_A Procession, a Pursuit, and a Capture_
Follett awoke to find himself superfluous. The women were rushing
excitedly through their housework in order to be at hand when the
procession of Brigham and his suite should march in. Of Joel Rae he
caught but a glimpse through the door of his little room, the face
flushed that had a long time been sallow and bloodless. When the door
had closed he could hear the voice, now strong again. He seemed to be,
as during the night, rehearsing something he meant to say. And later it
was plain that he prayed, though he heard nothing more than the high
pleading of the voice.
Follett would not have minded these things, but Prudence was gone and no
one could tell him where. From Christina of the rock-bound speech he
blasted the items that she was wearing "a dress all new" and "a
red-ribbon hat." Lorena, too, with all her willingness of speech, knew
nothing definite.
"All I know is she fixed herself up like she was going to an evening
ball or party. I wish to the lands I'd kep' my complexion the way she
does hern. And she had on her best lawn that her pa got her in Salt
Lake, the one with the little blue figures in it. She does look sweeter
than honey on a rag in a store dress, and that Leghorn hat with the red
bow, though what she wanted to start so early for I don't know. The
procession can't be along yet, but she might have gone down to march
with them, or to help decorate the bowery. I know when I was her age I
was always a great hand for getting ready long before any one come, when
my mother was making a company for me, putting up my waterfall and
curling my beau-catchers on a hot pipe-stem. But, land! I ain't no time
to talk with _you_."
Down at the main road he hesitated. To the right he could see where the
green mouth of the canon invited; but to the left lay the village where
Prudence doubtless was. He would find her and bring her away. For
Follett had determined to toe the mark himself now.
In the one street of Amalon there was the usual Sabbath hush; but above
this was an air of dignified festivity. The village in its Sunday best
homespun, with here and there a suit of store goods, was holding its
breath. In the bowery a few workers, under the supervision of Bishop
Wright, were adding the last touches of decoration. It was a spot of
pleasant green in the dusty square--a roof of spruce boughs, with
evergreens and flowers garnishing the posts, and a bank of flowers and
fruit back of the speaker's stand.
But Prudence was not there, and he wondered with dismay if she had
joined the rest of the village and gone out to meet the Prophet. He had
seen the last of them going along the dusty road to the north, men and
women and little children, hot, excited, and eager. It did not seem like
her to be among them, and yet except for those before him working about
the bowery, and a few mothers with children in arms, the town was
apparently deserted.
But even as he waited, he heard the winding alarm of a bugle, and saw a
scurrying of backs in the dusty haze far up the road. The Wild Ram of
the Mountains gave a few hurried commands for the very final touches,
called off his force from the now completed bowery, and a solitary
Gentile was for the moment left to greet the oncoming procession.
Presently, however, from the dark interiors of the log houses came the
mothers with babies, a few aged sires too feeble for the march, and such
of the remaining housewives as could leave for a little time the dinners
they were cooking. They made but a thin line along the little street,
and Follett saw at once that Prudence was not among them. He must wait
to see if she marched in the approaching procession.
Already the mounted escort was coming into view, four abreast, captained
by Elder Wardle, who, with a sash of red and gold slanted across his
breast, was riding nervously, as if his seat could be kept only by the
most skillful horsemanship, a white mule that he was known to treat with
fearless disrespect on days that were not great. Behind the martial
Wardle was Peter Peterson, Peter Long Peterson, and Peter Long Peter
Peterson, the most martial looking men in Amalon after their leader; and
then came a few more fours of proudly mounted Saints.
After this escort, separated by an interval that would let the dust
settle a little, came the body of the procession. First a carriage
containing the Prophet, portly, strong-faced, easy of manner, as became
a giant who felt kindly in his might. By his side was his wife, Amelia,
the reigning favourite, who could play the piano and sing "Fair Bingen
on the Rhine" with a dash that was said to be superb. Behind this float
of honour came other carriages, bearing the Prophet's Counsellors, the
Apostles, Chief Bishop, Bishops generally, Elders, Priests, and Deacons,
each taking precedence near the Prophet's carriage by seniority of rank
or ordination. Along the line of carriages were outriders, bearing
proudly aloft banners upon which suitable devices were printed:
"God bless Brigham Young!"
"Hail to Zion's Chief!"
"The Lion of the Lord."
"Welcome to our Mouthpiece of God!"
Behind the last carriage came the citizens in procession, each
detachment with its banner. The elderly brethren stepped briskly under
"Fathers in Israel"; the elderly sisters gazed proudly aloft to "Mothers
in Israel." Then came a company of young men whose banner announced them
as "Defenders of Zion." They were followed by a company of maidens led
by Matilda Wright, striving to be not too much elated, and whose banner
bore the inscription, "Daughters of Zion." At the last came the
children, openly set up by the occasion, and big-eyed with importance,
the boy who carried their banner, "The Hope of Israel," going with
wonderful rigidity, casting not so much as an eye either to right or
left.
