More vividly stamped upon my memory than any other of the horrible occurrences, is the murder of a woman names Jones, and her son, in Payson. They were suspected of falling away in the faith, and other grave charges were brought against them, for which it was deemed necessary that they should die. One night there was a great commotion heard in the streets of the town; pistol-shots were heard; there was a sound of hurrying feet, a murmur of voices, and a subdued excitement, lasting all night. No one dared to venture out to learn the cause, lest their curiosity should be summarily punished. In those days it was dangerous to seek to know more than the priesthood chose to tell. In fact, everything but a blind following of fanatical doctrines was dangerous. Free thought was suicidal. The morning following the night of which I have spoken put an end to the suspense. It was proclaimed everywhere that the Joneses had been killed, and their dead bodies, shockingly mutilated, were placed in a wagon, and exposed to the crowd by being drive through the streets, attended by a jeering, taunting mob, who could not cease their insults though their victims were still in death. I did not see the bodies, nor did my mother, although they were driven past our door; we both shunned the fearful sight. But there were plenty of women who did look at them, and who gloried in their death as a deed of service to the Lord. Mrs. Jones was mixing bread at the time she was shot, and the dough still remained clinging to her hands after her death.