We were all of the opinion that there was a woman alone somewhere in those hills that had escaped from the Indians when they burned the emigrant train, and we decided to keep up the search until morning; so we agreed on the following search:  To separate about a quarter of a mile apart, and to commence circling a large hill or knob close by covered by a dense growth of sagebrush that in some places was as high as a man’s head when he was on a horse, and every few rods to hallow, that in case she was secreted around there in hearing of us she would answer, and in case any one found her he was to fire two shots in quick succession, when the other two would go to him immediately.

We made almost the entire circuit of the hill, hallowing every little while, when I finally thought I heard a faint answer.  I called again and then listened intently, and I was sure I heard an answer, after which I turned and rode in the direction from which the answer came.  After riding a few rods I called again, when I heard the faint answer quite near, and I soon found a young girl of about eighteen years.  She was overjoyed at seeing me, but was too weak to rise.  I asked how she came there, and she said that the train in which her family was traveling had been attacked by the Indians.  The people, or a part of them, had been murdered and the wagons burned, she and her younger sister had been taken prisoners, and when night came they were tied hand and foot and staked to the ground, and all laid down for the night.

“After we thought that the Indians were all asleep,” she said, “I made a desperate effort and freed one of my hands, although it cost me a great deal of pain.  After I was free I soon released my sister and we then ran for our lives.  We had got but a short distance when the Indians discovered our absence, and raising the yell, started after us.  My sister outran me and I soon hid in a little thicket and they missed me, but I fear they have overtaken her.”

I asked her what her name was and she said it was Mary Gordon, and her father’s name was Henry Gordon.  He was sheriff of their county in Illinois for two years before starting west.  I now fired the two shots to call Jim and Mike, and they were not long in getting there.

As soon as Mike came up he said:  “Sure, Captain, and wasn’t I after tellin’s ye’s that it was no bloody spalpeen of an Apache’s thrack that I be follerin’ lasht avenin’?”

Miss Gordon now seemed just to have realized that she was alone in a wild country, for she wrung her hands and said:  “Oh! what shall I do in this desolate country without a relative or a friend; it would have been better if I had been killed when my poor father and mother were.  O, kind sir, what will I do?” and she sobbed as if her heart would break.