at he would not pronounce in favor of the Mormon.

History trenches closely upon romance, and here we must leave the very
uncertain and crudely traced outline of the former and follow on in the
latter, as we began.

The story runs that the Danites found trace of one man who had taken an
active part in the death of their prophet. His name was Williams, and
was a man of a large and refined family.

Williams in the course of a year was found dead--drowned! Drowned he
certainly was, but whether by accident or the design of enemies (for
suicide does not sever the life of the borderer) was not known. Then his
eldest son was found dead in the woods. His empty rifle was in his hand.
He too might have perished either by accident or design. The mother was
the next victim. There was consternation in the family; in all the
settlement.

Another victim! Then another! Now it was certain that some awful agency
was at work, and that the family was doomed. The only hope of safety lay
in flight. One night the four surviving children, three grown sons and a
daughter, set out to cross the plains. They had a team of strong horses,
and pushed on in the hope of falling in with some train of emigrants,
joining them, and thus blending in with and mixing with their members,
throw the enemy from off the track.

They found their train, joined it, crossed the Missouri River, and
moving on, began to deem themselves secure.

Soon it came the turn for one of the brothers to stand guard. He kissed
his pale, sad sister, as he shouldered his gun and went on duty. And it
was well that he said good-bye, for he was never heard of afterwards.

As they neared the Rocky Mountains, a party of half a dozen rode out
from the train to take buffalo. One of the two remaining brothers was of
this party. He never returned.

Now only two remained. The brother and sister often sat silent and bowed
by the campfire, and looked sadly into each others' faces. What could
they be thinking of? What was the one question in their minds? The man
could only have been saying to himself, "Sister, whose turn next? is it
you or I?" His brow darkened as he thought how terrible it would be to
leave his sister all alone. And there was an old Roman nobility in the
wish that she might die before him.

The question was not long unsettled. As they neared the Sierras, a stray
shot from the willows that grow on the banks of the Humboldt, laid the
brother dead at his sister's feet.