Lion Share/lionsharecd.iso/dos_misc/holmes.zip/STUDY22.TXT

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                                Chapter 2

                           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 were
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 wagon, 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 Wasatch 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 his mind as
he 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 awakened
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 peltries,
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 endeavorved 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 embedded 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 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 Jobn Ferrier that night, and many times again,
until his face was a familiar one at the farmhouse.  Jobn, 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.
     One summer evening 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 canyon.  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.