* * * *

After the assault on our party had culminated in the death of my poor
father and brother, the Indians surrounded our wagon, and lifting the
canvas flaps, discovered my mother and myself ensconced behind our
bulwark of blankets and boxes. They bade us come out by gestures so
menacing, and scowls so terrifying, that it had a contrary effect on us
than the one they wished to produce; for instead of obeying the command,
we only shrank back into corners more remote, vainly thinking that the
bales and robes, with which loving hands had surrounded us, would form a
sufficient protection against the dreaded savage. At this critical
juncture, my poor mother swooned back into my arms, overcome by fright.
Seeing that their commands were not obeyed, the foremost Indian climbed
into the wagon, and rushing on us with uplifted knife, grasped me by the
hair and dragged me over the obstructions and out onto the ground. I
cried aloud in my anguish, which only seemed to afford them the more
amusement; the savage who had performed the manly deed, displaying for
the edification of his comrades, a quantity of my hair, which he still
held in his clenched hand. The wagon and the plunder it contained seemed
to be the center of attraction. A dozen had entered in as many seconds,
and although the canvas top hid them from view, they could be heard
quarreling over the division of the spoils.

During these fearful scenes, the events of years seemed crowding into
minutes. Never have I suffered such mental or bodily torture before or
since. My faculties succumbed to the severe strain, and I found myself
falling into a kind of stupor, in which, though perfectly conscious of
all that was transpiring, I seemed not to have been one of the principal
actors, but an observer merely. Suddenly I was made aware that something
unusual was taking place; the Indians crowded about the wagon, all the
time gesticulating wildly, and yelling in a blood-curdling manner. I
heard voices raised as if in altercation within the wagon. Rising above
the din I distinguished the loved tones of my mother's voice, as if
crying for help, and entreating for mercy. The noise grows apace; wild
with terror, nerved with the resolution of despair, I rushed towards the
wagon; reaching it a sight meets my eyes that petrifies me with horror;
I try to move, speak, act; my limbs and tongue refuse to obey my will;
this is what I see: A couple of brawny savages,