“The cañons are lurkin’ places for the rascally Utes,” he said, to one of the foremost of the train who came to learn his commands with regard to the march. “It would not do to lead the Lord’s people into an ambush where they would be slaughtered like sheep in a pen.”
“They have not dared to attack us thus far,” was the response.
“I know they are afeard of us on the open ground,” said the elder, “but when they hide in the rocks and shoot their poisoned arrows down from their secret dens, bravery is of little use.”
“We should send scouts ahead, then.”
“Yes, that’s just what I’m going to do. I’ll take about a dozen of the young men and see that the coast is clear.”
“You?”
“Even I! Am I not a leader in Israel?”
“But think of your precious life!”
Verily he was thinking of it, and how precious it was, at least to himself; but in a far different sense than his follower supposed. There was a rare prize to be won, or he would never have ventured his precious person in the undertaking.
“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church,” he replied, having somewhere picked up the expression and deeming it particularly apropos to the present occasion—high-sounding, and likely to “tell” upon the hearers.