A Study in Scarlet

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."

  CHAPTER II.

  THE FLOWER OF UTAH.

  THIS is not the place to commemorate the trials and

  privations endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came

  to their final haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to

  the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled

  on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The

  savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue,

  and disease -- every impediment which Nature could place in

  the way, had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity.

  Yet the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken

  the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who

  did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw

  the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them,

  and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the

  promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs

  for evermore.

  Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator

  as well as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts

  prepared, in which the future city was sketched out. All

  around farms were apportioned and allotted in proportion to

  the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put to

  his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the town

  streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the

  country there was draining and hedging, planting and

  clearing, until the next summer saw the whole country golden

  with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange

  settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had

  erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and

  larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of

  the twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the

  saw was never absent from the monument which the immigrants

  erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.

  The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had

  shared his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter,

  accompanied the Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage.

  Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough in

  Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat which she shared with

  the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a headstrong

  forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity

  of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother's death,

  she soon became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself

  to this new life in her moving canvas-covered home. In the

  meantime Ferrier having recovered from his privations,

  distinguished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable

  hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new

  companions, that when they reached the end of their wanderings,

  it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with as

  large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers,

  with the exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball,

  Johnston, and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.

  On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a

  substantial log-house, which received so many additions in

  succeeding years that it grew into a roomy villa. He was a

  man of a practical turn of mind, keen in his dealings and

  skilful with his hands. His iron constitution enabled him to

  work morning and evening at improving and tilling his lands.

  Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged to

  him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off

  than his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was

  rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the

  whole of Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the

  great inland sea to the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was

  no name better known than that of John Ferrier.

  There was one way and only one in which he offended the

  susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or

  persuasion could ever induce him to set up a female

  establishment after the manner of his companions. He never

  gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented

  himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering to his

  determination. There were some who accused him of

  lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who put it

  down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expense.

  Others, again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a

  fair-haired girl who had pined away on the shores of the

  Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly

  celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the

  religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of

  being an orthodox and straight-walking man.

  Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her

  adopted father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the

  mountains and the balsamic odour of the pine trees took the

  place of nurse and mother to the young girl. As year

  succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek

  more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon

  the high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten

  thoughts revive in their mind as they watched her lithe

  girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields, or met her

  mounted upon her father's mustang, and managing it with all

  the ease 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 t
he 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 canon. 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

  Vehm-gericht, 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