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 canons;
{18} 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 hunting-grounds,
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 {19} 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. McGregor, 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?"
"In 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 snow-white 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 {20} 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 earnest-eyed 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
brown-backed 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 for ever 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."
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