Bill Campbell, Charlie Pickens, and Samuel Pete Marchon were gathered at the bloodstained rock. Samuel Pete was white and shaking. His hands were bound in front of his body at the wrists with white cord. The cord was anchored to another cord which went around his waist. He was wearing a white shirt and white pants provided by Campbell. They were a little too large for him because Campbell had been unsure of Samuel Pete's sizes. Samuel Pete tried to hitch the pants up with his elbows. Around his waist a green apron flapped in the mountain breeze. He asked if he could be seated. Campbell helped him down to a sitting position. A mountain bluebird sang in the treetops.

Just then Hansen appeared on the trail. He was dressed in a white gown. On top of his head was a white hat that looked like something a baker would wear, only it was scarcely two inches in height. He wore white shoes. A band of white material stretched from his left shoulder down through a gold-corded belt and around his back to connect at the shoulder where it originated. He, too, wore a green apron. Stuck in his belt was a large jewel-handled knife with a Bowie blade.

Samuel Pete heard his approach but refused to look up. At the prodding of Campbell he did so and gasped. He looked wildly at Pickens and Campbell, but their eyes were dead.

Campbell stood him on his feet. Hansen addressed him formally.

"Brother Marchon, having been duly tried by the President's court and found guilty, it is my responsibility to announce the official penalty ascribed to your crime."

Hansen paused and looked at Samuel Pete with compassion.

"Son," he said quietly, "It is my sad duty to tell you that out of our hearts of love for you we find it absolutely necessary to shed your blood for your crimes."

He waited a moment.

"Son, it would be very important for you if you were able to accept this penalty. I know how hard this is for you, but I assure you there is no escape from what awaits you. The only question is whether this sacrifice will sufficiently appease the anger of God. I believe that whether or not God accepts this sacrifice depends directly upon your attitude in the matter. All of us come eventually to the hour of our death. You, of course, did not expect that moment to come today. I appreciate the misgivings you are experiencingÑthe dread, the terror."

"But, dear brother, there is no dread or terror for those who approach their deaths with their consciences clear. If this sacrifice is effectual, you will awake in paradise where you will awaitÑwith confidenceÑthe resurrection. If this sacrifice is effectual, you will attend the Morning of the First Resurrection, rather than the resurrection of the unjust.

"So, brother, I beg you. Please repent of these crimes and signify that you accept this penalty as just. In doing so, you may earn a better resurrection."

Samuel Pete shook his head and looked at the ground. "What about my family?" he whispered.

"You have lost themÑeternally lost them."

After two or three minutes of silence, punctuated only by Samuel Pete's sobs, Hansen spoke again.

"Son, in view of your emotional condition, I think we can accept a nodding of your head as assent and confession. Can you do that, dear boy?"

Finally, Samuel Pete nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

"That will do," the Prophet said. * * * Bill Campbell, Hoyt Akers, and the Prophet rode from the Manti Forest in silence in the Suburban. The driver, Jake Kellog, who had not been privy to any of the proceedings of the afternoon, whistled tunelessly as he drove. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Kellog asked, "How come Marchon's rental car is still here? Did he ride back with someone else?"

Hansen said, "Don't worry about it."

Hansen was lost in thought. No matter how many Blood Atonements he conducted, he could never get over the solemn sense of destiny which accompanied them. His eyes closed, he recalled the scene: Bill Campbell's strong hands wrapped in Samuel Pete's hair, pinning his head to the rock; Pickens astride Samuel Pete's bound feet; the feel of the Bowie's blade as it penetrated to the neck vertebrae; the round, almost cherubic mouth of Samuel Pete in the long death scream. The procedureÑstrangely enoughÑalways reminded Hansen of the first time he ate canned salmon and bit into one of the soft vertebrae which crunched between his teeth and sent shivers up his spine. But this time a new emotion rose up within the Prophet, something wild he had never felt before. Only the light touch of Charlie Picken's hand on the Prophet's elbow had caused him to stop sawing with the Bowie blade. The trachea, the jugulars, the carotids had all given way and the neck vertebrae were succumbing. When he stopped, Samuel Pete's head was still attached, but barely, so that carrying the body to the shallow grave required all three men.

Finally, as they approached Salt Lake City, the Prophet spoke.

"Bill, where is that place near the airport where we got that great steak? I'm famished!"