The dreams of many a dark hour were near their fulfillment, as he fondly thought. He had but to stretch out his hand to grasp success. Mounting again, he led the way back to the bed of the dry stream, and the men followed, urging their horses forward with all possible speed.
“There they are, riding like so many devils,” he whispered, to the nearest; then, recollecting his office as spiritual guide and instructor, continued: “that is, speaking after the manner of men. See! they turn the point—now are out of sight. By heaven—may I be forgiven for the word—they are aiming for the hills! Once there, and no white man can follow them.”
“But why should we follow?” asked the one nearest to him. “The girl does not belong to us, and we only risk our lives for one of the ungodly.”
“By precept and example, by persuasion, and, if need be, by the sword, we are instructed to pluck the lost like brands from the burning. Let him who fears return. I will go forward, for is it not written on the golden plates found by the martyr, Joseph Smith, that he who falls in the cause shall gain a crown of priceless glory?”
An unearthly yell rung through the valley ahead of them, as if fiends kept holiday, and sent their howling song mocking the echoes—a very chaos of strangled joy. But words are feeble and language faint to describe the horrors of an Indian war-whoop when first it bursts upon unaccustomed ears. Earth has nothing horrible or thrilling that can be compared to its shrill, quivering notes. It is more like the laugh of demons rejoicing over a lost soul than aught that human lips could, by any possibility, compass. Echoing amid the fastnesses of a mountain-gorge—telling of the brawny and pitiless savage thirsting for blood and seeking for scalps—of the blackened torture-post and the lingering agony by fire, it becomes the very knell of all that is horrible and soul-affrighting.
“Indians! Indians!” whispered the men, with blanched lips, as they crowded together like threatened sheep, striving to gain courage from proximity.
“Yes,” replied Elder Thomas, “it’s the way with the reptiles. They always yell like so many panthers. But it ain’t the bark we have to fear, boys, but the bite.”
“Had we not better go back and get help?”
“If you knew the ways of the critters you wouldn’t talk so. If they had intended any harm they wouldn’t have let us know where they were. No, no. All we have to do is to go ahead. Hold your horses hard, boys, and let them feel the spur. It requires a steady hand and sure foot to—”
The rest of the sentence was lost in air, for the horse that had so long borne him safely, springing from the sharp rowel, missed his footing, and both man and steed fell heavily rolling over and over down the ragged hillside.