A half hour later the cry of "Roll out" sounded, and the Mormon camp
broke. The rattling of chains and ox yokes, and the cursing of men
ruptured the stillness that had gathered round the moment of death.
Life was a matter of more immediate importance. Tents were struck, the
pots and pans thrown into the wagons, the children collected, the stock
driven in. With ponderous strain and movement the great train formed
and took the road. As it drew away the circle of its bivouac showed in
trampled sage and grass bitten to the roots. In the clearing where the
boy had lain was the earth of a new-made grave, a piece of wood thrust
in at the head, the mound covered with stones gathered by the elder's
young wife. The mountain tragedy was over.
By the fire that evening Zavier employed himself scraping the dust from
a buffalo skull. He wiped the frontal bone clean and white, and when
asked why he was expending so much care on a useless relic, shrugged
his shoulders and laughed. Then he explained with a jerk of his head
in the direction of the vanished Mormons that they used buffalo skulls
to write their letters on.
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