But Prudence had not been in this triumphal column, nor was she among
any of the women who stood with children in their arms, or who rushed to
the doors with sleeves rolled up and a long spoon or fork in their
hands.
Then all at once a great inspiration came to Follett. When the last
dusty little white-dressed girl had trudged solemnly by, and the head of
the procession was already winding down the lane that led to Elder
Wardle's place, he called himself a fool and turned back. He walked like
a man who has suddenly remembered that which he should not have
forgotten. And yet he had remembered nothing at all. He had only thought
of a possibility, but one that became more plausible with every step;
especially when he reached the Rae house and found it deserted. Whenever
he thought of his stupidity, which was every score of steps, he would
break into a little trot that made the willows along the creek on his
left run into a yellowish green blur.
He was breathing hard by the time he had made the last ascent and stood
in the cool shade of the comforting pines. He waited until his pulse
became slower, wiping his forehead with the blue neckerchief which
Prudence had suggested that she liked to see him wear in place of the
one of scarlet. When he had cooled and calmed himself a little, he
stepped lightly on. Around the big rock he went, over the "down timber"
beyond it, up over the rise down which the waters tumbled, and then
sharply to the right where their nook was, a call to her already on his
lips.
But she was not there. He could see the place at a glance. Nothing below
met his eye but the straight red trunks of the pines and the brown
carpet beneath them. A jay posed his deep shining blue on a cluster of
scarlet sumac, and, cocking his crested head, screamed at him mockingly.
The canon's cool breath fanned him and the pine-tops sighed and sang. At
first he was disheartened; but then his eyes caught a gleam of white and
red under the pine, touched to movement by a low-swinging breeze.
It was her hat swaying where she had hung it on a broken bough of the
tree she liked to lean against. And there was her book; not the book of
Mormon, but a secular, frivolous thing called "Leaflets of Memory, an
Illuminated Annual for the Year 1847." It was lying on its face, open at
the sentimental tale of "Anastasia." He put it down where she had left
it. The canon was narrow and she would hardly leave the waterside for
the steep trail. She would be at the upper cascade or in the little park
above it, or somewhere between. He crossed the stream, and there in the
damp sand was the print of a small heel where she had made a long step
from the last stone. He began to hurry again, clambering recklessly over
boulders, or through the underbrush where the sides of the stream were
steep. When the upper cascade came in sight his heart leaped, for there
he caught the fleeting shimmer of a skirt and the gleam of a dark head.
He hurried on, and after a moment's climb had her in full view, standing
on the ledge below which the big trout lay. There he saw her turn so
that he would have sworn she looked at him. It seemed impossible that
she had not seen him; but to his surprise she at once started up the
stream, swiftly footing over the rough way, now a little step, now a
free leap, grasping a willow to pull herself up an incline, then
disappearing around a clump of cedars.
He redoubled his speed over the rocks. When she next came into view,
still far ahead, he shouted long and loud. It was almost certain that
she must hear; and yet she made no sign. She seemed even to speed ahead
the faster for his hail.
Again he sprang forward to cover the distance between them, and again he
shouted when the next view of her showed that he was gaining. This time
he was sure she heard; but she did not look back, and she very plainly
increased her speed.
For an instant he stood aghast at this discovery; then he laughed.
"Well if you _want_ a race, you'll get it!"
He was off again along the rough bed of the stream. He shouted no more,
but slowly increased the gain he had made upon her. Instead of losing
time by climbing up over the bank, he splashed through the water at two
places where the little stream was wide and shallow. Then at last he saw
that he was closing in upon her. Soon he was near enough to see that she
also knew it.
He began at that moment an extended course of marvelling at the ways of
woman. For now she had reached the edge of the little open park, and was
placidly seating herself on a fallen tree in the grove of quaking
aspens. He could not understand this change of manner. And when he
reached the opening she again astounded him by greeting him with every
manifestation of surprise, from the first nervous start to the pushing
up of her dark brows.
"Why," she began, "how did you ever think of coming _here_?"
But he had twice hurried fruitlessly this hot morning and he was not
again to be baffled. As he advanced toward her, she regarded him with
some apprehension until he stopped a safe six feet away. She had noted
certain lines of determination in his face.
"Now what's the use of pretending?--what did you run for?"
"I?--_run_?"
Again the curving black brows went up in frank surprise.
"Yes,--you _run_!"
He took a threatening step forward, and the brows promptly fell to
serious intentness of his face.
"What did you do it for?"
She stood up. "What did I do it for?--what did I do _what_ for?"
But his eyes were searching her and she had to lower her own. Then she
looked up again, and laughed nervously.
"I--I don't know--I couldn't help it." Again she laughed. "And why did
you run? How did you think of coming here?"
"I'll tell you how, now I've caught you." He started toward her, but she
was quickly backing away into the opening of the little park, still
laughing.
