We chartered a cart and a pair of horses and set out on a lovely drive among the mountains. Our teamster was a very amusing fellow, who, when he found that Forbes was a naval man, interlarded his conversation with much sea-talk. All of a sudden, as we were slowly jaunting up the canyon, we heard a pistol shot, and a bullet came singing its way close to our heads. Our driver stopped short. “Ah! that’s Bill Simmonds, he’s up the canyon looking after a claim of his. He’s fired a shot across our bows, and maybe, if we don’t stop, the next shot will be some nearer.” So we waited, and in a few seconds Mr. Simmonds appeared out of the scrub by the road-side, very drunk, with a revolver in one hand and a whisky bottle in the other. He was grinning hospitality, and all he had stopped us for was to give us a drink. When we accepted he was delighted, swore eternal friendship, declaring that we possessed every social and moral virtue, and disappeared again into the bushes. We went on our way without further let or hindrance, and were shown over the two great swindles by the most explanatory of managers. The talk of one of those old-time mining bosses was quite an education in enthusiasm, and so, much edified, we wended our way back to Salt Lake City. If we were not able to send a crumb of comfort to the victims in London we had at any rate had a delightful expedition in glorious scenery, drinking in an air that was almost as intoxicating as Mr. William Simmonds’ whisky. There was no doubt, according to the geologists and mining experts, that the beautiful mountains of the Cottonwood Canyon were rich in silver mines—therein lay the danger. Brought out as they were by very clever manipulators, with abundant proof of the existence of the metal, they took in some of the very elect in the City of London, and to the small investors, always captivated by the prospect of big dividends, they spelt ruin. The poor parson, the widow, and the orphan, were specially created for the benefit of promoters, as men of the Schenk and Williams type well knew. On the Sunday Forbes and I went to hear the Prophet preach. In the huge, ugly tabernacle, capable, as we were told, of holding nine thousand people, we were shown to the gentiles’ bench, just underneath Brigham Young, who glared at us in the most hostile way. There was some singing accompanied by an organ, not bad in its way, for music is one of the arts which the Saints cultivate, the children being all taught to sing in parts.