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Mr. Sherlock Holmes, CHAPTER IV. A Flight For Life

CHAPTER IV.

A Flight For Life

On the morning which followed his interview
with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went in to

Salt Lake City, and having found his acquaintance,

who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
him with his message to Jefferson Hope.
In it he told the young man of the imminent dan-

ger which threatened them, and how necessary it
was that he should return. Having done thus he
felt easier in his mind, and returned home with a
lighter heart.
As he approached his farm, he was surprised to
see a horse hitched to each of the posts of the gate.
Still more surprised was he on entering to find
two young men in possession of his sitting-room.
One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in
the rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the
stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse
bloated features, was standing in front of the window
with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular
hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as
he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced
the conversation.
“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This
here is the son of Elder Drebber, and I’m Joseph
Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert
when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered
you into the true fold.”
“As He will all the nations in His own good
time,” said the other in a nasal voice; “He grindeth
slowly but exceeding small.”
John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed
who his visitors were.
“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the
advice of our fathers to solicit the hand of your
daughter for whichever of us may seem good to
you and to her. As I have but four wives and
Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to me
that my claim is the stronger one.”
“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other;
“the question is not how many wives we have, but
how many we can keep. My father has now given
over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.”
“But my prospects are better,” said the other,
warmly. “When the Lord removes my father, I
shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory.
Then I am your elder, and am higher in the
Church.”
“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined
young Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in
the glass. “We will leave it all to her decision.”
During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood
fuming in the doorway, hardly able to keep his
riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.
“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to
them, “when my daughter summons you, you can
come, but until then I don’t want to see your faces
again.”
The two young Mormons stared at him in
amazement. In their eyes this competition between
them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of
honours both to her and her father.
“There are two ways out of the room,” cried
Ferrier; “there is the door, and there is the window.
Which do you care to use?”
His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt
hands so threatening, that his visitors sprang to
their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The old
farmer followed them to the door.
“Let me know when you have settled which it
is to be,” he said, sardonically.
“You shall smart for this!” Stangerson cried,
white with rage. “You have defied the Prophet and
the Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end of
your days.”
“The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon
you,” cried young Drebber; “He will arise and
smite you!”
“Then I’ll start the smiting,” exclaimed Ferrier
furiously, and would have rushed upstairs for his
gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and restrained
him. Before he could escape from her, the
clatter of horses’ hoofs told him that they were beyond
his reach.
“The young canting rascals!” he exclaimed,
wiping the perspiration from his forehead; “I
would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than
the wife of either of them.”
“And so should I, father,” she answered, with
spirit; “but Jefferson will soon be here.”
“Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The
sooner the better, for we do not know what their
next move may be.”
It was, indeed, high time that someone capable
of giving advice and help should come to the aid
of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted daughter.
In the whole history of the settlement there
had never been such a case of rank disobedience
to the authority of the Elders. If minor errors were
punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position
would be of no avail to him. Others as well
known and as rich as himself had been spirited
away before now, and their goods given over to the
Church. He was a brave man, but he trembled at
the vague, shadowy terrors which hung over him.
Any known danger he could face with a firm lip,
but this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his
fears from his daughter, however, and affected to
make light of the whole matter, though she, with
the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at
ease.

