept. The trials of Jared’s brother in building the boats that +were about the length of a tree, combined with his broken rest of the +night before, had lured him into the dark valley of slumber where his +soul could not lave in the waters of truth. But something in the +sleeping face softened her, and she smiled, waiting for him to awaken. +He was still only a waymark to the kingdom of folly, but she had made a +beginning, and she would persevere. He must be saved into the household +of faith. And indeed it was shameful that such as he should depend for +their salvation upon a chance meeting with an unskilled girl like +herself. She wondered somewhat indignantly how any able-bodied Saint +could rest in the valley while this man’s like were dying in sin for +want of the word. As her eye swept the sleeping figure, she was even +conscious of a little wicked resentment against the great plan itself, +which could under any circumstances decree such as he to perdition. + +He opened his eyes after awhile to ask her why she had stopped reading, +and when she told him, he declared brazenly that he had merely closed +his eyes to shut out everything but her words. + +“I heard everything,” he insisted, again raised upon his elbows. “‘It +was built like unto a dish, and the length was about as long as a +tree—’” + +“What was?” + +“The Urim and Thummim.” + +When he saw that she was really distressed, he tried to cheer her. + +“Now don’t be discouraged,” he said, as they started home in the late +afternoon. “You can’t expect to get me roped and hog-tied the very +first day. There’s lots of time, and you’ll have to keep at it. When I +was a kid learning to throw a rope, I used to practise on the skull of +a steer that was nailed to a post. At first it didn’t look like I could +ever do it. I’d forget to let the rope loose from my left hand, or I +wouldn’t make the loop line out flat around my head, or she’d switch +off to one side, or something. But at last I’d get over the horns every +time. Then I learned to do it running past the post; and after that I’d +go down around the corral and practise on some quiet old heifer, and so +on. The only thing is—never give up.” + +“But what good does it do if you won’t pay attention?” + +“Oh, well, I can’t learn a new religion all at once. It’s like riding a +new saddle. You put one on and ‘drag the cinches up and lash them, and +you think it’s going to be fine, and you don’t see why it isn’t. But +you find out that you have to ride it a little at a time and break it +in. Now, you take a fresh start with me to-morrow.” + +“Of course I’m going to try.” + +“And it isn’t as if I was regular out-and-out sinful. My adopted +father, Ezra Calkins, _he’s_ a good man. But, now I think of it, I +don’t know what church he ever did belong to. He’ll go to any of +’em,—don’t make any difference which,—Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, +Catholic; he says he can get all he’s looking for out of any of ’em, +and he kind of likes to change off now and then. But he’s a good man. +He won’t hire any one that cusses too bad or is hard on animals, and he +won’t even let the freighters work on Sunday. He brought me up not to +drink or gamble, or go round with low folks and all like that, and not +to swear except when you’re driving cattle and have to. ‘Keep clean +inside and out,’ he says, ‘and then you’re safe,’ he says. ‘Then tie up +to some good church for company, if you want to, not thinking bad of +the others, just because you didn’t happen to join them. Or it don’t +hurt any to graze a little on all the ranges,’ he says. And he sent me +to public school and brought me up pretty well, so you can see I’m not +plumb wicked. Now after you get me coming, I may be easier than you +think.” + +She resolved to pray for some special gift to meet his needs. If he +were not really sinful, there was all the more reason why he should be +saved into the Kingdom. The sun went below the western rim of the +valley as they walked, and the cooling air was full of the fresh summer +scents from field and garden and orchard. + +Down the road behind them, a half-hour later, swung the tall, +loose-jointed figure of Seth Wright, his homespun coat across his arm, +his bearskin cap in his hand, his heated brow raised to the cooling +breeze. His ruffle of neck whiskers, virtuously white, looked in the +dying sunlight quite as if a halo he had worn was dropped under his +chin. A little past the Rae place he met Joel returning from the +village. + +“Evening, Brother Rae! You ain’t looking right tol’lable.” + +“It’s true, Brother Seth. I’ve thought lately that I’m standing in the +end of my days.” + +“Peart up, peart up, man! Look at me,—sixty-eight years come December, +never an ache nor a pain, and got all my own teeth. Take another wife. +That keeps a man young if he’s got jedgment.” He glanced back toward +the Rae house. + +“And I want to speak to you special about something—this young dandy +Gentile you’re harbouring. Course it’s none of my business, but I +wouldn’t want one of my girls companying with a Gentile—off up in that +cañon with him, at that—fishing one day, reading a book the next, +walking clost together,—and specially not when Brigham had spoke for +her. Oh, I know what I’m talking about! I had my mallet and frow up +there two days now, just beyond the lower dry-fork, splitting out +shakes for my new addition, and I seen ’em with my own eyes. You know +what young folks is, Elder. That reminds me—I’m going to seal up that +sandy-haired daughter of Bishop Tanner’s next week some time; soon as +we get the roof on the new part. But I thought I’d speak to you about +this—a word to the wise!” + +The Wild Ram of the Mountains passed on, whistling a lively air. The +little bent man went with slow, troubled steps to his own home. He did +know the way of young people, and he felt that he was beginning to know +the way of God. Each day one wall or another of his prison house moved +a little in upon him. In the end it would crush. He had given up +everything but Prudence; and now, for his wicked clinging to her, she +was to be taken from him; if not by Brigham, then by this Gentile, who +would of course love her, and who, if he could not make her love him, +would be tempted to alienate her by exposing the crime of the man she +believed to be her father. The walls were closing about him. When he +reached the house, they were sitting on the bench outside. + +“Sometimes,” Follett was saying, “you can’t tell at first whether a +thing is right or wrong. You have to take a long squint, like when +you’re in the woods on a path that ain’t been used much lately and has +got blind. Put your face right close down to it and you can’t see a +sign of a trail; it’s the same as the ground both sides, covered with +leaves the same way and not a footprint or anything. But you stand up +and look along it for fifty feet, and there she is so plain you +couldn’t miss it. Isn’t that so, Mr. Rae?” + +Prudence went in, and her father beckoned him a little way from the +door. + +“You’re sure you will never tell her anything about—anything, until I’m +gone?—You promised me, you know.” + +“Well, didn’t I promise you?” + +“Not under any circumstances?” + +“You don’t keep back anything about ‘circumstances’ when you make a +promise,” retorted Mr. Follett. + + + + +Chapter XXXVII. +The Gentile Issues an Ultimatum + + +June went; July came and went. It was a hot summer below, where the +valley widens to let in Amalon; but up in the little-sunned aisle of +Box Cañon it was always cool. There the pines are straight and reach +their heads far into the sky, each a many-wired harp to the winds that +come down from the high divide. Their music is never still; now a low, +ominous rush, soft but mighty, swelling as it nears, the rush of a +winged host, rising swiftly to one fearsome crescendo until the +listener cowers instinctively as if under the tread of many feet; then +dying away to mutter threats in the distance, and to come again more +fiercely; or, it may be, to come with a gentler sweep, as if pacified, +even yearning, for the moment. Or, again, the same wind will play +quieter airs through the green boughs, a chamber-music of silken +rustlings, of feathered fans just stirring, of whisperings, and the +sighs of a woman. + +It is cool beneath these pines, and pleasant on the couches of brown +needles that have fallen through all the years. Here, in the softened +light, amid the resinous pungence of the cones and the green boughs, +where the wind above played an endless, solemn accompaniment to the +careless song of the stream below, the maiden Saint tried to save into +the Kingdom a youthful Gentile of whom she discovered almost daily some +fresh reason why he should not be lost. The reasons had become so many +that they were now heavy upon her. And yet, while the youth submitted +meekly to her ministry, appearing even to crave it, he was undeniably +either dense or stubborn—in either case of defective spirituality. + +She was grieved by the number of times he fell asleep when she read +from the Book of Mormon. The times were many because, though she knew +it not, he had come to be, in effect, a night-nurse to the little bent +man below, who was now living out his days in quiet desperation, and +his nights in a fear of something behind him. Some nights Follett would +have unbroken rest; but oftener he was awakened by the other’s grip on +his arm. Then he would get up, put fresh logs on the fire or light a +candle and talk with the haunted man until he became quiet again. + +After a night like this it was not improbable that he would fall asleep +in very sound of the trumpet of truth as blown, by the grace of God, +through the seership of Joseph Smith. Still he had learned much in the +course of the two months. She had taught him between naps that, for +fourteen hundred years, to the time of Joseph Smith, there had been a +general and awful apostasy from the true faith, so that the world had +been without an authorised priesthood. She had also taught him to be +ill at ease away from her,—to be content when with her, whether they +talked of religion or tried for the big, sulky three-pounder that had +his lair at the foot of the upper Cascade. + +Again she had taught him that other churches had wickedly done away +with immersion for the remission of sins and the laying on of hands for +the gift of the Holy Ghost; also that there was a peculiar quality in +the satisfaction of being near her that he had never known before,—an +astonishing truth that it was fine to think about when he lay where he +could look up at her pretty, serious face. + +He fell asleep at night usually with a mind full of confusion,—infant +baptism—a slender figure in a pink dress or a blue—the Trinity—a firm +little brown hand pointing the finger of admonition at him—the +regeneration of man—hair, dark and lustrous, that fell often half away +from what he called its “lashings”—eternal punishment—earnest eyes—the +Urim and Thummim,—and a pleading, earnest voice. + +He knew a few things definitely: that Moroni, last of the Nephites, had +hidden up unto the Lord the golden plates in the hill of Cumorah; and +that the girl who taught him was in some mysterious way the embodiment +of all the wonderful things he had ever thought he wanted, of all the +strange beauties he had crudely pictured in lonely days along the +trail. Here was something he had supposed could come true only in a +different world, the kind of world there was in the first book he had +ever read, where there had seemed to be no one but good fairies and +children that were uncommonly deserving. Yet he had never been able to +get clearly into his mind the nature and precise office of the Holy +Ghost; nor had he ever become certain how he could bring this wonderful +young woman in closer relationship with himself. He felt that to put +out his hand toward her—except at certain great moments when he could +help her over rough places and feel her golden weight upon his +arm—would be to startle her, and then all at once he would awaken from +a dream to find her gone. He thought he would feel very badly then, for +probably he would never be able to get back into the same dream again. +So he was cautious, resolving to make the thing last until it came true +of itself. + +Once when they followed the stream down, in the late afternoon, he had +mused himself so full of the wonder of her that he almost forgot his +caution in an amiable impulse to let her share in his feelings. + +“You know,” he began, “you’re like as if I had been trying to think of +a word I wanted to say—some fine, big word, a fancy one—but I couldn’t +think of it. You know how you can’t think of the one you want +sometimes, only nothing else will do in place of it, and then all at +once, when you quit trying to think, it flashes over you. You’re like +that. I never could think of you, but I just had to because I couldn’t +get along without it, and then when I didn’t expect it you just +happened along—the word came along and said itself.” + +Without speaking she had run ahead to pick the white and blue +columbines and pink roses. And he, alarmed at his boldness, fearing she +would now be afraid of him, went forward with the deep purpose of +showing her a light, careless mood, to convince her that he had meant +nothing much. + +To this end he told her lively anecdotes, chaste classics of the range +calculated to amuse, until they reached the very door of home:—About +the British sailor who, having drifted up the Sacramento valley, was +lured to mount a cow-pony known to be hysterical; of how he had +declared when they picked him up a moment later, “If I’d been aware of +the gale I’d have lashed myself to the rigging.” Then about the other +trusting tenderfoot who was directed to insist at the stable in Santa +Fé that they give him a “bucking broncho;” who was promptly +accommodated and speedily unseated with much flourish, to the wicked +glee of those who had deceived him; and who, when he asked what the +horse had done and was told that he had “bucked,” had thereupon +declared gratefully, “Did he only buck? It’s a God’s mercy he didn’t +_broncho_ too, or he’d have killed me!” + +From this he drifted into the anecdote of old Chief Chew-feather, who +became drunk one day and made a nuisance of himself in the streets of +Atchison; how he had been driven out of town by Marshal Ed Lanigan, +who, mounting his pony, chased him a mile or so, meantime emptying both +his six-shooters at the fleeing brave by way of making the exact +situation clear even to a clouded mind; and how the alarmed and sobered +chief had ridden his own pony to a shadow, never drawing rein until he +reached the encampment of his tribe at dusk, to report that “the whites +had broken out at Atchison.” + +He noticed, however, that she was affected to even greater constraint +of manner by these sallies, though he laughed heartily himself at each +climax as he made it, determined to show her that he had meant +absolutely nothing the moment before. He succeeded so little, that he +resolved never again to be reckless, if she would only be her old self +on the morrow. He would not even tell her, as he had meant to, that +looking into her eyes was like looking off under the spruces, where it +was dark and yet light. + +The little bent man at the house would look at them with a sort of +helplessness when they came in, sometimes even forgetting the smile he +was wont to wear to hide his hurts. He was impressed anew each time he +saw them with the punishing power of such vengeance as was left to the +Lord. He could see more than either of the pair before him. The little +white-haired boy who had fought him with tooth and nail so long ago, to +be not taken from Prudence, had now come back with the might of a man, +even the might of a lover, to take her from him when she had become