Originally published in 1872
BY FANNY KELLY
Immediately after Mr. Kelly reached Deer Creek, at the time of our capture [by the Oglala Sioux in 1864, in what is now eastern Wyoming], he telegraphed to Fort Laramie of the outbreak of the Indians, and the capture of his wife. Colonel Collins, of the Eleventh Ohio Cavalry, commandant of the military district, ordered two companies, under Captain Shuman and Captain Marshall, two brave and daring men, to pursue and rescue me, and chastise the savages in case of resis-tance. But the distance of one hundred miles lay between these forts, and they only arrived on their way too late for rescue. They continued their march, however, and after an absence of three days returned unsuccessful.
Sad to relate, a young and daring officer, Lieutenant Brown, of the Eleventh Ohio Volunteers, fell a victim to savage cruelty in my behalf, for with a view of prospecting the neighborhood, he, with Mr. Kelly, left the main body with a small squad of men in quest of the Indians. Coming suddenly upon a band of warriors, in their encampment, the brave Lieutenant indiscreetly ordered an attack, but the men, seeing the futility of opposing such numbers, fled, and left Mr. Kelly and the officer.
Becoming conscious of his dangerous situation, he feigned friendship, addressing them in the usual way, “How koda?” which means, How do you do, friend? But they were not to be deceived, and sent an arrow, causing him to fall from his horse, and the effects of which caused his death a few hours afterward.
He was immediately reported dead, and with all the speed the men could command they pursued his murderers; but the fresher horses of the savages carried them off beyond their reach, and the soldiers were compelled to return in disappointment.
Brave young man! the ardent friend of Mr. Kelly, and the husband and father of an affectionate wife and child, stricken down in his early manhood, we would humbly lay the wreath of “immortelles” upon thy lonely grave.
After several expeditions in like manner which proved unsuccessful, Mr. Kelly offered a reward of nineteen horses, the money value of which was deposited with the commander of Fort Laramie, and it was circulated through all the Indian villages, that upon my safe delivery the reward would be paid.
Every effort possible was made by my husband and his brothers to procure my rescue or ransom. No money or efforts were spared, and the long days of agonizing suspense to them were worse than death.
The reward which had been offered for my ransom was the means of rescuing another white woman, a Mrs. Ewbanks, and her child, held by the Indians.
The Indian Two-Face and his son, having a desire to enhance their fortunes, paid a few small sums to the other Indians who claimed her, and, taking her with them, set out for Fort Laramie.
When they arrived within a few miles of the fort, the prisoners were left with the son and some others, while Two-Face preceded them to arrange the terms of sale.
The commander agreed to the price, and on the following day Mrs. Ewbanks and her child were brought in—the Indians thinking it made no difference which white woman it was. This was several months after my capture.
Instead of paying the price, the commandant seized and confined them in the guard-house, to await trial for the murder of the ranchmen and the stealing of women and children.
The testimony of Mrs. Ewbanks was proof sufficient. They confessed their crimes, and were executed in May following.
In crossing the North Platte River, five miles below the fort, Mrs. Ewbanks had suffered intensely, her child being bound to her back, and she holding on to a log bound by a rope fastened to the saddle of the Indian’s horse.
The chief passed over easily, but mother and child were nearly frozen to death by clinging and struggling among masses of broken ice, and protected only by a thin, light garment.
Mr. Kelly sent deputations of Indians with horses, to the Indian villages, with letters to me, which were never delivered. They were not true to their trust, but would come to see me without giving me the messages, then return with the declaration that I could not be found.
He would furnish a complete outfit for an Indian, costing about four hundred dollars, and send him to find me; but the Indian cared only for the money; he would never return.
Having despaired of accomplish-ing any thing further toward my rescue at Fort Laramie, he left for Leavenworth, to obtain help from citizens there, to get permission of the commander of the division to raise an independent company for my release. There he met with his brother, General Kelly, who had just returned from the South, and had received a letter from me, acquainting him with my freedom.
Mr. Kelly would not at first be convinced, but, after being shown the letter, he said, “Yes, I know that is Fanny’s writing, but it can not be possible;” and by daylight he was on his way to Dakota.
Who can tell his varied emotions, during that long and wearisome journey, when, at the end, hope held out to him the cup of joy which, after the long suffering of months, he was about to drink. Let only those judge who have been separated from the dearest on earth, and whose fate was involved in mysterious silence, more painful than if the pallid face rested beneath the coffin-lid.
