He rode out of the city one early morning in September, facing to the south over the rolling valley that lay between the hills now flaunting their first autumn colours.  He was in haste to go, yet fearful of what he should meet there.

A little out of the city he passed a man from the south, huddled high on the seat under the bow of his wagon-cover, who sang as he went one of the songs that had been so popular the winter before:—­

  “Old squaw-killer Harney is on the way
   The Mormon people for to slay. 
   Now if he comes, the truth I’ll tell,
   Our boys will drive him down to hell—­
       Du dah, du dah, day!”

He smiled grimly as the belated echo of war came back to him.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Blood on the Page

Along the level lane between the mountain ranges he went, a lane that runs almost from Bear Creek on the north to the Colorado on the south, with a width of twenty miles or so.  But for Joel Rae it became a ride down the valley of lost illusions.  Some saving grace of faith was gone from the people.  He passed through sturdy little settlements, bowered in gardens and orchards, and girded about by now fertile acres where once had been the bare, gray desert.  Slowly, mile by mile, the Saints had pushed down the valley, battling with the Indians and the elements for every acre of land they gained.  Yet it seemed to him now that they had achieved but a mere Godless prosperity.  They had worked a miracle of abundance in the desert—­but of what avail?  For the soul of their faith was gone.  He felt or heard the proof of it on every hand.

Through Battle Creek, Provo, and Springville he went; through Spanish Fork, Payson, Salt Creek, and Fillmore.  He stopped to preach at each place, but he did it perfunctorily, and with shame for himself in his secret heart.  Some impalpable essence of spirituality was gone from himself and from the people.  He felt himself wickedly agreeing with a pessimistic elder at Fillmore, who remarked:  “I tell you what, Brother Rae, it seems like when the Book of Mormon goes again’ the Constitution of the United States, there’s sure to be hell to pay, and the Saints allus has to pay it.”  He could not tell the man in words of fire, as once he would have done, that they had been punished for lack of faith.

Another told him it was madness to have thought they could “whip” the United States.  “Why,” said this one, “they’s more soldiers back there east of the Missouri than there is fiddlers in hell!” By the orthodox teachings of the time, the good man of Israel had thus indicated an overwhelming host.

He passed sadly on.  They would not understand that they had laid by and forgotten their impenetrable armour of faith.