He expected that he would receive some message
or remonstrance from Young as to his conduct,
and he was not mistaken, though it came in
an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning
he found, to his surprise, a small square of paper
pinned on to the coverlet of his bed just over
his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling
letters:—
“Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment,
and then—”
The dash was more fear-inspiring than any
threat could have been. How this warning came
into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and
windows had all been secured. He crumpled the
paper up and said nothing to his daughter, but the
incident struck a chill into his heart. The twentynine
days were evidently the balance of the month
which Young had promised. What strength or
courage could avail against an enemy armed with
such mysterious powers? The hand which fastened
that pin might have struck him to the heart,
and he could never have known who had slain
him.
Still more shaken was he next morning. They
had sat down to their breakfast when Lucy with a
cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the centre of
the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,
the number 28. To his daughter it was
unintelligible, and he did not enlighten her. That
night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in
the morning a great 27 had been painted upon the
outside of his door.
Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning
came he found that his unseen enemies had kept
their register, and had marked up in some conspicuous
position how many days were still left to
him out of the month of grace. Sometimes the fatal
numbers appeared upon the walls, sometimes
upon the floors, occasionally they were on small
placards stuck upon the garden gate or the railings.
With all his vigilance John Ferrier could not
discover whence these daily warnings proceeded.
A horror which was almost superstitious came
upon him at the sight of them. He became haggard
and restless, and his eyes had the troubled
look of some hunted creature. He had but one
hope in life now, and that was for the arrival of the
young hunter from Nevada.
Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to
ten, but there was no news of the absentee. One by
one the numbers dwindled down, and still there
came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered
down the road, or a driver shouted at his
team, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking
that help had arrived at last. At last, when
he saw five give way to four and that again to
three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of escape.
Single-handed, and with his limited knowledge
of the mountains which surrounded the settlement,
he knew that he was powerless. The
more-frequented roads were strictly watched and
guarded, and none could pass along them without
an order from the Council. Turn which way he
would, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow
which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered
in his resolution to part with life itself before
he consented to what he regarded as his daughter’s
dishonour.
He was sitting alone one evening pondering
deeply over his troubles, and searching vainly for
some way out of them. That morning had shown
the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the
next day would be the last of the allotted time.
What was to happen then? All manner of vague
and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his
daughter—what was to become of her after he was
gone? Was there no escape from the invisible network
which was drawn all round them. He sank
his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought
of his own impotence.
What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle
scratching sound—low, but very distinct in the
quiet of the night. It came from the door of the
house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened intently.
There was a pause for a few moments, and
then the low insidious sound was repeated. Someone
was evidently tapping very gently upon one of
the panels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin
who had come to carry out the murderous
orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent
who was marking up that the last day of grace had
arrived. John Ferrier felt that instant death would
be better than the suspense which shook his nerves
and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew
the bolt and threw the door open.
Outside all was calm and quiet. The night
was fine, and the stars were twinkling brightly
overhead. The little front garden lay before the
farmer’s eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but
neither there nor on the road was any human being
to be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked
to right and to left, until happening to glance
straight down at his own feet he saw to his astonishment
a man lying flat upon his face upon the
ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.

So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned
up against the wall with his hand to his throat to
stifle his inclination to call out. His first thought
was that the prostrate figure was that of some
wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he
saw it writhe along the ground and into the hall
with the rapidity and noiselessness of a serpent.
Once within the house the man sprang to his feet,
closed the door, and revealed to the astonished
farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of
Jefferson Hope.
“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you
scared me! Whatever made you come in like that.”
“Give me food,” the other said, hoarsely. “I
have had no time for bite or sup for eight-and-forty
hours.” He flung himself upon the cold meat and
bread which were still lying upon the table from
his host’s supper, and devoured it voraciously.
“Does Lucy bear up well?” he asked, when he had
satisfied his hunger.
“Yes. She does not know the danger,” her father
answered.
“That is well. The house is watched on every
side. That is why I crawled my way up to it. They
may be darned sharp, but they’re not quite sharp
enough to catch a Washoe hunter.”
John Ferrier felt a different man now that he
realized that he had a devoted ally. He seized the
young man’s leathery hand and wrung it cordially.
“You’re a man to be proud of,” he said. “There are
not many who would come to share our danger
and our troubles.”
“You’ve hit it there, pard,” the young hunter
answered. “I have a respect for you, but if you
were alone in this business I’d think twice before
I put my head into such a hornet’s nest. It’s Lucy
that brings me here, and before harm comes on her
I guess there will be one less o’ the Hope family in
Utah.”
“What are we to do?”
“To-morrow is your last day, and unless you
act to-night you are lost. I have a mule and two
horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much
money have you?”
“Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in
notes.”
“That will do. I have as much more to add to it.
We must push for Carson City through the mountains.
You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that
the servants do not sleep in the house.”
While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter
for the approaching journey, Jefferson Hope
packed all the eatables that he could find into a
small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water,
for he knew by experience that the mountain
wells were few and far between. He had hardly
completed his arrangements before the farmer returned
with his daughter all dressed and ready for
a start. The greeting between the lovers was warm,
but brief, for minutes were precious, and there was
much to be done.
“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson
Hope, speaking in a low but resolute voice,
like one who realizes the greatness of the peril,
but has steeled his heart to meet it. “The front
and back entrances are watched, but with caution
we may get away through the side window and
across the fields. Once on the road we are only two
miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting.
By daybreak we should be half-way through
the mountains.”
“What if we are stopped,” asked Ferrier.
Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded
from the front of his tunic. “If they are
too many for us we shall take two or three of them
with us,” he said with a sinister smile.
The lights inside the house had all been extinguished,
and from the darkened window Ferrier
peered over the fields which had been his own,
and which he was now about to abandon for ever.
He had long nerved himself to the sacrifice, however,
and the thought of the honour and happiness
of his daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined
fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy,
the rustling trees and the broad silent stretch of
grain-land, that it was difficult to realize that the
spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the
white face and set expression of the young hunter
showed that in his approach to the house he had
seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.
Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson
Hope had the scanty provisions and water,
while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few
of her more valued possessions. Opening the window
very slowly and carefully, they waited until a
dark cloud had somewhat obscured the night, and
then one by one passed through into the little garden.
With bated breath and crouching figures they
stumbled across it, and gained the shelter of the
hedge, which they skirted until they came to the
gap which opened into the cornfields. They had
just reached this point when the young man seized
his two companions and dragged them down into
the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.
It was as well that his prairie training had
given Jefferson Hope the ears of a lynx. He and

