But love here was next to despair. That consciousness quickened the passion. A man must put his whole being into the cause, or the cause was hopeless,—must act intensely, as only a lover acts, or not at all.
I determined not to perplex myself yet with schemes. I knew my friend’s bold genius and cool judgment. When he was ready to act, I would back him.
CHAPTER XIII.
JAKE SHAMBERLAIN’S BALL.
It grew dusk. Glimmering camp-fires marked the circle of the Mormon caravan. The wagons seemed each one, in the gloaming, a giant white nightcap of an ogress leaning over her coals. The world looked drowsy, and invited the pilgrims toward the Mecca of the new Thingamy to repose. They did not seem inclined to accept. The tramping and lowing cattle kept up a tumult like the noise of a far city. And presently another din!
As Brent and I approached the fort, forth issued Jake Shamberlain, with a drummer on this side and a fifer on that. “Pop goes the Weasel,” the fifer blew. A tuneless bang resounded from the drum. If there was one thing these rival melodists scorned, time was that one thing. They might have been beating and blowing with the eight thousand miles of the globe’s diameter between them, instead of Jake Shamberlain’s person, for any consideration they showed to each other.
Jake, seeing us, backed out from between his orchestra, who continued on, beating and blowing in measureless content.
“We’re going to give a ball, gentlemen, and request the honor of your company in ten minutes, precisely. Kids not allowed on account of popular prejudice. Red-flannel shirts and boots with yaller tops is rayther the go fur dress.”
“A ball, Jake! Where?”
“Why, in that rusty hole of old Bridger’s. Some of them John Bulls has got their fiddles along. I allowed ’t would pay to scare up a dance. Guess them gals wont be the wus fur a break-down or an old-fashioned hornpiper. They hain’t seen much game along back, ef their looks tells the story. I never seed sech a down-heel lot.”