BENSON arrived in Salt Lake City in August. After three days of unsuccessful investigation he sought an interview with Governor Young, at his office. He was ushered into a plain, businesslike room, where he saw a large man with a handsome, florid face, seated before a desk littered with papers. He rose instantly as the lawyer entered the room.

“Mr. Benson?” he said inquiringly.

“Yes—this is Governor Young?” he was rather at a loss to know how to address this dignitary, whose peculiar functions were about evenly divided between the religious and civil; this ex-painter and glazier who, to some thousands of his fellows was a god in his own right, as well as prophet and ruler; who ran mills, and sold cordwood, or dealt in groceries; and who, in the midst of these activities found time to balk and insult a weak, vacillating Government at Washington, and drive its representatives out of the State he had founded in the desert, when they chanced to fall under his displeasure, as they were sure to do if they attempted to enforce the law they had been sent thither to uphold.

Standing there, square and broad, full personed and vital, with his ruddy cheeks and square chin, he looked the man he was; capable, magnetic, determined, and not too weakly scrupulous, perhaps not scrupulous at all.

Each devoted a moment to the scrutiny of the other.

“Well, sir, how can I be of use to you?” asked Young.

“I hardly know that you can be,” said Benson. “It's a chance, and I fear a remote one; still, I am very grateful to you for granting me this audience.”

“Have a seat,” said the governor.

“I am not intruding on your time?”

“Not in the least. Now, sir?”

When they had seated themselves. “I have come from Ohio,” explained Benson, “and on what, I begin to fear, is a hopeless quest.” And as briefly as possible he told his story. Once or twice he fancied that Young started, or it might have been that he merely moved in his chair; but he paid him the compliment of the closest attention and his interest did not relax until Benson had concluded his narrative.

Then he asked sharply: “What reason have you to suppose that I can help you?” and he watched the effect of this question, but Benson met his glance quite frankly as he answered:

“None. But it is my hope that you can, that you may be willing to exert yourself in my behalf.”

“But how?” demanded Young.

“That I hardly know,” said Benson reluctantly. “Unless you can aid me to find the freighter from whom Stephen Landray's knife was purchased.”

“A great many of our people are engaged in transporting supplies and colonists across the plains.”

“Perhaps you will suggest a more direct method; I confess I am finding myself rather at a loss in the matter.”

“I suppose you are aware that your friends might have been stricken with the cholera, for instance; or the Indians may have killed them; or they may have gone astray on the plains and so lost their lives; or they may have been made prisoners by the Indians, may even now be prisoners? Or,” continued Young, “for reasons of their own they may wish you to think something of this sort has happened, and at this moment be alive and well in California.”

“That,” said Benson, “is quite impossible. If they are alive their families would have heard from them.”

“Their families? Men sometimes forget,” and the governor's short upper lip curled unpleasantly.

“Some men might, not these.”

“Had they much money with them?”

“Yes, a large sum,” and he added, seeing the drift of Young's mind, “but only a small part of what they might have brought. The leaders of the party were men of ample means.”

“Then something must have happened to them; men don't abandon money.”

Benson ignored this; but it occurred to him that Young was probably speaking now in his worldly capacity, and that his worldly views were very worldly indeed; the views of one who neither trusted nor respected men.

“I will tell you what I will do,” said Young. “If they got as far as Salt Lake they must have had business dealings with some of our people. I can have inquiries made, if you will furnish me with a description of these men.”

“I have already been to the stores and shops,” said Benson.

“I will extend the inquiries beyond the city. Meantime I've a man here who may be of use to you,” said Young after a moment's thought.

He called to the clerk in the outer office, but before the latter answered the summons, he changed his mind.

“I'll fetch him myself,” he said, and left the room.

He was gone, perhaps, ten minutes, and then returned, accompanied by a heavy set man of not especially prepossessing appearance, who wore goggles and blinked through them at Benson with weak eyes.

“Mr. Benson, this is Brother Hickman,” said the governor, by way of introduction. “Now, Mr. Benson, kindly tell Brother Hickman what you have just told me.”