all +of his life. He could think of no sharper revenge upon himself or his +people. For this cowboy was the spirit incarnate of the oncoming East, +thorned on by the Lord to avenge his Church’s crime. + +Day after day he would lie consuming the little substance left within +him in an effort to save himself; to keep by him the child who had +become his miser’s gold; to keep her respect above all, to have her +think him a good man. Yet never a way would open. Here was the boy with +the man’s might, and they were already lovers, for he knew too well the +meaning of all those signs which they themselves but half understood. +And he became more miserable day by day, for he saw clearly it was only +his selfishness that made him suffer. He had met so many tests, and now +he must fail at the last great sacrifice. + +Then in the night would come the terrors of the dark, the curses and +groans of that always-dying thing behind him. And always now he would +see the hand with the silver bracelet at the wrist, flaunting in his +face the shivering strands of gold with the crimson patch at the end. +Yet even this, because he could see it, was less fearful than the thing +he could not see, the thing that crawled or lurched relentlessly behind +him, with the snoring sound in its throat, the smell of warm blood and +the horrible dripping of it, whose breath he could feel on his neck and +whose nerveless hands sometimes fumbled weakly at his shoulder, as it +strove to come in front of him. + +He sat sleepless in his chair with candles burning for three nights +when Follett, late in August, went off to meet a messenger from one of +his father’s wagon-trains which, he said, was on its way north. Fearful +as was the meaning of his presence, he was inexpressibly glad when the +Gentile returned to save him from the terrors of the night. + +And there was now a new goad of remorse. The evening before Follett’s +return he had found Prudence in tears after a visit to the village. +With a sudden great outrush of pity he had taken her in his arms to +comfort her, feeling the selfishness strangely washed from his love, as +the sobs convulsed her. + +“Come, come, child—tell your father what it is,” he had urged her, and +when she became a little quiet she had told him. + +“Oh, Daddy dear—I’ve just heard such an awful thing, what they talk of +me in Amalon, and of you and my mother—shameful!” + +He knew then what was coming; he had wondered indeed, that this talk +should be so long in reaching her; but he waited silently, soothing +her. + +“They say, whoever my mother was, you couldn’t have married her—that +Christina is your first wife, and the temple records show it. And oh, +Daddy, they say it means that I am a child of sin—and shame—and it made +me want to kill myself.” + +Another passion of tears and sobs had overwhelmed her and all but +broken down the little man. Yet he controlled himself and soothed her +again to quietness. + +“It is all wrong, child, all wrong. You are not a child of sin, but a +child of love, as rightly born as any in Amalon. Believe me, and pay no +heed to that talk.” + +“They have been saying it for years, and I never knew.” + +“They say what is not true.” + +“You were married to my mother, then?” + +He waited too long. She divined, clear though his answer was, that he +had evaded, or was quibbling in some way. + +“You are the daughter of a truly married husband and wife, as truly +married as were ever any pair.” + +And though she knew he had turned her question, she saw that he must +have done it for some great reason of his own, and, even in her grief, +she would not pain him by asking another. She could feel that he +suffered as she did, and he seemed, moreover, to be pitifully and +strangely frightened. + +When Follett came riding back that evening he saw that Prudence had +been troubled. The candle-light showed sadness in her dark eyes and in +the weighted corners of her mouth. He was moved to take her in his arms +and soothe her as he had seen mothers do with sorry little children. +But instead of this he questioned her father sharply when their +corn-husk mattresses had been put before either side of the fireplace +for the night. The little man told him frankly the cause of her grief. +There was something compelling in the other’s way of asking questions. +When the thing had been made plain, Follett looked at him indignantly. + +“Do you mean to say you let her go on thinking that about herself?” + +“I told her that her father and mother had been rightly married.” + +“Didn’t she think you were fooling her in some way?” + +“I—I can’t be sure—” + +“She _must_ have, or she wouldn’t be so down in the mouth now. Why +didn’t you tell her the truth?” + +“If only—if only she could go on thinking I am her father—only a little +while—” + +Follett spoke with the ring of a sudden resolution in his voice. + +“Now I’ll tell you one thing, Mister man, something has got to be done +by _some one._ I can’t do it because I’m tied by a promise, and so I +reckon you ought to!” + +“Just a little time! Oh, if you only knew how the knives cut me on +every side and the fires burn all through me!” + +“Well, think of the knives cutting that girl,—making her believe she +has to be ashamed of her mother. You go to sleep now, and try to lie +quiet; there ain’t anything here to hurt you. But I’ll tell you one +thing,—you’ve got to toe the mark.” + + + + +Chapter XXXVIII. +The Mission Service in Box Cañon is Suspended + + +Follett waited with a new eagerness next day for their walk to the +cañon. But Prudence, looking at him with eyes that sorrow was clouding, +said that she could not go. He felt a sharp new resentment against the +man who was letting her suffer rather than betray himself, and he again +resolved that this man must be made to “toe the mark,” to “take his +needings;” and that, meantime, the deceived girl must be effectually +reassured. Something must be said to take away the hurt that was +tugging at the corners of her smile to draw them down. To this end he +pleaded with her not to deprive him of the day’s lesson, especially as +the time was now at hand when he must leave. And so ably did he word +his appeal to her sense of duty that at last she consented to go. + +Once in the cañon, however, where the pines had stored away the cool +gloom of the night against the day’s heat, she was glad she had come. +For, better than being alone with that strange, new hurt, was it to +have by her side this friendly young man, who somehow made her feel as +if it were right and safe to lean upon him,—despite his unregenerate +condition. And presently there, in the zeal of saving his soul, she was +almost happy again. + +Yet he seemed to-day to be impatient under the teaching, and more than +once she felt that he was on the point of interrupting the lesson to +some end of his own. + +He seemed insufficiently impressed even with the knowledge of astronomy +displayed by the prophets of the Book of Mormon, hearing, without a +quiver of interest, that when at Joshua’s command the sun seemed to +stand still upon Gibeon and the moon in the valley of Ajalon, the real +facts were that the earth merely paused in its revolutions upon its own +axis and about the sun. Without a question he thus heard Ptolemy +refuted and the discoveries of Copernicus anticipated two thousand +years before that investigator was born. He was indeed deplorably +inattentive. She suspected, from the quick glances she gave him, that +he had no understanding at all of what she read. Yet in this she did +him injustice, for now she came to the passage, “They all did swear +unto him that whoso should vary from the assistance which Akish desired +should lose his head; and whoso should divulge whatsoever thing Akish +should make known unto them should lose his life.” This time he sat up. + +“There it is again—they don’t mind losing their heads. They were sure +the fightingest men—don’t you think so now?” + +As he went on talking she laid the book down and leaned back against +the trunk of the big pine under which they sat. He seemed to be saying +something that he had been revolving in his mind while she read. + +“I’d hate to have you think you been wasting your time on me this +summer, but I’m afraid I’m just too downright unsanctified.” + +“Oh, don’t say that!” she cried. + +“But I _have_ to. I reckon I’m like the red-roan sorrel Ed Harris got +for a pinto from old man Beasley. ‘They’s two bad things about him,’ +says the old man. ‘I’ll tell you one now and the other after we swap.’ +‘All right,’ says Ed. ‘Well, first, he’s hard to catch,’ says Beasley. +‘That ain’t anything,’ says Ed,—‘just picket him or hobble him with a +good side-line.’ So then they traded. ‘And the other thing,’ says the +old man, dragging up his cinches on Ed’s pinto,—‘he ain’t any good +after you get him caught.’ So that’s like me. I’ve been hard to teach +all summer, and now I’m not any good after you get me taught.” + +“Oh, you are! Don’t say you’re not.” + +“I couldn’t ever join your Church—” + +Her face became full of alarm. + +“—only for just one thing;—I don’t care very much for this having so +many wives.” + +She was relieved at once. “If _that’s_ all—I don’t approve of it +myself. You wouldn’t have to.” + +“Oh, that’s what you say _now_”—he spoke with an air of shrewdness and +suspicion,—“but when I got in you’d throw up my duty to me constant +about building up the Kingdom. Oh, I know how it’s done! I’ve heard +your preachers talk enough.” + +“But it _isn’t_ necessary. I wouldn’t—I don’t think it would be at all +nice of you.” + +He looked at her with warm sympathy. “You poor ignorant girl! Not to +know your own religion! I read in that book there about this marrying +business only the other day. Just hand me that one.” + +She handed him the “Book of Doctrine and Covenants,” from which she had +occasionally taught him the Lord’s word as revealed to Joseph Smith. +The revelation on celestial marriage had never been among her +selections. He turned to it now. + +“Here, right in the very first of it—” and she heard with a sinking +heart,—“‘Therefore prepare thyself to receive and obey the instructions +which I am about to give unto you; for all those who have this law +revealed unto them must obey the same; for behold! I reveal unto you a +new and everlasting covenant; and if ye abide not that covenant then +are ye damned, for no one can reject this covenant and be permitted to +enter into my glory.’ + +“There now!” + +“I never read it,” she faltered. + +“And don’t you know they preach in the tabernacle that anybody who +rejects polygamy will be damned?” + +“My father never preached that.” + +“Well, he knows it—ask him.” + +It was proving to be a hard day for her. + +“Of course,” he continued, “a new member coming into the Church might +think at first he could get along without so many wives. He might say, +‘Well, now, I’ll draw a line in this marrying business. I’ll never take +more than two or three wives or maybe four.’ He might even be so taken +up with one young lady that he’d say, ‘I won’t even marry a second +wife—not for some time yet, that is—not for two or three years, till +she begins to get kind of houseworn,’ But then after he’s taken his +second, the others would come easy. Say he marries, first time, a tall, +slim, dark girl,”—he looked at her musingly while she gazed intently +into the stream in front of them. + +“—and then say he meets a little chit of a thing, kind of heavy-set +like, with this light yellow hair and pretty light blue eyes, that he +saw one Sunday at church—” + +Her dark face was flushing now in pained wonder. + +“—why then it’s so easy to keep on and marry others, with the preachers +all preaching it from the pulpit.” + +“But you wouldn’t have to.” + +“No, you wouldn’t have to marry any one after the second—after this +little blonde—but you’d have to marry her because it says here that you +‘shall abide the law or ye shall be damned, saith the Lord God.’” + +He pulled himself along the ground closer to her, and went on again in +what seemed to be an extremity of doubt. + +“Now I don’t want to be lost, and yet I don’t want to have a whole lot +of wives like Brigham or that old coot we see so often on the road. So +what am I going to do? I might think I’d get along with three or four, +but you never can tell what religion will do to a man when he really +gets it.” + +He reached for her small brown hand that still held the Book of Mormon +open on her lap, and took it in both his own. He went on, appealingly: + +“Now you try to tell me right—like as if I was your own brother—tell me +as a sister. Try to put yourself in the place of the girl I’d marry +first—no, don’t; it seems more like your sister if I hold it this +way—and try to think how she’d feel when I brought home my second. +Would that be doing square by her? Wouldn’t it sort of get her on the +bark? But if I join your Church and don’t do that, I might as well be +one of those low-down Freewill Baptists or Episcopals. Come now, tell +me true, letting on that you’re my sister.” + +She had not looked at him since he began, nor did she now. + +“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t _know_—it’s all so mixed! I thought you could +be saved without that.” + +“There’s the word of God against me.” + +“I wouldn’t want you to marry that way,—if I were your sister.” + +“That’s right now, try to feel like a sister. You wouldn’t want me to +have as many wives as those old codgers down there below, would you?” + +“No—I’m sure you shouldn’t have but one. Oh, you couldn’t marry more +than one, could you?” She turned her eyes for the first time upon him, +and he saw that some inward warmth seemed to be melting them. + +“Well, I’d hate to disappoint you if you were my sister, but there’s +the word of the Lord—” + +“Oh, but could you _anyway_, even if you didn’t have a sister, and +there was no one but _her_ to think of?” + +He appeared to debate with himself cautiously. + +“Well, now, I must say your teaching has taken a powerful hold on me +this summer—” he reached under her arm and caught her other hand. +“You’ve been like a sister to me and made me think about these things +pretty deep and serious. I don’t know if I could get what you’ve taught +me out of my mind or not.” + +“But how could you _ever_ marry another wife?” + +“Well, a man don’t like to think he’s going to the bad place when he +dies, all on account of not marrying a few more times. It sort of takes +the ambition all out of him.” + +“Oh, it couldn’t be right!” + +“Well now, I’ll do as you say. Do I forget all these things you’ve been +teaching me, and settle down with one wife,—or do I come into the +Kingdom and lash the cinches of my glory good and plenty by marrying +whenever I get time to build a new end on the house, like old man +Wright does?” + +She was silent. + +“Like a sister would tell a brother,” he urged, with a tighter pressure +of her two hands. But this seemed to recall another trouble to her +mind. + +“I—I’m not fit to be your sister—don’t talk of it—you don’t know—” Her +voice broke, and he had to release her hand. Whereupon he put his own +back up against the pine-tree, reached his arm about her, and had her +head upon his shoulder. + +“There, there now!” + +“But you don’t know.” + +“Well, I _do_ know—so just you straighten out that face. I do know, I +tell you. Now don’t cry and I’ll fix it all right, I promise you.” + +“But you don’t even know what the trouble is.” + +“I do—it’s about your father and mother—when they were married.” + +“How did you know?” + +“I can’t tell you now, but I will soon. Look here, you can believe what +I tell you, can’t you?” + +“Yes, I can do that.” + +“Well, then, you listen. Your father and mother were married in the +right way, and there wasn’t a single bit of crookedness about it. I +wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t know and couldn’t prove it to