"Is that the Larkin pauper?" he asked, bruskly, without any
greeting to Jane.
"It's Mrs. Larkin's little girl," replied Jane, slowly.
"I hear you intend to raise the child?"
"Yes."
"Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?"
"No."
His questions had been swift. She was amazed at a feeling that
some one else was replying for her.
"I've come to say a few things to you." He stopped to
measure her
with stern,
speculative eye.
Jane Withersteen loved this man. From earliest
childhood she had
been taught to
revere and love
bishops of her church. And for ten
years Bishop Dyer had been the closest friend and
counselor of
her father, and for the greater part of that period her own
friend and Scriptural teacher. Her
interpretation of her creed
and her religious activity in
fidelity to it, her
acceptance of
mysterious and holy Mormon truths, were all invested in this
Bishop. Bishop Dyer as an entity was next to God. He was God's
mouthpiece to the little Mormon
community at Cottonwoods. God
revealed himself in secret to this mortal.
And Jane Withersteen suddenly suffered a paralyzing
affront to
her
consciousness of
reverence by some strange, irresistible
twist of thought
wherein she saw this Bishop as a man. And the
train of thought hurdled the rising, crying protests of that
other self whose poise she had lost. It was not her Bishop who
eyed her in curious
measurement. It was a man who tramped into
her presence without removing his hat, who had no greeting for
her, who had no
semblance of
courtesy. In looks, as in action, he
made her think of a bull stamping cross-grained into a corral.
She had heard of Bishop Dyer forgetting the
minister in the fury
of a common man, and now she was to feel it. The glance by which
she
measured him in turn momentarily veiled the
divine in the
ordinary. He looked a rancher; he was booted, spurred, and
covered with dust; he carried a gun at his hip, and she
remembered that he had been known to use it. But during the long
moment while he watched her there was nothing
commonplace in the
slow-gathering might of his wrath.
"Brother Tull has talked to me," he began. "It was your father's
wish that you marry Tull, and my order. You refused
him?"
"Yes."
"You would not give up your friendship with that tramp Venters?"
"No."
"But you'll do as I order!" he thundered. "Why, Jane Withersteen,
you are in danger of becoming a heretic! You can thank your
Gentile friends for that. You face the damning of your soul to
perdition."
In the flux and reflux of the whirling
torture of Jane's mind,
that new,
daring spirit of hers vanished in the old habitual
order of her life. She was a Mormon, and the Bishop regained
ascendance.
"It's well I got you in time, Jane Withersteen. What would your
father have said to these goings-on of yours? He would have put
you in a stone cage on bread and water. He would have taught you
something about Mormonism. Remember, you're a born Mormon. There
have been Mormons who turned heretic--damn their souls!--but no
born Mormon ever left us yet. Ah, I see your shame. Your faith is
not
shaken. You are only a wild girl." The Bishop's tone
softened. "Well, it's enough that I got to you in time....Now
tell me about this Lassiter. I hear strange things."
"What do you wish to know?" queried Jane.
"About this man. You hired him?"
"Yes, he's riding for me. When my riders left me I had to have
any one I could get."
"Is it true what I hear--that he's a gun-man, a Mormon-hater,
steeped in blood?"
"True--terribly true, I fear."
"But what's he doing here in Cottonwoods? This place isn't
notorious enough for such a man. Sterling and the villages north,
where there's
universal gun-packing and fights every day--where