John Stevens' Courtship

"But oh, to think of Ellen gone away, and to such a horrible doom! It is too awful," and again the girl broke into a sobbing fit. It was Dian's first real grief, her first experience of life and its deepest trials.

"Diantha, I can see where I have failed with my poor Ellie; I have been so anxious to nurse and help to save the sick bodies of the poor and destitute and to administer food and raiment to the needy, that I have been at times forgetful and careless of the sick and needy soul of my precious child, who is like the child of my own body. True, I did not suspect anything of what you are now telling me. But this is not wisdom. Let us not mourn over the past, but mend the future."

At that moment John drove up, and the three rode away in the late evening darkness, to visit the Chase Mill, on the outskirts of the city, and find out if Ellen had been there. Aunt Clara's surmise was correct; Ellen had ridden down there, according to the old gentleman who tended the mill, which lay just southeast of the city. Ellen came there alone, he said, and asked for a drink of milk. She also took some bread and butter, for she said she expected to be taken up either by the Meachams or the Harpers, and she was going to spend two weeks in Provo, visiting her many friends in that place.

"How did Ellen get here?" inquired John.

"She said she came down as far as the mill with Brother Sheets. She stayed with me here about an hour, and then, seeing a dust outside coming down the main road, she walked over there, carrying her bundle of clothes, and waited for the teams. I was busy getting up the cows and feeding the stock, and did not think any more about it for about an hour, and when I looked out to the main road for her, she was gone. I went right out, and happened to meet a team going south, and I asked the driver if the Meachams or the Harpers had gone on that way a little while before, and he said he thought the Harpers were just ahead of him, as they drove out of the city about half an hour before he did. So, of course, she has gone down to Prove. If you want to stay over night, I will rig up some straw ticks, and make you as comfortable as I can."

Aunt Clara could never feel satisfied to go back to the city without learning something definite and sure about their missing girl; and so it was decided to wait over night at the farm house, and to start very early in the morning for Provo, and bring back their loved wanderer with them on their return next day.

XXXV

ON TO PROVO

What conflicting emotions swayed that little party of three as they rode rapidly along the next day towards the town of Provo!

Diantha had chosen to sit by John on the front seat, both to accommodate Aunt Clara, who was stout, and to comfort her own miserable heart, by resting on his great, fortress-like personality. She was too weak just now to stand alone, as she had done all her life. She was discovering that she was a true woman, and she needed someone to lean on in her hour of woe.

"John," she said, "do you remember when we came home last year from Provo, how we met those soldiers, almost here it was?" and then that brought up the thought all were trying to put away, and Aunt Clara interrupted:

"I wonder where the folks stayed all night! They couldn't drive clear through to Provo after meeting was out yesterday afternoon. We didn't think to inquire at Dr. Dunyon's at the point of the mountain, if they stayed there over night."

"I will ask at the Bishop's as we pass through Lehi, if he saw the Harpers on the road today."

Accordingly, they drove to the Bishop's, in Lehi, and he told them he had seen the Harpers driving along early that morning, but they did not stop over in the settlement.

"Did you notice if they had two or three girls with them? They had a grown daughter of their own, and Ellen Tyler came down with them. I was wondering if she sat on the front seat."

This was said as indifferently as it was possible, for John did not want to arouse unnecessary suspicion or cause unnecessary talk.

"Well, I can't say that I noticed. They had the wagon cover tied up at the sides, and there were women or girls inside, for I heard them laughing and singing as they passed by our fence."

This was cheering, and John consented, although somewhat reluctantly, to accept the Bishop's kindly invitation to stop and have some dinner, for he realized the women ought to eat, even if it were impossible for him to do so. It took some time for the worthy Bishop's wife to cook dinner, and she was very anxious to get the best she had, for John Stevens was an old friend, and he had done them many a good turn. Good as the dinner was, no one seemed able to eat much, although John drank some of the rich, cold milk which the Bishop's wife brought up from the springhouse.