Departure From Fort Sully and Punishing the Indians
Fort Sully was garrisoned by three companies of the Sixth Iowa Cavalry, and I should be recreant to every sense of justice did I not more particularly express my gratitude to them all—officers and men—for the delicate, more than brotherly, kindness shown me during my stay of two months among them.
They had fought gallantly during that summer, and punished severely the Indians who held me captive; and though my sufferings at the time were increased tenfold thereby, I believe the destitute condition of the Indians had much to do with my final restoration to freedom. Had there been plenty of food in the Indian villages, none would have gone to Fort Sully to make a treaty.
On each of the two evenings we remained at the fort after my husband’s arrival, we were honored with a “feast,” in marked contrast with those I had attended while with the savages. Stewed oysters relished better than stewed dog, and the abundance of other good things, with the happy-looking, kind, sympathetic faces of my own people around the board, filled me with a feeling of almost heavenly content.
Mr. Harry Chatterton presided at the first, and, in a feeling manner, expressed the delight and satisfaction his comrades and himself experienced in this hour of our re-union:
“Sweet is this dream—divinely sweet / No dream I now fancy that you meet; / Tho’ silent grief has shadowed o’er / To crush your love—it had no power / Tho’ long divided, you’ve met once more / To tell your toils and troubles o’er; / Renew the pledge of other days, / And walk in sweet and pleasant ways
“May the good Father of mercies ever protect and bless you; make the sun of happiness to brightly shine upon you, and may it never again be dimmed by stern misfortune! is the earnest and heartfelt wish of every person in this fort to-day.”
With deep emotion these words were spoken, and we felt convinced they were from the innermost depths of the heart. How many affectionate, generous natures are among us, whom we can never appreciate until some heavy cloud drops down upon us, and they, with their cheerful words and kind acts, assist us to rise, and in hours of joy they are ready to grasp us by the hand, and welcome us to happiness?
Anxious for a re-union with our friends, and to be once more with my dear mother, we bade farewell to those who had shown us so much kindness and attention, and commenced our journey at daylight, to prevent the Indians, many of whom remained about the fort, knowing of my departure, as I was in constant dread of recapture.
Fort Sully is on the Missouri River, three hundred miles from Sioux City, by land, which distance we traveled in an ambulance. At all the military posts, stations, and towns through which we passed, all—military and civilians— seemed to vie with each other in kindness and attention. Those living in frontier towns know what the nature of the Indian is, and could most heartily sympathize with one who had suffered from captivity among them.
At Yankton I received particularly kind attention from Mrs. Ash, of the Ash Hotel, who also gave me the information, elsewhere written, of the fate of Mrs. Dooley and Mrs. Wright. Here, also, I met a number of the Sixth Cavalry, to which gallant regiment I was under so great obligation.
Dr. Bardwell, a surgeon of that regiment, who was at Fort Sully at the time the Blackfeet came in to make a treaty, and were sent off after me, and who, I had previously been informed, was active in measures tending to my release, was stationed at Yankton, and manifested the kindness of his heart in many ways.
At Sioux City, Council Bluffs, and St. Joe, crowds of visitors flocked to see the white woman who had been a captive with the Indians; and I was compelled to answer many questions. From St. Joe, we made all haste for Leavenworth, Kansas, where I was received by friends and relatives as one risen from the dead.
At last we reached our old home in Geneva; the home from which we had departed but a few months before, lured to new fields by the brightest hopes of future prosperity.
Alas! what disappointments had fallen to our lot! But soon I was clasped in my dear mother’s arms, and all my sorrows were swallowed up in the joy of that re-union.
On the morning of our departure for the plains, she said (while tears of sorrow filled her eyes) that she felt as though it was our final farewell. Her fears were agonizing in my behalf. She seemed to have a presentiment of evil—a dark, portentous cloud hung over my head, she felt, that would burst upon me, and scatter dismay and grief—which too well was realized in the days that followed.
I endeavored to cheer her with hope, and smilingly assured her that, as soon as the Pacific Railroad was completed, I should visit my home and her; and, though many miles might separate us, we still would be one in heart; and the facilities for traveling were becoming so easy and rapid, we could not be separated for any great length of time. But her sad heart refused to be comforted. A mother’s unchanging love— stronger than death, faithful under every circumstance, and clinging with tenacity to the child of her affection, could not part with me without a pang of anguish, which was increased tenfold when the news of my capture reached her.