you in a +little while. Say, there’s one of our wagon-trains coming along here +toward Salt Lake next Monday. It’s coming out of its way on purpose to +pick me up. I’ll promise to have it proved to you by that time. Now, is +that fair? Can you believe me?” + +She looked up at him, her face bright again. + +“Oh, I _do_ believe you! You don’t know how glad you make me. It was an +awful thing—oh, you are a dear”—and full upon his lips she kissed the +astounded young man, holding him fast with an arm about his neck. +“You’ve made me all over new—I was feeling so wretched—and of course I +can’t see how you know anything about it, but I know you are telling +the truth.” Again she kissed him with the utmost cordiality. Then she +stood up to arrange her hair, her face full of the joy of this +assurance. The young man saw that she had forgotten both him and his +religious perplexities, and he did not wish her to be entirely divested +of concern for him at this moment. + +“But how about me? Here I am, lost if I do and lost if I don’t. You +better sit down here again and see if there isn’t some way I can get +that crown of glory.” + +She sat down by him, instantly sobered from her own joy, and calmly +gave him a hand to hold. + +“Well, I’ll tell you,” she said, frankly. “You wait awhile. Don’t do +anything right away. I’ll have to ask father.” And then as he reached +over to pick up the Book of Mormon,—“No, let’s not read any more +to-day. Let’s sit a little while and only think about things.” She was +so free from embarrassment that he began to doubt if he had been so +very deeply clever, after all, in suggesting the relationship between +them. But after she had mused awhile, she seemed to perceive for the +first time that he was very earnestly holding both of her hands. She +blushed, and suddenly withdrew them. Whereat he was more pleased than +when she had passively let them lie. He approached the matter of +salvation for himself once more. + +“Of course I can wait awhile for you to find out the rights of this +thing, but I’m afraid I can’t be baptised even if you tell me to +be—even if you want me to obey the Lord and marry some pretty little +light-complected, yellow-haired thing afterwards—after I’d married my +first wife. Fact is, I don’t believe I could. Probably I’d care so much +for the first one that I’d have blinders on for all the other women in +the world. She’d have me tied down with the red ribbon in her hair”—he +touched the red ribbon in her own, by way of illustration—“just like I +can tie the biggest steer you ever saw with that little silk rag of +mine—hold him, two hind legs and one fore, so he can’t budge an inch. +I’d just like to see some little, short, kind of plump, pretty +yellow-haired thing come between us.” + +For an instant, she looked such warm, almost indignant approval that he +believed she was about to express an opinion of her own in the matter, +but she stayed silent, looking away instead with a little movement of +having swallowed something. + +“And you, too, if you were my sister, do you think I’d want you married +to a man who’d begin to look around for some one else as soon as he got +you? No, sir—you deserve some decent young fellow who’d love you all to +pieces day in and day out and never so much as look at this little +yellow-haired girl—even if she was almost as pretty as you.” + +But she was not to be led into rendering any hasty decision which might +affect his eternal salvation. Moreover, she was embarrassed and +disturbed. + +“We must go,” she said, rising before he could help her. When they had +picked their way down to the mouth of the cañon, he walking behind her, +she turned back and said, “Of course you could marry that little +yellow-haired girl with the blue eyes first, the one you’re thinking so +much about—the little short, fat thing with a doll-baby face—” + +But he only answered, “Oh, well, if you get me into your Church it +wouldn’t make a bit of difference whether I took her first or second.” + + + + +Chapter XXXIX. +A Revelation Concerning the True Order of Marriage + + +While matters of theology and consanguinity were being debated in Box +Cañon, the little bent man down in the first house to the left, in his +struggle to free himself, was tightening the meshes of his fate about +him. In his harried mind he had formed one great resolution. He +believed that a revelation had come to him. It seemed to press upon him +as the culmination of all the days of his distress. He could see now +that he had felt it years before, when he first met the wife of Elder +Tench, the gaunt, gray woman, toiling along the dusty road; and again +when he had found the imbecile boy turning upon his tormentors. A +hundred times it had quickened within him. And it had gained in force +steadily, until to-day, when it was overwhelming him. Now that his +flesh was wasted, it seemed that his spirit could see far. + +His great discovery was that the revelation upon celestial marriage +given to Joseph Smith had been “from beneath,”—a trick of Satan to +corrupt them. Not only did it flatly contradict earlier revelations, +but the very Book of Mormon itself declared again and again that +polygamy was wickedness. Joseph had been duped by the powers of +darkness, and all Israel had sinned in consequence. Upon the golden +plates delivered to him, concerning the divine source of which there +could be no doubt, this order of marriage had been repeatedly condemned +and forbidden. But as to the revelation which sanctioned it there could +rightly be doubt; for had not Joseph himself once warned them that +“some revelations are from God, some from men, and some from the +Devil.” Either the Book of Mormon was not inspired, or the revelation +was not from God, since they were fatally in opposition. + +It came to him with the effect of a blinding light, yet seemed to endow +him with a new vigour, so that he felt strong and eager to be up, to +spread his truth abroad. Some remnant of that old fire of inspiration +flamed up within him as he lay on the hard bed in his little room, with +the summer scents floating in and the out-of-doors sounds,—a woman’s +voice calling a child afar off, the lowing of cattle, the rhythmic +whetting of a scythe-blade, the echoing strokes of an axe, the mellow +fluting of a robin,—all coming to him a little muted, as if he were no +longer in the world. + +He raised upon his elbow, glowing with the flush of old memories when +his heart had been perfect with the Lord; when he had wrought miracles +in the face of the people; when he had besought Heaven fearlessly for +signs of its favour; when he had dreamed of being a pillar of fire to +his people in their march across the desert, and another Lion of the +Lord to fight their just battles. The little bent man of sorrows had +again become the Lute of the Holy Ghost. + +He knew it must be a true revelation. And, while he might not now have +strength to preach it as it should be preached, there were other mighty +men to spread its tidings. Even his simple announcement of it must work +a revolution. Others would see it when he had once declared it. Others +would spread it with power until the Saints were again become a +purified people. But he would have been the prophet, seer, and +revelator, to whom the truth was given, and so his suffering would not +have been in vain; perhaps that suffering had been ordained to the end +that his vision should be cleared for this truth. + +He remembered the day was Saturday, and he began at once to word the +phrases in which he would tell his revelation on the morrow. He knew +that this must be done tactfully, in spite of its divine source. It +would be a momentous thing to the people and to the priesthood. It was +conceivable, indeed, that members of the latter might dispute it and +argue with him, or even denounce him for a heretic. But only at first; +the thing was too simply true to be long questioned. In any event, his +duty was plain; with righteousness as the girdle of his loins he must +go forth on the morrow and magnify his office in the sight of Heaven. + +When the decision had been taken he lay in an ecstasy of anticipation, +feeling new pulses in all his frame and the blood warm in his face. It +would mean a new dawn for Israel. There would, however, be a vexing +difficulty in the matter of the present wives of the Saints. The song +of Lorena came in to him now:— + +“I was riding out this morning + With my cousin by my side; +She was telling her intentions + For to soon become a bride.” + + +The accent fell upon the first and third syllables with an upward surge +of melody that seemed to make the house vibrate. He thought perhaps +some of the Saints would find it well to put away all but the one +rightful wife, making due provision, of course, for their support. +Lorena’s never-ending ballad came like the horns that blew before the +walls of Jericho, bringing down the ramparts of his old belief. Some of +the Saints would doubtless put away the false wives as a penance. He +might even bring himself to do it, since, in the light of his wondrous +new revelation, it would be obeying the Lord’s will. + +When Prudence came softly in to him, like a cool little breath of +fragrance from the cañon, he smiled up to her with a fulness of delight +she had never seen in his face before. + +There was a new light in her own eyes, new decisions presaged, a new +desire imperfectly suppressed. He stroked her hand as she sat beside +him on the bed, wondering if she had at last learned her own secret. +But she became grave, and was diverted from her own affairs when she +observed him more closely. + +“Why, you’re sick—you’re burning up with fever! You must be covered up +at once and have sage tea.” + +He laughed at her, a free, full laugh, such as she had never heard from +him in all the years. + +“It’s no fever, child. It’s new life come to me. I’m strong again. My +face burns, but it must be the fire of health. I have a work given to +me—God has not wholly put me aside.” + +“But I believe you _are_ sick. Your hands are so hot, and your eyes +look so unnatural. You must let me—” + +“Now, now—haven’t I learned to tell sickness from the glow of a holy +purpose?” + +“You’re sure you are well?” + +“Better than for fifteen years.” + +She let herself be convinced for the moment. + +“Then please tell me something. Must a man who comes into our faith, if +he is baptised rightly, also marry more than one wife if he is to be +saved? Can’t he be sure of his glory with one if he loves her—oh, very, +_very_ much?” + +He was moved at first to answer her out of the fulness of his heart, +telling her of the wonderful new revelation. But there came the impulse +to guard it jealously in his own breast a little longer, to glory +secretly in it; half-fearful, too, that some virtue would go out of it +should he impart it too soon to another. + +“Why do you want to know?” + +“Ruel Follett would join our Church if he didn’t have to marry more +than one wife. If he loved some one very much, I’m afraid he would find +it hard to marry another girl—oh, he simply _couldn’t_—no matter how +pretty she was. He never could do it.” Here she pulled one of the +scarlet ribbons from her broad hat. She gave a little exclamation of +relief as if she had really meant to detach it. + +“Tell him to wait a little.” + +“That’s what I did tell him, but it seems hardly right to let him join +believing that is necessary. I think some one ought to find out that +one wife is all God wants a man ever to have, and to tell Mr. Follett +so very plainly. His mind is really open to truth, and you know he +might do something reckless—he shouldn’t be made to wait too long.” + +“Tell him to wait till to-morrow. I shall speak of this in meeting +then. It will be all right—all right, dear. Everything will be all +right!” + +“Only I am sure you are sick in spite of what you say. I know how to +prove it, too—can you eat?” + +“I’m too busy thinking of great things to be hungry.” + +“There—you would be hungry if you were well.” + +“I can’t tell you how well I am, and as for food—our Elder Brother has +been feeding me all day with the bread of truth. Such wonderful new +things the Lord has shown me!” + +“But you must not get up. Lie still and we will nurse you.” + +He refused the food she brought him, and refused Lorena’s sage tea. He +was not to be cajoled into treating as sickness the first real +happiness he had felt for years. He lay still until his little room +grew shadowy in the dusk, filled with a great reviving hope that the +Lord had raised a new prophet to lead Israel out of bondage. + +As the night fell, however, the shadows of the room began to trouble +him as of old, and he found himself growing hotter and hotter until he +burned and gasped and the room seemed about to stifle him. He arose +from the bed, wondering that his feet should be so heavy and clumsy, +and his knees so weak, when he felt otherwise so strong. His head, too, +felt large, and there rang in his ears a singing of incessant quick +beats. He made his way to the door, where he heard the voices of +Prudence and Follett. It was good to feel the cool night air upon his +hot face, and he reassured Prudence, who chided him for leaving his +bed. + +“When you hear me discourse tomorrow you will see how wrong you were +about my being sick,” he said. But she saw that he supported himself +carefully from the doorway along the wall to the near-by chair, and +that he sank into it with every sign of weakness. His eyes, however, +were aglow with his secret, and he sat nodding his head over it in a +lively way. “Brigham was right,” he said, “when he declared that any of +us might receive revelations from on high; even the least of us—only we +are apt to be deaf to the whispered words until the Lord has scourged +us. I have been deaf a long time, but my ears are at last unstopped—who +is it coming, dear?” + +A tall figure, vague in the dusk, was walking briskly up the path that +led in from the road. It proved to be the Wild Ram of the Mountains, +freshened by the look of rectitude that the razor gave to his face each +Saturday night. + +“Evening, Brother Rae—evening, you young folks. Thank you, I will take +a chair. You feeling a bit more able than usual, Brother Rae?” + +“Much better, Brother Seth. I shall be at meeting tomorrow.” + +“Glad to hear it, that’s right good—you ain’t been out for so long. And +we want to have a rousing time, too.” + +“Only we’re afraid he has a fever instead of being so well,” said +Prudence. “He hasn’t eaten a thing all day.” + +“Well, he never did overeat himself, that I knew of,” said the Bishop. +“Not eating ain’t any sign with him. Now it would be with me. I never +believed in fasting the flesh. The Spirit of the Lord ain’t ever so +close to me as after I’ve had a good meal of victuals,—meat and +potatoes and plenty of good sop and a couple of pieces of pie. Then I +can unbutton my vest and jest set and set and hear the promptings of +the Lord God of Hosts. I know some men ain’t that way, but then’s the +time when I beautify _my_ inheritance in Zion the purtiest. And I’m +mighty glad Brother Joel can turn out to-morrow. Of course you heard +the news?” + +“What news, Brother Seth?” + +“Brother Brigham gets here at eleven o’clock from New Harmony.” + +“Brother Brigham _coming_?” + +“We’re getting the bowery ready down in the square tonight so’s to have +services out of doors.” + +“He’s coming to-morrow?” The words came from both Prudence and her +father. + +“Of course he’s coming. Ben Hadley brought word over. They’ll have a +turkey dinner at Beil Wardle’s house and then services at two.” + +The flushed little man with the revelation felt himself grow suddenly +cold. He had thought it would be easy to launch his new truth in Amalon +and let the news be carried to Brigham. To get up in the very presence +of him, in the full gaze of those cold