So the march began, the two wagons first.  Lee kept along with the women and walking children.  Behind us, after waiting until we were a couple of hundred feet in advance, came our men.  As we emerged from the corral we could see the militia just a short distance away.  They were leaning on their rifles and standing in a long line about six feet apart.  As we passed them I could not help noticing how solemn-faced they were.  They looked like men at a funeral.  So did the women notice this, and some of them began to cry.

I walked right behind my mother.  I had chosen this position so that she would not catch-sight of my scalps.  Behind me came the three Demdike sisters, two of them helping the old mother.  I could hear Lee calling all the time to the men who drove the wagons not to go so fast.  A man that one of the Demdike girls said must be Major Higbee sat on a horse watching us go by.  Not an Indian was in sight.

By the time our men were just abreast of the militia—­I had just looked back to try to see where Jed Dunham was—­the thing happened.  I heard Major Higbee cry out in a loud voice, “Do your duty!” All the rifles of the militia seemed to go off at once, and our men were falling over and sinking down.  All the Demdike women went down at one time.  I turned quickly to see how mother was, and she was down.  Right alongside of us, out of the bushes, came hundreds of Indians, all shooting.  I saw the two Dunlap sisters start on the run across the sand, and took after them, for whites and Indians were all killing us.  And as I ran I saw the driver of one of the wagons shooting the two wounded men.  The horses of the other wagon were plunging and rearing and their driver was trying to hold them.

* * * * *

It was when the little boy that was I was running after the Dunlap girls that blackness came upon him.  All memory there ceases, for Jesse Fancher there ceased, and, as Jesse Fancher, ceased for ever.  The form that was Jesse Fancher, the body that was his, being matter and apparitional, like an apparition passed and was not.  But the imperishable spirit did not cease.  It continued to exist, and, in its next incarnation, became the residing spirit of that apparitional body known as Darrell Standing’s which soon is to be taken out and hanged and sent into the nothingness whither all apparitions go.

There is a lifer here in Folsom, Matthew Davies, of old pioneer stock, who is trusty of the scaffold and execution chamber.  He is an old man, and his folks crossed the plains in the early days.  I have talked with him, and he has verified the massacre in which Jesse Fancher was killed.  When this old lifer was a child there was much talk in his family of the Mountain Meadows Massacre.  The children in the wagons, he said, were saved, because they were too young to tell tales.

All of which I submit.  Never, in my life of Darrell Standing, have I read a line or heard a word spoken of the Fancher Company that perished at Mountain Meadows.  Yet, in the jacket in San Quentin prison, all this knowledge came to me.  I could not create this knowledge out of nothing, any more than could I create dynamite out of nothing.  This knowledge and these facts I have related have but one explanation.  They are out of the spirit content of me—­the spirit that, unlike matter, does not perish.