Where he had halted was a new- made grave, and I knew it for the Wainwright baby's--not the first of our graves since we had crossed the Wasatch mountains.
He was a weird figure of a man.

Aged and lean, long-faced, hollow-checked, with matted, sunburnt hair that fell below the shoulders of his buckskin shirt, his face was distorted with hatred and helpless rage.

Holding his long rifle in his bridle-hand, he shook his free fist at Cedar City.
"God's curse on all of you!" he cried out.

"On your children, and on your babes unborn.

May drought destroy your crops.