CHAPTER IV.
A Flight For Life
On the morning which followed his interview
with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went in to
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.
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.
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