his friends had hardly crouched down before the
melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard
within a few yards of them, which was immediately
answered by another hoot at a small distance.
At the same moment a vague shadowy figure
emerged from the gap for which they had been
making, and uttered the plaintive signal cry again,
on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.
“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first who
appeared to be in authority. “When the Whippoor-
Will calls three times.”
“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell
Brother Drebber?”
“Pass it on to him, and from him to the others.
Nine to seven!”
“Seven to five!” repeated the other, and the two
figures flitted away in different directions. Their
concluding words had evidently been some form
of sign and countersign. The instant that their
footsteps had died away in the distance, Jefferson
Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his companions
through the gap, led the way across the
fields at the top of his speed, supporting and halfcarrying
the girl when her strength appeared to
fail her.
“Hurry on! hurry on!” he gasped from time to
time. “We are through the line of sentinels. Everything
depends on speed. Hurry on!”
Once on the high road they made rapid
progress. Only once did they meet anyone, and
then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter
branched away into a rugged and narrow footpath
which led to the mountains. Two dark jagged
peaks loomed above them through the darkness,
and the defile which led between them was the Eagle
Ca˜non in which the horses were awaiting them.
With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his
way among the great boulders and along the bed
of a dried-up watercourse, until he came to the retired
corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful
animals had been picketed. The girl was placed
upon the mule, and old Ferrier upon one of the
horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson Hope
led the other along the precipitous and dangerous
path.
It was a bewildering route for anyone who
was not accustomed to face Nature in her wildest
moods. On the one side a great crag towered up
a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing,
with long basaltic columns upon its rugged
surface like the ribs of some petrified monster. On
the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and debris
made all advance impossible. Between the two ran
the irregular track, so narrow in places that they
had to travel in Indian file, and so rough that only
practised riders could have traversed it at all. Yet
in spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts
of the fugitives were light within them, for every
step increased the distance between them and the
terrible despotism from which they were flying.
They soon had a proof, however, that they were
still within the jurisdiction of the Saints. They
had reached the very wildest and most desolate
portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled
cry, and pointed upwards. On a rock which
overlooked the track, showing out dark and plain
against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel.
He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and
his military challenge of “Who goes there?” rang
through the silent ravine.
“Travellers for Nevada,” said Jefferson Hope,
with his hand upon the rifle which hung by his
saddle.
They could see the lonely watcher fingering his
gun, and peering down at them as if dissatisfied at
their reply.
“By whose permission?” he asked.
“The Holy Four,” answered Ferrier. His Mormon
experiences had taught him that that was the
highest authority to which he could refer.
“Nine from seven,” cried the sentinel.
“Seven from five,” returned Jefferson Hope
promptly, remembering the countersign which he
had heard in the garden.
“Pass, and the Lord go with you,” said the
voice from above. Beyond his post the path broadened
out, and the horses were able to break into
a trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary
watcher leaning upon his gun, and knew that they
had passed the outlying post of the chosen people,
and that freedom lay before them.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, CHAPTER III. John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet

CHAPTER III.

