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 gaudiness 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 decay 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 retained 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