Not a soul was in sight when we started toward the Fort, all unconscious of what the inevitable “is to be” was weaving into our lives.

We were too young to keep track of time by calendar, but counted it by happenings.  Some were marked with tears, some with smiles, and some stole unawares upon us, just as on that bright June evening, when we did not find our sisters, and aimlessly followed others to the little shop where a friendly-appearing elderly man was cutting slices of meat and handing them to customers.  We did not know his name, nor did we realize that he was selling the meat he handed out, only that we wanted some.  So, after all the others had gone, we addressed him, asking,

“Grandpa, please give us a little piece of meat.”

He looked at us, and inquired whose children we were, and where we lived.  Upon learning, he turned about, lifted a liver from a wooden peg and cut for each, a generous slice.

On our way out, a neighbor intercepted us and said that we should sleep at her house that night and see our sisters in the morning.  She also gave us permission to cook our pieces of liver over her bed of live coals.  Frances offered to cook them all on her stick, but Georgia and I insisted that it would be fun for each to broil her own.  I, being the smallest child, was given the shortest stick, and allowed to stand nearest the fire.  Soon the three slices were sizzling and browning from the ends of three willow rods, and smelled so good that we could hardly wait for them to be done.  Presently, however, the heat began to burn my cheeks and also the hand that held the stick.  The more I wiggled about, the hotter the fire seemed, and it ended in Frances having to fish my piece of liver from among the coals, burned in patches, curled over bits of dying embers, and pretty well covered with ashes, but she knew how to scrape them away, and my supper was not spoiled.

Our neighbor gave us breakfast next morning and spruced us up a bit, then led us to the house where a number of persons had gathered, most of them sitting at table laughing and talking, and among them, Elitha and Leanna.  Upon our entrance, the merriment ceased and all eyes were turned inquiringly toward us.  Some one pointed to him who sat beside our eldest sister and gayly said, “Look at your new brother.”  Another asked, “How do you like him?” We gazed around in silent amazement until a third continued teasingly, “She is no longer Elitha Donner, but Mrs. Perry McCoon.  You have lost your sister, for her husband will take her away with him.”  “Lost your sister!” Those harrowing words stirred our pent feelings to anguish so keen that he who had uttered them in sport was touched with pity by the pain they caused.

Tears came also to the child-wife’s eyes as she clasped her arms about us soothingly, assuring us that she was still our sister, and would care for us.  Nevertheless, she and her husband slipped away soon on horseback, and we were told that we were to stay at our neighbor’s until they returned for us.