It was past three o'clock when they left Lehi, and there were twenty miles to drive to Provo. But John's team was a fine one, and at seven o'clock in the evening, just at the early spring dusk, as they neared the edge of the bench overlooking Provo, they all strained with hungry, eager eyes at the little town stretched along the river bottoms, and each hoped and tried to believe that the object of their search was sheltered beneath one of those low, friendly roofs.

Diantha told herself that when she got hold of Ellen she would squeeze her and pet her until she would never need the love of another person. She would never leave her side again, for she would either forsake her own home to live with Ellen, or she would coax Aunt Clara to let Ellen live with her. And oh, what would she not do to make Ellen happy! She remembered that Ellen did not like to make beds, or wash dishes. Well, she would never have that to do again, for she would take all that work off Ellen's slender hands. She did not mind it, and Ellen should never have to do anything she disliked again.

On the other hand, the more experienced head of Aunt Clara was cogitating about the possible future when they found and brought the dear wanderer home, and she decided that Ellen must take up and faithfully perform some of the disagreeable things which all her life she had slighted and slipped over. She felt that perhaps she, herself, had favored Ellen too much, in that she had allowed her to please herself always, and that too, often at the expense of the comfort and rights of others. She saw now that what Ellen needed was not less affection, but more discipline, to learn that happiness does not consist in gratification of one's own wishes and desires, but in the cheerful sacrifice of self for the good and comfort of others. She realized now that her Ellen had that inner selfishness clothed with an outer lavish extravagance which deceives and entices the best of casual friends. Ellen would give up anything but her own vain pleasures. Aunt Clara had become so accustomed to sacrificing herself for those around her, that she began to fear lest she had thus deprived others of that chastening discipline. She resolved again and again that she would take up another line of action with her loved child, who was as dear as if she had been her own offspring.

John's thoughts were too deep to be discernible from his composed yet pale face, and he said nothing, unless questioned by the others, but guided his team with a firm yet gentle hand.

The low door of the Harpers' home opened at John's knock, and the girl Jenny, herself, opened it.

"Ellie Tyler? Oh, no, we haven't seen her. She said Saturday in meeting that she might come down with us, or she would come with the Meachams, and she has promised to spend one week with me. I guess she is on the road with the Meachams."

John knew better than that, but he would not set tongues to wagging, and so he said again, in his quiet, yet now wily way:

"Did you see that officer from Camp Floyd as you drove out of the city last night? I understand he has been attending our meetings. I wonder if any of those soldiers are really interested in our Church?"

The girl caught eagerly at the bait he had so skilfully flung.

"Oh, yes, I saw him. He had a spanking team, and he passed us just before we got to Chase's mill. He was alone, though, and if he was at meeting yesterday I didn't see him. But I believe he was there Saturday with some more soldiers."

John had caught the door post as she spoke, and he leaned against his arm heavily, as he said, huskily, still determined to avoid all unnecessary talk:

"We are going to find Ellen, as there is to be a theater in the Social Hall at the end of the week, and she is needed to take a small part. We will find her all right; thank you."

John got out to the carriage, and in a husky voice he repeated what had been told him, and he added:

"I am going to Bishop Miller's and get a fresh team and drive out to Camp Floyd tonight. You can both stay at the Bishop's all night, and I will arrange to have you driven home tomorrow."

"I shall not stay all night in Provo," said Diantha, harshly. "I will walk if you will not take me, but I am going to Camp Floyd myself this night."

"Get in, John," said Aunt Clara's quiet voice, "and drive on to the Bishop's and get your team. We will sit out in the carriage, and you needn't say to anyone that we are with you, for I am anxious as yourself to keep people from talking. We are both going with you."

John was already driving heedlessly down the street, for he had neither time nor words to waste.

Not a word was spoken, for miles, by the three who rode so rapidly along the dusty, rough new road which stretched ghostlike along the barren valley between the tiny settlements in Utah Valley, and the distant encampment on the other side of the western hills.

