Date: Mon, 19 Nov 2018 16:49:01 +0000 (UTC)
From: Arthur Doyle <sirarthurpornandoyle@yahoo.com>
Subject: A Study in Fornication, Chapter 7

PART II: The Country of Saints

Chapter VII: On the great alkali plain

In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an
arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier
against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska,
and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south,
is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood
throughout this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty
mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers
which dash through jagged cañons: and there are enormous plains,
which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are grey with the saline
alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common characteristic of
barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.

The inhabitants of this land are the Pawnees and Blackfeet, who use it as
their hunting grounds, though even the hardiest of braves are glad to lose
sight of the awesome plains and find themselves once more upon the
prairies. The coyote sulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily
through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through dark ravines,
and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks.

In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the
northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches
the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and
intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme
verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged
summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country there is no
sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the
steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull, grey earth--above all, there
is absolute silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in
all that mighty wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and
heart-subduing silence.

It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a
pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the
extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of
many adventurers. Here and there, there are scattered white objects which
glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of
alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some large and coarse,
others smaller and more delicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and the
latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan
route by these scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.

Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
eighteen hundred and seventy, a solitary traveller. His appearance was such
that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region. He was a
tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and
clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his
shoulders. His florid face was lean and haggard, and the brown
parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long,
brown hair and beard were flecked and dashed with mud; his eyes were sunken
in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre. He dismounted and leaned
upon his weapon for support, his tall figure and the massive framework of
his bones suggesting a wiry and vigorous constitution. Yet the man was
dying--dying from hunger and from thirst.

He was returning east after a fruitless sojourn in the Nevada Mountains
prospecting for silver. His labors had come to little, though he had
enjoyed an underappreciated position among the men in his encampment--that
of a tension reliever for the all-male cortege of miners. Though each had
taken their turn with his delicacies, they had at some point grown
uncomfortable with indulgences in passions they considered
unspeakable. Their shame and disgust at their own desires had led them to
rally against the man and so he, after overhearing a plot to dispose of
him, had disappeared into the wilderness before anything foul could befall
him.

He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation,
in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain
stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains,
without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence
of moisture. In all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North,
and east, and west he looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he
realised that his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that
barren crag, he was about to die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather
bed, forty years hence," muttered Jefferson Hope, as he seated himself in
the shelter of a boulder.

Alone save his hardy horse, the man had struggled to cross these great and
terrible plains in search of salvation. For three days and three nights he
had allowed himself neither rest nor repose, searching the barren
wilderness for an oasis to give him succor. He was now beyond tired. Slowly
his eyelids drooped over his tired eyes, and his head sunk lower and lower
upon his breast, until the man slept a deep and dreamless slumber.

Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight would
have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain there
rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and hardly to be
distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher
and broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud
continued to increase in size until it became evident that it could only be
raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the
observer would have come to the conclusion that one of those great herds of
bisons which graze upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was
obviously impossible in these arid wilds.

As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the
castaway was reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures
of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition
revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But
what a caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains,
the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous
plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback,
and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and
children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped out from under the white
coverings. This was evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather
some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of circumstances to
seek themselves a new country. There rose through the clear air a confused
clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking
of wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient
to rouse the tired wayfarer above them.

At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced
men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching
the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among
themselves.

"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande," said
another.

"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the rocks
will not now abandon His own chosen people."

"Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above
them. From its summit there fluttered a glint of gunmetal grey, showing up
hard and bright against the rocks behind. At the sight there was a general
reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came
galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word `Redskins' was on every
lip.

"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no
other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

"Shall I go forward and see, father," asked the young man who had spotted
the glinting item.

"Leave your horse below and we will await you here, Joseph, my son," the
Elder answered.

In a moment the young fellow had dismounted, fastened his horse, and was
ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object that had aroused
his curiosity. He advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and
dexterity of a practiced scout. The watchers from the plain below could see
him flit from rock to rock until his figure stood out against the
skyline. He gave out a cry of alarm and threw up his hands, as though
overcome with astonishment.

On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single
giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded
and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and
regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. On the ledge of rock
above this strange man there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight
of the new comer uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped
sullenly away.

The cries of the foul birds awoke the sleeper who stared about him in
bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plain
which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and which was now
traversed by this enormous body of men and beasts. His face assumed an
expression of incredulity as he gazed. "This is what they call delirium, I
guess," he muttered.