blue eyes, was another matter. + +“But it’s early for him. He doesn’t usually come until after +Conference, after it’s got cooler.” + +The Bishop took on the air of a man who does not care to tell quite all +that he knows. + +“Yes; I suspicion some one’s been sending tales to him about a certain +young woman’s carryings on down here.” + +He looked sharply at Prudence, who looked at the ground and felt +grateful for the dusk. Follett looked hard at them both and was plainly +interested. The Bishop spoke again. + +“I ain’t got no license to say so, but having done that young woman +proud by engaging himself to marry her, he might ’a’ got annoyed if any +one had ’a’ told him she was being waited on by a handsome young +Gentile, gallivantin’ off to cañons day after day—holding hands, too, +more than once. Oh, I ain’t _saying_ anything. Young blood is young +blood; mine ain’t always been old, and I never blamed the young, but, +of course, the needs of the Kingdom is a different matter. Well, I’ll +have to be getting along now. We’re going to put up some of the people +at our house, and I’ve got to fix to bed mother down in the wagon-box +again, I reckon. I’ll say you’ll be with us to-morrow, then, Brother +Joel?” + +The little bent man’s voice had lost much of its life. + +“Yes, Brother Seth, if I’m able.” + +“Well, I hope you are.” He arose and looked at the sky. “Looks as if we +might have some falling weather. They say it’s been moisting quite a +bit up Cedar way. Well,—good night, all!” + +When he was gone the matter of his visit was not referred to. With some +constraint they talked a little while of other things. But as soon as +the two men were alone for the night, Follett turned to him, almost +fiercely. + +“Say, now, what did that old goat-whiskered loon mean by his hintings +about Prudence?” + +The little man was troubled. + +“Well, the fact is, Brigham has meant to marry her.” + +“You don’t mean you’d have let him? Say, I’d hate to feel sorry for +holding off on you like I have!” + +“No, no, don’t think that of me.” + +“Well, what were you going to do?” + +“I hardly knew.” + +“You better find out.” + +“I know it—I did find out, to-day. I know, and it will be all right. +Trust me. I lost my faith for a moment just now when I heard Brother +Brigham was coming to-morrow; but I see how it is,—the Lord has wished +to prove me. Now there is all the more reason why I should not flinch. +You will see that I shall make it all right to-morrow.” + +“Well, the time’s about up. I’ve been here over two months now, just +because you were so kind of helpless. And one of our wagon-trains will +be along here about next Monday. Say, she wouldn’t ever have married +him, would she?” + +“No, she refused at once; she refused to consider it at all.” + +He was burning again with his fever, and there was something in his +eagerness that seemed to overcome Follett’s indignation. + +“Well, let it go till to-morrow, then. And you try to get some rest +now. That’s what I’m going to do.” + +But the little bent man, flushed though he was, felt cold from the +night air, and, piling more logs on the fire, he drew his chair close +in front of it. + +As often as Follett wakened through the night he saw him sitting there, +sometimes reading what looked like a little old Bible, sometimes +speaking aloud as if seeking to memorise a passage. + +The last Follett remembered to have heard was something he seemed to be +reading from the little book,—“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not +want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside +the still waters.” + +He fell asleep again with a feeling of pity for the little man. + + + + +Chapter XL. +A Procession, a Pursuit, and a Capture + + +Follett awoke to find himself superfluous. The women were rushing +excitedly through their housework in order to be at hand when the +procession of Brigham and his suite should march in. Of Joel Rae he +caught but a glimpse through the door of his little room, the face +flushed that had a long time been sallow and bloodless. When the door +had closed he could hear the voice, now strong again. He seemed to be, +as during the night, rehearsing something he meant to say. And later it +was plain that he prayed, though he heard nothing more than the high +pleading of the voice. + +Follett would not have minded these things, but Prudence was gone and +no one could tell him where. From Christina of the rock-bound speech he +blasted the items that she was wearing “a dress all new” and “a +red-ribbon hat.” Lorena, too, with all her willingness of speech, knew +nothing definite. + +“All I know is she fixed herself up like she was going to an evening +ball or party. I wish to the lands I’d kep’ my complexion the way she +does hern. And she had on her best lawn that her pa got her in Salt +Lake, the one with the little blue figures in it. She does look sweeter +than honey on a rag in a store dress, and that Leghorn hat with the red +bow, though what she wanted to start so early for I don’t know. The +procession can’t be along yet, but she might have gone down to march +with them, or to help decorate the bowery. I know when I was her age I +was always a great hand for getting ready long before any one come, +when my mother was making a company for me, putting up my waterfall and +curling my beau-catchers on a hot pipe-stem. But, land! I ain’t no time +to talk with _you_.” + +Down at the main road he hesitated. To the right he could see where the +green mouth of the cañon invited; but to the left lay the village where +Prudence doubtless was. He would find her and bring her away. For +Follett had determined to toe the mark himself now. + +In the one street of Amalon there was the usual Sabbath hush; but above +this was an air of dignified festivity. The village in its Sunday best +homespun, with here and there a suit of store goods, was holding its +breath. In the bowery a few workers, under the supervision of Bishop +Wright, were adding the last touches of decoration. It was a spot of +pleasant green in the dusty square—a roof of spruce boughs, with +evergreens and flowers garnishing the posts, and a bank of flowers and +fruit back of the speaker’s stand. + +But Prudence was not there, and he wondered with dismay if she had +joined the rest of the village and gone out to meet the Prophet. He had +seen the last of them going along the dusty road to the north, men and +women and little children, hot, excited, and eager. It did not seem +like her to be among them, and yet except for those before him working +about the bowery, and a few mothers with children in arms, the town was +apparently deserted. + +But even as he waited, he heard the winding alarm of a bugle, and saw a +scurrying of backs in the dusty haze far up the road. The Wild Ram of +the Mountains gave a few hurried commands for the very final touches, +called off his force from the now completed bowery, and a solitary +Gentile was for the moment left to greet the oncoming procession. + +Presently, however, from the dark interiors of the log houses came the +mothers with babies, a few aged sires too feeble for the march, and +such of the remaining housewives as could leave for a little time the +dinners they were cooking. They made but a thin line along the little +street, and Follett saw at once that Prudence was not among them. He +must wait to see if she marched in the approaching procession. + +Already the mounted escort was coming into view, four abreast, +captained by Elder Wardle, who, with a sash of red and gold slanted +across his breast, was riding nervously, as if his seat could be kept +only by the most skillful horsemanship, a white mule that he was known +to treat with fearless disrespect on days that were not great. Behind +the martial Wardle was Peter Peterson, Peter Long Peterson, and Peter +Long Peter Peterson, the most martial looking men in Amalon after their +leader; and then came a few more fours of proudly mounted Saints. + +After this escort, separated by an interval that would let the dust +settle a little, came the body of the procession. First a carriage +containing the Prophet, portly, strong-faced, easy of manner, as became +a giant who felt kindly in his might. By his side was his wife, Amelia, +the reigning favourite, who could play the piano and sing “Fair Bingen +on the Rhine” with a dash that was said to be superb. Behind this float +of honour came other carriages, bearing the Prophet’s Counsellors, the +Apostles, Chief Bishop, Bishops generally, Elders, Priests, and +Deacons, each taking precedence near the Prophet’s carriage by +seniority of rank or ordination. Along the line of carriages were +outriders, bearing proudly aloft banners upon which suitable devices +were printed: + +“God bless Brigham Young!” + +“Hail to Zion’s Chief!” + +“The Lion of the Lord.” + +“Welcome to our Mouthpiece of God!” + +Behind the last carriage came the citizens in procession, each +detachment with its banner. The elderly brethren stepped briskly under +“Fathers in Israel”; the elderly sisters gazed proudly aloft to +“Mothers in Israel.” Then came a company of young men whose banner +announced them as “Defenders of Zion.” They were followed by a company +of maidens led by Matilda Wright, striving to be not too much elated, +and whose banner bore the inscription, “Daughters of Zion.” At the last +came the children, openly set up by the occasion, and big-eyed with +importance, the boy who carried their banner, “The Hope of Israel,” +going with wonderful rigidity, casting not so much as an eye either to +right or left. + +But Prudence had not been in this triumphal column, nor was she among +any of the women who stood with children in their arms, or who rushed +to the doors with sleeves rolled up and a long spoon or fork in their +hands. + +Then all at once a great inspiration came to Follett. When the last +dusty little white-dressed girl had trudged solemnly by, and the head +of the procession was already winding down the lane that led to Elder +Wardle’s place, he called himself a fool and turned back. He walked +like a man who has suddenly remembered that which he should not have +forgotten. And yet he had remembered nothing at all. He had only +thought of a possibility, but one that became more plausible with every +step; especially when he reached the Rae house and found it deserted. +Whenever he thought of his stupidity, which was every score of steps, +he would break into a little trot that made the willows along the creek +on his left run into a yellowish green blur. + +He was breathing hard by the time he had made the last ascent and stood +in the cool shade of the comforting pines. He waited until his pulse +became slower, wiping his forehead with the blue neckerchief which +Prudence had suggested that she liked to see him wear in place of the +one of scarlet. When he had cooled and calmed himself a little, he +stepped lightly on. Around the big rock he went, over the “down timber” +beyond it, up over the rise down which the waters tumbled, and then +sharply to the right where their nook was, a call to her already on his +lips. + +But she was not there. He could see the place at a glance. Nothing +below met his eye but the straight red trunks of the pines and the +brown carpet beneath them. A jay posed his deep shining blue on a +cluster of scarlet sumac, and, cocking his crested head, screamed at +him mockingly. The cañon’s cool breath fanned him and the pine-tops +sighed and sang. At first he was disheartened; but then his eyes caught +a gleam of white and red under the pine, touched to movement by a +low-swinging breeze. + +It was her hat swaying where she had hung it on a broken bough of the +tree she liked to lean against. And there was her book; not the book of +Mormon, but a secular, frivolous thing called “Leaflets of Memory, an +Illuminated Annual for the Year 1847.” It was lying on its face, open +at the sentimental tale of “Anastasia.” He put it down where she had +left it. The cañon was narrow and she would hardly leave the waterside +for the steep trail. She would be at the upper cascade or in the little +park above it, or somewhere between. He crossed the stream, and there +in the damp sand was the print of a small heel where she had made a +long step from the last stone. He began to hurry again, clambering +recklessly over boulders, or through the underbrush where the sides of +the stream were steep. When the upper cascade came in sight his heart +leaped, for there he caught the fleeting shimmer of a skirt and the +gleam of a dark head. + +He hurried on, and after a moment’s climb had her in full view, +standing on the ledge below which the big trout lay. There he saw her +turn so that he would have sworn she looked at him. It seemed +impossible that she had not seen him; but to his surprise she at once +started up the stream, swiftly footing over the rough way, now a little +step, now a free leap, grasping a willow to pull herself up an incline, +then disappearing around a clump of cedars. + +He redoubled his speed over the rocks. When she next came into view, +still far ahead, he shouted long and loud. It was almost certain that +she must hear; and yet she made no sign. She seemed even to speed ahead +the faster for his hail. + +Again he sprang forward to cover the distance between them, and again +he shouted when the next view of her showed that he was gaining. This +time he was sure she heard; but she did not look back, and she very +plainly increased her speed. + +For an instant he stood aghast at this discovery; then he laughed. + +“Well if you _want_ a race, you’ll get it!” + +He was off again along the rough bed of the stream. He shouted no more, +but slowly increased the gain he had made upon her. Instead of losing +time by climbing up over the bank, he splashed through the water at two +places where the little stream was wide and shallow. Then at last he +saw that he was closing in upon her. Soon he was near enough to see +that she also knew it. + +He began at that moment an extended course of marvelling at the ways of +woman. For now she had reached the edge of the little open park, and +was placidly seating herself on a fallen tree in the grove of quaking +aspens. He could not understand this change of manner. And when he +reached the opening she again astounded him by greeting him with every +manifestation of surprise, from the first nervous start to the pushing +up of her dark brows. + +“Why,” she began, “how did you ever think of coming _here_?” + +But he had twice hurried fruitlessly this hot morning and he was not +again to be baffled. As he advanced toward her, she regarded him with +some apprehension until he stopped a safe six feet away. She had noted +certain lines of determination in his face. + +“Now what’s the use of pretending?—what did you run for?” + +“I?—_run_?” + +Again the curving black brows went up in frank surprise. + +“Yes,—you _run_!” + +He took a threatening step forward, and the brows promptly fell to +serious intentness of his face. + +“What did you do it for?” + +She stood up. “What did I do it for?