PART II: The Country of Saints
Chapter VII: On the great alkali plain
In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged cañons: and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common characteristic of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
The inhabitants of this land are the Pawnees and Blackfeet, who use it as their hunting grounds, though even the hardiest of braves are glad to lose sight of the awesome plains and find themselves once more upon the prairies. The coyote sulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull, grey earth--above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there, there are scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May, eighteen hundred and seventy, a solitary traveller. His appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region. He was a tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. His florid face was lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were flecked and dashed with mud; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre. He dismounted and leaned upon his weapon for support, his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggesting a wiry and vigorous constitution. Yet the man was dying--dying from hunger and from thirst.
He was returning east after a fruitless sojourn in the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver. His labors had come to little, though he had enjoyed an underappreciated position among the men in his encampment--that of a tension reliever for the all-male cortege of miners. Though each had taken their turn with his delicacies, they had at some point grown uncomfortable with indulgences in passions they considered unspeakable. Their shame and disgust at their own desires had led them to rally against the man and so he, after overhearing a plot to dispose of him, had disappeared into the wilderness before anything foul could befall him.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, forty years hence," muttered Jefferson Hope, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Alone save his hardy horse, the man had struggled to cross these great and terrible plains in search of salvation. For three days and three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose, searching the barren wilderness for an oasis to give him succor. He was now beyond tired. Slowly his eyelids drooped over his tired eyes, and his head sunk lower and lower upon his breast, until the man slept a deep and dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size until it became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds.
As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the castaway was reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to rouse the tired wayfarer above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among themselves.
"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande," said another.
"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."
"Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above them. From its summit there fluttered a glint of gunmetal grey, showing up hard and bright against the rocks behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word `Redskins' was on every lip.
"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other tribes until we cross the great mountains."
"Shall I go forward and see, father," asked the young man who had spotted the glinting item.
"Leave your horse below and we will await you here, Joseph, my son," the Elder answered.
In a moment the young fellow had dismounted, fastened his horse, and was ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object that had aroused his curiosity. He advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of a practiced scout. The watchers from the plain below could see him flit from rock to rock until his figure stood out against the skyline. He gave out a cry of alarm and threw up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. On the ledge of rock above this strange man there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of the new comer uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the sleeper who stared about him in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and beasts. His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed. "This is what they call delirium, I guess," he muttered.
The young scout felt his heart beating fast, though he knew not if it was due to his exertions running up the cliff or for some other reason. He explained to the gaunt man before him that his appearance was no delusion.
"My name is Jefferson Hope," the wanderer said. "I was forced from a prospecting party far west of here. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuer and then at the long line of waggons on the plain below; "there seems to be a powerful lot of ye."
"We are the persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona," replied the scout.
"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have chosen a fair crowd of ye."
"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We are of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to Jefferson Hope. "I see," he said, "you are the Mormons."
"We are the Mormons," answered his companion.
"And where are you going?"
"To Salt Lake City. The hand of God leads us there, following the person of our Prophet." Great pity rose in the young man's breast, and the desire to foster this new stranger who appeared so haggard and in need of brotherly love. "You must come with us so that we can nurse you back to health. But if you do, it can only be as a believer in our own creed. We have no wolves among our fold. Will you agree to such terms?"
"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Hope, with such emphasis that the anxious youth could not restrain a smile.
The young scout took his newfound companion down to the crowds below, who welcomed the starving man and took him before Brother Strangerson, an Elder in their society. He was the father of the youth who had spotted Jefferson Hope and, upon seeing the man, he turned to his son. "Give him food and drink and let it be your task to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"
"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the waif had been committed let them to his waggon, where a meal was already waiting for him.
"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."
"Plural marriage is intended to diminish the great evil of self-pollution," said the young Joseph Strangerson, reading from a book as the edges of his ears turned pink.
His companion, Jefferson Hope, looked at the bashful youth with a laconic expression. "Self-pollution, eh? And what is that?"
Strangerson squirmed, a hot feeling that he didn't understand working its way through his belly. "The sin of young men," he said, moving down to a whisper. "Abusing themselves."
Hope, who enjoyed watching his friend's discomfort, pretended to be thick. "What kind of abuse?"
Strangerson bit his lip, his words emerging sotto voce. "Onanism," he said. "Masturbation." His mouth broke out into a crooked smile and the two confidants shared a relieving laugh.
Three years had passed since the Mormon train had saved Jefferson Hope from certain doom in the desert. He had settled with them in broad valley of Utah containing their famed city of Salt Lake. Hope acquired a farm and built himself a substantial log-house. He was a man of practical mind, keen in his dealings and skillful with his hands. His iron constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In the intervening years, he was already better off than most of his neighbours and far and wide there was no name better known than Jefferson Hope. In every respect he conformed to the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an orthodox and straight-walking man.
There was one way and only one in which he offended the sensibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. He gave no reason for this persistent refusal, but contended himself by resolutely and inflexibility adhering to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expenses. Others, though, understood that there was something different about Mr. Hope, and for this reason his remained strictly celibate.
