Something was gone from the Church, something from Brigham, something from himself,--something, it almost seemed, even from the God of Israel.

When the summer waned, his plan was formed to go to one of the southern settlements to live.

Brigham had approved.

The Church needed new blood there.
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..