THE MORMON’S RIDE.
Morning came, and the tents of the Mormons were struck—the jaded teams
harnessed and the march began. So long had they been upon the trail that
there was no confusion. All had been reduced to system—each man knew his
place, and few were the orders required. All, save their leader, were
looking forward to the “promised land,”—the valley that was to flow with
milk and honey—the city of refuge—the abode of the saints. Truly with
these people ignorance was bliss. They were happy in this
delusion—satisfied with anticipation. But the man that rode that day
alone—the man whose serpent tongue had lured the ignorant to leave home
and kindred by the most infamous falsehoods—who knew well that the
living springs he had pictured would become as the Red Sea, and the
golden fruits as bitter ashes to their lips, thought neither of city or
valley—temple or font. His mind was wandering amid a rocky cañon, and he
was planning a rescue that should give to him the prestige of a
benefactor. Yet even he felt the truth of the words, “the wicked flee
when no man pursueth.” Might not his steps have been followed, and the
conversation with the Indian overheard? With the suspicion of guilt he
narrowly examined the faces of those who had been on guard the previous
night, and endeavored by wily questions to learn the very thing he
dreaded most to know.
Slowly the patient cattle toiled over the dry prairie, for on leaving
the well-watered camping-ground the scene around them changed as if the
angel of destruction had passed before them, leaving blight and
desolation. The green grass had been replaced by withered sage—the mossy
bank by sun-cracked earth, and the cool, dewy air by the breath of a
furnace. But still they toiled on, for was not the golden dream-land
beyond? On, on, over the fenceless prairie—up the long slopes—along the
road beaten by thousands upon thousands of feet until hard as iron, they
wandered, a lost people seeking for rest they would never know.
It was near noon, hot and sultry, and the fainting teams were unyoked.
In the scanty shade of the wagons the men threw themselves down, while
the poor women cooked, toiled and fretted over the fire. “Elder” Thomas
relaxed his dignity and seated himself amid a group of the youngest and
fairest, and strove to ingratiate himself with the still hopeful
maidens. Apparently at his ease, and with a mind untroubled by care, he
was in reality as if clad in the shirt of Nessus, for it was nearing the
hour of his appointment with the Indian and his base heart was trembling
over the result of his plan.
Some plausible excuse was necessary in order to free himself from his
companions—not all, though, for cowardice would not allow him to face
Black Eagle and his savage warriors alone. They knew that he possessed
gold—for he had been forced to give up a portion of his hoarded store to
gratify the avarice of the Indian, and well he knew that their cupidity
was not easily satisfied, or their longing for plunder ever put to rest.
“The cañons are lurkin’ places for the rascally Utes,” he said, to one
of the foremost of the train who came to learn his commands with regard
to the march. “It would not do to lead the Lord’s people into an ambush
where they would be slaughtered like sheep in a pen.”
“They have not dared to attack us thus far,” was the response.
“I know they are afeard of us on the open ground,” said the elder, “but
when they hide in the rocks and shoot their poisoned arrows down from
their secret dens, bravery is of little use.”
“We should send scouts ahead, then.”
“Yes, that’s just what I’m going to do. I’ll take about a dozen of the
young men and see that the coast is clear.”
“You?”
“Even I! Am I not a leader in Israel?”
“But think of your precious life!”
Verily he was thinking of it, and how precious it was, at least to
himself; but in a far different sense than his follower supposed. There
was a rare prize to be won, or he would never have ventured his precious
person in the undertaking.
“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church,” he replied, having
somewhere picked up the expression and deeming it particularly _apropos_
to the present occasion—high-sounding, and likely to “tell” upon the
hearers.
So it was settled; accompanied by half a score of picked men, he set
out, after having designated the point where the train should rest for
the night—a place having the indispensable accessories of feed and
water. A short gallop brought the elder and his men within view of a
rocky gorge of the hills, that appeared as if cleft by some wizard spell
from topmost crest to base; or as if a giant thunder-bolt had been
hurled from on high and torn its way through the living rocks; or a
riving plowshare of huge proportions had left a mighty furrow, never to
be planted by the hand of presumptuous man.
“Now, boys,” the leader said, dropping his voice to the lowest octave
within its range, “we’ll soon be there. I’ve often traveled it before
and will lead the way. Keep close together and mind you keep your eyes
about you, though I don’t think we shall have any trouble. Hark!”
The hoarse croaking and a great flapping of wings bespoke the passage of
a buzzard in search of its loathsome prey—of some poor beast which had
been left to feed these scavengers of the wilderness and their fierce
copartners, the ravenous wolves. How he scorned them, as, ghoul-like,
they passed, stretching their thin necks and casting dark shadows on the
path. Yet, was not his own errand far less merciful? Were not these
wolves his peers?
An eagle rose and soared on its strong wings higher and higher until it
became a speck in the ether. A matchless bird was that eagle; his nest
was built on the topmost cliff of a cloud-piercing mountain—from the
giant pine that stood on its crest he could look down on the whirling
storms and listen to the thunder rolling and crashing below. His eye
shrunk not, blinded, from the noonday sun, like meaner birds, but looked
on when its red disk seemed steeped in blood, nor closed when the forked
lightning shot its flame-tipped shafts hurtling through the murky gloom.
