As he lay in camp that night, the conversation repeated itself over and over in the troubled mind of John Stevens. Oh, what was the right? How he trembled at the thought of strange and scornful men being brought into this peaceful valley, and left to corrupt and estrange our thoughtless youths and beautiful girls. He knew something of the moral conditions of men in the world and he also knew much of men in general. He felt that nothing but the keenest religious conscience could protect men from immorality of life. He raised his hand in silent agony to heaven, and swore that his whole strength and life should be devoted to protecting and shielding the youth from this terrible fate--that of too many youths in the outside world. And yet, as he himself had said, there was the divine right of self-choice, or man's agency. He groaned as the consequences of thrusting upon innocent and helpless women, as would be done, opportunities to seek their companions among camp-followers, miners, and other transients of that day. Human agency was an agency fraught with dire consequences. Would we have to meet its terrible responsibility, he asked himself? What did the future hold in store for this hunted and persecuted people? God alone knew! It was so difficult for a man of John's temperament to say God's will be done, when it involved the life, or worse, perhaps, the virtue of men and women. For he feared for the virtue of the youths among his people quite as much as he dreaded the temptations to be offered to the maidens. To John Stevens virtue, of both man and woman, was far dearer than life. He felt as if he must arise, and with mighty power, seize and flee with his loved ones to the safe fastnesses of the mountains. X. IN ECHO CANYON It was a lovely day in the last of September, a few days after the occurrences related in our last chapter. The air was cool, crisp, and full of the odor of pine and sagebrush. In a mountain retreat, around a gleaming fire, sat a group of men with serious, eager faces, and their talk was carried on in guarded tones. The country was wild and barren, except that here and there along the course of a stream the willows and brush gave a little protection to man and beast. On a low hill-side to the right of the camp-fire, were tethered horses, picking a scant supper from the fall-dried plain. Not very far away yawned a huge black opening in the side of the mountain, which gave the name of Cache Cave to the spot. The leader of the party, General Daniel H. Wells, sat in the center of the council, his fine large head and prominent features giving him a massive appearance well calculated to inspire respect and confidence. He was listening to some recital of a recent expedition from the lips of a tall, red-bearded, slow-spoken man. "What did General Harney say when Captain Van Arden had explained to him the condition in our Territory?" asked the General.