—what did I do _what_ for?” + +But his eyes were searching her and she had to lower her own. Then she +looked up again, and laughed nervously. + +“I—I don’t know—I couldn’t help it.” Again she laughed. “And why did +you run? How did you think of coming here?” + +“I’ll tell you how, now I’ve caught you.” He started toward her, but +she was quickly backing away into the opening of the little park, still +laughing. + +“Look out for that blow-down back of you!” he called. In the second +that she halted to turn and discover his trick he had caught her by the +arm. + +“There—I caught you fair—_now_ what did you run for?” + +“I couldn’t help it.” Her face was crimson. His own was pale under the +tan. They could hear the beating of both their hearts. But with his +capture made so boldly he was dumb, knowing not what to say. + +The faintest pulling of the imprisoned arm aroused him. + +“I’d ’a’ followed you till Christmas come if you’d kept on. Clear over +the divide and over the whole creation. I never _would_ have given you +up. I’m never _going_ to.” + +He caught her other wrist and sought to draw her to him. + +With head down she came, slowly, yielding yet resisting, with little +shudders of terror that was yet a strange delight, with eyes that dared +give him but one quick little look, half pleading and half fear. But +then after a few tense seconds her struggles were all housed far within +his arms; there was no longer play for the faintest of them; and she +was strained until she felt her heart rush out to him as she had once +felt it go to her dream of a single love,—with the utter abandon of the +falling water beside them. + +On the opposite side of the park across the half-acre of waving +bunch-grass, a many-pronged old buck in his thin red summer coat lay at +the edge of the quaking aspens, sunning the velvet of his tender new +horns to harden them against approaching combats. He had shrewdly noted +that the first comer did not see him; but this second was a creature of +action in whose presence it were ill-advised to linger. Noiselessly his +hindquarters raised from the ground, and then with a snort of +indignation and a mighty, crashing rush he was off through the trees +and up the hill. Doubtless the beast cherished a delusion of clever +escape from a dangerous foe; but neither of the pair standing so near +saw or heard him or would have been conscious of him even had he led +past them in wild flight the biggest herd it had ever been his lot to +domineer. For these two were lost to all but the wonder of the moment, +pushing fearfully on into the glory and sweetness of it. + +His voice came to her in a dull murmur, and the sound of the running +water came, again like the muffled tinkling of little silver bells in +the distance. Both his arms were strong about her, and now her own +hands rose in rebellion to meet where the kerchief was knotted at the +back of his neck, quite as the hands of the other woman had +rebelliously flung down the scarf from the balcony. Then the brim of +his hat came down over her hair, and her lips felt his kiss. + +They stood so a long time, it seemed to them, in the high grass, amid +the white-barked quaking aspens, while a little wind from the dark +pines at their side, lowered now to a yearning softness, played over +them. They were aroused at last by a squirrel that ran half-way down +the trunk of a near-by spruce to bark indignantly at them, believing +they menaced his winter’s store of spruce cones piled at the foot of +the tree. With rattle after rattle his alarm came, until he had the +satisfaction of noting an effect. + +The young man put the girl away from him to look upon her in the new +light that enveloped them both, still holding her hands. + +“There’s one good thing about your marriages,—they marry you for +eternity, don’t they? That’s for ever—only it isn’t long enough, even +so—not for me.” + +“I thought you were never coming.” + +“But you said”—he saw the futility of it, however, and kissed her +instead. + +“I was afraid of you all this summer,” he said. + +“I was afraid of you, too.” + +“You got over it yesterday all right.” + +“How?” + +“You kissed me.” + +“Never—what an awful thing to say!” + +“But you did—twice—don’t you remember?” + +“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. If I did it wasn’t at all like—like—” + +“Like that—” + +“No—I didn’t think anything about it.” + +“And now you’ll never leave me, and I’ll never leave you.” + +They sat on the fallen tree. + +“And to think of that old—” + +“Oh, don’t talk of it. That’s why I ran off here—so I couldn’t hear +anything about it until he went away.” + +“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” + +“I didn’t think you were so stupid.” + +“How was I to know where you were coming?” + +But now she was reminded of something. + +“Tell me one thing—did you ever know a little short fat girl, a blonde +that you liked very much?” + +“Never!” + +“Then what did you talk so much about her for yesterday if you didn’t? +You’d speak of her every time.” + +“I didn’t think you were so stupid.” + +“Well, I can’t see—” + +“You don’t need to—we’ll call it even.” + +And so the talk went until the sun had fallen for an hour and they knew +it was time to go below. + +“We will go to the meeting together,” she said, “and then father shall +tell Brigham,—tell him—” + +“That you’re going to marry me. Why don’t you say it?” + +“That I’m going to marry you, and be your only wife.” She nestled under +his arm again. + +“For time and eternity—that’s the way your Church puts it.” + +Then, not knowing it, they took their last walk down the pine-hung +glade. Many times he picked her lightly up to carry her over rough +places and was loth to put her down,—having, in truth, to be bribed +thereto. + +At their usual resting-place she put on her hat with the cherry +ribbons, and he, taking off his own, kissed her under it. + +And then they were out on the highroad to Amalon, where all was a +glaring dusty gray under the high sun, and the ragged rim of the +western hills quivered and ran in the heat. + +He thought on the way down of how the news would be taken by the little +bent man with the fiery eyes. She was thinking how glad she was that +young Ammaron Wright had not kissed her that time he tried to at the +dance—since kisses were like _that_. + + + + +Chapter XLI. +The Rise and Fall of a Bent Little Prophet + + +Down in the village the various dinners of ceremony to the visiting +officials were over. An hour had followed of decent rest and informal +chat between the visitors and their hosts, touching impartially on +matters of general interest; on irrigation, the gift of tongues, the +season’s crop of peaches, the pouring out of the Spirit abroad, the +best mixture of sheep-dip; on many matters not unpleasing to the +practical-minded Deity reigning over them. + +Then the entire populace of Amalon, in its Sunday best of “valley tan” +or store-goods, flocked to the little square and sat expectantly on the +benches under the green roof of the bowery, ready to absorb the +droppings of the sanctuary. + +In due time came Brigham, strolling between Elder Wardle and Bishop +Wright, bland, affable, and benignant. On the platform about him sat +his Counsellors, the more distinguished of his suite, and the local +dignitaries of the Church. + +Among these came the little bent man with an unwonted colour in his +face, coming in absorbed in thought, shaking hands even with Brigham +with something of abstraction in his manner. Prudence and Follett came +late, finding seats at the back next to a generous row of the Mrs. Seth +Wright. + +The hymn to Joseph Smith was given out, and the congregation rose to +sing:— + +“Unchanged in death, with a Saviour’s love, +He pleads their cause in the courts above. + +“His home’s in the sky, he dwells with the gods, +Far from the rage of furious mobs. + +“He died, he died, for those he loved, +He reigns, he reigns, in the realms above. + +“Shout, shout, ye Saints! This boon is given,— +We’ll meet our martyred seer in heaven.” + + +When they had settled into their seats, the Wild Ram of the Mountains +arose and invoked a blessing on those present and upon those who had +gone behind the veil; adding a petition that Brigham be increased in +his basket and in his store, in wives, flocks, and herds, and in the +gifts of the Holy Spirit. + +They sang another hymn, and when that was done, the little bent man +arose and came hesitatingly forward to the baize-covered table that +served as a pulpit. As President of the Stake it was his office to +welcome the visitors, and this he did. + +There were whisperings in the audience when his appearance was noted. +It was the first time he had been seen by many of them in weeks. They +whispered that he was failing. + +“He ought to be home this minute,” was the first Mrs. Wardle’s +diagnosis to the fifth Mrs. Wardle, behind her hymn-book, “with his +feet in a mustard bath and a dose of gamboge and a big brewing of +catnip tea. I can tell a fever as far as I can see it.” + +The words of official welcome spoken, he began his discourse; but in a +timid, shuffling manner so unlike his old self that still others +whispered of his evident illness. Inside he burned with his purpose, +but, with all his resolves, the presence of Brigham left him unnerved. +He began by referring to their many adversities since the day when they +had first knelt to entreat the mercy of God upon the land. Then he +spoke of revelations. + +“You must all have had revelations, because they have come even to me. +Perhaps you were deaf to the voice, as I have been. Perhaps you have +trusted too readily in some revelation that came years ago, supposedly +from God—in truth, from the Devil. Perhaps you have been deaf to later +revelations meant to warn you of the other’s falseness.” + +He was still uneasy, hesitating, fearful; but he saw interest here and +there in the faces before him. Even Brigham, though unseen by the +speaker, was looking mildly curious. + +“You remember the revelation that came to Joseph in an early day when +there was trouble in raising money to print the Book of Mormon,—‘Some +revelations are from God, some from man, and some from the Devil.’ +Recalling the many chastenings God has put upon us, may we not have +failed to test all our other revelations by this one?” + +Deep within he was angry at himself, for he was not speaking with words +of fire as he had meant to; he was feeling a shameful cowardice in the +presence of the Prophet. He had seen himself once more the Lute of the +Holy Ghost, strong and moving; but now he was a poor, low-spoken, +hesitating rambler. Nervously he went on, skirting about the edge of +his truth as long as he dared, but feeling at last that he must plunge +into its icy depths. + +“In short, brethren, the Book of Mormon denounces and forbids our +plural marriages.” + +Even this astounding declaration he made without warmth, in tones so +low that many did not hear him. Those on the platform heard, however, +and now began to view his obvious physical weakness in a new light. Yet +he continued, gaining a little in force. + +“The declarations on the subject in the Book of Mormon are so worded +that we cannot fail to read them as denouncing and forbidding the +practise of the Old Testament patriarchs in this matter of the family +life.” + +In rapid succession he cited the passages to which he referred, those +concerning David and Solomon and Noah and Ripkalish, who “did not do +that which was right in the sight of the Lord, for he did have many +wives.” + +There were murmurings and rustlings among the people now, and on his +right he heard Brigham stirring ominously in his chair; but he nerved +himself to keep on his feet, feeling he had that to say which should +make them hail him as a new prophet when they understood. + +“But besides these warnings against the sin there are many early +revelations to Joseph himself condemning it.” + +He cited several of these, feeling the amazement and the alarm grow +about him. + +“And now against these plain words, given at many times in many places, +written on the golden plates in letters that cannot lie, or brought to +Joseph by the angel of the Lord, we have only the one revelation on +celestial marriage. Read it now in the light of these other revelations +and see if it does not too plainly convict itself of having been +counterfeited to Joseph by an evil spirit. Such, brethren, has been the +revelation that the Lord has given to me again and again until it burns +within me, and I must cry it out to you. Try to receive it from me.” + +There was commotion among the people in front, chairs were moved at his +side, and a low voice called to him to sit down. He heard this voice +through the ringing that had been in his ears for many days, like the +beating of a sea against him, and he felt the strength go suddenly from +his knees. + +He stumbled weakly back to his chair and sank into it with head bowed, +feeling, rather than seeing, the figure of Brigham rise from its seat +and step forward with deliberate, unruffled majesty. + +As the Prophet faced his people they became quite silent, so that the +robins could be heard in the Pettigrew peach-trees across the street. +He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and drank of +it slowly. Then, leaning a little forward, resting both his big +cushiony hands on the green of the table, the Lion of the Lord began to +roar—very softly at first. Slowly the words came, in tones scarce +audible, marked indeed almost by the hesitation of the first speaker. +But then a difference showed; gradually the tone increased in volume, +the words came faster, fluency succeeding hesitation, and now his voice +was high and searching, while his easy, masterful gestures laid their +old spell upon the people. + +“It does not occupy my feelings to curse any individual,” he had begun, +awkwardly; “in fact, I feel to render all thanks and praise for the +discourse to which we have just listened, but I couldn’t help saying to +myself, ‘Oh, dear, Granny! what a long tale our puss has got!’” + +An uneasy titter came from the packed square of faces in front of him. +He went on with rising power: + +“But it is foretold in the Book of Mormon that the Lord will remove the +bitter branches, and it’s a good thing to find out where the bitter +branches are. We can remove them ourselves. We can’t expect the Lord to +do _all_ our dirty work. Now hear it once more, you that need to hear +it—and damn all such poor pussyism as sniffles and whines and rejects +it! We don’t want that scrubby breed here!