Kabanata Kabanata 9 · Part II - The Flower Of Utah.

. Part 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 ruddy, 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 the 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 cañon. 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.