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I SIW L\ SCARLCT. By A. CONAN DOYLE. PART ONE. [Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John 11. Watson, M. D., late of the army medical department] PART TWO. [The Country of the Saints.] CHAPTER I. In tho central portion cf the great i North American continent there lies an i arid and repulsive desert, which fcr ' many a long year served as a barrier ' against the advance of civilization , From tho Sirra Nevada to Ni hr.-.: l.a and from the Yellowstone river in the : north to the Colorado upon the south is a region cf desolation and silence. Nor is nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It com prises snow capped and lofty mountains and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift flowing rivers which dash through jagged canyons, and there arsen rmous plains which in winter are white with enow and in summer are gray with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality and misery. There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band cf Pawnees or of Blackfect may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other hunting grounds, but tho hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight of those awesome plains and to find themselves once more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and tho clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark ravines and picks up such sustenance as it can among the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness. In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as tho 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 apper taining to life. There is no bird in the steel blue heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray 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 ap pertaining to life upon the broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco one sees a pathway traced ont across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet cf many adven turers. Her® and there are scattered white objects which glisten in tho sun and stand out against tho dull deposit of alkali. Approach and examine them! They are bones. Some large and coarse, others smaller and mere delicate. The former have belonged to oxen and the latter to men. For 1,500 miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by the scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside. Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the 4th cf May, 1847, a solitary traveler. His appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region. An ob server would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearer to 40 or 60. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown, parchmentlike skm was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his bead and burned with an unnatural luster, while the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton.! As he stood, he leaned upon bis weapon'for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggest ed a wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over his shriv eled limbs, proclaimed what it was ’hat gave him that senile and decrepit ap pearance. The man was dying—dying from hunger and from thirst. 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 stretch ed 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 realized 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 20 years hence?” he muttered as he seated himself in the shelter of a bowlder. Before sitting down he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which be had carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for. in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little violence. In stantly there broke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, seared face, with very bright brown eyes,and twospeckled dimpled fists, “You’ve hurt me!’’ said a childish voice reproachfully. “Have I, though?” the man answer ed penitently. “I didn't gc for to do it ” As he spoke he unwrappe l the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about 5 years of age, whese dainty shoes and smart pink frock, with its lit tle linen apron, all bespoke a mother’s care. The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered Ices than her compan ion. “How is it now?” ho answered anx iously, for she was still rubbing the towty golden curls which covered the back of her head. “Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect gravity, shoving the in jured part up to him. “That’s what mother used to do. Where’s mother?” “Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before long. ” “Gone, eh?” said the little girl. “Funny she didn’t say goodby. She ’most always did if she was just goin over to auntie’s fcr tea, and now she’s been away for three days. Say, it’s aw ful dry, ain’t it? Ain’t there no water j nor nothin to eat?” “No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient awhile, • and then you’ll be all right. Put your hand up agin me like that, and then you’ll feel better. It ain’t easy to talk win n your lips is like leather, but 1 gui : s I'd best let you know how the cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?” “Pretty things! Fine things!” cried ti e little girl enthusiastically, holding | up two glittering fragments cf mica. \ “When we goes back to home, I’ll give ; them to Brother Bob. ” “You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said the man confidently. “You just wait a bit 1 was goin to ti ll you, thftugh—you remember when wa left the river?” “Oh, yes.” “We!!, wo reckoned we’d strike an- i other river scon, d’ye see? But there | was somethin wrong, compasses or i manor somethin, and it didn't turnup. I Water ran out, just era pt a little drop for the likes of you, and—and”— “And yon couldn’t wash yourself, ” , interrupted his comprmion gravely, star- i ing up at his grimy visage. “No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he ' was the first to go, ar.fi then Indian ; Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, an.l then i Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your | mother. ” “Then mother’s a deader, too,” cried ! the little girl, dropping her face in her I pinafore and sobbing bitterly. “Yes, they all went except you and , mo. Then I thought there was some | chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder, and we ' tramped it together. It don’t seem as thou . h we’ve improved matters. There’s an almighty small chance for us now!” “Do you mean that we are goin to die, too?” asked tho child, checking her sobs and raising her tear stained face. “I guess that’s about tho size of it. ” “Why didn’t you say so before?” she said, laughing gleefully. “You gave me such a fright. Why, cf course, now c.s I long as we die wo’ll be with mother ! again.” “Yes, you will, dearie.” “And you to. I'll tell her how awful good you’ve been. I’ll bet she meets us at the doer cf heaven with a big pitcher I of water and a lot cf buckwheat cakes, I hot and toasted on both sides, like Bob ! and me was fond of. How long will it I be first?” “I don’t know—not very long. ” The i man’s eyes were fixed upon the northern horizon. In the bluo vault of the heaven there appeared three little specks, which increr . d in size every moment, so rap- . idly did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large i brown birds, which circled over tho heads of the two wanderers and then settled upon some rocks which over looked them. They were buzzards, the vultures cf tho west, whoso coming is the f< rerunner of death. “Cocks and hens,’’cried the little | girl gleefully, pointing at their ill ! omened forms and clapping her hands i to make them rise. “Say, did God make I this country?” “In course he did,” said the compan ion, rather startled by this unexpected : ■ question. “Ho made the country down in Illi- I nois, an ho made the Missouri,” the lit tle girl continued. “I guess somebody : else macle tho country in these parts. It’s I not nearly so well done. They forgot : the water and the trees. ” “What would yo think of offering up prayer?” the man asked diffidently. “It ain’t night yet,” she answered. “It don’t matter. It ain’t quite reg ular, but he won’t mind that, you bet. : ( You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the wagon when we was on the plains.” “Why don’t you say some yourself?” I the child asked, with wondering eye. “I disremember them, ” he answered. “I hain’t said none since I was half the height o’ that gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out. and I’ll stand by and come in on the choruses.” “Then you'll need to kneel down, and me, too, ” she said, laying the shawl out for that purpose. “You’ve got to put your hands up like this. It makes you feel kind cf good. ” It was a strange sight, bad there been anything but the buzzards to see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. , Her chubby face and his haggard, an- I gular visage were both turned up to the I cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to I that dread being with whom they were face to face, while the two voices—the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh—united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their scat in the shadow cf the bowlder, until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast cf her protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but nature provexl to be too strong for him. For three days and three nights he had allowed him self neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the breast until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with the golden tresses of his couipauion. and both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber. Had the wanderer remained awake fcr another half hour a strange sight world have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain tnero ruse up a htti-a spray <r uwst, my slight at first and hardly to be distin guished from the mists of tho distance, , but gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid, veil de fined cloud. This cloud continued to in crease in size until it became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitr de of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that oneef those great herds of bisor.s wlm h graze upon the prairie land was appr< .-ehing him. This was obviously impossible intth e e arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing the canvas covered tilts cf wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as bciug 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 aero.-:.-; the enormous plain stretch ed the straggling array, wagons and carts, men on horseback and men on foot, innumerable women who stag gered along under burdens and children who toddled beside the wagons ar peep ’ cd out from under the white coverings. ; This was evidently no ordinary party of ! immigrants, but rather some nomad peo i pie who had been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a | new country- There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and rum bling from this great mass of humanity with the creaking of wheels the neighing horses. Loud as it wo it was n t sufficient to rouse the tv, tired wayfmers above them. A.t the head of the column there rode a score or mere of grave, iron faced j men, clad in somber, homespun gar ments and armed with rifles On reach | ing tho base of the bluff they halted and ! held a short council among themselves. | “The-wells are to the right, mybroth ers, ” said one, a hard lipped, clean i 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. “Ho who could draw it from the rocks will not now abandon his own chosen I people. ” “Amen, amen!” responded the whole party. They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and keenc st eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright against the gray rocks be hind. At the sight there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of : guns, while fresh horsemen came gal- I loping up to re-enforce the vanguard. The word “redskins” was cn every lip. “There can’t be any number of lujuns here,” said the elderly man, who ap peared to be in command. “We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no j other tribes until we cross the great mountains. ” “Shall I go forward and see, Brother I Stangerson?” asked one of the band. “And I?” “And I?” cried a dozen voices. “Leave your horses below, and we will wait you here,” the elder answer ed. In a moment the young fellowshad dismounted, fastened their horses and were ascending tho precipitous slope which led up to the object which had t excited their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confi dence and dexterity of practiced scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the sky j line. The young man who had first I given the alarm was leading them. Sud denly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though overcome with as tonishment, and on joining him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met their eyes. On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single giant bowlder, and against this bowlder there lay a tall man, long bearded and hard featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regular breathing showed that ho was fast asleep. Beside him lay a little child, with her round ; white arms encircling his brown, sinewy neck and her golden haired head resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunio. