and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed into a
flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers
left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be found in
the whole Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child
had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That
mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by
dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of
a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her,
and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a
larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall
that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn
of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious
enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and
that of many besides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the
dusty high roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all
heading to the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California,
and the Overland Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too,
were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture
lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary
of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there
galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and
her long chestnut hair floating out behind her. She had a commission
from her father in the City, and was dashing in as she had done many
a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of
her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained
adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional
Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed
stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however,
before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself
completely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned
bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not
alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity to
urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way through the
cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures, either by
accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of the
mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon
its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way
that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation
was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it
against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all
that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip
would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began
to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice
at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a
sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.
"You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm
awful frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought
that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"
"Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a
tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse,
and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he
remarked, "I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask
him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the
same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick."
"Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.
The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the
mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
condition. He must take us as he finds us."
"He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered,
"he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have
never got over it."
"Neither would I," said her companion.
"You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you,
anyhow. You ain't even a friend of ours."
The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that
Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.
"There, I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend
now. You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't
trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with
her riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling
cloud of dust.
Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting
for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of
raising capital enough to work some lodes which they had discovered.
He had been as keen as any of them upon the business until this
sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra
breezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths.
When she had vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis had
come in his life, and that neither silver speculations nor any other
questions could ever be of such importance to him as this new and
all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in his heart was not
the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce
passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been
accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart
that he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
could render him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his
face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper,
a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon
became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his
virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek
and her bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young
heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed
these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man
who had won her affections.
It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and
pulled up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet
him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.
"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now,
but will you be ready to come when I am here again?"
"And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.
"A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then,
my darling. There's no one who can stand between us."
"And how about father?" she asked.
"He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
right. I have no fear on that head."
"Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's
no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
breast.
"Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is
settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They
are waiting for me at the ca駉n. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye.
In two months you shall see me."
He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he
vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
happiest girl in all Utah.
CHAPTER III
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within
him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending
loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled
him to the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had
always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing
would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a
marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a
disgrace. Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that
one point he was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject,
however, for to express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter
in those days in the Land of the Saints.
Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly
dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest
something which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring
down a swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had
now turned persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the
most terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the
German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able
to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a
cloud over the State of Utah.
Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this
organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone
or what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at
home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at
the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was
followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be
of this terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that
men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed
them.
At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished
afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a
wider range. The supply of adult women was running short, and
polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a barren
doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied about--rumours
of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions where Indians had
never been seen. Fresh women appeared in the harems of the
Elders--women who pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the
traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers upon the
mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked, stealthy, and
noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These tales and
rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the
Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened
one.
Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