As they flew along in the bright young moonlight, the swift light clouds anon parted and then banked up again, thus alternately revealing and concealing the scene about them; at each side of the road the great bristling sagebrush which covered the plain rose up like a high, rough hedge. Here and there a startled rabbit flew over the lower sage bushes, losing himself in the faint moonlight and the distance. The lake now lay before them, now behind them, like a dark, purple shadow, its quiet ripples untouched by breeze, and unbroken by any current. The dark mountains shut them in, and as they neared the western rim, it seemed as if a wall of impenetrable gloom shut off further progress; but a narrow defile led through the low hills, and on they sped.

In the near distance a coyote yelped in shrill hunger, or answered his mate's warning cry from the distant foothills. The cool air grew chill around them, and Aunt Clara drew her own shawl about her, and threw upon Dian's unconscious shoulders the extra shawl she herself had remembered to add to their hasty preparations.

As they neared the dusky group of tents in the outer village across the stream from Camp Floyd even John was startled as a voice sang out suddenly:

"Who goes there?"

John saw the gleam of a musket barrel as the sentinel stepped from behind the cedar tree.

"A friend," John answered. "Harney's the word," and John thanked his happy fate that he had by accident or inspiration hit upon the right pass-word. The sentinel lowered the musket, and as he approached the carriage, Diantha shrank with a nameless terror of the night and its unknown perils close to John's side. Without a word, John put out his arm, and drew her to him, as if to shield her from even the gaze of wicked men; and thus he held her close while he parleyed with the soldier.

XXXVI

AT CAMP FLOYD

"I have important business to present to your commander. I bear with me letters and orders from President Brigham Young, endorsed by Governor Cumming. I must see General Johnston at once."

Diantha knew then that John had prepared himself for this before he had left the city, and she bowed her head in shame for all it implied concerning her beloved Ellen.

"I will leave you, Aunt Clara and Diantha," he said, as he drove on, "at the house of one of our people at the edge of the camp, while I go in and learn what I can from the commander. You will be perfectly safe, for Brother Hicks is the storekeeper, and he has his wife with him, and three grown boys. Wait here till I come for you."

John lifted Aunt Clara out, and gave the brother who came to the carriage directions to get her something to eat, for she was nearly worn out with her long and rough ride. Then he turned to the carriage, and taking Dian in his great strong arms, he lifted her to the ground, and without a word, he led her into the house, and shut the door between them.

He left the carriage at the house, and proceeded to the sleeping encampment on foot. It was midnight, and everything was dark and silent around the white-tented grounds. However, General Johnston arose at once in answer to the call, and with a slightly disgusted face listened to the story told by John.

"You will find Captain Sherwood in his own quarters, and you are at liberty to put whatever question you may choose to him, for Captain Sherwood has received strict orders on that subject from my own lips. My officers are gentlemen, and the soldiers are as decent and orderly as common men in any walk of life. I can't see on what grounds Governor Cumming interferes with my discipline in this way."

The general was intensely annoyed over the whole matter. Evidently a girl more or less was nothing to him. His rest and his discipline were of more consequence than all the women in the country. Yet he could not ignore the request of the Territorial executive, and so John was allowed to depart with permission to go where he pleased in the camp, and to secure and take away all the girls and women he could find or might choose to befriend. John found his way to the officers' tents, and as he approached them, he saw the light of a cigar in the front of one. He gave the pass-word and asked:

"May I inquire if I am near the tent of Captain Sherwood? I have business of importance with him."

"My name is Saxey," came the answer out of the darkness, and as the cigar was thrown away the colonel threw up the tent door and said:

"Come in, sir, whoever you are."

"My name is Stevens, and I am from Great Salt Lake City. I have reason to believe that Captain Sherwood has abducted a young girl from our midst, one Ellen Tyler. As she is the step-daughter of a widowed aunt, I have been authorized by the Governor and have received permission from your commander to do what I can to recover the young lady. Where can I find Captain Sherwood?"

