ding to the ears, sprouted a sandy
fringe of whiskers well-streaked with gray. Mother did not greet him,
nor did he greet her. He stood and glowered at her for some time, he
cleared his throat and said with a sneer:

"Wisht you was back in Missouri right now I bet."

I saw mother tighten her lips in self-control ere she answered:

"We are from Arkansas."

"I guess you got good reasons to deny where you come from," he next said,
"you that drove the Lord's people from Missouri."

Mother made no reply.

". . . Seein'," he went on, after the pause accorded her, "as you're now
comin' a-whinin' an' a-beggin' bread at our hands that you persecuted."

Whereupon, and instantly, child that I was, I knew anger, the old, red,
intolerant wrath, ever unrestrainable and unsubduable.

"You lie!" I piped up. "We ain't Missourians. We ain't whinin'. An' we
ain't beggars. We got the money to buy."

"Shut up, Jesse!" my mother cried, landing the back of her hand
stingingly on my mouth. And then, to the stranger, "Go away and let the
boy alone."

"I'll shoot you full of lead, you damned Mormon!" I screamed and sobbed
at him, too quick for my mother this time, and dancing away around the
fire from the back-sweep of her hand.

As for the man himself, my conduct had not disturbed him in the
slightest. I was prepared for I knew not what violent visitation from
this terrible stranger, and I watched him warily while he considered me
with the utmost gravity.

At last he spoke, and he spoke solemnly, with solemn shaking of the head,
as if delivering a judgment.

"Like fathers like sons," he said. "The young generation is as bad as
the elder. The whole breed is unregenerate and damned. There is no
saving it, the young or the old. There is no atonement. Not even the
blood of Christ can wipe out its iniquities."

"Damned Mormon!" was all I could sob at him. "Damned Mormon! Damned
Mormon! Damned Mormon!"

And I continued to damn him and to dance around the fire before my
mother's avenging hand, until he strode away.

When my father, and the men who had accompanied him, returned, camp-work
ceased, while all crowded anxiously about him. He shook his head.

"They will not sell?" some woman demanded.

Again he shook his head.

A man spoke up, a blue-eyed, blond-whiskered giant of thirty, who
abruptly pressed his way into the centre of the crowd.

"They say they have flour and provisions for three years, Captain," h