The Lions of the Lord: A Tale of the Old WestWilson, Harry Leon
General
The Lions of the Lord: A Tale of the Old West
Wilson, Harry Leon
Historical fiction; Latter Day Saint pioneers -- Fiction; Western stories
that—and I just give him one look, and I says, ‘Mr. Lyman Hickenlooper,
if you’ll take notice,’ I says, ‘you’ll see those words was composed by
the angel Moroni over two thousand years ago and revealed to Joseph
Smith in the sacred light of the Urim and Thummim,’ I says, and the
plague-oned smarty snickered right in my face—and say, now, what did
you and your second git a separation for?”
He was called back by the stopping of her voice, but she had to repeat
her question before he understood it. The Devil tempted him in that
moment. He was on the point of answering, “Because she talked too
much,” but instead he climbed out of the wagon to walk. He walked most
of the three hundred miles in the next ten days. Nights and mornings he
falsely pretended to be deaf.
He found himself in this long walk full of a pained discouragement; not
questioning or doubting, for he had been too well trained ever to do
either. But he was disturbed by a feeling of bafflement, as might be a
ground-mole whose burrow was continually destroyed by an enemy it could
not see. This feeling had begun in Salt Lake City, for there he had
seen that the house of Israel was no longer unspotted of the world.
Since the army with its camp-followers had come there was drunkenness
and vice, the streets resounded with strange oaths, and the midnight
murder was common. Even Brigham seemed to have become a gainsayer in
behalf of Mammon, and the people, quick to follow his lead, were
indulging in ungodly trade with Gentiles; even with the army that had
come to invade them. And more and more the Gentiles were coming in. He
heard strange tales of the new facilities afforded them. There was
actually a system of wagon-trains regularly hauling freight from the
Missouri to the Pacific; there was a stage-route bringing passengers
and mail from Babylon; even Horace Greeley had been publicly
entertained in Zion,—accorded honour in the Lord’s stronghold. There
was talk, too, of a pony-express, to bring them mail from the Missouri
in six days; and a few visionaries were prophesying that a railroad
would one day come by them. The desert was being peopled all about
them, and neighbours were forcing a way up to their mountain retreat.
It seemed they were never to weld into one vast chain the broken links
of the fated house of Abraham; never to be free from Gentile
contamination. He groaned in spirit as he went—walking well ahead of
his wagon.
But he had taken up a new cross and he had his reward. The first night
after they reached home he took the little Bible from its hiding-place
and opened it with trembling hands. The stain was there, red in the
candle-light. But the cries no longer rang in his ears as on that other
night when he had been sinful before the page. And he was glad, knowing
that the self within him had again been put down.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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