“I’ll teach you about the Book of Mormon first,” she ventured. “I’d like to hear it,” said Follett, cheerfully. “Of course you don’t know anything about it.” “It isn’t my fault, though. I’ve been unfortunate in my bringing up, that’s all.” He turned on his side and leaned upon his elbow so he could look at her. “You see, I’ve been brought up to believe that Mormons were about as bad as Mexicans. And Mexicans are so mean that even coyotes won’t touch them. Down at the big bend on the Santa Fé Trail they shot a Mexican, old Jesus Bavispee, for running off cattle. He was pretty well dried out to begin with, but the coyotes wouldn’t have a thing to do with him, and so he just dried up into a mummy. They propped him up by the ford there, and when the cowboys went by they would roll a cigarette and light it and fix it in his mouth. Then they’d pat him on the head and tell him what a good old boy he was—_star bueno_—the only good Mexican above ground—and his face would be grinning all the time, as if it tickled him. When they find a Mexican rustling cattle they always leave him there, and they used to tell me that the Mormons were just as bad and ought to be fixed that way too.” “I think that was horrible!” “Of course it was. They were bigoted. But I’m not. I know right well there must be good Mexicans alive, though I never saw one, and I suppose of course there must be—” “Oh, you’re worse than I thought!” she cried. “Come now, do try. I want you to be made better, for my sake.” She looked at him with real pleading in her eyes. He dropped back to the ground with a thrill of searching religious fervour. “Go on,” he said, feelingly. “I’m ready for anything. I have kind of a good feeling running through me already. I do believe you’ll be a powerful lot of benefit to me.” “You must have faith,” she answered, intent on the book. “Now I’ll tell you some things first.”