A Study in Scarlet Part II

Chapter 1

On The Great Alkali Plain

In the central portion of the great North
American Continent there lies an arid and repul-
sive 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 Yel-
lowstone 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; 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 occasion-
ally 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 hori-
zon 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 any-
thing 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 skele-
ton. 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 vig-
orous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and
his clothes, which hung so baggily over his shriv-
elled 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 see-
ing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain
stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of sav-
age 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 some-
what 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 re-
proachfully.
“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 be-
spoke 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 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 frag-
ments 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 vis-
age.
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the
fust to go, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. Mc-
Gregor, 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, laugh-
ing 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?”
“Of 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 adven-
turer. Her chubby face, and his haggard, angu-
lar 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 for-
giveness. 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 fer-
tile spots the observer would have come to the
conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons
which graze upon the prairie land was approach-
ing 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 creak-
ing 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 ex-
clamation 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 com-
mand. “We have passed the Pawnees, and there are
no other tribes until we cross the great mountains.”
“Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stanger-
son,” 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 curios-
ity. 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 termi-
nating in white socks and neat shoes with shining
buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long shriv-
elled 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 com-
ers uttered raucous screams of disappointment and
flapped sullenly away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleep-
ers 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 boney hand over his eyes.
“This is what they call delirium, I guess,” he mut-
tered. 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 con-
vince 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 ex-
plained; “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 Nau-
voo, 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 recol-
lections to John Ferrier. “I see,” he said, “you are
the Mormons.”
“We are the Mormons,” answered his compan-
ions 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 com-
miseration which arose from them when they per-
ceived 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 gaudi-
ness 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 de-
cay 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 re-
tained 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, pass-
ing 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 forever 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.”