—Listen, I say. The celestial +order of marriage is necessary for our exaltation to the fulness of the +Lord’s glory in the world eternal. Where much is given much is +required. Understand me,—those that reject polygamy will be damned. +Hear it now once for all. I will give you to know that God, our Father, +has many wives, and so has Jesus Christ, our Elder Brother. Our God and +Father in heaven is _a being of tabernacle_, or, in other words, He has +a body of parts the same as you and I have. And that God and Father of +ours was Adam.” + +Again there was a stirring below as if a wind swept the people, and the +little man in his chair cowered for shame of himself. He had meant to +do a great thing; he had thrilled so strongly with it; it had promised +to master others as it had mastered him; and now he was shamed by the +one true Lion of the Lord. + +“Hear it now,” continued Brigham. “When God, our Father Adam, came into +the garden of Eden, he came into it with a celestial body, and brought +one of his wives with him,—Eve. He made and organised this world. He is +Michael, the Archangel, the Ancient of Days, _about whom holy men have +written and spoken_. He is our Father and our God, and the only God +with whom we have to do. I could tell you much more about this; but +were I to tell you the whole truth, blasphemy would be nothing to it, +in the estimation of the superstitious and over-righteous of mankind. +But I will tell you this, that Jesus, our Elder Brother, was begotten +in the flesh by the same character that was in the garden of Eden, and +who is our Father in Heaven.” + +A chorus of Amens from the platform greeted this. It was led by the +Wild Ram of the Mountains. In his chair the little bent man now cowered +lower and lower, one moment praying for strength, the next for death; +feeling the blood surge through him like storm waves that would beat +him down. If only Heaven would send him one last moment of power to +word this truth so that it might prevail. But Brigham was continuing. + +“And what of this Elder Brother, Jesus? Did he reject the patriarchal +order—like some poor pusillanimous cry-babies among us? No, I say! It +will be borne in mind that once on a time there was a marriage in Cana +of Galilee; and on a careful reading of that transaction it will be +discovered that no less a person than Jesus Christ was married on that +occasion. If he was never married his intimacy with Mary and Martha, +and the other Mary also, whom Jesus loved, must have been highly +unbecoming and improper, to say the best of it. I will venture to say +that, if Jesus Christ was now to pass through the most pious countries +in Christendom, with a train of women such as used to follow Him, +fondling about Him, combing His hair, anointing Him with precious +ointments, washing His feet with tears, and wiping them with the hair +of their heads,—that, unmarried or even married, He would be mobbed, +tarred and feathered, and ridden, not on an ass, but on a rail. Now did +He multiply, and did He see His seed? Others may do as they like, but I +will not charge our Saviour with neglect or transgression in this or +any other duty.” + +He turned and went to his seat with a last threatening gesture, amid +many little sounds of people relaxing from strained positions. + +But then, before another could arise, a wonder came upon them. The +little man stood up and came quickly forward, a strange new life in his +step, a new confidence in his bearing, a curious glow of new strength +in his face. Even his stoop had straightened for the moment. For, as he +had listened to Brigham’s last words, the picture of his vision in the +desert had come back,—the cross in the sky, the crucified Saviour upon +it, the head in death-agony fallen over upon the shoulder. And then +before his eyes had come page after page of that New Testament with a +wash of blood across two of them. He felt the new life he had prayed +for pouring into his veins, and with it a fierce anger. The one on the +cross who had been more than man, who had shirked no sacrifice and +loved infinitely, was not thus to be assailed. A panorama of +wrong—wrong thinking and wrong doing—extended before his clearing gaze. +For once he seemed to see truth in a vision and to feel the power to +utter it. + +There was silence again as he stood in front of the little table, the +faces before him frozen into wonder that he should have either the +power or the temerity to answer Brigham. He spoke, and his voice was +again rough with force, and high and fearless, a voice many of them +recalled from the days when he had not been weak. + +“Now I see what we have done. Listen, brethren, for God has not before +so plainly said it to any man, and I know my time is short among you. +We have gone back to the ages of Hebrew barbarism for our God—to the +God of Battles worshipped by a heathen people—a God who loved the reek +of blood and the smell of burning flesh. But you shall not—” + +He turned squarely and fiercely to the face of Brigham. + +“—you shall not confuse that bloody God of Battles with the true +Christ, nor yet with the true God of Love that this Christ came to tell +us of. Once I believed in Him. I was taught to by your priests. War +seemed a righteous thing, for we had been grievously put upon, and I +believed the God of Israel should avenge our wrongs as He had avenged +those of His older Zion. And hear me now—so long as I believed this, I +was no coward; while you, sir—” + +A long forefinger was pointed straight at the amazed Brigham. + +“—while you, sir, were a craven, contemptible in your cowardice. I +would have fought in Echo Cañon to the end, because I believed. But you +did not believe, and so you were afraid to fight. And for your +cowardice and your wretched lusts your name among all but your ignorant +dupes shall become a hissing and a scorn. For mark it well, unless you +forsake that heathen God of Battles and preach the divine Christ of the +New Testament, you shall come to hold only the ignorant, and them only +by keeping them ignorant.” + +The commotion among the people in front was now all but a panic. On the +platform the sires of Israel whispered one to another, while Brigham +gazed as if fascinated, driven to admiration for the speaker’s power +and audacity. For the feverish, fleeting moment, Joel Rae was that +veritable Lion of the Lord he had prayed to be, putting upon the people +his spell of the old days. Heads were again strained up and forward, +and amazed horror was on most of the faces. Far back, Prudence +trembled, feeling that she must be away at once, until she felt the +firm grasp of Follett’s hand. The speaker went on, having turned again +to the front. + +“Instead of a church you shall become justly hated and despised as a +people who foul their homes and dishonour beyond forgiveness the names +of wife and mother. Then your punishment shall come upon you as it has +already come for this and for other sins. Even now the Gentile is upon +us; and mark this truth that God has but now given me to know: we have +never been persecuted as a church,—but always as a political body +hostile to the government of this nation. Even so, you had no faith. +Believing as I believed, I would have fought that nation and died a +thousand bloody deaths rather than submit. But you had no faith, and +you were so low that you let yourselves be ruled by a coward—and I tell +you God _hates_ a coward.” + +Now the old pleading music came into his voice,—the music that had made +him the Lute of the Holy Ghost in the Poet’s roster of titles. + +“O brethren, let me beg you to be good—simply good. Nothing can prevail +against you if you are. If you are not, nothing shall avail you,—the +power of no priesthood, no signs, ordinances, or rituals. Believe me, I +know. Not even the forgiveness of the Father. For I tell you there is a +divinity within each of you that you may some day unwittingly affront; +and then you shall lie always in hell, for if you cannot forgive +yourself, the forgiveness of God will not free you even if it come +seventy times seven. I _know_. For fifteen years I have lain in hell +for the work this Church did at Mountain Meadows. A cross was put there +to the memory of those we slew. Not a day has passed but that cross has +been burned and cut into my living heart with a blade of white heat. +Now I am going to hell; but I am tired and ready to go. Nor do I go as +a coward, as _you_ will go—” + +Again the long forefinger was flung out to point at Brigham. + +“—but I shall go as a fighter to the end. I have not worshipped Mammon, +and I have conquered my flesh—conquered it after it had once all but +conquered me, so that I had to fight the harder—” + +He stopped, waiting as if he were not done, but the spell was broken. +The life, indeed, had in the later moments been slowly dying from his +words; and, as they lost their fire, scattered voices of protest had +been heard; then voices in warning from behind him, and the sound of +two or three rising and pushing back their chairs. + +Now that he no longer heard his own voice he stood quivering and +panic-stricken, the fire out and the pained little smile coming to make +his face gentle again. He turned weakly toward Brigham, but the Prophet +had risen from his seat and his broad back was rounded toward the +speaker. He appeared to be consulting a group of those who stood on the +platform, and they who were not of this group had also turned away. + +The little bent man tried again to smile, hoping for a friendly glance, +perhaps a hand-clasp without words from some one of them. Seeing that +he was shunned, he stepped down off the platform at the side, twisting +his hat in his long, thin hands in embarrassment. A moment he stood so, +turning to look back at the group of priests and Elders around the +Prophet, seeking for any sign, even for a glance that should be not +unkind. The little pained smile still lighted his face, but no friendly +look came from the others. Seeing only the backs turned toward him, he +at length straightened out his crumpled hat, still smiling, and slowly +put it on his head; as he turned away he pulled the hat farther over +his eyes, and then he was off along the dusty street, looking to +neither side, still with the little smile that made his face gentle. + +But when he had come to the end of the street and was on the road up +the hill, the smile died. He seemed all at once to shrink and stoop and +fade,—no longer a Lion of the Lord, but a poor, white-faced, horrified +little man who had meant in his heart to give a great revelation, and +who had succeeded only in uttering blasphemy to the very face of God’s +prophet. + +From below, the little groups of excited people along the street looked +up and saw his thin, bent figure alone in the fading sunlight, toiling +resolutely upward. + +Other groups back in the square talked among themselves, not a few in +whispers. A listener among them might have heard such expressions as, +“He’ll be blood-atoned sure!”—“They’ll make a breach upon +him!”—“They’ll accomplish his decease!”—“He’ll be sent over the rim of +the basin right quick!” One indignant Saint, with a talent for +euphemism, was heard to say, “Brigham will have his spirit +disembodied!” + +To the priests and Elders on the platform Elder Wardle was saying, “The +trouble with him was he was crazy with fever. Why, I’ll bet my best set +of harness his pulse ain’t less than a hundred and twenty this minute.” + +The others looked at Brigham. + +“He’s a crazy man, sure enough,” assented the Prophet, “but my opinion +is he’ll stay crazy, and it wouldn’t be just the right thing by Israel +to let him go on talking before strangers. You see, it _sounds_ so +almighty sane!” + +Back in the crowd Prudence and Follett had lingered a little at the +latter’s suggestion, for he had caught the drift of the talk. When he +had comprehended its meaning they set off up the hill, full of alarm. + +At the door Christina met them. They saw she had been crying. + +“Where is father, Christina?” + +“Himself saddle his horse, and say, ‘I go to toe some of those marks.’ +He say, ‘I see you plenty not no more, so good-bye!’ He kissed me,” she +added. + +“Which way did he go?” + +“So!” She pointed toward the road that led out of the valley to the +north. + +“I’ll go after him,” said Follett. + +“I’ll go with you. Saddle Dandy and Kit—and Christina will have +something for you to eat; you’ve had nothing since morning.” + +“I reckon I know where we’ll have to go,” said Follett, as he went for +the saddles. + + + + +Chapter XLII. +The Little Bent Man at the Foot of the Cross + + +It was dusk when they rode down the hill together. They followed the +cañon road to its meeting with the main highway at the northern edge of +Amalon. Where the roads joined they passed Bishop Wright, who, with his +hat off, turned to stare at them, and to pull at his fringe of whisker +in seeming perplexity. + +“He must have been on his way to our house,” Prudence called. + +“With that hair and whiskers,” answered Follett, with some irrelevance, +“he looks like an old buffalo-bull just before shedding-time.” + +They rode fast until the night fell, scanning the road ahead for a +figure on horseback. When it was quite dark they halted. + +“We might pass him,” suggested Follett. “He was fairly tuckered out, +and he might fall off any minute.” + +“Shall we go on slowly?” she asked. + +“We might miss him in the dark. But the moon will be up in an hour, and +then we can go at full speed. We better wait.” + +“Poor little sorry father! I wish we had gone home sooner.” + +“He certainly’s got more spunk in him than I gave him credit for! He +had old Brigham and the rest of them plumb buffaloed for a minute. Oh, +he did crack the old bull-whip over them good!” + +“Poor little father! Where could he have gone at this hour?” + +“I’ve got an idea he’s set out for that cross he’s talked so much +about—that one up here in the Meadows.” + +“I’ve seen it,—where the Indians killed those poor people years ago. +But what did he mean by the crime of his Church there?” + +“We’ll ask him when we find him. And I reckon we’ll find him right +there if he holds out to ride that far.” + +He tied her pony to an oak-bush a little off the road, threw Dandy’s +bridle-rein to the ground to make him stand, and on a shelving rock +near by he found her a seat. + +“It won’t be long, and the horses need a chance to breathe. We’ve come +along at a right smart clip, and Dandy’s been getting a regular +grass-stomach on him back there.” + +Side by side they sat, and in the dark and stillness their own great +happiness came back to them. + +“The first time I liked you very much,” she said, after he had kissed +her, “was when I saw you were so kind to your horse.” + +“That’s the only way to treat stock. I can gentle any horse I ever saw. +Are you sure you care enough for me?” + +“Oh, yes, yes, _yes_! It must be enough. It’s so much I’m frightened +now.” + +“Will you go away with me?” + +“Yes, I want to go away with you.” + +“Well, you just come out with me,—out of this hole. There’s a fine big +country out there you don’t know anything about. Our home will reach +from Corpus Christi to Deadwood, and from the Missouri clear over to +Mister Pacific Ocean. We’ll have the prairies for our garden, and the +high plains will be our front yard, with the buffalo-grass thicker than +hair on a dog’s back. And, say, I don’t know about it, but I believe +they have a bigger God out there than you’ve got in this Salt Lake +Basin. Anyway, He acts more like you’d think God ought to act. He isn’t +so particular about your knowing a lot of signs and grips and passwords +and winks. Going to your heaven must be like going into one of those +Free Mason lodges,—a little peek-hole in the door, and God shoving the +cover back to see if you know the signs. I guess God isn’t so trifling +as all that,—having, you know, a lot of signs and getting ducked under +water three times and all that business. I don’t exactly know what His +way is, but I’ll bet it isn’t any way that you’d have to laugh at if +you saw it—like as if, now, you saw old man Wright and God making signs +to each other through the door, and Wright saying:— + +_‘Eeny meeny miny mo! +Cracky feeny finy fo!’