John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet

Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope
and his comrades had departed from Salt Lake
City. John Ferrier’s heart was sore within him
when he thought of the young man’s return, and
of the impending loss of his adopted child. Yet
her bright and happy face reconciled him to the
arrangement more than any argument could have
done. He had always determined, deep down in
his resolute heart, that nothing would ever induce
him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such
a marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as
a shame and a disgrace. Whatever he might think
of the Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he
was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the
subject, however, for to express an unorthodox
opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in
the Land of the Saints.
Yes, a dangerous matter—so dangerous that
even the most saintly dared only whisper their religious
opinions with bated breath, lest something
which fell from their lips might be misconstrued,
and bring down a swift retribution upon them.
The victims of persecution had now turned persecutors
on their own account, and persecutors of
the most terrible description. Not the Inquisition
of Seville, nor the German Vehmgericht, nor the
Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able to put a
more formidable machinery in motion than that
which cast a cloud over the State of Utah.
Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached
to it, made this organization doubly terrible.
It appeared to be omniscient and omnipotent,
and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who
held out against the Church vanished away, and
none knew whither he had gone or what had befallen
him. His wife and his children awaited him
at home, but no father ever returned to tell them
how he had fared at the hands of his secret judges.
A rash word or a hasty act was followed by annihilation,
and yet none knew what the nature might
be of this terrible power which was suspended
over them. No wonder that men went about in
fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts
which oppressed them.

At first this vague and terrible power was exercised
only upon the recalcitrants who, having
embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards
to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it
took a wider range. The supply of adult women
was running short, and polygamy without a female
population on which to draw was a barren
doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to
be bandied about—rumours of murdered immigrants
and rifled camps in regions where Indians
had never been seen. Fresh women appeared in
the harems of the Elders—women who pined and
wept, and bore upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable
horror. Belated wanderers upon the
mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked,
stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in
the darkness. These tales and rumours took substance
and shape, and were corroborated and recorroborated,
until they resolved themselves into
a definite name. To this day, in the lonely ranches
of the West, the name of the Danite Band, or the
Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened
one.
Fuller knowledge of the organization which
produced such terrible results served to increase
rather than to lessen the horror which it inspired
in the minds of men. None knew who belonged
to this ruthless society. The names of the participators
in the deeds of blood and violence done
under the name of religion were kept profoundly
secret. The very friend to whom you communicated
your misgivings as to the Prophet and his
mission, might be one of those who would come
forth at night with fire and sword to exact a terrible
reparation. Hence every man feared his neighbour,
and none spoke of the things which were nearest
his heart.
One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set
out to his wheatfields, when he heard the click of
the latch, and, looking through the window, saw
a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming
up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for
this was none other than the great Brigham Young
himself. Full of trepidation—for he knew that such
a visit boded him little good—Ferrier ran to the
door to greet the Mormon chief. The latter, however,
received his salutations coldly, and followed
him with a stern face into the sitting-room.
“Brother Ferrier,” he said, taking a seat, and
eyeing the farmer keenly from under his lightcoloured
eyelashes, “the true believers have been
good friends to you. We picked you up when you
were starving in the desert, we shared our food
with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley, gave
you a goodly share of land, and allowed you to
wax rich under our protection. Is not this so?”
“It is so,” answered John Ferrier.
“In return for all this we asked but one condition:
that was, that you should embrace the true
faith, and conform in every way to its usages. This
you promised to do, and this, if common report
says truly, you have neglected.”
“And how have I neglected it?” asked Ferrier,
throwing out his hands in expostulation. “Have
I not given to the common fund? Have I not attended
at the Temple? Have I not—?”
“Where are your wives?” asked Young, looking
round him. “Call them in, that I may greet them.”
“It is true that I have not married,” Ferrier answered.
“But women were few, and there were
many who had better claims than I. I was not a
lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my
wants.”
“It is of that daughter that I would speak to
you,” said the leader of the Mormons. “She has
grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found
favour in the eyes of many who are high in the
land.”
John Ferrier groaned internally.
“There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve—
stories that she is sealed to some Gentile.
This must be the gossip of idle tongues. What is
the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph
Smith? ‘Let every maiden of the true faith marry
one of the elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits
a grievous sin.’ This being so, it is impossible
that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer
your daughter to violate it.”
John Ferrier made no answer, but he played
nervously with his riding-whip.
“Upon this one point your whole faith shall be
tested—so it has been decided in the Sacred Council
of Four. The girl is young, and we would not
have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive
her of all choice. We Elders have many heifers, 1
but our children must also be provided. Stangerson
has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either
of them would gladly welcome your daughter to
their house. Let her choose between them. They
are young and rich, and of the true faith. What say
you to that?”
Ferrier remained silent for some little time with
his brows knitted.
“You will give us time,” he said at last. “My
daughter is very young—she is scarce of an age to
marry.”

