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, iron-faced men, clad in sombre home-spun 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[116],’ 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[117] 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 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 bony 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 the 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 some one.
‘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[118] at Palmyra[119]. We have come from Nauvoo[120], 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[121].’
‘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