The young scout felt his heart beating fast, though he knew not if it was
due to his exertions running up the cliff or for some other reason. He
explained to the gaunt man before him that his appearance was no delusion.

"My name is Jefferson Hope," the wanderer said. "I was forced from a
prospecting party far west of here. Who are you, though?" he continued,
glancing with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuer and then at the
long line of waggons on the plain below; "there seems to be a powerful lot
of ye."

"We are the persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona,"
replied the scout.

"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have chosen
a fair crowd of ye."

"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We are of
those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on
plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at
Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we had
founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and
from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to Jefferson Hope. "I
see," he said, "you are the Mormons."

"We are the Mormons," answered his companion.

"And where are you going?"

"To Salt Lake City. The hand of God leads us there, following the person of
our Prophet." Great pity rose in the young man's breast, and the desire to
foster this new stranger who appeared so haggard and in need of brotherly
love. "You must come with us so that we can nurse you back to health. But
if you do, it can only be as a believer in our own creed. We have no wolves
among our fold. Will you agree to such terms?"

"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Hope, with such emphasis that
the anxious youth could not restrain a smile.

The young scout took his newfound companion down to the crowds below, who
welcomed the starving man and took him before Brother Strangerson, an Elder
in their society. He was the father of the youth who had spotted Jefferson
Hope and, upon seeing the man, he turned to his son. "Give him food and
drink and let it be your task to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed
long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down
the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a
dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of
wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was
winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the waif had been
committed let them to his waggon, where a meal was already waiting for him.

"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered
from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you are
of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the
voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."

* * * * *

"Plural marriage is intended to diminish the great evil of self-pollution,"
said the young Joseph Strangerson, reading from a book as the edges of his
ears turned pink.

His companion, Jefferson Hope, looked at the bashful youth with a laconic
expression. "Self-pollution, eh? And what is that?"

Strangerson squirmed, a hot feeling that he didn't understand working its
way through his belly. "The sin of young men," he said, moving down to a
whisper. "Abusing themselves."

Hope, who enjoyed watching his friend's discomfort, pretended to be
thick. "What kind of abuse?"

Strangerson bit his lip, his words emerging sotto voce. "Onanism," he
said. "Masturbation." His mouth broke out into a crooked smile and the two
confidants shared a relieving laugh.

Three years had passed since the Mormon train had saved Jefferson Hope from
certain doom in the desert. He had settled with them in broad valley of
Utah containing their famed city of Salt Lake. Hope acquired a farm and
built himself a substantial log-house. He was a man of practical mind, keen
in his dealings and skillful with his hands. His iron constitution enabled
him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence
it came about that his farm and all that belonged to him prospered
exceedingly. In the intervening years, he was already better off than most
of his neighbours and far and wide there was no name better known than
Jefferson Hope. In every respect he conformed to the religion of the young
settlement, and gained the name of being an orthodox and straight-walking
man.

There was one way and only one in which he offended the sensibilities of
his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him to set
up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. He gave no
reason for this persistent refusal, but contended himself by resolutely and
inflexibility adhering to his determination. There were some who accused
him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to
greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expenses. Others, though,
understood that there was something different about Mr. Hope, and for this
reason his remained strictly celibate.

This quirk of personality gave no bother to Hope's closest friend among the
Mormons, the youth Joseph Strangerson, who had educated and inducted the
convert into the ways of his new religion. Strangerson had been but
seventeen when the party came upon Hope on the alkali plain, and he had
felt an instant connection with the outsider, who was only a few years
older than him. Strangerson had never quite fit in with the religious
society himself, a fact that gave great consternation to his father, the
Elder Strangerson. The young Joseph had been a fey child, lithe and taken
to bouts of overexcitement, and his father hoped that the rugged Hope's
taciturn ways would rub off on his son.

The two had certainly spent enough time together in the intervening years,
meeting daily for prayers and instructions, often alone in Hope's
well-built domicile. Their keenness for one another never passed into
transgressive territory--Hope had learned his lesson from the turncoat
miners--though the two men's conversation always seemed to somehow get
caught up in carnal matters.

"So tell me," said Hope now, his dark eyes catching Strangerson's shining
hazel ones. "Have you any firsthand experience with such things?"

