Deseret Read Online Free Page A

Tam had disappeared from sight, he turned to head out
across the Great Salt Lake City in a different direction, away from the
Hotel.   He pulled out a Cohiba as
he went, but he didn’t light it; the real reason he put his hand in his pocket,
under cover of retrieving a new cigar, was to check the lining of his coat.
    The rubies were still there, safe and sound.
    “Well, Mr. Pratt,” he muttered under his breath.   “Here I come.”
    *    *    *
    The gate to the Kingdom of Deseret punched through a mighty
wall built by the hand of God himself, Burton thought.   How appropriate.
    From the Bear River crossing, the mountains had risen around
them and eventually they had found themselves barreling down a narrow canyon at
the speed of Captain Dan Jones’s inexorable wrath.   Burton was aware of that wrath keenly, because having got
himself into Jones’s shadow at the collapse of the Bear River bridge, he had
been careful not to leave it.   The
wheelhouse gave absolutely the best view of the entire journey, and Burton
wasn’t about to give it up unprompted.   He didn’t know where Fearnley-Standish was, and he didn’t much
care.   He was probably lying in a
faint in their cabin, mooning over that Mormon girl he was daft for.
    He didn’t know where Roxie was either.   He told himself he also didn’t care
about her whereabouts, but he knew in
his heart that was a lie.
    At a bend in the canyon, when Burton estimated that they
must be within a few miles of the Great Salt Lake City, grey granite cliffs
plummeted out of the sky on both sides of the road, creating a narrow stone
gullet.  
    Just inside the near entrance to the narrow neck of land,
men in buckskins and flannel shirts flagged the Liahona down.   Near its far end, Burton saw a bank of earth and a glaring row of
mismatched heavy artillery pieces.   Above the canyon rifle muzzles peeped from among thick, dark
green pine.
    And this, he thought, was the welcome that a known craft got.   One of their own, even.   The
Mormons were as crazed and paranoid and dangerously violent as any Afghan
tribe, even apart from the Madman Pratt and his flying ships.
    A rangy young man in buckskins and a shapeless felt hat,
apparently unarmed, came up the side of the Liahona and clasped arms with Captain Jones.   His lean face bore the long, wispy
beard of a young man who had never shaved but had no natural gift for the
growing of facial hair.
    “Come back around to the Cottonwood Fourth Ward Elders
Quorum again, has it, boyo?”
    The newcomer chuckled.   “Yeah, Brother Cannon sent an inspector in disguise and he caught the
High Priests napping.   No more gate
duty for the old boys, I’m afraid.”
    “Shame, that.   Some of the old boys, you know, Swenson, can shoot the whiskers off a
squirrel.”
    “Absolutely,” Swenson agreed.   “And I feel greatly reassured that the Kingdom is safe from
an incursion of squirrels, be it ever so large or be-whiskered.   Just so long as the invasion ain’t
planned for nap time.   You got a
manifest for me?”  
    “Aye.”   Jones
handed over a big logbook together with a single sheet of paper.   “Original and a copy.”
    Swenson reviewed them quickly.   “Looks fine.   Anything we need to go talk about in the wheelhouse?”   He shot a quick sidelong glance at
Burton, and Burton felt appraised.
    “We were waylaid,” Jones growled, “but that’s a matter for
Brother Brigham’s ears.   Did you
stop a fellow by the name of Clemens by any chance?”
    Burton took that as his cue and stepped closer.
    Swenson shook his head.   “He passed through.   I didn’t know to stop him.”
    Burton cleared his throat.   “He would have had diplomatic papers, anyway,” he said,
injecting himself into the conversation.  
    “Never yet saw diplomatic papers that’d stop the bullet out
of a Henry,” Swenson shrugged.   “Hell, I don’t care that he was driving that fancy new steam-truck,
even.   If I’d known