Mr. Sherlock Holmes, PART II. The Country of the Saints.

A Study In Scarlet

CHAPTER I.

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 civilisation.
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 ca ˜ nons; and there are enormous
plains, which in winter are white with snow, and
in summer are grey 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 huntinggrounds,
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, grey 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
realised 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 grey 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 grey 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 grey 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 towsy golden curls which
covered the back of her head.
“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with
perfect gravity, shoving 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 agin 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. Mc-
Gregor, 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 waggon
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 o’ 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 waggons 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, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and
men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered
along under burdens, and children who toddled
beside the waggons 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 ironfaced 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 grey 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 skyline. 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 little 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 snowwhite
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 new comers 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 boney 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 waggons.
“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 upon ten thousand,” said one of the
young men; “we are the persecuted children of
God—the chosen of the Angel Merona.”
“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 earnesteyed
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
waggon, 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
a-piece. 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 brownbacked
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
waggons 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 waggon, 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.”