CHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH.
THIS is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations enduredby the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From theshores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountainsthey had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history.The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, anddisease--every impediment which Nature could place in the way, had allbeen overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and theaccumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them.There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayerwhen they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneaththem, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was thepromised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs forevermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as aresolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the futurecity was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted inproportion to the standing of each individual. The tradesman was putto his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the town streets andsquares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country there was drainingand hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the wholecountry golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strangesettlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in thecentre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first blush ofdawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammerand the rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument which theimmigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared hisfortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormonsto the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was bornealong pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat whichshe shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a headstrongforward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of childhood,from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon became a petwith the women, and reconciled herself to this new life in her movingcanvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered from hisprivations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigablehunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new companions, thatwhen they reached the end of their wanderings, it was unanimously agreedthat he should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of landas any of the settlers, with the exception of Young himself, and ofStangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and Drebber, who were the four principalElders.
On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantiallog-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that itgrew 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 constitutionenabled him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling hislands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged tohim prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off than hisneighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in twelvethere were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who couldcompare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant WahsatchMountains there was no name better known than that of John Ferrier.
There was one way and only one in which he offended the susceptibilitiesof his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce himto set up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. Henever gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented himself byresolutely and inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were somewho accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others whoput 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 whohad pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason,Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformedto the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being anorthodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adoptedfather in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and thebalsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother tothe young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger,her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer uponthe high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten thoughtsrevive in their mind as they watched her lithe girlish figure trippingthrough 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 fatherthe richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of Americangirlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child haddeveloped into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysteriouschange is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least ofall does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or thetouch 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 hasawoken within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and rememberthe one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In thecase of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apartfrom 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 asthe bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields andin the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty highroads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to thewest, for the gold fever had broken out in California, and the OverlandRoute lay through the City of the Elect. There, too, were droves ofsheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture lands, and trainsof tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their interminablejourney. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with theskill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fairface flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating outbehind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and wasdashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessnessof youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. Thetravel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and eventhe unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed theiraccustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-facedmaiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the roadblocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-lookingherdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass thisobstacle by pushing her horse into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcelyhad she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed in behindher, and she found herself completely imbedded in the moving stream offierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal withcattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage ofevery opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her waythrough the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures,either by accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank ofthe mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up uponits hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way thatwould have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was fullof peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it against the hornsagain, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl coulddo to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible deathunder the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed tosudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridleto relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from thestruggling creatures, she might have abandoned her efforts in despair,but for a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of assistance. Atthe same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse bythe curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to theoutskirts.
"You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm awfulfrightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought that Ponchowould 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, andclad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over hisshoulders. "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 heremembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same Ferrier, myfather 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 eyessparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in themountains for two months, and are not over and above in visitingcondition. 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 nevergot 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 LucyFerrier 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 trustme with his business any more. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending overher little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with herriding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling cloud ofdust.
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 capitalenough to work some lodes which they had discovered. He had been as keenas any of them upon the business until this sudden incident had drawnhis 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 silverspeculations nor any other questions could ever be of such importance tohim as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up inhis heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather thewild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. Hehad been accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore inhis heart that he would not fail in this if human effort and humanperseverance could render him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, untilhis face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in thevalley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learningthe news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All thisJefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interestedLucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, andcould narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lostin those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, asilver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to behad, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became afavourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. Onsuch occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her bright,happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longerher own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms,but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won heraffections.
It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulledup at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. Hethrew the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.
"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazingtenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now, butwill 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, mydarling. 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 allright. I have no fear on that head."
"Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there'sno more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broadbreast.