Strangerson turned a deep crimson color and shook his head, unable to even
voice the words to a negative response. He looked at his best friend, who
had blossomed in health after his rescue, and once again felt the warm
stirring in his abdomen. Hope was certainly a striking fellow, his face
austere and economical, who seldom took to smiling beneath his feathery
moustache. Farm work had given him an imposing frame, with thick and hearty
shoulders, though the manner in which he wore his long hair somehow
softened him. When looking at Hope, the words of Joseph Smith always came
to Strangerson's mind--how the Prophet had written that male friends
"should lie down on the same bed at night locked in each other's embrace
talking of their love."

Hope, who had spent more than one night in an embrace that would have
scandalized Smith, found Strangerson a wonderful friend but also a constant
source of temptation. The younger man had delicate features and a simple
manner, the barest fuzz of down on his twenty-year-old cheeks. Hope's
sordid thoughts often traced over Strangerson's gentle lips and tantalizing
nape, always wishing that impropriety could be set aside one time and allow
him to nuzzle against his modest friend's figure. But he kept such
fantasies locked deep within his breast, knowing the Mormons would be even
less forgiving than the frontiersmen of his past.

The summer heat now pricked the two men as they sat discussing an
indecorous subject in Hope's sweltering household. "Why should this sin of
onanism be such an evil?" asked Hope. "Has not the Lord filled men with
passion?"

Strangerson, who found it easier when discussions turned on spiritual
subjects, straightened up. "Passion is well and good," he said. "But it
must be harnessed in the proper way, for instance turned towards the
production and rearing of children, or in devout supplication."

Hope fixed his companion with a severe look, wondering about the
convolutions that went on in the brains of these followers of the Church of
Latter-day Saints. "And yet such passion will remain. Trust me, my friend,
I have seen more of the world than you."

The convert frequently spoke about his life before the Mormons, and this
intrigued Strangerson with a burning fascination. The younger man wished
desperately to know more about life outside his small and secluded people
and what the greater society of men contained.

"What was it like," asked Strangerson. "Among the cattlemen of the
frontier? You've said so little to me about that chapter of your life."

Before trying his luck with the silver lode, Hope had spent a year on a
gaucho ranch past the Mexican border. The suntanned ranchers had been
sensational and strong-featured, filled with virile machismo that often
spilled over into sensuous actions. More than once, Hope had found himself
entangled with a group of men grunting in a barn in Spanish at the end of a
long day's work. He had to suppress a rush of blood in his groin as the
memories spilled through his mind.

"It was an interesting time," was all he said to Strangerson's inquiry.

The Mormon fidgeted again, wishing that his reserved companion would just
for once let slip some of the details that he was so clearly holding
back. "But what of passion? You said that it was overflowing among the
men..." Strangerson trailed off, realizing he was being too earnest in his
eagerness.

A flicker of a grin traced over Hope's mouth. "Well surely you've heard the
limerick: Young cowboys have great fear/that studs, once filled with
beer/completely addle/would throw on the saddle/and ride them in the rear."

Strangerson cocked his head to one side, understanding that there was
something unseemly about the poem, though not quite comprehending its
underlying message. The innocent confusion endeared him to Hope, who wished
he could provide a demonstration of the verse to the inexperienced young
man. A trickle of sweat traced down his neck and he tugged at the starchy
collar that was common among the Mormons. The barest sliver of Hope's
chiseled pectoral muscle became uncovered, causing another bout of distress
in Strangerson.

"Are you saying that more-experienced ranchers would mount their assistants
like horses?" asked Strangerson, suppressing his odd feelings.

"Ah, if only I could explain," thought Hope. "In a manner," he said aloud.

"It seems a rather queer practice," said Strangerson, who felt the hot air
suddenly oppressing him.

"Indeed, it is, my friend."

Just then another young man ran past Hope's window. "Come," he
shouted. "Brother Hope, Brother Strangerson, we are all going swimming in
the river!"

The invite was welcome on such a sweltering day and the two companions
quickly bounded after their friend, each glad to untangle themselves from
the sticky conversation in the house. At the riverbank, they found a clutch
of young men, each around their same age, diving and jostling in the water,
and wrestling one another beneath the cool waves. The women knew not to
come upon the menfolk in this state, and so the air was casual and
unfettered, with all the men stripped down naked as they frolicked in the
waters. Hope drank in the sight of the muscular Mormons and their
magnificent bodies, taking care not to let his eyes linger on the parts he
most desired, their curvaceous buttocks and mouthwatering instruments. He
nodded hello to one of the elder statesmen from the city, a Mr. Enoch
Drebber, who had decided to join in the nude festivities and was currently
sunbathing on the shore.

