A STUDY IN SCARLET part 2 chapter 1
$Unique_ID{SLH00008}
$Title{A STUDY IN SCARLET; The Country of the Saints; On the Great Alkali
Plain}
$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}
$Subject{}
$Journal{}
$Volume{}
$Date{}
$Log{Plate A*0000101.scf
Plate B*0000102.scf}
THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES
A STUDY IN SCARLET
Part 2
THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS
Chapter 1
ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN
IN THE central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an
arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier
against the advance of civilization. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and
from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a
region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout
this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark
and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged
canons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow,
and in summer are gray with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve,
however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees or
of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight of
those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their prairies.
The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air,
and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks up
such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in
the wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the
northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches
the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and
intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge
of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits
flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life,
nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue
heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray earth--above all, there is absolute
silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty
wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a
pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the
extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of
many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered white objects which
glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali.
Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some large and coarse, others
smaller and more delicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter
to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by
these scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance was
such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region. An
observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty
or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin
was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard
were all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and
burned with an unnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was
hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his
weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his
bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however,
and his clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed
what it was that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man was
dying--dying from hunger and from thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation,
in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain
stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a
sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture.
In all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and
west he looked with wild, questioning eyes, and then he realized that his
wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was
about to die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years
hence?" he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle,
and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which he had carried slung
over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his
strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little
violence. Instantly there broke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry,
and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes,
and two little speckled dimpled fists.
"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice, reproachfully.
"Have I, though?" the man answered penitently; "I didn't go for to do
it." As he spoke he unwrapped the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little
girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with
its little linen apron, all bespoke a mother's care. The child was pale and
wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her
companion.
"How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
tousy golden curls which covered the back of her head.
"Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, showing the
injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's mother?"
"Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."
"Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye; she
'most always did if she was just goin' over to auntie's for tea, and now she's
been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there no water
nor nothing to eat?"
"No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient awhile,
and then you'll be all right. Put your head up ag'in me like that, and then
you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your lips is like leather,
but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards lie. What's that you've got?"
"Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,
holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to home I'll
give them to brother Bob."
"You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man confidently.
"You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though--you remember when we
left the river?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But there
was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it didn't turn up.
Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you, and--and-- --"
"And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,
staring up at his grimy visage.
"No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian
Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your
mother."
"Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl, dropping her face in
her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and we
tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved matters. There's
an almighty small chance for us now!"
"Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking her
sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.
"I guess that's about the size of it."
"Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You gave
me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be with mother
again."
"Yes, you will, dearie."
"And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she
meets us at the door of heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of
buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was fond of.
How long will it be first?"
"I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the
northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared three
little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they
approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large brown birds,
which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some
rocks which overlooked them. They were buzzards, the vultures of the West,
whose coming is the forerunner of death.
"Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did God
make this country?"
"Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this
unexpected question.
"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the
little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in these
parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the trees."
"What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked diffidently.
"It ain't night yet," she answered.
"It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you
bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the wagon
when we was on the plains."
"Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering eyes.
"I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was half
the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say them out, and
I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."
"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the shawl
out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like this. It makes
you feel kind of good."
It was a strange sight, had there been anything but the buzzards to see
it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little
prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face and
his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless heaven in
heartfelt entreaty to that dread Being with whom they were face to face, while
the two voices--the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh--united in
the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed
their seat in the shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling
upon the broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and three
nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids
drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the
breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his
companion, and both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another half-hour a strange sight
would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain
there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and hardly to be
distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher and
broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to
increase in size until it became evident that it could only be raised by a
great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would
have come to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which
graze upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously
impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the
solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered
tilts of wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the
haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its
journey for the West. But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached
the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right
across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, wagons and carts,
men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along
under burdens, and children who toddled beside the wagons or peeped out from
under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary party of
immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of
circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose through the clear
air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with
the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not
sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave, iron-faced
men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching the
base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among themselves.
"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande,"
said another.
"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the
rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."