"Look out for that blow-down back of you!" he called. In the second that
she halted to turn and discover his trick he had caught her by the arm.
"There--I caught you fair--_now_ what did you run for?"
"I couldn't help it." Her face was crimson. His own was pale under the
tan. They could hear the beating of both their hearts. But with his
capture made so boldly he was dumb, knowing not what to say.
The faintest pulling of the imprisoned arm aroused him.
"I'd 'a' followed you till Christmas come if you'd kept on. Clear over
the divide and over the whole creation. I never _would_ have given you
up. I'm never _going_ to."
He caught her other wrist and sought to draw her to him.
With head down she came, slowly, yielding yet resisting, with little
shudders of terror that was yet a strange delight, with eyes that dared
give him but one quick little look, half pleading and half fear. But
then after a few tense seconds her struggles were all housed far within
his arms; there was no longer play for the faintest of them; and she was
strained until she felt her heart rush out to him as she had once felt
it go to her dream of a single love,--with the utter abandon of the
falling water beside them.
On the opposite side of the park across the half-acre of waving
bunch-grass, a many-pronged old buck in his thin red summer coat lay at
the edge of the quaking aspens, sunning the velvet of his tender new
horns to harden them against approaching combats. He had shrewdly noted
that the first comer did not see him; but this second was a creature of
action in whose presence it were ill-advised to linger. Noiselessly his
hindquarters raised from the ground, and then with a snort of
indignation and a mighty, crashing rush he was off through the trees and
up the hill. Doubtless the beast cherished a delusion of clever escape
from a dangerous foe; but neither of the pair standing so near saw or
heard him or would have been conscious of him even had he led past them
in wild flight the biggest herd it had ever been his lot to domineer.
For these two were lost to all but the wonder of the moment, pushing
fearfully on into the glory and sweetness of it.
His voice came to her in a dull murmur, and the sound of the running
water came, again like the muffled tinkling of little silver bells in
the distance. Both his arms were strong about her, and now her own hands
rose in rebellion to meet where the kerchief was knotted at the back of
his neck, quite as the hands of the other woman had rebelliously flung
down the scarf from the balcony. Then the brim of his hat came down over
her hair, and her lips felt his kiss.
They stood so a long time, it seemed to them, in the high grass, amid
the white-barked quaking aspens, while a little wind from the dark pines
at their side, lowered now to a yearning softness, played over them.
They were aroused at last by a squirrel that ran half-way down the trunk
of a near-by spruce to bark indignantly at them, believing they menaced
his winter's store of spruce cones piled at the foot of the tree. With
rattle after rattle his alarm came, until he had the satisfaction of
noting an effect.
The young man put the girl away from him to look upon her in the new
light that enveloped them both, still holding her hands.
"There's one good thing about your marriages,--they marry you for
eternity, don't they? That's for ever--only it isn't long enough, even
so--not for me."
"I thought you were never coming."
"But you said"--he saw the futility of it, however, and kissed her
instead.
"I was afraid of you all this summer," he said.
"I was afraid of you, too."
"You got over it yesterday all right."
"How?"
"You kissed me."
"Never--what an awful thing to say!"
"But you did--twice--don't you remember?"
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. If I did it wasn't at all like--like--"
"Like that--"
"No--I didn't think anything about it."
"And now you'll never leave me, and I'll never leave you."
They sat on the fallen tree.
"And to think of that old--"
"Oh, don't talk of it. That's why I ran off here--so I couldn't hear
anything about it until he went away."
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"I didn't think you were so stupid."
"How was I to know where you were coming?"
But now she was reminded of something.
"Tell me one thing--did you ever know a little short fat girl, a blonde
that you liked very much?"
"Never!"
"Then what did you talk so much about her for yesterday if you didn't?
You'd speak of her every time."
"I didn't think you were so stupid."
"Well, I can't see--"
"You don't need to--we'll call it even."
And so the talk went until the sun had fallen for an hour and they knew
it was time to go below.
"We will go to the meeting together," she said, "and then father shall
tell Brigham,--tell him--"
"That you're going to marry me. Why don't you say it?"
"That I'm going to marry you, and be your only wife." She nestled under
his arm again.
"For time and eternity--that's the way your Church puts it."
Then, not knowing it, they took their last walk down the pine-hung
glade. Many times he picked her lightly up to carry her over rough
places and was loth to put her down,--having, in truth, to be bribed
thereto.
At their usual resting-place she put on her hat with the cherry ribbons,
and he, taking off his own, kissed her under it.
And then they were out on the highroad to Amalon, where all was a
glaring dusty gray under the high sun, and the ragged rim of the western
hills quivered and ran in the heat.
He thought on the way down of how the news would be taken by the little
bent man with the fiery eyes. She was thinking how glad she was that
young Ammaron Wright had not kissed her that time he tried to at the
dance--since kisses were like _that_.