And Benson went through the narrative a second time.

When he had finished, Young turned to Hickman:

“Mr. Benson has already spent three days here, but so far he has learned nothing. It just occurs to me, Mr. Benson, that our people, while they would not, of course, really deceive you, still might be reluctant to answer your questions frankly.”

“But why?” asked Benson in some surprise.

“They have learned caution. They might be suspicious of you for one thing; this is why I advise you to secure Brother Hickman's help. They all know him, and know he would not mix in any affair that would bring them into trouble.”

“But I can't understand why they should be suspicious of me!” urged Benson.

“Then it's evident you know nothing of the Latter Day Saints,” said Young.

“Very little,” admitted Benson.

“We've been accused of crimes; and we've been lied about until a stranger from the States has to prove himself before we accept him for what he seems. You have come to me frankly, not like some of these Gentiles who sneak in here to make trouble. Why, sir, they even quarrel among themselves and take their troubles into our courts; get justice, and then go away and swear they have been robbed; or, they come here without a dollar, and live on our charity, and then go away and vilify us.” He seemed to be lashing himself into a rage at the memory of these wrongs, real or imaginary. “But it hasn't ended with these scoundrels that turn up here to make discord, the wrong has gone further; the Government at Washington has used us shamefully; it's trampled the constitution under foot in its dealings with us; it's ridden recklessly over all law to persecute and drive this people; and now they talk about sending troops here. You may as well tell me you can make hell into a powder-house as tell me you can let an army in here and have peace!” He rushed on with his grievances. “If I have forty wives, they do not know it; neither did I ask any judge for them. I live above law, and so do this people. Before we left Nauvoo, not less than two United States senators came to receive a pledge from us that we would leave the United States; and then, while we were doing our best to quit their borders, the poor degraded cusses sent a requisition for five hundred men to go and fight their battles in Mexico. That was President Polk; and he will welter in hell for it, with old Zachary Taylor; and that's where the present administration will soon be if they don't repent and let us alone!”

He paused, and Benson made haste to assure him of his entire sympathy. In spite of his coarseness the lawyer realized that Young spoke as one who had suffered oppression; or else he joined with an aggressive, quarrelsome disposition, the happy faculty of believing always in the justice of his cause, and that he was as firmly fixed in the right, as his enemies were hopelessly involved in the wrong.

A pause succeeded, and the governor came back to the matter in hand.

“When I think of our wrongs, Mr. Benson, I lose my temper; but they are nothing to you; what do you think, Hickman? What would you advise?”

Hickman turned to Benson and said:

“We can look about here, and try and learn if the party got this far.”

“Would it be possible to continue my investigation among the Indian tribes?” asked Benson.

“Oh, it ain't them,” said Hickman. “They'll steal an ox to eat, maybe; but they wouldn't attack a well-armed party of whites. If it was the Indians, it was them back on the plains, you may be certain of that.”

“If it was the Indians—” broke in Young, “it's my business to know it. I'm Indian agent here; and if they are up to any such deviltries I'll sweat repentance out of them!” and he looked ugly.

Benson rose from his chair.

“Thank you,” he said to Young gratefully. “With your help I may be able to learn something. At any rate you shall hear from me in a day or so.”

A week elapsed, and Benson sorrowfully confessed that so far as his purpose was concerned, he was not one whit wiser than when he arrived at Salt Lake City.

Each day, Mr. Hickman, at the handsome figure he had fixed upon as a reasonable remuneration for the benefits he would confer, bore him company in his search; at first displaying a sardonic humour which his employer wholly failed to enjoy; later this changed to a sneering petulance, for the lawyer's persistency was of a kind he had scarcely bargained on. Yet, in the end, Benson's determination provoked him to a grudging admiration to which he gave expression in characteristic speech.

“You certainly ain't much of a quitter, sir,” he said. “What's your next move going to be? For I reckon there's a next move coming.”

“Several next moves,” said Benson, slightly nettled by the man's manner.