“She shall have a month to choose,” said
Young, rising from his seat. “At the end of that
time she shall give her answer.”
He was passing through the door, when he
turned, with flushed face and flashing eyes. “It
were better for you, John Ferrier,” he thundered,
“that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons
upon the Sierra Blanco, than that you should
put your weak wills against the orders of the Holy
Four!”
With a threatening gesture of his hand, he
turned from the door, and Ferrier heard his heavy
step scrunching along the shingly path.
He was still sitting with his elbows upon his
knees, considering how he should broach the matter
to his daughter when a soft hand was laid
upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside
him. One glance at her pale, frightened face
showed him that she had heard what had passed.
“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his
look. “His voice rang through the house. Oh, father,
father, what shall we do?”
“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered, drawing
her to him, and passing his broad, rough hand
caressingly over her chestnut hair. “We’ll fix it up
somehow or another. You don’t find your fancy
kind o’ lessening for this chap, do you?”
A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only
answer.
“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you
say you did. He’s a likely lad, and he’s a Christian,
which is more than these folk here, in spite o’ all
their praying and preaching. There’s a party starting
for Nevada to-morrow, and I’ll manage to send
him a message letting him know the hole we are
in. If I know anything o’ that young man, he’ll be
back here with a speed that would whip electrotelegraphs.”
Lucy laughed through her tears at her father’s
description.
“When he comes, he will advise us for the best.
But it is for you that I am frightened, dear. One
hears—one hears such dreadful stories about those
who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always
happens to them.”
“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father
answered. “It will be time to look out for squalls
when we do. We have a clear month before us; at
the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of
Utah.”
“Leave Utah!”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“But the farm?”
“We will raise as much as we can in money, and
let the rest go. To tell the truth, Lucy, it isn’t the
first time I have thought of doing it. I don’t care
about knuckling under to any man, as these folk
do to their darned prophet. I’m a free-born American,
and it’s all new to me. Guess I’m too old to
learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he
might chance to run up against a charge of buckshot
travelling in the opposite direction.”
“But they won’t let us leave,” his daughter objected.
“Wait till Jefferson comes, and we’ll soon manage
that. In the meantime, don’t you fret yourself,
my dearie, and don’t get your eyes swelled up, else
he’ll be walking into me when he sees you. There’s
nothing to be afeared about, and there’s no danger
at all.”
John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in
a very confident tone, but she could not help observing
that he paid unusual care to the fastening
of the doors that night, and that he carefully
cleaned and loaded the rusty old shotgun which
hung upon the wall of his bedroom.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes CHAPTER II. The Flower Of Utah

CHAPTER II.

