“O yes!” said Mr. Clitheroe, interpreting Brent’s look; “my daughter will be charmed to see you. To tell you the truth, our brethren in the camp are worthy people; we sympathize deeply in the faith; but they are not altogether in manners or education quite such as we have been sometimes accustomed to. It is one of the infamous wrongs of our English system of caste that it separates brother men, manners, language, thought, and life. We have as yet been able to have little except religious communion with our fellow-travellers toward the Promised Land,—except, of course, with Brother Sizzum, who is, as you see, quite a man of society, as well as an elect apostle of a great cause. We are quite selfish in asking you to repeat your visit. Besides the welcome we should give you for yourselves, we welcome you also as a novelty.” And then he muttered, half to himself, “God forgive me for speaking after the flesh!”
“Come, Wade,” said my friend. And he griped my arm almost savagely. “Until this evening then, Mr. Clitheroe.”
As we moved away from the wagon, where the lady stood, so worn and sad, and yet so lovely, her poor father’s only guard and friend, we met Murker and Larrap. They were sauntering about, prying into the wagons, inspecting the groups, making observations—that were perhaps only curiosity—with a base, guilty, burglarious look.
“He, he!” laughed Larrap, leering at Brent. “I’ll be switched ef you’re not sharp. You know where to look for the pooty gals, blowed ef yer don’t!”
“Hold your tongue!” Brent made a spring at the fellow.
“No offence! no offence!” muttered he, shrinking back, with a cowardly, venomous look.
“Mind your business, and keep a civil tongue in your head, or there will be offence!” Brent turned and walked off in silence. Neither of us was yet ready to begin our talk on this evening’s meeting.
Our horses, if not their masters, were quite ready for joyous conversation. They had encountered no pang in the region of Fort Bridger. Grass in plenty was there, and they neighed us good evening in their most dulcet tones. They frisked about, and, neighing and frisking, informed us that, in their opinion, the world was all right,—a perfectly jolly place, with abundance to eat, little to do, and everybody a friend. A capital world! according to Pumps and Don Fulano. They felt no trouble, and saw none in store. Who would not be an animal and a horse, unless perchance an omnibus horse sprawling on the Russ pavement, or a family horse before a carryall, or in fact any horse in slavish position, as most horses are.
We shifted our little caballada to fresh grazing-spots sheltered by a brake. We meant to camp there apart from the Mormon caravan. The talk of our horses had not cheered us. We still busied ourselves in silence. Presently, as I looked toward the train, I observed two figures in the distance lurking about Mr. Clitheroe’s wagon.
“See,” said I; “there are those two gamblers again. I don’t like such foul vultures hanging about that friendless dove. They look villains enough for any outrage.”