This quirk of personality gave no bother to Hope's closest friend among the Mormons, the youth Joseph Strangerson, who had educated and inducted the convert into the ways of his new religion. Strangerson had been but seventeen when the party came upon Hope on the alkali plain, and he had felt an instant connection with the outsider, who was only a few years older than him. Strangerson had never quite fit in with the religious society himself, a fact that gave great consternation to his father, the Elder Strangerson. The young Joseph had been a fey child, lithe and taken to bouts of overexcitement, and his father hoped that the rugged Hope's taciturn ways would rub off on his son.
The two had certainly spent enough time together in the intervening years, meeting daily for prayers and instructions, often alone in Hope's well-built domicile. Their keenness for one another never passed into transgressive territory--Hope had learned his lesson from the turncoat miners--though the two men's conversation always seemed to somehow get caught up in carnal matters.
"So tell me," said Hope now, his dark eyes catching Strangerson's shining hazel ones. "Have you any firsthand experience with such things?"
Strangerson turned a deep crimson color and shook his head, unable to even voice the words to a negative response. He looked at his best friend, who had blossomed in health after his rescue, and once again felt the warm stirring in his abdomen. Hope was certainly a striking fellow, his face austere and economical, who seldom took to smiling beneath his feathery moustache. Farm work had given him an imposing frame, with thick and hearty shoulders, though the manner in which he wore his long hair somehow softened him. When looking at Hope, the words of Joseph Smith always came to Strangerson's mind--how the Prophet had written that male friends "should lie down on the same bed at night locked in each other's embrace talking of their love."
Hope, who had spent more than one night in an embrace that would have scandalized Smith, found Strangerson a wonderful friend but also a constant source of temptation. The younger man had delicate features and a simple manner, the barest fuzz of down on his twenty-year-old cheeks. Hope's sordid thoughts often traced over Strangerson's gentle lips and tantalizing nape, always wishing that impropriety could be set aside one time and allow him to nuzzle against his modest friend's figure. But he kept such fantasies locked deep within his breast, knowing the Mormons would be even less forgiving than the frontiersmen of his past.
The summer heat now pricked the two men as they sat discussing an indecorous subject in Hope's sweltering household. "Why should this sin of onanism be such an evil?" asked Hope. "Has not the Lord filled men with passion?"
Strangerson, who found it easier when discussions turned on spiritual subjects, straightened up. "Passion is well and good," he said. "But it must be harnessed in the proper way, for instance turned towards the production and rearing of children, or in devout supplication."
Hope fixed his companion with a severe look, wondering about the convolutions that went on in the brains of these followers of the Church of Latter-day Saints. "And yet such passion will remain. Trust me, my friend, I have seen more of the world than you."
The convert frequently spoke about his life before the Mormons, and this intrigued Strangerson with a burning fascination. The younger man wished desperately to know more about life outside his small and secluded people and what the greater society of men contained.
"What was it like," asked Strangerson. "Among the cattlemen of the frontier? You've said so little to me about that chapter of your life."
Before trying his luck with the silver lode, Hope had spent a year on a gaucho ranch past the Mexican border. The suntanned ranchers had been sensational and strong-featured, filled with virile machismo that often spilled over into sensuous actions. More than once, Hope had found himself entangled with a group of men grunting in a barn in Spanish at the end of a long day's work. He had to suppress a rush of blood in his groin as the memories spilled through his mind.
"It was an interesting time," was all he said to Strangerson's inquiry.
The Mormon fidgeted again, wishing that his reserved companion would just for once let slip some of the details that he was so clearly holding back. "But what of passion? You said that it was overflowing among the men..." Strangerson trailed off, realizing he was being too earnest in his eagerness.
A flicker of a grin traced over Hope's mouth. "Well surely you've heard the limerick: Young cowboys have great fear/that studs, once filled with beer/completely addle/would throw on the saddle/and ride them in the rear."
Strangerson cocked his head to one side, understanding that there was something unseemly about the poem, though not quite comprehending its underlying message. The innocent confusion endeared him to Hope, who wished he could provide a demonstration of the verse to the inexperienced young man. A trickle of sweat traced down his neck and he tugged at the starchy collar that was common among the Mormons. The barest sliver of Hope's chiseled pectoral muscle became uncovered, causing another bout of distress in Strangerson.
"Are you saying that more-experienced ranchers would mount their assistants like horses?" asked Strangerson, suppressing his odd feelings.
"Ah, if only I could explain," thought Hope. "In a manner," he said aloud.
"It seems a rather queer practice," said Strangerson, who felt the hot air suddenly oppressing him.
"Indeed, it is, my friend."
Just then another young man ran past Hope's window. "Come," he shouted. "Brother Hope, Brother Strangerson, we are all going swimming in the river!"