The Flower Of Utah

This is not the place to commemorate the
trials and privations endured by the immigrant
Mormons before they came to their final haven.
From the shores of the Mississippi to the western
slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled
on with a constancy almost unparalleled in
history. The savage man, and the savage beast,
hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease—every impediment
which Nature could place in the way—had
all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet
the long journey and the accumulated terrors had
shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them.
There was not one who did not sink upon his
knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath
them, and learned from the lips of their leader that
this was the promised land, and that these virgin
acres were to be theirs for evermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful
administrator as well as a resolute chief. Maps
were drawn and charts prepared, in which the
future city was sketched out. All around farms
were apportioned and allotted in proportion to
the standing of each individual. The tradesman
was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling.
In the town streets and squares sprang up, as if
by magic. In the country there was draining and
hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer
saw the whole country golden with the wheat
crop. Everything prospered in the strange settlement.
Above all, the great temple which they had
erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller
and larger. From the first blush of dawn until the
closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer
and the rasp of the saw was never absent from the
monument which the immigrants erected to Him
who had led them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little
girl who had shared his fortunes and had been
adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons
to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little
Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough
in Elder Stangerson’s waggon, a retreat which she
shared with the Mormon’s three wives and with
his son, a headstrong forward boy of twelve. Having
rallied, with the elasticity of childhood, from
the shock caused by her mother’s death, she soon
became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself
to this new life in her moving canvas-covered
home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered

from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful
guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly
did he gain the esteem of his new companions,
that when they reached the end of their wanderings,
it was unanimously agreed that he should
be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of
land as any of the settlers, with the exception of
Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.
On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built
himself a substantial log-house, which received so
many additions in succeeding years that it grew
into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical
turn of mind, keen in his dealings and skilful
with his hands. His iron constitution enabled
him to work morning and evening at improving
and tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his
farm and all that belonged to him prospered exceedingly.
In three years he was better off than
his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine
he was rich, and in twelve there were not half a
dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who
could compare with him. From the great inland
sea to the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was
no name better known than that of John Ferrier.
There was one way and only one in which he
offended the susceptibilities of his co-religionists.
No argument or persuasion could ever induce him
to set up a female establishment after the manner
of his companions. He never gave reasons for this
persistent refusal, but contented himself by resolutely
and inflexibly adhering to his determination.
There were some who accused him of lukewarmness
in his adopted religion, and others who
put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to
incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some early
love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined
away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the
reason, Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In every
other respect he conformed to the religion of the
young settlement, and gained the name of being
an orthodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and
assisted her adopted father in all his undertakings.
The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic
odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and
mother to the young girl. As year succeeded to
year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more
rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer
upon the high road which ran by Ferrier’s farm
felt long-forgotten thoughts revive in their mind
as they watched her lithe girlish figure tripping
through the wheatfields, or met her mounted upon
her father’s mustang, and managing it with all the
ease and grace of a true child of the West. So the
bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which
saw her father the richest of the farmers left her as
fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be
found in the whole Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered
that the child had developed into the woman.
It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change
is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by
dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know
it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand
sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns,
with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and
a larger nature has awoken within her. There are
few who cannot recall that day and remember the
one little incident which heralded the dawn of a
new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion
was serious enough in itself, apart from its future
influence on her destiny and that of many besides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter
Day Saints were as busy as the bees whose hive
they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry.
Down the dusty high roads defiled long
streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the
west, for the gold fever had broken out in California,
and the Overland Route lay through the
City of the Elect. There, too, were droves of sheep
and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture
lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and
horses equally weary of their interminable journey.
Through all this motley assemblage, threading
her way with the skill of an accomplished rider,
there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed
with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating
out behind her. She had a commission from
her father in the City, and was dashing in as she
had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness
of youth, thinking only of her task and how
it was to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers
gazed after her in astonishment, and even
the unemotional Indians, journeying in with their
pelties, relaxed their accustomed stoicism as they
marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when
she found the road blocked by a great drove of cattle,
driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen
from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured
to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse
into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had
she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts
closed in behind her, and she found herself completely
imbedded in the moving stream of fierceeyed,
long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she