_ + + +and God looking in a little book to see if he got all the words right.” + +“Anyway, I’m glad you weren’t baptised, after what Father said to-day.” + +“You’ll be gladder still when you get out there where they got a +full-grown man’s God.” + +They talked on of many things, chiefly of the wonder of their love—that +each should actually be each and the two have come together—until a +full yellow moon came up, seemingly from the farther side of the hill +in front of them. When at last its light flooded the road so that it +lay off to the north like a broad, gray ribbon flung over the black +land, they set out again, galloping side by side mile after mile, +scanning sharply the road ahead and its near sides. + +Down out of Pine Valley they went, and over more miles of gray alkali +desert toward a line of hills low and black in the north. + +They came to these, followed the road out of the desert through a +narrow gap, and passed into the Mountain Meadows, reining in their +horses as they did so. + +Before them the Meadows stretched between two ranges of low, rocky +hills, narrow at first but widening gradually from the gap through +which they had come. But the ground where the long, rich grass had once +grown was now barren, gray and ugly in the moonlight, cut into deep +gullies and naked of all but a scant growth of sage-brush which the +moon was silvering, and a few clumps of shadowy scrub-oak along the +base of the hills on either side. + +Instinctively they stopped, speaking in low tones. And then there came +to them out of the night’s silence a strange, weird beating; hollow, +muffled, slow, and rhythmic, but penetrating and curiously exciting, +like another pulse cunningly playing upon their own to make them beat +more rapidly. The girl pulled her horse close in by his, but he +reassured her. + +“It’s Indians—they must be holding the funeral of some chief. But no +matter—these Indians aren’t any more account than prairie-dogs.” + +They rode on slowly, the funeral-drum sounding nearer as they went. + +Then far up the meadow by the roadside they could see the hard, square +lines of the cross in the moonlight. Slower still they went, while the +drumbeats became louder, until they seemed to fall upon their own +ear-drums. + +“Could he have come to this dreadful place?” she asked, almost in a +whisper. + +“We haven’t passed him, that’s sure; and I’ve got a notion he did. I’ve +heard him talk about this cross off and on—it’s been a good deal in his +mind—and maybe he was a little out of his head. But we’ll soon see.” + +They walked their horses up a little ascent, and the cross stood out +more clearly against the sky. They approached it slowly, leaning +forward to peer all about it; but the shadows lay heavy at its base, +and from a little distance they could distinguish no outline. + +But at last they were close by and could pierce the gloom, and there at +the foot of the cross, beside the cairn of stones that helped to +support it, was a little huddled bit of blackness. It moved as they +looked, and they knew the voice that came from it. + +“O God, I am tired and ready! Take me and burn me!” + +She was off her horse and quickly at his side. Follett, to let them be +alone, led the horses to the spring below. It was almost gone now, only +the feeblest trickle of a rivulet remaining. The once green meadows had +behaved, indeed, as if a curse were put upon them. Hardly had grass +grown or water run through it since the day that Israel wrought there. +When he had tied the horses he heard Prudence calling him. + +“I’m afraid he’s delirous,” she said, when he reached her side. “He +keeps hearing cries and shots, and sees a woman’s hair waving before +him, and he’s afraid of something back of him. What can we do?” + +At the foot of the cross the little man was again sounding his endless +prayer. + +“Bow me, bend me, break me, for I have been soul-proud. Burn me out—” + +She knelt by his side, trying to soothe him. + +“Father—it’s all right—it’s Prudence—” + +But at her name he uttered a cry with such terror in it that she +shuddered and was still. Then he began to mutter incoherently, and she +heard her own name repeated many times. + +“If that awful beating would only stop,” she said to Follett, who had +now brought water in the curled brim of his hat. She tried to have the +little man drink. He swallowed some of the water from the hat-brim, +shivering as he did so. + +“We ought to have a fire,” she said. Follett began to gather twigs and +sage-brush, and presently had a blaze in front of them. + +In the light of the fire the little man could see their faces, and he +became suddenly coherent, smiling at them in the old way. + +“Why have you come so far in the night?” he asked Prudence, taking one +of her cool hands between his own that burned. + +“But, you poor little father! Why have _you_ come, when you should be +home in bed? You are burning with fever.” + +“Yes, yes, dear, but it’s over now. This is the end. I came here—to be +here—I came to say my last prayer in the body. And they will come to +find me here. You must go before they come.” + +“Who will find you?” + +“They from the Church. I didn’t mean to do it, but when I was on my +feet something forced it out of me. I knew what they would do, but I +was ready to die, and I hoped I could awaken some of them.” + +“But no one shall hurt you.” + +“Don’t tempt me to stay any longer, dear, even if they would let me. +Oh, you don’t know, you don’t know—and that Devil’s drumming over there +to madden me as on that other night. But it’s just—my God, how just!” + +“Come away, then. Ruel will find your horse, and we’ll ride home.” + +“It’s too late—don’t ask me to leave my hell now. It would only follow +me. It was this way that night—the night before—the beating got into my +blood and hammered on my brain till I didn’t know. Prudence, I must +tell you—everything—” + +He glanced at Follett appealingly, as he had looked at the others when +he left the platform that day, beseeching some expression of +friendliness. + +“Yes, I must tell you—everything.” But his face lighted as Follett +interrupted him. + +“You tell her,” said Follett, doggedly, “how you saved her that day and +kept her like your own and brought her up to be a good woman—that’s +what you tell her.” The gratitude in the little man’s eyes had grown +with each word. + +“Yes, yes, dear, I have loved you like my own little child, but your +father and mother were killed here that day—and I found you and loved +you—such a dear, forlorn little girl—will you hate me now?” he broke +off anxiously. She had both his hands in her own. + +“But why, how _could_ I hate you? You are my dear little sorry +father—all I’ve known. I shall always love you.” + +“That will be good to take with me,” he said, smiling again. “It’s all +I’ve got to take—it’s all I’ve had since the day I found you. You are +good,” he said, turning to Follett. + +“Oh, shucks!” answered Follett. + +A smile of rare contentment played over the little man’s face. + +In the silence that followed, the funeral-drum came booming in upon +them over the ridge, and once they saw an Indian from the encampment +standing on top of the hill to look down at their fire. Then the little +man spoke again. + +“You will go with him,” he said to Prudence. “He will take you out of +here and back to your mother’s people.” + +“She’s going to marry me,” said Follett. The little man smiled at this. + +“It is right—the Gentile has come to take you away. The Lord is cunning +in His vengeance. I felt it must be so when I saw you together.” + +After this he was so quiet for a time that they thought he was +sleeping. But presently he grew restless again, and said to Follett:— + +“I want you to have me buried here. Up there to the north, three +hundred yards from here on the right, is a dwarf cedar standing alone. +Straight over the ridge from that and half-way down the other side is +another cedar growing at the foot of a ledge. Below that ledge is a +grave. There are stones piled flat, and a cross cut in the one toward +the cedar. Make a grave beside that one, and put me in it—just as I am. +Remember that—_uncoffined_. It must be that way, remember. There’s a +little book here in this pocket. Let it stay with me—but surely +uncoffined, remember, as—as the rest of them were.” + +“But, father, why talk so? You are going home with us.” + +“There, dear, it’s all right, and you’ll feel kind about me always when +you remember me?” + +“Don’t,—don’t talk so.” + +“If that beating would only stay out of my brain—the thing is crawling +behind me again! Oh, no, not yet—not yet! Say this with me, dear:— + +“‘_The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want._ + +“‘_He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the +still waters._’” + +She said the psalm with him, and he grew quiet again. + +“You will go away with your husband, and go at once—” He sat up +suddenly from where he had been lying, the light of a new design in his +eyes. + +“Come,—you will need protection now—I must marry you at once. Surely +that will be an office acceptable in the sight of God. And you will +remember me better for it—and kinder. Come, Prudence; come, Ruel!” + +“But, father, you are sick, and so weak—let us wait.” + +“It will give me such joy to do it—and this is the last.” + +She looked at Follett questioningly, but gave him her hand silently +when he arose from the ground where he had been sitting. + +“He’d like it, and it’s what we want,—all simple,” he said. + +In the light of the fire they stood with hands joined, and the little +man, too, got to his feet, helping himself up by the cairn against +which he had been leaning. + +Then, with the unceasing beats of the funeral-drum in their ears, he +made them man and wife. + +“Do you, Ruel, take Prudence by the right hand to receive her unto +yourself to be your lawful and wedded wife, and you to be her lawful +and wedded husband for time and eternity—” + +Thus far he had followed the formula of his Church, but now he departed +from it with something like defiance coming up in his voice. + +“—with a covenant and promise on your part that you will cleave to her +and to none other, so help you God, taking never another wife in spite +of promise or threat of any priesthood whatsoever, cleaving unto her +and her alone with singleness of heart?” + +When they had made their responses, and while the drum was beating upon +his heart, he pronounced them man and wife, sealing upon them “the +blessings of the holy resurrection, with power to come forth in the +morning clothed with glory and immortality.” + +When he had spoken the final words of the ceremony, he seemed to lose +himself from weakness, reaching out his hands for support. They helped +him down on to the saddle-blanket that Follett had brought, and the +latter now went for more wood. + +When he came back they were again reciting the psalm that had seemed to +quiet the sufferer. + +_“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will +fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort +me.’”_ + +Follett spread the other saddle-blanket over him. He lay on his side, +his face to the fire, one moment saying over the words of the psalm, +but the next listening in abject terror to something the others could +not hear. + +“I wonder you don’t hear their screams,” he said, in one of these +moments; “but their blood is not upon you.” Then, after a little:— + +“See, it is growing light over there. Now they will soon be here. They +will know where I had to come, and they will have a spade.” He seemed +to be fainting in his last weakness. + +Another hour they sat silently beside him. Slowly the dark over the +eastern hill lightened to a gray. Then the gray paled until a flush of +pink was there, and they could see about them in the chill of the +morning. + +Then came a silence that startled them all. The drum had stopped, and +the night-long vibrations ceased from their ears. + +They looked toward the little man with relief, for the drumming had +tortured him. But his breathing was shallow and irregular now, and from +time to time they could hear a rattle in his throat. His eyes, when he +opened them, were looking far off. He was turning restlessly and +muttering again. She took his hands and found them cold and moist. + +“His fever must have broken,” she said, hopefully. The little man +opened his eyes to look up at her, and spoke, though absently, and not +as if he saw her. + +“They will have a spade with them when they come, never fear. And the +spot must not be forgotten—three hundred yards north to the dwarf +cedar, then straight over the ridge and half-way down, to the other +cedar below the sandstone—and uncoffined, with the book here in this +pocket where I have it. ‘Thou preparest a table before me in the +presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup +runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of +my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’” + +He started up in terror of something that seemed to be behind him, but +fell back, and a moment later was rambling off through some sermon of +the bygone year. + +“Sometimes, brethren, it has seemed to my inner soul that Christ came +not alone to reveal God to man, but to reveal man to God; taking on +that human form to reconcile the Father to our sins. Sometimes I have +thought He might so well have done this that God would view our sins as +we view the faults of our well-loved little children—loving us through +all—perhaps touched—even more amused than offended, at our childish +stumblings in these blind, twisted paths of right and wrong; knowing at +the last He should save the least of us who have been most awkward. +But, oh, brethren! beware of the sin for which you cannot win +forgiveness from that other God, that spirit of the true Father, fixed +forever in the breast of each of you.” + +The light was coming swiftly. Already their fire had paled, and the +embers, but a little before glowing red, seemed now to be only white +ashes. + +From over the ridge back of them, whence had come the notes of the +funeral-drum, an Indian now slouched toward them, drawn by curiosity; +stopping to look, then advancing, to stop again. + +At length he stood close by them, silent, gazing. Then, as if +understanding, he spoke to Follett. + +“Big sick—go get big medicine! Then you give chitcup!” + +He ran swiftly back, disappearing over the ridge. + +The sick man was now delirious again, muttering disjointed texts and +bits of old sermons with which the Lute of the Holy Ghost, young and +ardent, had once thrilled the Saints. + +“‘For without shedding of blood there shall be no remission’—‘but where +are now your prophets which prophesied unto you, saying the King of +Babylon shall not come against you nor against this land’—‘But I say +unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, +bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use +you.’ That is where the stain was,—the bloody stain that held the +leaves together—but I tore them apart and read,—” + +The Indian who had come to them first now appeared again over the +ridge, and with him another. The second was accoutered lavishly with a +girdle of brilliant feathers, anklets of shell, and bracelets of +silver, his face barred by alternating streaks of vermilion and yellow, +a lank braid of his black hair hanging either side of his face, and on +his head the horns and painted skull of a buffalo. In one hand was a +wand of red-dyed wood with a beaded and quilled amulet at the end. The +other down by his side held something they did not at first notice. + +The little man was growing weaker each moment, but still muttered as he +turned restlessly on the blanket. + +“‘And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them +likewise.’” His quick ear detecting the light step of the approaching +Indians, he sat up and grasped Follett’s arm. + +“What do they want? Let no one come now. Death is here and I am going +out to meet it—I am glad to go—so tired!” + +Follett, looking up at the two Indians now standing awkwardly by them, +said, in a low tone, with a wave of his free arm: + +_“Vamose!”