Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy whichsprings from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, hecould at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitablepatience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a powerof sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned from theIndians amongst whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolatefire, he felt that the only one thing which could assuage his griefwould be thorough and complete retribution, brought by his ownhand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy should,he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, whiteface, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, andhaving stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to lasthim for a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as hewas, he set himself to walk back through the mountains upon thetrack of the avenging angels.
For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defileswhich he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flunghimself down among the rocks, and snatched a few hours ofsleep; but before daybreak he was always well on his way. Onthe sixth day, he reached the Eagle Ca?on, from which they hadcommenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could look down uponthe home of the saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned upon hisrifle and shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent widespread citybeneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that there were flagsin some of the principal streets, and other signs of festivity. Hewas still speculating as to what this might mean when he heard theclatter of horse’s hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding towardshim. As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon namedCowper, to whom he had rendered services at different times. Hetherefore accosted him when he got up to him, with the object offinding out what Lucy Ferrier’s fate had been.
“I am Jefferson Hope,” he said. “You remember me.”
The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment—indeed, it was difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkemptwanderer, with ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes, thespruce young hunter of former days. Having, however, at lastsatisfied himself as to his identity, the man’s surprise changed toconsternation.
“You are mad to come here,” he cried. “It is as much as my ownlife is worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant againstyou from the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away.”
“I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope said, earnestly. “Youmust know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you byeverything you hold dear to answer a few questions. We havealways been friends. For God’s sake, don’t refuse to answer me.”
“What is it?” the Mormon asked, uneasily. “Be quick. The veryrocks have ears and the trees eyes.”
“What has become of Lucy Ferrier?”
“She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man,hold up; you have no life left in you.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Hope faintly. He was white to the verylips, and had sunk down on the stone against which he had beenleaning. “Married, you say?”
“Married yesterday—that’s what those flags are for on theEndowment House. There was some words between youngDrebber and young Stangerson as to which was to have her.
They’d both been in the party that followed them, and Stangersonhad shot her father, which seemed to give him the best claim;but when they argued it out in council, Drebber’s party was thestronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No one won’t haveher very long though, for I saw death in her face yesterday. She ismore like a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?”
“Yes, I am off,” said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat.
His face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and setwas its expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.
“Where are you going?”
“Never mind,” he answered; and, slinging his weapon over hisshoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart ofthe mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them allthere was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.
The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled.
Whether it was the terrible death of her father or the effects ofthe hateful marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucynever held up her head again, but pined away and died within amonth. Her sottish husband, who had married her principallyfor the sake of John Ferrier’s property, did not affect any greatgrief at his bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her,and sat up with her the night before the burial, as is the Mormoncustom. They were grouped round the bier in the early hours ofthe morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and astonishment,the door was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beatenman in tattered garments strode into the room. Without a glanceor a word to the cowering women, he walked up to the whitesilent figure which had once contained the pure soul of LucyFerrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips reverently to hercold forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he took thewedding ring from her finger. “She shall not be buried in that,”
he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be raisedsprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief wasthe episode that the watchers might have found it hard to believeit themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been forthe undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her ashaving been a bride had disappeared.