“Well, we'll take 'em one at a time. What comes first?” Hickman asked grinning.

“The Indian tribes in the mountains,” answered Benson with quiet determination.

“That will be just like chasing thistle down,” and Hickman's grin widened.

“Then I'll chase it!” said Benson shortly.

“And never come up with it.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Even if you manage to locate the different camps, you don't suppose, do you, that any redskin will own up he's had a hand in doing away with your friends? And if you venture in among them, what's to hinder them from serving you some trick?”

“That's a risk I shall have to take.”

“I guess you'll find it's more than a risk—”

“Of course, if you prefer not to accompany me—” began Benson.

“Oh, I ain't afraid. It would take right smart to scare Bill Hickman, and Brigham's appointed me to see that no harm comes to you.”

“Has he? That's very kind of him.”

“Oh, I reckon he's got his reasons,” said Hickman coolly,

“And you carry out his wishes?”

“I take counsel.”

“What's that?” inquired Benson.

“It's principally doing what I'm told. That's why you can count on me, young man, no matter what you do.”

“I suppose it will be necessary to secure the services of an interpreter and guides; do you know where I can find a man who is acquainted among the various tribes?”

“I'll have to think that over for a spell.”

But the very next day Hickman arrived early at the hotel and informed Benson that Young wished to see him.

They found him in his office, but not alone. With him was a tall, gaunt fellow, whose deeply-lined face, in spite of its sunburn, showed an unwholesome pallor.

The president shook hands cordially with Benson, and motioned him to a chair.

“As the result of a curious set of circumstances, I have news of your friends at last, Mr. Benson; but you must prepare to hear the worst,” said he, and he turned to the stranger. “Come here, Raymond, and tell your story,” and Raymond, who had been standing apart, now joined the little group by the president's desk, and dropped into the chair Young indicated.

“How do you do, sir.” He addressed himself to Benson, and his manner suggested a kindly sympathy that was not lost on the lawyer.

“Brother Brigham tells me you're looking for Stephen Landray and his brother? I guess I can tell you as much as any man alive about them, for I was with 'em—”

“They are dead, then?” said Benson abruptly. He was very white of face, and his voice was almost a whisper.

Raymond nodded a single emphatic inclination of the head. He cleared his throat, and went on in his soft, slow speech:

“I was with 'em when the redskins put 'em out of business. It was a snug clean up, and it was only by God Almighty's mercy that I fetched myself off.” He turned back the collar of his shirt as he spoke, and Benson saw an ugly scar. Raymond laid his finger on this. “You can see how near they came to fixing me.” he said.

“But how is it that you were with them?” asked Benson.

“I joined the party this side of Fort Laramie. You see, I was a friend of Basil Landray's. I'd known him a right smart while. I was coming in toward the valley and I knew a cut off round by way of the Chugwater that they was keen to try. That was their mistake. If they'd stuck to the emigrant road, this wouldn't have happened.”

“Yes?” said Benson.

“They was mighty agreeable men,” said Raymond, in accents of sincere sorrow. He gave Benson a shy, furtive glance. “And you've come all the way out here to learn what happened to 'em? Well, I reckon their friends was real distressed, not hearing from 'em.”

“But tell me the particulars,” said Benson breathlessly.

“It was a war party of Indians from the plains.”