_ + +“Big medicine!” grunted the Indian who had first come to them, pointing +to his companion. In an instant this other was before the sick man, +chanting and making passes with his wand. + +Then, before Follett could rise, the Indian’s other hand came up, and +they saw, slowly waved before the staring eyes of the little man, a +long mass of yellow hair that writhed and ran in little gleaming waves +as if it lived. It was tied about the wrist of the Indian with strips +of scarlet flannel—tied below a broad silver bracelet that glittered +from the bronzed arm. + +The face of the sick man had a moment before been tranquil, almost +smiling; but now his eyes followed the hair with something of +fascination in them. Then a shade of terror darkened the peaceful look, +like the shadow of a cloud hurried by the wind over a fair green +garden. + +But with its passing there came again into his eyes the light of +sanity. He gazed at the hair, breathless, still in wonder; and then +very slowly there grew over his face the look of an unearthly peace, so +that they who were by him deferred the putting aside of the Indian. +With eyes wide open, full of a calm they could not understand, he +looked and smiled, his wan face flushing again in that last time. Then, +reaching suddenly out, his long white fingers tangled themselves feebly +in the golden skein, and with a little loving uplift of the eyes he +drew it to his breast. A few seconds he held it so, with an eagerness +that told of some sweet and mighty relief come to his soul,—some +illumination of grace that had seemed to be struck by the first sunrays +from that hair into his wondering eyes. + +Slowly, then, the little smile faded,—the wistful light of it dying for +the last time. The tired head fell suddenly back and the wan lids +closed over lifeless eyes. + +Still the hand clutched the hair to the quiet heart, the yellow strands +curling peacefully through the dead fingers as if in forgiveness. From +the look of rest on the still face it was as if, in his years of +service and sacrifice, the little man had learned how to forgive his +own sin in the flash of those last heart-beats when his soul had rushed +out to welcome Death. + +Prudence had arisen before the end came and was standing in front of +the Indian to motion him away. Follett was glad she did not see the +eyes glaze nor the head drop. He leaned forward and gently loosed the +limp fingers from the yellow tangle. Then he sprang quickly up and put +his arm about Prudence. The two Indians backed off in some dismay. The +one who had first come to them spoke again. + +“Big medicine! You give some chitcup?” + +“No—no! Got no chitcup! _Vamose_!” + +They turned silently and trotted back over the ridge. + +“Come, sit here close by the fire, dear—no, around this side. It’s all +over now.” + +“Oh! Oh! My poor, sorry little father—he was so good to me!” She threw +herself on the ground, sobbing. + +Follett spread a saddle-blanket over the huddled figure at the foot of +the cross. Then he went back to take her in his arms and give her such +comfort as he could. + + + + +Chapter XLIII. +The Gentile Carries off his Spoil + + +Half an hour later they heard the sound of voices and wheels. Follett +looked up and saw a light wagon with four men in it driving into the +Meadows from the south. The driver was Seth Wright; the man beside him +he knew to be Bishop Snow, the one they called the Entablature of +Truth. The two others he had seen in Amalon, but he did not know their +names. + +He got up and went forward when the wagon stopped, leaning casually on +the wheel. + +“He’s already dead, but you can help me bury him as soon as I get my +wife out of the way around that oak-brush—I see you’ve brought along a +spade.” + +The men in the wagon looked at each other, and then climbed slowly out. + +“Now who could ’a’ left that there spade in the wagon?” began the Wild +Ram of the Mountains, a look of perplexity clouding his ingenuous face. + +The Entablature of Truth was less disposed for idle talk. + +“Who did you say you’d get out of the way, young man?” + +“My wife, Mrs. Ruel Follett.” + +“Meaning Prudence Rae?” + +“Meaning her that was Prudence Rae.” + +“Oh!” + +The ruddy-faced Bishop scanned the horizon with a dreamy, speculative +eye, turning at length to his companions. + +“We better get to this burying,” he said. + +“Wait a minute,” said Follett. + +They saw him go to Prudence, raise her from the ground, put a +saddle-blanket over his arm, and lead her slowly up the road around a +turn that took them beyond a clump of the oak-brush. + +“It won’t do!” said Wright, with a meaning glance at the Entablature of +Truth, quite as if he had divined his thought. + +“I’d like to know why not?” retorted this good man, aggressively. + +“Because times has changed; this ain’t ’57.” + +“It’ll almost do itself,” insisted Snow. “What say, Glines?” and he +turned to one of the others. + +“Looks all right,” answered the man addressed. “By heck! but that’s a +purty saddle he carries!” + +“What say, Taggart?” + +“For God’s sake, no, Bishop! No—I got enough dead faces looking at me +now from this place. I’m ha’nted into hell a’ready, like he said he was +yisterday. By God! I sometimes a’most think I’ll have my ears busted +and my eyes put out to git away from the bloody things!” + +“Ho! Scared, are you? Well, I’ll do it myself. _You_ don’t need to +help.” + +“Better let well enough alone, Brother Warren!” interposed Wright. + +“But it _ain’t_ well enough! Think of that girl going to a low cuss of +a Gentile when Brigham wants her. Why, think of letting such a critter +get away, even if Brigham didn’t want her!” + +“You know they got Brother Brigham under indictment for murder now, +account of that Aiken party.” + +“What of it? He’ll get off.” + +“That he will, but it’s because he’s Brigham. _You_ ain’t. You’re just +a south country Bishop. Don’t you know he’d throw you to the Gentile +courts as a sop quicker’n a wink if he got a chance,—just like he’ll do +with old John D. Lee the minute George A. peters out so the chain will +be broke between Lee and Brigham?” + +“And maybe this cuss has got friends,” suggested Glines. + +“Who’d know but the girl?” Snow insisted. “And Brother Brigham would +fix _her_ all right. Is the household of faith to be spoiled?” + +“Well, they got a railroad running through it now,” said Wright, “and a +telegraph, and a lot of soldiers. So don’t you count on _me_, Brother +Snow, at any stage of it now or afterwards. I got a pretty sizable +family that would hate to lose me. Look out! Here he comes.” + +Follett now came up, speaking in a cheerful manner that nevertheless +chilled even the enthusiasm of the good Bishop Snow. + +“Now, gentlemen, just by way of friendly advice to you,—like as not +I’ll be stepping in front of some of you in the next hour. But it isn’t +going to worry me any, and I’ll tell you why. I’d feel awful sad for +you all if anything was to happen to me,—if the Injuns got me, or I was +took bad with a chill, or a jack-rabbit crept up and bit me to death, +or anything. You see, there’s a train of twenty-five big J. Murphy +wagons will be along here over the San Bernardino trail. They are +coming out of their way, almost any time now, on purpose to pick me up. +Fact is, my ears have been pricking up all morning to hear the old +bull-whips crack. There were thirty-one men in the train when they went +down, and there may be more coming back. It’s a train of Ezra Calkins, +my adopted father. You see, they know I’ve been here on special +business, and I sent word the other day I was about due to finish it, +and they wasn’t to go through coming back without me. Well, that bull +outfit will stop for me—and they’ll _get_ me or get pay for me. That’s +their orders. And it isn’t a train of women and babies, either. They’re +such an outrageous rough lot, quick-tempered and all like that, that +they wouldn’t believe the truth that I had an accident—not if you swore +it on a stack of Mormon Bibles topped off by the life of Joe Smith. +They’d go right out and make Amalon look like a whole cavayard of +razor-hoofed buffaloes had raced back and forth over it. And the rest +of the two thousand men on Ezra Calkins’s pay-roll would come hanging +around pestering you all with Winchesters. They’d make you scratch +gravel, sure! + +“Now let’s get to work. I see you’ll be awful careful and tender with +me. I’ll bet I don’t get even a sprained ankle. You folks get him, and +I’ll show you where he said the place was.” + +Two hours later Follett came running back to where Prudence lay on the +saddle-blanket in the warm morning sun. + +“The wagon-train is coming—hear the whips? Now, look here, why don’t we +go right on with it, in one of the big wagons? They’re coming back +light, and we can have a J. Murphy that is bigger than a whole lot of +houses in this country. You don’t want to go back there, do you?” + +She shook her head. + +“No, it would hurt me to see it now. I should be expecting to see him +at every turn. Oh, I couldn’t stand that—poor sorry little father!” + +“Well, then, leave it all; leave the place to the women, and good +riddance, and come off with me. I’ll send one of the boys back with a +pack-mule for any plunder you want to bring away, and you needn’t ever +see the place again.” + +She nestled in his arms, feeling in her grief the comfort of his +tenderness. + +“Yes, take me away now.” + +The big whips could be heard plainly, cracking like rifle-shots, and +shortly came the creaking and hollow rumbling of the wagons and the +cries of the teamsters to their six-mule teams. There were shouts and +calls, snatches of song from along the line, then the rattling of +harness, and in a cloud of dust the train was beside them, the +teamsters sitting with rounded shoulders up under the bowed covers of +the big wagons. + +A hail came from the rear of the train, and a bronzed and bearded man +in a leather jacket cantered up on a small pony. + +“Hello there, Rool! I’m whoopin’ glad to see you!” + +He turned to the driver of the foremost wagon. + +“All right, boys! We’ll make a layby for noon.” + +Follett shook hands with him heartily, and turned to Prudence. + +“This is my wife, Lew. Prudence, this is Lew Steffins, our +wagon-master.” + +“Shoo, now!—you young cub—married? Well, I’m right glad to see Mrs. +Rool Follett—and bless your heart, little girl!” + +“Did you stop back there at the settlement?” + +“Yes; and they said you’d hit the pike about dark last night, to chase +a crazy man. I told them I’d be back with the whackers if I didn’t find +you. I was afraid some trouble was on, and here you’re only married to +the sweetest thing that ever—why, she’s been crying! Anything wrong?” + +“No; never mind now, anyway. We’re going on with you, Lew.” + +“Bully proud to have you. There’s that third wagon—” + +“Could I ride in that?” asked the girl, looking at the big lumbering +conveyance doubtfully. + +“It carried six thousands pounds of freight to Los Angeles, little +woman,” answered Steffins, promptly, “and I wouldn’t guess you to heft +over one twenty-eight or thirty at the outside. I’ll have the box +filled in with spruce boughs and a lot of nice bunch-grass, and put +some comforts over that, and you’ll be all snug and tidy. You won’t +starve, either, not while there’s meat running.” + +“And say, Lew, she’s got some stuff back at that place. Let the extra +hand ride back with a packjack and bring it on. She’ll tell him what to +get.” + +“Sure! Tom Callahan can go.” + +“And give us some grub, Lew. I’ve hardly had a bite since yesterday +morning.” + +An hour later, when the train was nearly ready to start, Follett took +his wife to the top of the ridge and showed her, a little way below +them, the cedar at the foot of the sandstone ledge. He stayed back, +thinking she would wish to be there alone. But when she stood by the +new grave she looked up and beckoned to him. + +“I wanted you by me,” she said, as he reached her side. “I never knew +how much he was to me. He wasn’t big and strong like other men, but now +I see that he was very dear and more than I suspected. He was so quiet +and always so kind—I don’t remember that he was ever stern with me +once. And though he suffered from some great sorrow and from sickness, +he never complained. He wouldn’t even admit he was sick, and he always +tried to smile in that little way he had, so gentle. Poor sorry little +father!—and yesterday not one of them would be his friend. It broke my +heart to see him there so wistful when they turned their backs on him. +Poor little man! And see, here’s another grave all grown around with +sage and the stones worn smooth; but there’s the cross he spoke of. It +must be some one that he wanted to lie beside. Poor little sorry +father! Oh, you will have to be so much to me!” + +The train was under way again. In the box of the big wagon, on a +springy couch of spruce boughs and long bunch-grass, Prudence lay at +rest, hurt by her grief, yet soothed by her love, her thoughts in a +whirl about her. + +Follett, mounted on Dandy, rode beside her wagon. + +“Better get some sleep yourself, Rool,” urged Steffins. + +“Can’t, Lew. I ain’t sleepy. I’m too busy thinking about things, and I +have to watch out for my little girl there. You can’t tell what these +cusses might do.” + +“There’s thirty of us watching out for her now, young fellow.” + +“There’ll be thirty-one till we get out of this neighbourhood, Lew.” + +He lifted up the wagon-cover softly a little later; and found that she +slept. As they rode on, Steffins questioned him. + +“Did you make that surround you was going to make, Rool?” + +“No, Lew, I couldn’t. Two of them was already under, and, honest, I +couldn’t have got the other one any more than you could have shot your +kid that day he up-ended the gravy-dish in your lap.” + +“Hell!” + +“That’s right! I hope I never have to kill any one, Lew, no matter +_how_ much I got a right to. I reckon it always leaves uneasy feelings +in a man’s mind.” + +Eight days later a tall, bronzed young man with yellow hair and quick +blue eyes, in what an observant British tourist noted in his journal as +“the not unpicturesque garb of a border-ruffian,” helped a dazed but +very pretty young woman on to the rear platform of the Pullman car +attached to the east-bound overland express at Ogden. + +As they lingered on the platform before the train started they were +hailed and loudly cheered, averred the journal of this same Briton, “by +a crowd of the outlaw’s companions, at least a score and a half of most +disreputable-looking wretches, unshaven, roughly dressed, heavily +booted, slouch-hatted (they swung their hats in a drunken frenzy), and +to this rough ovation the girl, though seemingly a person of some +decency, waved her handkerchief and smiled repeatedly, though her face +had seemed to be sad and there were tears in her eyes at that very +moment.” + +At this response from the girl, the journal went on to say, the +ruffians had redoubled their drunken pandemonium. And as the train +pulled away, to the observant tourist’s marked relief, the young outlaw +on the platform had waved his own hat and shouted as a last message to +one “Lew,” that he “must not let Dandy get gandered up,” nor forget “to +tie him to grass.” + +Later, as the train shrieked its way through Echo Cañon, the observant +tourist, with his double-visored plaid cap well over his face, +pretending to sleep, overheard the same person across the aisle say to +the girl:— + +“Now we’re on our own property at last. For the next sixty hours we’ll +be riding across our own front yard—and there aren’t any keys and +passwords and grips here, either—just a plain Almighty God with no +nonsense about Him.” + +Whereupon had been later added to the journal a note to the effect that +Americans are not only quite as prone to vaunt and brag and tell big +stories as other explorers had asserted, but that in the West they were +ready blasphemers. + +Yet the couple minded not the observant tourist, and continued to +enlarge and complicate his views of American life to the very bank of +the Missouri. Unwittingly, however, for they knew him not nor saw him +nor heard him, being occupied with the matter of themselves. + +“You’ll have to back me up when we get to Springfield,” he said to her +one late afternoon, when they neared the end of their exciting journey. +“I’ve heard that old Grandpa Corson is mighty peppery. He might take +you away from me.” + +Her eyes came in from the brown rolling of the plain outside to light +him with their love; and then, the lamps having not yet been lighted, +the head of grace nestled suddenly on its pillow of brawn with only a +little tremulous sigh of security for answer. + +This brought his arm quickly about her in a protecting clasp, plainly +in the sidelong gaze of the now scandalised but not less observant +tourist. + +THE END. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lions of the Lord, by Harry Leon Wilson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIONS OF THE LORD *** + +***** This file should be named 11534-0.txt or 11534-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/5/3/11534/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, David Wilson and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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