“Now, Simpson,” he said, “we are going to be kind to you.  You can have one wagon with the cattle to draw it.  Get into it all the provisions and blankets you can carry, and turn right round and go back to the Missouri River.  You’re headed in the wrong direction.”

“Can we have our guns?” asked Simpson.

“Not a gun.”

“Six-shooters?”

“Not a six-shooter.  Nothing but food and blankets.”

“How are we going to protect ourselves on the way?”

“That’s your business.  We’re doing you a favor to spare your lives.”

All Simpson’s protests were in vain.  There were thirty of us against several hundred of them.  Mormons stood over us while we loaded a wagon till it sagged with provisions, clothing and blankets.  They had taken away every rifle and every pistol we possessed.  Ordering us to hike for the East, and informing us that we would be shot down if we attempted to turn back, they watched us depart.

When we had moved a little way off we saw a blaze against the sky behind us, and knew that our wagon-train had been fired.  The greasy bacon made thick black smoke and a bright-red flame, and for a long time the fire burned, till nothing was left but the iron bolts and axles and tires.

Smith’s party, which had been sent out to keep all supplies from reaching Johnston’s army, had burned two other wagon-trains that same day, as we afterward learned.  The wagons were all completely consumed, and for the next few years the Mormons would ride out to the scenes to get the iron that was left in the ashes.

Turned adrift on the desert with not a weapon to defend ourselves was hardly a pleasant prospect.  It meant a walk of a thousand miles home to Leavenworth.  The wagon was loaded to its full capacity.  There was nothing to do but walk.  I was not yet twelve years old, but I had to walk with the rest the full thousand miles, and we made nearly thirty miles a day.

Fortunately we were not molested by Indians.  From passing wagon-trains we got a few rifles, all they could spare, and with these we were able to kill game for fresh meat.  I wore out three pairs of moccasins on that journey, and learned then that the thicker are the soles of your shoes, the easier are your feet on a long walk over rough ground.

After a month of hard travel we reached Leavenworth.  I set out at once for the log-cabin home, whistling as I walked, and the first to welcome me was my old dog Turk, who came tearing toward me and almost knocked me down in his eagerness.  I am sure my mother and sisters were mighty glad to see me.  They had feared that I might never return.

My next journey over the Plains was begun under what, to me, were very exciting circumstances.  I spent the winter of ’57-’58 at school.  My mother was anxious about my education.  But the master of the frontier school wore out several armfuls of hazel switches in a vain effort to interest me in the “three R’s.”