"Amen! amen!" responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above
them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing up hard
and bright against the gray rocks behind. At the sight there was a general
reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came
galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.
"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no
other tribes until we cross the great mountains."
"Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson?" asked one of the band.
"And I," "And I," cried a dozen voices.
"Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the elder answered.
In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their horses, and were
ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object which had excited
their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence
and dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could
see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the
sky-line. The young man who had first given the alarm was leading them.
Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though overcome with
astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in the same way by the
sight which met their eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single
giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and
hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regular
breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him lay a child, with her
round white arms encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden-haired head
resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted,
showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile
played over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs, terminating
in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast
to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above
this strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of
the newcomers, uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly
away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared about them
in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plain
which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and which was now
traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an
expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his bony hand over his
eyes. "This is what they call delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child
stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing, but
looked all round her with the wondering, questioning gaze of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that
their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl and
hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt companion,
and assisted him towards the wagons.
"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that little un
are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o' thirst and
hunger away down in the south."
"Is she your child?" asked someone.
"I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause I
saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this day
on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with curiosity at his
stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a powerful lot of ye."
"Nigh unto ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the
persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Moroni."
"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
chosen a fair crowd of ye."
"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other, sternly. "We are
of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on
plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at
Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the state of Illinois, where we had
founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and
from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. "I
see," he said; "you are the Mormons."
"We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.
"And where are you going?"
"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our
Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with
you."
They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded
by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced, meek-looking women; strong, laughing
children; and anxious, earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment
and of commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of
one of the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their escort did not
halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they
reached a wagon, which was conspicuous for its great size and for the
gaudiness and smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it,
whereas the others were furnished with two, or, at most, four apiece. Beside
the driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of
age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader.
He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid it
aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he turned
to the two castaways.
"If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be as
believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better far
that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove to
be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit. Will
you come with us on these terms?"
"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such emphasis
that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained
his stern, impressive expression.
"Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink, and
the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We
have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"
"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down
the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull
murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels
the great wagons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along
once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been committed led them
to his wagon, where a meal was already awaiting them.
"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered
from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and forever you are of
our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of
Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."
$Title{A STUDY IN SCARLET; The Country of the Saints; On the Great Alkali
Plain}
$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}
$Subject{}
$Journal{}
$Volume{}
$Date{}
$Log{Plate A*0000101.scf
Plate B*0000102.scf}
THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES
A STUDY IN SCARLET
Part 2
THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS
Chapter 1
ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN
IN THE central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an
arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier
against the advance of civilization. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and
from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a
region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout
this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark
and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged
canons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow,
and in summer are gray with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve,
however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees or
of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight of
those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their prairies.
The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air,
and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks up
such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in
the wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the
northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches
the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and
intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge
of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits
flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life,
nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue
heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray earth--above all, there is absolute
silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty
wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a
pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the
extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of
many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered white objects which
glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali.
Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some large and coarse, others
smaller and more delicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter
to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by
these scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance was
such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region. An
observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty
or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin
was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard
were all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and
burned with an unnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was
hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his
weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his
bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however,
and his clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed
what it was that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man was
dying--dying from hunger and from thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation,
in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain
stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a
sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture.
In all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and
west he looked with wild, questioning eyes, and then he realized that his
wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was
about to die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years
hence?" he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle,
and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which he had carried slung
over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his
strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little
violence. Instantly there broke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry,
and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes,
and two little speckled dimpled fists.
"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice, reproachfully.
"Have I, though?" the man answered penitently; "I didn't go for to do
it." As he spoke he unwrapped the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little
girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with
its little linen apron, all bespoke a mother's care. The child was pale and
wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her
companion.
"How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
tousy golden curls which covered the back of her head.
"Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, showing the
injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's mother?"
"Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."
"Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye; she
'most always did if she was just goin' over to auntie's for tea, and now she's
been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there no water
nor nothing to eat?"
"No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient awhile,
and then you'll be all right. Put your head up ag'in me like that, and then
you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your lips is like leather,
but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards lie. What's that you've got?"
"Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,
holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to home I'll
give them to brother Bob."
"You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man confidently.
"You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though--you remember when we
left the river?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But there
was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it didn't turn up.
Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you, and--and-- --"
"And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,
staring up at his grimy visage.
"No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian
Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your
mother."
"Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl, dropping her face in
her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and we
tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved matters. There's
an almighty small chance for us now!"
"Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking her
sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.
"I guess that's about the size of it."
"Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You gave
me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be with mother
again."
"Yes, you will, dearie."
"And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she
meets us at the door of heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of
buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was fond of.
How long will it be first?"
"I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the
northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared three
little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they
approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large brown birds,
which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some
rocks which overlooked them. They were buzzards, the vultures of the West,
whose coming is the forerunner of death.
"Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did God
make this country?"
"Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this
unexpected question.
"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the
little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in these
parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the trees."
"What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked diffidently.
"It ain't night yet," she answered.
"It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you
bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the wagon
when we was on the plains."
"Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering eyes.
"I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was half
the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say them out, and
I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."
"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the shawl
out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like this. It makes
you feel kind of good."
It was a strange sight, had there been anything but the buzzards to see
it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little
prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face and
his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless heaven in
heartfelt entreaty to that dread Being with whom they were face to face, while
the two voices--the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh--united in
the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed
their seat in the shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling
upon the broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and three
nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids
drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the
breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his
companion, and both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another half-hour a strange sight
would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain
there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and hardly to be
distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher and
broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to
increase in size until it became evident that it could only be raised by a
great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would
have come to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which
graze upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously
impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the
solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered
tilts of wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the
haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its
journey for the West. But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached
the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right
across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, wagons and carts,
men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along
under burdens, and children who toddled beside the wagons or peeped out from
under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary party of
immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of
circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose through the clear
air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with
the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not
sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave, iron-faced
men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching the
base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among themselves.
"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande,"
said another.
"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the
rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."
"Amen! amen!" responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above
them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing up hard
and bright against the gray rocks behind. At the sight there was a general
reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came
galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.
"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no
other tribes until we cross the great mountains."
"Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson?" asked one of the band.
"And I," "And I," cried a dozen voices.
"Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the elder answered.
In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their horses, and were
ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object which had excited
their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence
and dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could
see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the
sky-line. The young man who had first given the alarm was leading them.
Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though overcome with
astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in the same way by the
sight which met their eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single
giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and
hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regular
breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him lay a child, with her
round white arms encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden-haired head
resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted,
showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile
played over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs, terminating
in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast
to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above
this strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of
the newcomers, uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly
away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared about them
in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plain
which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and which was now
traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an
expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his bony hand over his
eyes. "This is what they call delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child
stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing, but
looked all round her with the wondering, questioning gaze of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that
their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl and
hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt companion,
and assisted him towards the wagons.
"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that little un
are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o' thirst and
hunger away down in the south."
"Is she your child?" asked someone.
"I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause I
saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this day
on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with curiosity at his
stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a powerful lot of ye."
"Nigh unto ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the
persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Moroni."
"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
chosen a fair crowd of ye."
"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other, sternly. "We are
of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on
plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at
Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the state of Illinois, where we had
founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and
from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. "I
see," he said; "you are the Mormons."
"We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.
"And where are you going?"
"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our
Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with
you."
They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded
by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced, meek-looking women; strong, laughing
children; and anxious, earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment
and of commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of
one of the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their escort did not
halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they
reached a wagon, which was conspicuous for its great size and for the
gaudiness and smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it,
whereas the others were furnished with two, or, at most, four apiece. Beside
the driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of
age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader.
He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid it
aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he turned
to the two castaways.
"If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be as
believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better far
that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove to
be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit. Will
you come with us on these terms?"
"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such emphasis
that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained
his stern, impressive expression.
"Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink, and
the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We
have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"
"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down
the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull
murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels
the great wagons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along
once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been committed led them
to his wagon, where a meal was already awaiting them.
"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered
from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and forever you are of
our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of
Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."
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