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the regular line of snow white teeth within, and a playful smile played over her in fantile features. Her plump little white j legs, terminating in white socks and neat shoes, with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long, shriveled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who at tho sight of the newcomers uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly away. The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared about them 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 of beasts. His face assumed an ex pression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his bony hand over his eyes. “This is what they call delirium, 1 guess,” he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing, but looked all around her with the wondering, questioning gaze cf childhood. The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that their appearance was no delusion. One of j them seized the little girl and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt companion and as ' sisted him toward the wagons. “My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained. “Me and that lit tle un are all that’s left o’ 21 people. The rest is all dead o’ thirst and hunger away down in the south. ” “Is she your child?” asked some one. “I guess she is now!” the other cried defiantly; “she’s mine ’cause I saved her. No man will take her away from me. She’S Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who are you, though?” he con- ; tinned, glancing with curiosity at his ! stalwart, sunburned rescuers. “There ■ | seems to baa powerful lot o' ye. ” “Nigh upon 10,0u0, ” said one of the j young men. “We are the persecuted ! children of God, tho chosen cf the angel Meron a. ” “1 never heard tell cn him,” said the wanderer. “Ho appears to have chosen a fair crowd o’ ye.” “Do not jest nt that which is sacred,” said tho other sternly. “We are of those ; who believe in th.os-3 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 tho state of Illinois, where we had founded our tem- ; pie. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and from the god less, even though it be the heart of the desert. ’ ’ Tho name cf Nauvoo evidently re called recollections to John Ferrier. “I seo, ” ho said. “Ye are the Mormons.” “We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with one voice. ; “And where are ye going?” “We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person cf our prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with ! sou. ” They had reached tho base cf the hill oy this time and were surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims, pale faced, meek looking women, strong, laughing chil dren and anxious, earnest eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishfnent snd of commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of : me of the strangers and the destitution j if the other. Their escort did not halt, rowever, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they i reached a wagon, which was conspicu ras for its groat size and for the gaudi i uess and smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were furnished with two or at most four apiece. Beside the driver there sat a man who ' jould not have been more than 30 years of age, but whose massive head and res ! olute expression marked him as a lead : sr. He was reading a brown backed rolume, but as the crowd approached ha laid it aside and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways. ( “If we take you with us, ”he said in solemn wor Is, “it can only bo as believ ’ ers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better far that your bones should bleach in this wilder ness than that you should prove to be I that little speck of decay which in time i corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come ! with us on these terms?” “Guess I’ll come with ye on any | terms,” said Ferrier, with such em phasis that the grave elders could not ■ restrain a smile. The leader alone re -1 tained his stern, impressive expression. “Take him, Brother Stangerson,” ho said. “Give him food and drink, and : the child likewise. Let it be your task ’ also 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 tho 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 wagon got into mo tion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along once more. The elder to whose care the two waifs had been com mitted led them to his wagon, where a meal was already awaiting them. “You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you shall have recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime remember that now and forever 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. ’’ CHAPTER 11. This is not tho place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky mountains they had strug gled on with a constancy almost unpar alleled in history. The savage man and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue and disease, every impediment which nature could place in the way, had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenaci ty. Yet the long journey and the accu mulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sun light beneath them and learned from the lips of their leader that thia was the promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs forevermore. Young speedily proved himself to be a skillful administrator as well as a res olute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared in which the future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in pro portion to the standing of each individ ual. The tradesman was put to his trade ■ and the artisan to his calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up as if : by magic. In the country there were ! draining and hedging, planting and i clearing, until the next summer saw I the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in i the center of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight the clatter of the hammer and the rasp , of the saw were never absent from the monument which the immigrants erect ed to Him who had led them safe through i many dangers. The two castaways, John Ferrier and I the little girl who had shared his for- ■ tunes and had been adopted as his daugh-' ter, accompanied the Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson’s wagon, a retreat which she shared with the Mor mon’s three wives and with his son, a headstrong, forward boy of 12. Having i CHAPTER 11. rallied, with the elasticity of childhood, from tho shock caused by her mother’s death, she scon became a pot with the women and reconciled herself to this | new life in her moving canvas covered home. In the meantime, Ferrier, having recovered fifom his privations, distin guished himlself as a useful guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem es his new compan- ■ ions that when they reached tho end of ; their wanderings it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with ! as large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with the exception ; of Young himself and of Stangerson, Kimball, Johnston and Diebber, who were the four principal elders. On the farm thus acquired John Fer rier built himself a substantial loghouse, which received so many additions in succeeding years that it grew into a roomy villa. Ho was a man of a prac tical turn of mind, keen in his dealings, skillful with his hands. His iron con stitution 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 pros pered exceedingly. In three years he was better oil than his neighbors, in six he was well to do, in nine he was rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City i who could compare with him. From the groat inland sea to the distant Wahsatch ■ mountains there was no name better known than that of tohn Ferrier. There was one way, and only one, in which ho offended the susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or per suasion could ever induce him to set up a female establishment, after tho manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented i himself by resolutely and inflexibly ad hering to his determination. There were j some who accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion and others who put it down to greed cf wealth and re luctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some early love affair and of a fair haired girl who had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly cel ibate. In every other respect ho con formed to tho religion of the young set tlement and gained the name of being an orthodox and straight walking man. Lucy Ferrier grew up ' ’ithin the log house and assisted her adopted father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic odor of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to the young girl. As year suc ceeded to year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more ruddy and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the highroad which ran by Ferrier’s farm felt long forgotten thoughts revive in his mind as he watched her lithe, girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields or met her mounted upon her father’s mustang and managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the west. So the bud blossom ed into a flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of tho farmers left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be iound in the whole Pacific slope. It was not tho father, however, who first discovered that the child had de veloped into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be meas ured by dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a' voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns, with u mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and larger nature has awakened within her. There are few who can not recall that day and remem ber the one little incident which herald ed the dawn of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and that of many besides. It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as the bees whose hive they had chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty highroads defiled long streams of heavily laden mules, all head ing to the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California, and the over land route lay through the city of the elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks coining in from the outly ing pasture lauds and trains of tired im migrants, men and horses equally weary of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair float ing out behind her. She had a commis sion from her father in the city and was dashing in as she had done many a time before with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The travel stained adventurers gazed after her in astonish ment, and even the unemotional Indians, journeying in with their peltry, relaxed their accustomed stoicism as they mar veled at the beauty of the pale faced maiden [continued ] isxcnetnent. “Terrible excitement in the curio hall!” “Yes?” “Yes, somebody yelled fire, and the two headed girl lost both of them.” The laughing hyena, having an acute sense of the absurd, thought be wouldn’t do a thing but die.—De troit Tribune. Chess and Latin. Rousseau, the famous author of “Emile, ” was exceedingly fond of ahess, and in one cf his books inti mates that be considered it of more educational value than Latin, but as be knew little Latin and much chess be wotejd naturally be disposed to exaggerate the value of the amuse ment. —London Queen. PROFESSIONAL. DR. J. T. KOAN. Office in Hollis & Hinton Block. SUMMERVILLE GA. lam prepared to treat Rupture, Hemorrhoids, Fistula in Auo, without ligai ure or knife or drawing blood. 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