The invite was welcome on such a sweltering day and the two companions quickly bounded after their friend, each glad to untangle themselves from the sticky conversation in the house. At the riverbank, they found a clutch of young men, each around their same age, diving and jostling in the water, and wrestling one another beneath the cool waves. The women knew not to come upon the menfolk in this state, and so the air was casual and unfettered, with all the men stripped down naked as they frolicked in the waters. Hope drank in the sight of the muscular Mormons and their magnificent bodies, taking care not to let his eyes linger on the parts he most desired, their curvaceous buttocks and mouthwatering instruments. He nodded hello to one of the elder statesmen from the city, a Mr. Enoch Drebber, who had decided to join in the nude festivities and was currently sunbathing on the shore.
Both Strangerson and Hope now doffed their clothing and placed them in a safe space. Though he tried, Strangerson could not force his eyes to turn away from Hope's limp organ, which seemed to be more inflated than during other previous swim sessions. His gaze also traced over Hope's incredible physique and the velvety hairs which covered his legs and chest, his masculinity seeming to dwarf Strangerson's own timid smoothness. Hope tried to disregard his friend's interest, knowing that it could never lead to anything ameliorative for the two of them.
At length, they joined the party and splashed with one another in the clear and inviting current. The Mormon youths laughed heartily, having invented a game of slinging river mud at one another and then tussling for dominance in the shallow water. Strangerson watched as a blond baker jumped upon the silt-covered back of a brown-haired companion, the two of them hooting as they fell with a great splash. He grabbed a glob of mud and turned to search for Hope, wishing to peg him with the sludge, but found his constant companion had somehow disappeared.
Strangerson paddled around between the brawling men, looking high and low for his friend. His explorations took him some way from the others, to a small curve in the river, where he noticed a pair of feet sticking from a reedy patch. A panting noise was emanating from the plants and for a moment Strangerson worried that Hope had hurt himself. But as he came closer, he saw instead that his friend had hauled up on the shore, his nude body writhing agitatedly as Hope did a curious thing.
Hope had closed his eyes and placed his clenched fist over his rod, which had stiffened to a substantial measure. It stuck straight upward as Hope tugged again and again upon his foreskin, sending the engorged head of his dick out into the naked air. From time to time, Hope would reach up with his other hand to pinch one of his nipples, or send it downward to pull on his hairy nutsack. With dawning awareness, Strangerson realized that this was the action known as masturbation that he had so recently warned his friend against.
Yet rather than cry out and try to stop his companion, Strangerson was entirely entranced by the erotic performance. Hope's brawny body was tensing in a magnificent manner as he repeatedly abused his hardened tool. The furious pace and determined focus seemed to suggest that Hope was completely engrossed in his exertion. His having taken a daring position here so near to the others indicated that this action had been something he'd had no choice but to indulge in. Silently, Strangerson floated closer, scarcely aware that his own erection was now straining underwater in a turgid display.
As Hope engaged in his stimulating routine, he squeezed his eyes and played images of the nearby nude young men in his mind. He had been overtaken with emotion at the sights in the river, deeming the pleasure he'd receive greater than the risk he would take giving in to his desires. An imagined scene of unbridled hedonism now entered his brain--that of an orgy breaking out among the young Mormon men in the river, glistening dicks plunging into receptive puckers as they drove their nubile bodies together rhapsodically. During this debauched episode, he would of course induct Strangerson into the methodology of male sensuality. The youth would first be down on his knees with his tender lips squeezed around Hope's cock and then bent over as Hope thrust his enflamed implement into the younger man's supple aperture. He imagined the bucking, braying action in raunchy detail, envisioning every aching sensation of the masculine merrymaking.
Hope slipped his fingers up and down his well-proportioned instrument, working himself further and further into a lather. His exploring hands touched the sensitive head, the responsive shaft, the brimming bollocks. His congenial arsehole was crying out for stimulation and soon he took a digit and slipped it an inch or two past his constricted sphincter. He imagined the penetrating probe to be Strangerson's tongue or perhaps even his member, loosening Hope at the beginning of a fuck session. Strangerson no doubt had a delightful instrument that would press its way into his compartment with eager relish, leading the Mormon youth to heights of pleasure he'd never previously dreamed of.
It was then that Hope came, shooting forth a viscid dollop of white semen in an arc that covered his chest and face. So lost was he in his randy fantasy that he slathered the ejaculate all over his lips, licking the delectable man-cream and pretending it was Strangerson's.
Strangerson himself was completely ensorcelled by the lustful act he was witnessing, his hand instinctively reaching down to tug on his sensitive rod and finding--for the first time in his life--that he was unable to refuse its needs. His hand closed around the shaft and pulled once, twice, three times. His implement was so inexperienced in onanistic strokes that it immediately brought him to the point without return, producing a shuddering orgasm in the young man's body and sending a cloud of thick seminal liquid into the water.
Hearing a cry, Hope opened his eyes with fright. He looked up but found nobody in the vicinity. Embarrassed beyond belief, Strangerson had immediately ducked beneath the surface and was now shimming away back toward the group, hoping he would never have to discuss the events that had just occurred with anybody.
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