With the help of a friend I got father into a wagon, when the crowd had gone. I held his head in my lap during the ride home. I believed he was mortally wounded. He had been stabbed down through the kidneys, leaving an ugly wound.

After crossing the Smoky Hill River, I felt comparatively safe as this was the last stream I had to cross.

The Indians kept increasing in numbers until it was estimated that we were fighting from 800 to 1,000 of them.

My first plan of escape having failed, I now determined upon another.

I had many enemies among the Sioux; I would be running considerable risk in meeting them.

Washington newspaper men know everything.

But the West of the old times, with its strong characters, its stern battles and its tremendous stretches of loneliness, can never be blotted from my mind.