So it was settled; accompanied by half a score of picked men, he set out, after having designated the point where the train should rest for the night—a place having the indispensable accessories of feed and water. A short gallop brought the elder and his men within view of a rocky gorge of the hills, that appeared as if cleft by some wizard spell from topmost crest to base; or as if a giant thunder-bolt had been hurled from on high and torn its way through the living rocks; or a riving plowshare of huge proportions had left a mighty furrow, never to be planted by the hand of presumptuous man.
“Now, boys,” the leader said, dropping his voice to the lowest octave within its range, “we’ll soon be there. I’ve often traveled it before and will lead the way. Keep close together and mind you keep your eyes about you, though I don’t think we shall have any trouble. Hark!”
The hoarse croaking and a great flapping of wings bespoke the passage of a buzzard in search of its loathsome prey—of some poor beast which had been left to feed these scavengers of the wilderness and their fierce copartners, the ravenous wolves. How he scorned them, as, ghoul-like, they passed, stretching their thin necks and casting dark shadows on the path. Yet, was not his own errand far less merciful? Were not these wolves his peers?
An eagle rose and soared on its strong wings higher and higher until it became a speck in the ether. A matchless bird was that eagle; his nest was built on the topmost cliff of a cloud-piercing mountain—from the giant pine that stood on its crest he could look down on the whirling storms and listen to the thunder rolling and crashing below. His eye shrunk not, blinded, from the noonday sun, like meaner birds, but looked on when its red disk seemed steeped in blood, nor closed when the forked lightning shot its flame-tipped shafts hurtling through the murky gloom. A matchless bird—freedom’s grand type, the chosen bird of Jove, the tameless and fetterless. Ah! brave wanderer, mount ever where foot of man can never stray. Tracker of the pathless azure, where his thoughts alone may wander—dweller in the boundless fields of the upper air and monarch of a mighty realm—realization, almost, of the spirit’s dreamings, shall not the day come when we too can roam at will, tracking the infinite, defiant of space, regardless of time, cosmopolites of the entire Universe?
Hark! A crash like a million of ringing anvils! Leaping, bounding, thundering down the scarred side of the mountain, rolls a huge rock, torn from its bed by some unknown power and sent crashing into the yawning gulf below. The slumbering echoes thunder back the sound, and nature quakes under the fearful rush of the avalanche.
The rocky bed of a dry stream was reached, and cautiously the men proceeded, with their horses almost feeling the way amid the loose stones. It was a moment of fear with them all, for the giant bowlder must have been forced from its bed by some fearful human power. What it might portend none could tell, but caution in that locality became a necessity. Every eye was turned upward, expecting that this avalanche would be followed by others more imposing and more fatal. Every moment they expected to hear the thundering of another mass and see a mammoth rock come leaping from the lofty crest, whelming them in debris and death.
But they still proceeded in safety. Still the tired horses daintily picked their way and the riders watched the frowning cliffs. At length the leader turned, and led them through the thick underbrush by a winding path that each moment became more difficult of ascent. Even his power and iron will, so long paramount to every scruple, was fast yielding to the terrors of the place. They looked upon the march as one of certain death, if a foe should be lurking above—the undertaking foolhardy in the extreme, and they but victims to a causeless whim. In silence the Mormon heard their complaints for a time, then commanded a halt.
“Remain here,” he said. “Perhaps you’re right, and I stand a better chance of finding out what is above if I go alone. You stay here, boys, and keep quiet; but if you hear a shot fired, leave your horses and come to my help.”
The men took him at his word, and he started on foot, having given up his rifle, and armed only with well-concealed pistols. His plans had been thwarted by the reluctance of his companions. But his path was not a long one. From a lookout rock he saw a dark train of savage warriors winding through the valley, scarcely a mile ahead. Dashing down the hillside, he again joined his companions.
“It’s Indians!” he shouted—“rascally Utes, and, by the beard of the Prophet, they are carrying off a white girl! Now, boys, be steady and brave, and we will not only punish them, but free their prisoner. Come on, men, but do not fire—it will only exasperate them. Ride them down, and make a show of your arms, but don’t shoot, I say; you might kill the girl.”