John felt willing that any of them should know the object of his visit, for he keenly suspected that they must many of them be aware of it, anyway. Colonel Saxey stood toying with a small dagger on his low stand, and his kind face expressed something of the anxiety this disclosure had upon him. It was with a different tone of voice to that used by General Johnston that he replied:

"I have not seen any strange girl around the camp lately, but I am free to confess to you that Sherwood was not here at all yesterday. We only review twice a week, and so the commander did not know of his absence – an absence without leave, I must also confess. But I do not think that anything serious has happened, my dear Mr. Stevens. On the contrary, I hope you will find all your suspicions are groundless. Captain Sherwood is a gentleman." He winced a little as the familiar form of defense of a friend slipped from his lips. "I have every reason to believe that if you should find that the young lady you speak of has run away with the captain, he will marry her at once, even if he has not already done so."

John Stevens said nothing, but slowly stroked his beard, as he stood impatiently waiting to hunt the "gallant" captain up. The soldier noted the fiery gleam and glitter in the scintillating eyes of the mountaineer, and he felt that Sherwood would need all his skill to meet such a foe under any circumstances. He said no more, however, but silently led the way from his tent to Captain Sherwood's tent door.

A determined call brought out the sleepy orderly, who told Colonel Saxey that Sherwood had been away since yesterday morning, and he did not know anything about him. Saxey had feared this would be the result, but he stood uncertain for a moment. Then turning to Stevens he said:

"Come," and they glided out into the night, leaving the drowsy orderly to return to his broken slumber.

They passed rapidly through the outer lines, after giving the night pass-word, and once beyond the chance of being overheard by soldiers within the camp and stragglers within the village, Colonel Saxey paused in the high sagebrush around them, and drawing near the tall, shadowy form of his companion, he said, distinctly but softly:

"I believe you are a good man; I have seen a little of this matter, and I did what I could to avert this disaster. I cannot tell you all I know; it would be dishonorable. I want you to promise me one thing, and that is, that no matter what has happened, you will not commit a greater crime to avenge yourself of a wrong. Murder will not wipe out sin. And there is hate enough in the Territory as it is."

"I am not a common butcher," said John, gloomily.

"I have nothing farther to say. But there is a small log cabin not far from here, where Sherwood sometimes stays at nights." He started to go back to his quarters; then turning back, he paused as if to speak. John waited, but no word came from the trembling lips of the agitated soldier.

John hurried away, too anxious to wait longer, and the colonel again slowly bent his way in the dim, midnight darkness, to the sleeping village of the white tents, and as he passed the outer guard, he murmured:

"Have I done right, or have I done a cowardly thing?"

The guard touched his cap, and said:

"I did not understand you, sir."

"No matter," answered the colonel, as he passed on more rapidly to his tent.

"The girl may yet be saved, or he may be made to marry her," he muttered, as he threw up his own tent door.

XXXVII

"DEAD OR DISGRACED?"

John sped away between the high sagebrush and willows which skirted the stream running along west from camp. At one place he found himself on the bank and saw that the ditch ran far below in a small gully.

He could hear nothing, nor could he see any signs of human habitation. He turned his steps in another direction and hurried onward in his zigzag course, straining his eyes in the fading moonlight of the evening for sight of a habitation.

All at once he heard a distant or smothered cry. He stopped at once, and as he could hear nothing further, he fancied that he must have been mistaken, or that it was the screech of a far-away mountain lion. He turned again in his tracks, and by some instinct ran back to the hidden stream which flowed along down in the deep gully. That scream again! and he was sure it was a woman's voice. He flew now in the direction from which it had come. The moon was down, and he could see nothing but shadows and gloom, accustomed as he was to piercing these mountain nights with his keen, far-sighted eyes.

Again and again that scream, and this time he saw, not many rods distant from him, a door flung open, for it threw a stream of light across the brush between him and the cabin. He ran on and on, jumping over the brush occasionally and panting harder as his bounds drew him nearer the source of those piercing screams. A man's curses and three successive shots rang out upon the air, mingled with screams, then a hideous laugh in a harsh voice that was still a woman's, and John could just see a flying figure bound out from the door and disappear in the depths of the shadows of the gully.