A matchless bird—freedom’s grand type, the chosen bird of Jove, the
tameless and fetterless. Ah! brave wanderer, mount ever where foot of
man can never stray. Tracker of the pathless azure, where his thoughts
alone may wander—dweller in the boundless fields of the upper air and
monarch of a mighty realm—realization, almost, of the spirit’s
dreamings, shall not the day come when we too can roam at will, tracking
the infinite, defiant of space, regardless of time, cosmopolites of the
entire Universe?
Hark! A crash like a million of ringing anvils! Leaping, bounding,
thundering down the scarred side of the mountain, rolls a huge rock,
torn from its bed by some unknown power and sent crashing into the
yawning gulf below. The slumbering echoes thunder back the sound, and
nature quakes under the fearful rush of the avalanche.
The rocky bed of a dry stream was reached, and cautiously the men
proceeded, with their horses almost feeling the way amid the loose
stones. It was a moment of fear with them all, for the giant bowlder
must have been forced from its bed by some fearful human power. What it
might portend none could tell, but caution in that locality became a
necessity. Every eye was turned upward, expecting that this avalanche
would be followed by others more imposing and more fatal. Every moment
they expected to hear the thundering of another mass and see a mammoth
rock come leaping from the lofty crest, whelming them in _debris_ and
death.
But they still proceeded in safety. Still the tired horses daintily
picked their way and the riders watched the frowning cliffs. At length
the leader turned, and led them through the thick underbrush by a
winding path that each moment became more difficult of ascent. Even his
power and iron will, so long paramount to every scruple, was fast
yielding to the terrors of the place. They looked upon the march as one
of certain death, if a foe should be lurking above—the undertaking
foolhardy in the extreme, and they but victims to a causeless whim. In
silence the Mormon heard their complaints for a time, then commanded a
halt.
“Remain here,” he said. “Perhaps you’re right, and I stand a better
chance of finding out what is above if I go alone. You stay here, boys,
and keep quiet; but if you hear a shot fired, leave your horses and come
to my help.”
The men took him at his word, and he started on foot, having given up
his rifle, and armed only with well-concealed pistols. His plans had
been thwarted by the reluctance of his companions. But his path was not
a long one. From a lookout rock he saw a dark train of savage warriors
winding through the valley, scarcely a mile ahead. Dashing down the
hillside, he again joined his companions.
“It’s Indians!” he shouted—“rascally Utes, and, by the beard of the
Prophet, they are carrying off a white girl! Now, boys, be steady and
brave, and we will not only punish them, but free their prisoner. Come
on, men, but do not fire—it will only exasperate them. Ride them down,
and make a show of your arms, but don’t shoot, I say; you might kill the
girl.”
The dreams of many a dark hour were near their fulfillment, as he fondly
thought. He had but to stretch out his hand to grasp success. Mounting
again, he led the way back to the bed of the dry stream, and the men
followed, urging their horses forward with all possible speed.
“There they are, riding like so many devils,” he whispered, to the
nearest; then, recollecting his office as spiritual guide and
instructor, continued: “that is, speaking after the manner of men. See!
they turn the point—now are out of sight. By heaven—may I be forgiven
for the word—they are aiming for the hills! Once there, and no white man
can follow them.”
“But why should we follow?” asked the one nearest to him. “The girl does
not belong to us, and we only risk our lives for one of the ungodly.”
“By precept and example, by persuasion, and, if need be, by the sword,
we are instructed to pluck the lost like brands from the burning. Let
him who fears return. I will go forward, for is it not written on the
golden plates found by the martyr, Joseph Smith, that he who falls in
_the cause_ shall gain a crown of priceless glory?”
An unearthly yell rung through the valley ahead of them, as if fiends
kept holiday, and sent their howling song mocking the echoes—a very
chaos of strangled joy. But words are feeble and language faint to
describe the horrors of an Indian war-whoop when first it bursts upon
unaccustomed ears. Earth has nothing horrible or thrilling that can be
compared to its shrill, quivering notes. It is more like the laugh of
demons rejoicing over a lost soul than aught that human lips could, by
any possibility, compass. Echoing amid the fastnesses of a
mountain-gorge—telling of the brawny and pitiless savage thirsting for
blood and seeking for scalps—of the blackened torture-post and the
lingering agony by fire, it becomes the very knell of all that is
horrible and soul-affrighting.
“Indians! Indians!” whispered the men, with blanched lips, as they
crowded together like threatened sheep, striving to gain courage from
proximity.
“Yes,” replied Elder Thomas, “it’s the way with the reptiles. They
always yell like so many panthers. But it ain’t the bark we have to
fear, boys, but the bite.”
“Had we not better go back and get help?”
“If you knew the ways of the critters you wouldn’t talk so. If they had
intended any harm they wouldn’t have let us know where they were. No,
no. All we have to do is to go ahead. Hold your horses hard, boys, and
let them feel the spur. It requires a steady hand and sure foot to—”
The rest of the sentence was lost in air, for the horse that had so long
borne him safely, springing from the sharp rowel, missed his footing,
and both man and steed fell heavily rolling over and over down the
ragged hillside.