“They’re white like us,” I heard Abby Foxwell complain to mother.  “Why don’t they come in to us?”

“They ain’t whites,” I piped up, with a wary eye for the swoop of mother’s hand.  “They’re Mormons.”

That night, after dark, three of our young men stole out of camp.  I saw them go.  They were Will Aden, Abel Milliken, and Timothy Grant.

“They are heading for Cedar City to get help,” father told mother while he was snatching a hasty bite of supper.

Mother shook her head.

“There’s plenty of Mormons within calling distance of camp,” she said.  “If they won’t help, and they haven’t shown any signs, then the Cedar City ones won’t either.”

“But there are good Mormons and bad Mormons—­” father began.

“We haven’t found any good ones so far,” she shut him off.

Not until morning did I hear of the return of Abel Milliken and Timothy Grant, but I was not long in learning.  The whole camp was downcast by reason of their report.  The three had gone only a few miles when they were challenged by white men.  As soon as Will Aden spoke up, telling that they were from the Fancher Company, going to Cedar City for help, he was shot down.  Milliken and Grant escaped back with the news, and the news settled the last hope in the hearts of our company.  The whites were behind the Indians, and the doom so long apprehended was upon us.

This morning of the second day our men, going for water, were fired upon.  The spring was only a hundred feet outside our circle, but the way to it was commanded by the Indians who now occupied the low hill to the east.  It was close range, for the hill could not have been more than fifteen rods away.  But the Indians were not good shots, evidently, for our men brought in the water without being hit.

Beyond an occasional shot into camp the morning passed quietly.  We had settled down in the rifle pit, and, being used to rough living, were comfortable enough.  Of course it was bad for the families of those who had been killed, and there was the taking care of the wounded.  I was for ever stealing away from mother in my insatiable curiosity to see everything that was going on, and I managed to see pretty much of everything.  Inside the corral, to the south of the big rifle pit, the men dug a hole and buried the seven men and two women all together.  Only Mrs. Hastings, who had lost her husband and father, made much trouble.  She cried and screamed out, and it took the other women a long time to quiet her.

On the low hill to the east the Indians kept up a tremendous powwowing and yelling.  But beyond an occasional harmless shot they did nothing.

“What’s the matter with the ornery cusses?” Laban impatiently wanted to know.  “Can’t they make up their minds what they’re goin’ to do, an’ then do it?”