Gradually she sank under this heavy affliction; health rapidly gave way, and for three long months she lay helpless, moaning and bewailing the loss of her children; for, scarcely had she aroused from the terrible stupor and grief which the news of my brother’s death from poison, while a soldier in the Union army, had plunged her, when this new and awful sorrow came like a whirlwind upon her fainting spirit.
But God is good. In his great mercy he spared us both, to meet once more, and a letter from my hand, telling her of my safety, reached her in due time; and in each other’s fond embrace we were once more folded.
Oh! happy hour! Methinks the angels smiled in their celestial abodes when they witnessed that dear mother’s joy.
The reader naturally supposes that here my narrative ought to end; that, restored to husband, mother, and friends, my season of sorrow must be over. But not so. Other trials were in store for me, and, even fortified as I was by past tribulation, I sank almost despairingly under their affliction. Nor was I yet done with the Indians.
Anxious to again establish a home, we left Geneva, went to Shawneetown, where we prospered; but better prospects offering farther west, we went to Ellsworth, a new town just staked out on the western line of Kansas. I was the first woman who located there. We lived in our wagon for a time, then built a hotel, and were prospering, when fears of the Indians again harassed us.
The troops at Fort Harker, four miles east of Ellsworth, had been out, under General Hancock, in pursuit of the Indians, to punish them for murders and depredations committed along the line of the Pacific Railroad, and coming upon an Indian camp, destroyed it, inflicting a severe chastisement. This we knew would so exasperate the Indians as to render our safety.
The scouts, Jack Harvey and Wild Bill, were constantly on the lookout, and eagerly would we look toward the hills for any one who could give us news, and gather around them, when they came from the front, with anxious faces and listening ears.
Meantime the population of Ellsworth had rapidly increased, and military companies were formed for protection. Thus we lived in a continual state of alarm, until at last one night the signal was given that the Indians were approaching, when every man flew to his post, and the women and children fled to the places of refuge that had been prepared for them, an iron-clad house and a “dug-out,” or place under ground. I fled to the latter place, where about fifty altogether had congregated, and among them were three young men who were the sole survivors of a large family—father, mother, and two sisters—murdered and horribly mutilated in the Minnesota massacres.
The Indians were repulsed, but they continued to harass us and threaten the town, so that it became necessary to apply for military protection. Accordingly, a number of colored troops were sent there, which imparted a feeling of security. But Ellsworth was doomed to a more terrible scourge, if possible, than the Indians had threatened to be. The troops were recently from the South. Soon after their arrival among us, the cholera broke out among them, and, spreading among the citizens, created a terrible panic. The pestilence was most destructive, sweeping before it old and young, and of all classes.
My husband fell a victim to the disease.
On the 28th day of July, 1867, a violent attack of this terrible disease carried him off, and, in the midst of peril and cares, I was left a mourning, desolate widow.
Being in delicate health, I was forced to flee to the East, and stopped at St. George, where one week after my little one was ushered into this world of sorrow.
The people were panic-stricken in relation to the cholera, and when I went there, they were afraid to receive me into their homes, consequently I repaired to a small cabin in the outskirts of the town, and my adopted son and myself remained there alone for several days.
A young lady, Miss Baker, called on me in great sympathy, saying she was not afraid of cholera, and would stay with me until after my confinement.
I was very thankful for her kindness, and after the fear was over with the people, every attention that humanity could suggest was given me; but, alas! my heart was at home, and so deep were my yearnings, the physician declared it impossible for me to recover until I did go home. The events that had transpired seemed like a fearful dream. The physician who attended me went to Ellsworth to see if it was prudent for me to go, sending a letter immediately after, bidding me come, as the cholera had disappeared.
Oh! how changed was that home! The voice that had ever been as low, sweet music to my ear was hushed forever; the eye that had always met mine with smiling fondness was closed to light and me, and the hand so often grasped in tender love was palsied in death!
Mr. Kelly, the noble, true, and devoted husband, my loved companion, the father of my innocent child, was gone. Oh! how sad that word! My heart was overwhelmed with grief, and that did its work, for it prostrated me on a bed of illness nigh unto death.
Dr. McKennon very faithfully attended me during my illness, and as I was recovering, he was seized by severe sickness himself, which proved fatal.
