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           Wherehehadhaltedwasanew-madegrave,andIknewitfortheWainwrightbaby’s—notthefirstofourgravessincewehadcrossedtheWasatchmountains.

           Hewasaweirdfigureofaman.Agedandlean,long-faced,hollow-checked,withmatted,sunburnthairthatfellbelowtheshouldersofhisbuckskinshirt,hisfacewasdistortedwithhatredandhelplessrage.Holdinghislongrifleinhisbridle-hand,heshookhisfreefistatCedarCity.

           “God’scurseonallofyou!”hecriedout.“Onyourchildren,andonyourbabesunborn.Maydroughtdestroyyourcrops.Mayyoueatsandseasonedwiththevenomofrattlesnakes.Maythesweetwaterofyourspringsturntobitteralkali.May...”

           Herehiswordsbecameindistinctasourwagonsrattledon;buthisheavingshouldersandbrandishingfistattestedthathehadonlybeguntolaythecurse.Thatheexpressedthegeneralfeelinginourtrainwasevidencedbythemanywomenwholeanedfromthewagons,thrustingoutgauntforearmsandshakingbony,labour-malformedfistsatthelastofMormondom.Aman,whowalkedinthesandandgoadedtheoxenofthewagonbehindours,laughedandwavedhisgoad.Itwasunusual,thatlaugh,fortherehadbeennolaughterinourtrainformanydays.

           “Give’mhell,Laban,”heencouraged.“Them’smysentiments.