“And now, bretheren, not forgetting the glory of the Prophet, let us hasten onward and save the dove from the snares of the savage fowler.”
Strange, indeed, would it have been if sadness and silence had not followed a brutal murder like this. As Thomas led the way, the remainder followed, not only dumb with astonishment, but sorely grieved that one they had looked upon with such reverential love, should not only stain Christianity and manhood, but even common humanity with a crime so terrible—that the saint should disappear in the murderer, and the garments of regular succession from the immaculate Joseph should be steeped in crime. Ah! could the blinding scales but have fallen from the eyes of “the faithful” everywhere, how soon Salt Lake would be a city of ashes, and the “beautiful valley” again a wilderness. When the true religion is stripped of cant, hypocrisy, forms and idle ceremonies, how beautiful in its simplicity will the journey be that the soul must travel to reach the gardens of eternal sunshine, and purity, and love, beyond “the river.”
A small white flag, waving in advance, instantly fixed the attention of the party. It was a strange symbol in that lonely place, and much more so when held, as it was now, in the hands of a lone Indian. All except the Elder stopped in astonishment, doubtful how to act, but he recognized in the bearer his ally the Black Eagle, and instantly commanding a halt, proceeded on foot to ascertain the meaning of his appearance.
“Has my white brother,” began the Indian, as soon as the other was at his side, “seen the body of a Dacotah lying among the rocks?” Certain as he was that no one could have fallen like Osse ’o, without being dashed into a thousand atoms, yet he wished to assure himself of the fact by ocular proof. He even desired to pay the last rites of burial to the corpse, knowing well that it would be to his own benefit, and stand between him and suspicion with the tribe by whom the chieftain was more than loved.
“I saw an Indian hanging by a root from the precipice, and was going to help him, when all of a sudden he fell, and was crushed at the foot of the rocks.”
Black Eagle could not well doubt the story, for, base as he was, the Indian would have scorned to leave his worst enemy in a situation so terrible. The savage would have rescued him, even if an hour afterward he had sought his scalp, and therefore had no suspicion of the white man. If he had dreamed of what had passed, the lone rock upon which they stood would have been the theater of a second crime, and the first murderer would have executed fearful vengeance upon the second.
“It was Osse ’o of the Dacotahs,” he continued, after his careful scrutiny of the Mormon had ceased. “We were standing together upon the cliff. He was looking over the prairie—the rock was treacherous and broke from under him. He fell before the arm of his brother, Black Eagle, could save him.”
“Well, it’s to be regretted.”
“He has gone to the happy hunting-grounds. The swift canoe has ferried him over the dark waters of the river of death, and his song is heard in the flowery prairies of the Great Manitou.”
“May he rest in peace! And now, about the girl?”