That he expressed the general feeling in our train was evidenced by the many women who leaned from the wagons, thrusting out gaunt forearms and shaking bony, labour-malformed fists at the last of Mormondom.

A man, who walked in the sand and goaded the oxen of the wagon behind ours, laughed and waved his goad.

It was unusual, that laugh, for there had been no laughter in our train for many days.
"Give 'm hell, Laban," he encouraged.

"Them's my sentiments." And as our train rolled on I continued to look back at Laban, standing in his stirrups by the baby's grave.

Truly he was a weird figure, with his long hair, his moccasins, and fringed leggings.