Both Strangerson and Hope now doffed their clothing and placed them in a
safe space. Though he tried, Strangerson could not force his eyes to turn
away from Hope's limp organ, which seemed to be more inflated than during
other previous swim sessions. His gaze also traced over Hope's incredible
physique and the velvety hairs which covered his legs and chest, his
masculinity seeming to dwarf Strangerson's own timid smoothness. Hope tried
to disregard his friend's interest, knowing that it could never lead to
anything ameliorative for the two of them.

At length, they joined the party and splashed with one another in the clear
and inviting current. The Mormon youths laughed heartily, having invented a
game of slinging river mud at one another and then tussling for dominance
in the shallow water. Strangerson watched as a blond baker jumped upon the
silt-covered back of a brown-haired companion, the two of them hooting as
they fell with a great splash. He grabbed a glob of mud and turned to
search for Hope, wishing to peg him with the sludge, but found his constant
companion had somehow disappeared.

Strangerson paddled around between the brawling men, looking high and low
for his friend. His explorations took him some way from the others, to a
small curve in the river, where he noticed a pair of feet sticking from a
reedy patch. A panting noise was emanating from the plants and for a moment
Strangerson worried that Hope had hurt himself. But as he came closer, he
saw instead that his friend had hauled up on the shore, his nude body
writhing agitatedly as Hope did a curious thing.

Hope had closed his eyes and placed his clenched fist over his rod, which
had stiffened to a substantial measure. It stuck straight upward as Hope
tugged again and again upon his foreskin, sending the engorged head of his
dick out into the naked air. From time to time, Hope would reach up with
his other hand to pinch one of his nipples, or send it downward to pull on
his hairy nutsack. With dawning awareness, Strangerson realized that this
was the action known as masturbation that he had so recently warned his
friend against.

Yet rather than cry out and try to stop his companion, Strangerson was
entirely entranced by the erotic performance. Hope's brawny body was
tensing in a magnificent manner as he repeatedly abused his hardened
tool. The furious pace and determined focus seemed to suggest that Hope was
completely engrossed in his exertion. His having taken a daring position
here so near to the others indicated that this action had been something
he'd had no choice but to indulge in. Silently, Strangerson floated closer,
scarcely aware that his own erection was now straining underwater in a
turgid display.

As Hope engaged in his stimulating routine, he squeezed his eyes and played
images of the nearby nude young men in his mind. He had been overtaken with
emotion at the sights in the river, deeming the pleasure he'd receive
greater than the risk he would take giving in to his desires. An imagined
scene of unbridled hedonism now entered his brain--that of an orgy breaking
out among the young Mormon men in the river, glistening dicks plunging into
receptive puckers as they drove their nubile bodies together
rhapsodically. During this debauched episode, he would of course induct
Strangerson into the methodology of male sensuality. The youth would first
be down on his knees with his tender lips squeezed around Hope's cock and
then bent over as Hope thrust his enflamed implement into the younger man's
supple aperture. He imagined the bucking, braying action in raunchy detail,
envisioning every aching sensation of the masculine merrymaking.

Hope slipped his fingers up and down his well-proportioned instrument,
working himself further and further into a lather. His exploring hands
touched the sensitive head, the responsive shaft, the brimming
bollocks. His congenial arsehole was crying out for stimulation and soon he
took a digit and slipped it an inch or two past his constricted
sphincter. He imagined the penetrating probe to be Strangerson's tongue or
perhaps even his member, loosening Hope at the beginning of a fuck
session. Strangerson no doubt had a delightful instrument that would press
its way into his compartment with eager relish, leading the Mormon youth to
heights of pleasure he'd never previously dreamed of.

It was then that Hope came, shooting forth a viscid dollop of white semen
in an arc that covered his chest and face. So lost was he in his randy
fantasy that he slathered the ejaculate all over his lips, licking the
delectable man-cream and pretending it was Strangerson's.

Strangerson himself was completely ensorcelled by the lustful act he was
witnessing, his hand instinctively reaching down to tug on his sensitive
rod and finding--for the first time in his life--that he was unable to
refuse its needs. His hand closed around the shaft and pulled once, twice,
three times. His implement was so inexperienced in onanistic strokes that
it immediately brought him to the point without return, producing a
shuddering orgasm in the young man's body and sending a cloud of thick
seminal liquid into the water.

Hearing a cry, Hope opened his eyes with fright. He looked up but found
nobody in the vicinity. Embarrassed beyond belief, Strangerson had
immediately ducked beneath the surface and was now shimming away back
toward the group, hoping he would never have to discuss the events that had
just occurred with anybody.

*****

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