He was anxious to see me before he died, and desired assistance that he might be taken down stairs for the purpose. His attendants allowed him to do so, but he fainted in the attempt, and was laid on the floor until he recovered, then raised and placed on the sofa. I was then led into the room, and, seating myself beside him, he grasped my hand, exclaiming: “My friend, do not leave me. I have a brother in New York” —but his lips soon stiffened in death, and he was unable to utter more.
It was a severe shock to my nervous system, already prostrated by trouble and illness, and I greatly missed his attention and care.
No relative, or friend, was near to lay his weary head upon the pillow; but we laid him to rest in the burial ground of Ellsworth with sad hearts and great emotion.
In the spring I went to the end of the road further west, with an excursion party, to a place called Sheridan. On our return we stopped at Fort Hays, where I met two Indians who recognized me, and I also knew them. We conversed together. I learned they had a camp in the vicinity, and they were skulking around, reconnoitering. They were well treated here and very liberally dealt with. They inquired where I lived; I told them way off, near to the rising sun.
The next morning, when the train left town, the band, riding on horseback, jumped the ditch, and looked into the windows of the cars, hoping to see me.
They told the people that I belonged to them, and they would take my papoose and me way off to their own country; we were their property, and must go with them.
It was supposed that if I had been in the cars the Indians would have attempted to take the train.
A White Female Saved By Indians, Others Taken
Some few weeks after the events just related, I received a note from a stranger, requesting me to call on her at the dwelling of a hunter, where she was stopping. Her name was Elizabeth Blackwell, and emigrated with her parents from England, who became proselytes of the ruling prophet of Salt Lake City, where they remained until Elizabeth’s father took another wife. This created trouble; words ensued, soon followed by blows, and Elizabeth, in endeavoring to protect her mother, was struck by her brute of a father with a knife, and one of her eyes destroyed.
Being discouraged and broken-hearted, the wretched mother and daughters (for Elizabeth had two sisters) resolved to escape. They wandered away among the mountains, and, having no place of shelter, all perished with the cold, except Elizabeth, who was found by the Indians, nearly frozen to death. They lifted her up and carried her to camp, where they gave her every attention requisite for restoration.
She remained with the Indians until she was able to go east, where she underwent the severe operation of having both legs amputated above the knee.
The treatment received from the Indians so attached her to them that she prefers to live a forest life, and when she gave me her narrative, she was on her way from the States to her Indian home.
Her father soon wearied of his Mormon wife, and escaped to the Rocky Mountains, where he became a noted highwayman.
Hearing of Elizabeth’s residence among the Indians, he visited her, and gave her a large sum of money. The fate of his family had great effect on him, and remorse drove him to desperation.
The husband of Elizabeth took his second wife and Elizabeth’s child from Salt Lake to Cincinnati, where they now live.
She was twenty-six years old when I saw and conversed with her, a lady of intelligence, and once possessed more than ordinary beauty.
She had just received the news of her father’s death. He was killed near Fort Dodge, Kansas.
Elizabeth related to me many acts of cruelty she had witnessed among the savages, one of which was to the following effect:
A woman was brought into the camp on horseback, who had been captured from a train, and an Indian who was attempting to lift her from the horse, was shot in the act, by her own hand. This so enraged the savages that they cut her body in gashes, filled them with powder, and then set fire to it.
The sight of the woman’s sufferings was too much for Elizabeth to endure, and she begged the savages to put an end to the victim at once, which accordingly was done. But although Elizabeth saw many heartless acts—many terrible scenes—still she had a kindly feeling toward the Indians, for they saved her from a horrible death by starvation and exposure, and had been very tender with her. She was somewhat embittered toward the white people, on account of her sufferings, and treatment.
A short time after, General Sully invited me to Fort Harker, to see two white captive children, a girl of fourteen and a boy of six. They had been captured two years before, and the account of their treatment given me by the girl, was any thing but favorable. The boy was as wild as a deer.
A Sioux woman at Fort Harker had taken these children into her own family and cared for them as a mother. She was the daughter of a white man, was born at Fort Laramie, and had married an interpreter by the name of Bradley. She was quite intelligent, having been educated by her husband.
In January, 1868, two other children were captured in the State of Texas by the Kiowa Indians. They were girls, aged five and three years. Their parents and all the known relatives had been murdered, and the children had been recently recovered from the Indians, and were in the care of J. H. Leavenworth, United States Indian Agent. Having no knowledge of their parentage, they were named Helen and Heloise Lincoln.
