They had
shot our oxen before we left and they have slain them this time and the
people too.
We surely left seven wagons. Now we could see only four and nowhere the
sign of an ox. They must have gone ahead with a small train, and left
these four standing, after dismantling them.
No signs of life were anywhere about, and the thought of our hard
struggles between life and death to go out and return, with the
fruitless results that now seemed apparent was almost more than human
heart could bear. When should we know their fate? When should we find
their remains, and how learn of their sad history if we ourselves should
live to get back again to settlements and life? If ever two men were
troubled, Rogers and I surely passed through the furnace.
We kept as low and as much out of sight as possible, trusting very much
to the little mule that was ahead, for we felt sure she would detect
danger in the air sooner than we, and we watched her closely to see how
she acted. She slowly walked along looking out for food, and we followed
a little way behind, but still no decisive sign to settle the awful
suspense in which we lived and suffered. We became more and more
convinced that they had taken the trail of the Jayhawkers, and we had
missed them on the road, or they had perished before reaching the place
where we turned from their trail.
One hundred yards now to the wagons and still no sign of life, no
positive sign of death, though we looked carefully for both.
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