“What did I tell you? I knew it wa'n'. diggers,” said Hickman. “Diggers? No, I guess not. It was a regular war party; and they showed up when we was within five days of the valley here, but I reckon they'd been following us for right smart of a spell, just waiting for a chance to take us when we wa'n'. looking for it. We stood 'em off for two days and a night; but by then they'd pretty well used us up. Rogers and the kid was dead; Basil was wounded so he couldn't use his rifle; not counting me, and Steve, and Bush, they was about the best we had back of the wagons; the others didn't count for much; well, the morning of the third day we just couldn't hold the redskins off. I reckon there was close on to two hundred in that war party. Two hours after sun-up there was just me, and Steve, and Bush left. Walsh was dead, and Bingham was dead, and Dunlevy had been shot through the hips, and was out of it, along with Basil. Our three guns couldn't keep 'em off, and they swarmed in through the wagons. I saw 'em kill Bush, and then they made an end of Steve, but I hadn't as much as a scratch on me yet, and I threw down my gun thinking I'd take chances; and that's where I was smart. At first some of 'em wanted to kill me then and there; but others was in the notion to take me back with the tribe, which was what I'd counted on. And this was what they decided to do with me. Those who'd been so keen to kill me, found Basil, and Dunlevy, and killed them instead; and that comforted 'em some. Anyhow, after they had robbed the wagons of what they wanted and burnt what they didn't want, we started back into the hills, I watching for a chance to give 'em the slip. Well, the chance come. I got off with a good hoss and a good gun, and this hole in my neck.”

“And how long ago was this?” asked Benson.

“The fight? A year ago, just. I was with the Indians for pretty near a month, and I was almost two months in getting home. I was fixed so bad I daren't travel and this here wound kept opening on me; she opened three times and I had to lay by and let her heal up. And when I did get home I was sick; I am only getting round now,” he added with plaintive pity for himself. “I'm that weak, if you was to shake your finger at me I'd be ready to set down and cry. I been back there, though—I went back this spring. You see I only knowed their names, I'd never heard any of 'em say where they'd come from, except Rogers; I remembered to have heard him say he'd lived in Texas where he'd fit the Mexicans, but I knowed the others wa'n'. from Texas.”

“And what did you find?” asked Benson.

“Well, as far as I could see, everything was as the Indians had left it; but there was nothing to tell me what I wanted to know.”

He had told this monumental lie of his without the flicker of an eyelid; and with a touch of sorrow and gentle melancholy that had endeared him to the lawyer. Now Young joined in the conversation.

“You see, Mr. Benson, I had heard of this fight of Brother Raymond's, at least I'd heard he'd been attacked by a party of Indians; but yesterday Brother Raymond's father, who is an elder in the church, was here to get his instructions, as I was sending him into the southern part of the state to establish a settlement, and we got to talking of Brother Thomas; and he told me the particulars of the fight.”

At this Brother Thomas favoured the governor with a shy smile.

“Father hated powerful to go,” he said, “but he reckoned it was the Lord's business you was sending him on, Brother Brigham; and he knuckled under.”

Benson felt stupefied and crushed by what he had just heard; he thought of Virginia with infinite pity. He turned to Young.

“I want to see where this massacre took place,” he said. “I think my clients would expect this of me. Now, how many days will it take.”

“Raymond will be better able to tell you that than I,” said Young.

“How many days will it take, Mr. Raymond?” asked Benson.

“Five days to go there, and you'll have to come back to Salt Lake if you want to catch up with a party going East.”

“Can I secure your services as a guide?” asked the lawyer.

“Me? No, I guess not—” said Raymond quickly; but Young interrupted him.

“Certainly, Raymond will go with you, Mr Benson,” he said.

“Look here, Brother Brigham, you never said I'd have to go,” objected Raymond. “I got business of my own to attend to.”

“If Mr. Raymond is unwilling—” began Benson.

“Oh, he's willing enough,” said Young, rather grimly. “You'd better take Hickman, too.”

“He won't need me if he's got Bill,” said Raymond doggedly.

“Yes he will. Understand you'll be paid, well paid. Mr. Benson expects to be fair and liberal with you.”

“I don't want his money,” muttered Raymond sullenly.

Hickman, who had seemed vastly amused by something in the situation that was not patent to Benson, now slapped Raymond on the back.

“Oh, come!” he cried. “You want anybody's money; that's your kind, Tom Raymond. You needn't be scared about the Indians, they're all in my contract.”

And in spite of Raymond's reluctance to take part in Benson's quest, he led his pack-mule when Hickman and the lawyer rode out of the city at dawn the next morning.

“I am sorry that he seems to be going with us against his inclination,” said Benson. He was disposed to have a greater liking for Raymond than Hickman had been able to inspire him with, and he thought he understood the former's objection to being of the party, and liked him none the less for it.