"You she-devil!" yelled a man, as he dashed away after the figure flying away in the darkness.

John hesitated a moment whether to follow the two who had run away, or to make straight for the cabin; he chose the latter, and with hasty bounds, he was soon at the door with his eyes fixed upon a figure stretched upon the floor.

It was Ellen! A moment, and he was beside her, trying to stanch the pistol shot wound in her gaping neck, and calling softly under his breath for her to open her eyes.

He did not hear the heavy steps behind him, but he turned to meet the black, blazing eyes of Louisiana Liz, peeping in the door behind him, her smoking pistol still in her hand, and then he heard the woman howl with wicked laughter:

"You sought your flown bird too late, for the huntsman found her heart and the keen arrow of hate found her throat almost as soon. Ha, ha, ha!"

John's blood curdled in his veins, and he held the dying girl closer to him as he bent his head over her.

Ellie opened her eyes as she felt John's presence, and whispered painfully, "Tell Aunt Clara to forgive me; I am so sorry. I am – so – sorry – "

John never knew how he allowed that sweet life to flicker out, for he felt as if he could arise and grapple with Death himself and conquer the grim destroyer of all this beauty and youth.

"Well, my long-bearded friend," gasped a hoarse voice behind him; "you seem to have served your sweetheart a pretty ghastly trick."

John laid the body of his dead upon the earthen floor of the hut, and with a spring he was upon his adversary. But the soldier, who was too quick for him, dodged the blow, and ran out of the door. John followed, and ran this way and that, but the darkness and the unfamiliarity of the place rendered it impossible for him to find the villain who had thus dared to imply that he himself had been guilty of this awful deed.

In a moment, John knew how impossible it would be for him to prove anything. From the few words of so good a friend as Colonel Saxey he knew that it would only provoke hostilities and perhaps plunge the whole Territory into war and rob the leaders of their lives, if he added another crime to the one already committed.

His hands twitched and his throat ached as he entered that dreadful hut, for he felt that he would be justified in the eyes of God and man in taking the lives of such vile reprobates as were this soldier Sherwood and his octoroon paramour. Yet his first duty was to take the body of this unhappy girl home for decent burial, and then he might well leave the question of revenge to God and the future.

No one saw or molested him as he made his hasty preparation to carry the body away. He slowly and painfully made his way to the straggling village north of where he stood. He stepped more softly as he neared the village, for he had no mind to awaken the inmates of the huts around him. He had wrapped the body up in a quilt, and now he laid it carefully down just outside the window of the dwelling, whence shone the light that proved to him that his friends were awaiting him.

He stood a moment, to collect his strength a little before he met anyone; then he knocked softly. Aunt Clara came to the door, and asked as soon as she saw him, "Have you found her?"

John bowed his head; he could not speak.

"Is she dead or disgraced?" Aunt Clara never knew why she asked such a question, but it broke the calm of the man before her, and he leaned upon his arm against the doorpost, unable to control his voice. His body was quivering with a man's rare and awful sobs; they shook him as a heavy wind shakes the mighty canyon pines.

Aunt Clara stood gazing at him with glazed eyes of anguish. She could not speak, as Diantha followed her and asked:

"What is it, John; what have you found? Can't you speak? Where is Ellen? Why don't you tell us? Why don't you bring her here?"

"Dead or disgraced?" quivered Aunt Clara's lips, as she looked imploringly up into John's averted eyes.

John straightened himself, and answered with a shiver: "Both!" And poor Aunt Clara fainted at his feet.

XXXVIII

SEGO-LILIES

The death of Ellen Tyler cast a heavy gloom over the whole community. The terrible circumstances surrounding it gave an added cause of enmity between the people and the army.

The funeral, which was held in the ward school house, was attended by nearly every one in the city. The people assembled in the quiet and undemonstrative fashion usual on such occasions; and long before ten o'clock, the time set for the services, the house was filled to overflowing. The windows were raised, and temporary benches arranged outside, so that as many as possible could hear the sermon.