She drew in the fingers spread on his breast with a clawing movement
and emitted an inarticulate sound that meant "Hush."
"Not a clergyman or missionary among all these people?"
"Not one."
"We must wait till to-morrow, then."
"Yes--mebbe there'll be one to-morrow."
"I hope so."
Then silence fell and the shadow flickered again on the canvas.
She made a struggle against Courant's hold, which for a moment he tried
to resist, but her fingers plucked against his hand, and she tore
herself free and ran to the tent opening. She entered without
speaking, threw herself at the foot of the couch, and laid her head
against her father's knees.
"Is that you, Missy?" he said, feeling for her with a groping hand.
"Daddy John couldn't find a clergyman."
"I know," she answered, and lay without moving, her face buried in the
folds of the blanket.
They said no more, and Daddy John stole out of the tent.
The next day the doctor was too ill to ask for a clergyman, to know or
to care. At nightfall he died. The Emigrant Trail had levied its
first tribute on them, taken its toll.
END OF PART III
PART IV
The Desert
CHAPTER I
They were camped on the edges of that harsh land which lay between the
Great Salt Lake and the Sierra.
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