For two days they followed the emigrant trail eastward; but on the third they left it and struck off into the mountains. Raymond led them unerringly, but his sullen temper endured.

The fifth day they made their longest march, and it was dark when they went into camp.

“To-morrow I'll show you what you've come to see,” said Raymond, as he drew his blankets about him, and stretched himself on the ground preparatory to sleep. Yet the following morning, after they had eaten their breakfast, he still lingered by the camp-fire, and it was only after much urging on the part of Hickman that he took himself off to bring up the horses, but he returned with only two of them.

“Where's your horse and the pack-mule?” demanded Hickman angrily.

“I shan't need 'em to-day,” answered Raymond.

“Why not?”

“This is the place, do you see that hill off yonder? I reckon you'll find what you're looking for there.”

“We'll go there then—at once,” said Benson, drawing in his breath quickly.

Raymond fell back a step at his words.

“You and Bill go. I been there before. I'm not going again. You'll see where I buried 'em, where the banks of a wash are heaved in. You and Bill go look.”

Hickman exploded in a burst of laughter at this.

“Well, now,” he said, and repeated, “well, now—why damn your soul to hell, I got chickens at home with more heart. What are you afraid of, Tom Raymond?”

“I ain't saying I'm afraid,” but his face was ghastly.

“No, by thunder! you ain't saying it, you don't need to. What do you expect to see anyhow? Ghosts?”

“Shut up, Bill.”

The hill Raymond had indicated was, perhaps two miles distant from their camp, and in a little less than half an hour they had reached its summit.

“It's easy to see what happened here,” said Hickman, glancing about him. He moved away, circling the top of the hill, while Benson examined the charred wood and rusted iron work that littered the ground. He was thus engaged when Hickman called to him.

“Come here; I've found the spot,” he said, and the lawyer hastened to his side.

He was standing on the edge of a gully the rains had cut in one of the slopes of the hill.

“See,” he said, “there's where Tom Raymond heaved in the bank. The Indians are keen to kill, but they're damn slow to bury. I wa'n'. none too sure that Raymond had been back here, but this settles it.”

Near-by was a broken and rusted shovel, and a pick with a charred handle. Benson examined the shovel narrowly, and on the iron that secured the wooden handle he found a name stamped on the metal; scraping off the rust with the blade of his knife he was able to decipher the name, “Bendy.” It had been made at the Bendy shops in Benson.

Hickman pointed to the ditch.

“Are you going to see what Tom's covered up there?”

“No, God forbid!” cried Benson.

“We'd better ride back to camp then, if you're ready. I wouldn't put it past Tom to quit us.”

“Then suppose you go and make sure that he doesn't,” said Benson. “I'm not ready to go yet, but I'll join you there presently.”

“What's going to keep you?” asked Hickman curiously.

“I wish to mark the spot,” Benson explained, and for an hour or more after the Mormon left him he toiled at this task, and by the end of that time had raised a rude pyramid of loose stones; then he mounted his horse and gazed about him for the last time.

He looked at the bleaching animal bones; at the circle on the bare earth where the fire had been; then his glance wandered over the plain; level, solitary, devoid of life. Miles distant on either hand the barren sands yielded to the barren rocks, and the rocks rose to the eternal snows. Off to the west, in the full glory of the August sun, was their camp of the night before. It was hidden by a strip of timber, and out of this timber a single thin ribbon of blue smoke ascended from the wasting embers of their fire.

And here the end had come to Stephen Landray and his companions; on this hill, in this solitude. Here, in the shelter of their wagons they had fought and fallen. He almost saw the savages on their galloping ponies, as they swept nearer and nearer, and then the end—swift, brutal, sufficient.

Suddenly there came to him a quick, shocking sense of joy.

“God forgive me!” he muttered, aghast at the feeling. “God forgive me! I mustn't think of it—yet; I'm only sorry for him; only sorry for her. I must keep myself out of this!”