Another interesting family was taken from Texas by the Indians, their beautiful home destroyed, and all killed with the exception of the mother and three daughters.
Their name was Boxx. The ages of the children were respectively eighteen, fourteen, and ten, and they were allowed to be together for a time, but afterward were separated.
They experienced great cruelties. The youngest was compelled to stand on a bed of live coals, in order to torture the mother and sisters.
Lieutenant Hesselberger, the noble and brave officer, whose name will live forever in the hearts of the captives he rescued, heard of this family, and, with a party of his brave men, went immediately to the Indian village, and offered a reward for the captives, which at first was declined, but he at length succeeded in purchasing the mother and one girl; he afterward procured the release of the others.
Lieutenant Hesselberger braved death in so doing, and his only reward is the undying gratitude of those who owe their lives to his self-sacrificing, humane devotion and courage.
In the fall of 1868, the Indians commenced depredations on the frontier of Kansas, and after many serious outbreaks, destroying homes and murdering settlers, the Governor issued a call for volunteers to assist General Sheridan in protecting the settlers and punishing the Indians.
Among those who volunteered was my youngest brother, and many of my old schoolmates and friends from Geneva, who related to me the following incidents, which are fully substantiated by General Sheridan and others.
Mrs. Morgan, an accomplished and beautiful bride, and Miss White, an educated young lady, were both taken from their homes by the Indians. They were living on the Republican River.
During their captivity they suffered much from the inclemency of the weather, and it was March before they were released by General Sheridan.
The troops, the Kansas boys, were all winter among the mountains, endeavoring to protect the frontier.
They suffered great privation, being obliged sometimes to live on the meat of mules, and often needing food. All honor to these self-sacrificing men, who braved the cold and hunger of the mountains to protect the settlers on the frontier.
A Mrs. Blynn, whose maiden name was Harrington, of Franklin County, Kansas, who was married at the age of nineteen, and started with her young husband for the Pacific coast, was taken prisoner by the Indians and suffered terrible brutality.
About that time the savages had become troublesome on the plains, attacking every wagon-train, killing men and capturing women. But the train in which Mr. Blynn and his wife traveled was supposed to be very strong, and able to repel any attack made upon them, should there be any such trouble.
Mrs. Blynn had a presentiment of evil—of the fate of their unfortunate company, and her own dark impending destiny, in a dream, the realization of which proved too true.
When she related her dream to her husband, he tried to laugh away her superstitious fears, and prevent its impression on her mind.
It was not many days after that a large number of warriors of the Sioux tribe were seen in the distance, and the people of the train arranged themselves in a shape for attack.
The Indians, seeing this preparation, and, fearing a powerful resistance, fired a few shots, and, with yells of rage and disappointment, went off.
Within the succeeding days the travelers saw Indians, but they did not come near enough to make trouble. Confident of no disturbance or hinderance to their journey, the happy emigrants journeyed on fearless (comparatively) of the red skins, and boasting of their power.
But the evil hour at last approached. When the column had reached Sand Creek, and was in the act of crossing, suddenly the wild yells of Indians fell upon their ears, and soon a band of Cheyennes charged down upon them.
Two wagons had already got into the stream, and, instead of hastening the others across, and thus putting the creek between themselves and their pursuers, the whites drove the two back out of the water, and, entangled in the others, threw every thing in confusion. This confusion is just what the Indians like, and they began whooping, shouting, and firing furiously, in order to cause a stampede of the live-stock.
In five minutes all was accomplished; all the animals, except those well fastened to the wagons, were dashing over the prairie. The Indians then circled around and fired a volley of bullets and arrows. Mr. Blynn was killed at the second fire, while standing before the wagon in which were his wife and child.
“God help them!” was all he said, as, firing his rifle at the Indians for the last time, he sank down dead.
The men returned the fire for awhile, then fled, leaving their wounded, all their wagons, and the women and children in the hands of the relentless victors.
Santana, who led the band, sprang in first, followed by his braves, whom he ordered to let the cowardly pale faces run away without pursuit.
The dead and wounded were scalped, and the women and children taken captive. All were treated with brutal conduct; and, having secured all the plunder they could, the savages set fire to every wagon, and, with the horses they had taken from the train, set out in the direction of their villages.