was to deal with cattle, she was not alarmed at
her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity
to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing
her way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately
the horns of one of the creatures, either by accident
or design, came in violent contact with the
flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness.
In an instant it reared up upon its hind legs with
a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way
that would have unseated any but a most skilful
rider. The situation was full of peril. Every plunge
of the excited horse brought it against the horns
again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all
that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle,
yet a slip would mean a terrible death under
the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals.
Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head
began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to
relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by
the steam from the struggling creatures, she might
have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a
kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of
assistance. At the same moment a sinewy brown
hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her
to the outskirts.
“You’re not hurt, I hope, miss,” said her preserver,
respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and
laughed saucily. “I’m awful frightened,” she said,
naively; “whoever would have thought that Poncho
would have been so scared by a lot of cows?”
“Thank God you kept your seat,” the other said
earnestly. He was a tall, savage-looking young fellow,
mounted on a powerful roan horse, and clad
in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle
slung over his shoulders. “I guess you are the
daughter of John Ferrier,” he remarked, “I saw you
ride down from his house. When you see him,
ask him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St.
Louis. If he’s the same Ferrier, my father and he
were pretty thick.”
“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?”
she asked, demurely.
The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion,
and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“I’ll do so,” he said, “we’ve been in the mountains
for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
condition. He must take us as he finds us.”
“He has a good deal to thank you for, and so
have I,” she answered, “he’s awful fond of me. If
those cows had jumped on me he’d have never got
over it.”
“Neither would I,” said her companion.
“You! Well, I don’t see that it would make
much matter to you, anyhow. You ain’t even a
friend of ours.”
The young hunter’s dark face grew so gloomy
over this remark that Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.
“There, I didn’t mean that,” she said; “of
course, you are a friend now. You must come and
see us. Now I must push along, or father won’t
trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” he answered, raising his broad
sombrero, and bending over her little hand. She
wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with
her riding-whip, and darted away down the broad
road in a rolling cloud of dust.
Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions,
gloomy and taciturn. He and they had
been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting
for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in
the hope of raising capital enough to work some
lodes which they had discovered. He had been
as keen as any of them upon the business until
this sudden incident had drawn his thoughts
into another channel. The sight of the fair young
girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra breezes,
had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very
depths. When she had vanished from his sight,
he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and
that neither silver speculations nor any other questions
could ever be of such importance to him as
this new and all-absorbing one. The love which
had sprung up in his heart was not the sudden,
changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild,
fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious
temper. He had been accustomed to succeed
in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart
that he would not fail in this if human effort and
human perseverance could render him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many
times again, until his face was a familiar one at
the farm-house. John, cooped up in the valley,
and absorbed in his work, had had little chance
of learning the news of the outside world during
the last twelve years. All this Jefferson Hope
was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
Lucy as well as her father. He had been a
pioneer in California, and could narrate many a
strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost in
those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too,
and a trapper, a silver explorer, and a ranchman.
Wherever stirring adventures were to be had, Jefferson
Hope had been there in search of them. He
soon became a favourite with the old farmer, who
spoke eloquently of his virtues. On such occasions,


Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her
bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that
her young heart was no longer her own. Her honest
father may not have observed these symptoms,
but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the
man who had won her affections.
It was a summer evening when he came galloping
down the road and pulled up at the gate. She
was at the doorway, and came down to meet him.
He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up
the pathway.
“I am off, Lucy,” he said, taking her two hands
in his, and gazing tenderly down into her face; “I
won’t ask you to come with me now, but will you
be ready to come when I am here again?”
“And when will that be?” she asked, blushing
and laughing.
“A couple of months at the outside. I will come
and claim you then, my darling. There’s no one
who can stand between us.”
“And how about father?” she asked.
“He has given his consent, provided we get
these mines working all right. I have no fear on
that head.”
“Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged
it all, there’s no more to be said,” she whispered,
with her cheek against his broad breast.
“Thank God!” he said, hoarsely, stooping and
kissing her. “It is settled, then. The longer I stay,
the harder it will be to go. They are waiting for me
at the ca ˜ non. Good-bye, my own darling—goodbye.
In two months you shall see me.”
He tore himself from her as he spoke, and,
flinging himself upon his horse, galloped furiously
away, never even looking round, as though afraid
that his resolution might fail him if he took one
glance at what he was leaving. She stood at the
gate, gazing after him until he vanished from her
sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
happiest girl in all Utah.

hrithik roshan in krish 2