Mrs. Blynn’s child, Willie, two years old, cried very much, which so enraged Santana that he seized him by the heels, and was ready to dash out his brains, but the poor mother, in her agony, sprang forward, caught the child, and fought so bravely with the infuriated murderer, that he laughed, and told her to keep it; for he feared she would fret if he killed it.
Mounted on a pony, her child in her arms, she endeavored to please her savage captor by appearing satisfied, dwelling on the hope that some event would occur, whereby she might be rescued and restored to her friends. It was for her darling child that she endeavored to keep up her heart and resolve to live.
When they arrived at Santana’s village, Mrs. Blynn was left alone of all the seven who were taken. Group after group dropped away from the main body, taking with them the women whom they had prisoners.
Her hardships soon commenced. For a day or two she was fed sufficiently; but afterward all that she had to eat she got from the squaws in the same lodge with her; and, as they were jealous of her, they often refused to give her any thing, either for herself or Willie.
An Indian girl, in revenge for an injury done her by Santana, the murder of her best friend, became a spy for General Sheridan, and endeavored by every means in her power to rescue Mrs. Blynn from the grasp of these savages; but her efforts were unsuccessful. She was a true friend to the unfortunate lady, giving her food, and endeavoring to cheer her with the promise of rescue and safe deliverance. The squaws abused her shamefully in the absence of Santana, burning her with sharp sticks and splinters of resinous wood, and inflicting the most excruciating tortures upon her. Her face, breasts, and limbs were one mass of wounds. Her precious little one was taken by the hair of the head and punished with a stick before her helpless gaze.
Mrs. Blynn, the captive, previous to this torture, had written a letter to the general commanding the department, whoever he might be, and sent it by the Indian girl.
We insert a copy of this letter, which is sufficient to draw tears from the eye of any one who may read it.
“Kiowah Village, On The Washita River. Saturday, November 7, 1868.”
“Whoever you may be, if you will only buy us from the Indians with ponies or any thing, and let me come and stay with you until I can get word to my friends, they will pay you well; and I will work for you also, and do all I can for you.
“If it is not too far to this village, and you are not afraid to come, I pray you will try.
“The Indians tell me, as near as I can understand, they expect traders to come, to whom they will sell us. Can you find out by the bearer, and let me know if they are white men? If they are Mexicans, I am afraid they will sell us into slavery in Mexico.
“If you can do nothing for me, write, for God’s sake! to W. T. Harrington, Ottawa, Franklin County, Kansas—my father. Tell him we are with the Kiowahs, or Cheyennes; and they say when the white men make peace we can go home.
“Tell him to write to the Governor of Kansas about it, and for them to make peace. Send this to him, please.
“We were taken on October 9th, on the Arkansas, below Fort Lyon. My name is Mrs. Clara Blynn. My little boy, Willie Blynn, is two years old.
“Do all you can for me. Write to the Peace Commissioners to make peace this fall. For our sake do all you can, and God will bless you for it!
“If you can let me hear from you, let me know what you think about it. Write to my father. Send him this. Good-by!
” Mrs. R. F. Blynn.
“P. S.—I am as well as can be expected, but my baby, my darling, darling little Willie, is very weak. O, God! help him! Save him, kind friend, even if you can not save me. Again, good-by.”
Mrs. Blynn passed her time in drudgery, hoping against hope up to the morning of the battle, when General Sheridan’s gallant soldiers, under the command of General Custer, came charging with loud huzzahs upon the village.
Black Kettle’s camp was the first attacked, though all the village was, of course, aroused.
The heart of Mrs. Blynn must have beat wildly, mingling with hope and dread, when she heard the noise and firing, and saw the United States soldiers charging upon her captors.
Springing forward, she exclaimed: “Willie, Willie, saved at last!” but the words were scarce on her lips, ere the tomahawk of the revengeful Santana was buried in her brain; and in another instant little Willie was in the grasp of the monster, and his head dashed against a tree; then, lifeless, he was thrown upon the dying mother’s breast, whose arms instinctively closed around the dead baby boy, as though she would protect him to the last moment of her life.
General Sheridan and his staff, in searching for the bodies of Major Elliott and his comrades, found these among the white soldiers, and they were tenderly carried to Fort Cobb, where, in a grave outside the stockade, mother and child lie sleeping peacefully, their once bruised spirits having joined the loved husband and father in the land where captivity is unknown.
Surely, if heaven is gained by the sorrows of earth, this little family will enjoy the brightest scenes of the celestial world.
…To be continued (final installment runs in November issue).