Half a dozen of us sprang from our horses. After much effort the tangled animals were unhitched and the wagon was righted.
The man was dead.
In the wagon were the wife and six children, the oldest child a boy of fifteen. All were safely caught in the canvas top and escaped unhurt. We camped there—not knowing what else to do.
We straightened the mangled form of the dead, and covered the body with a blanket.
That night the mother and the oldest boy sat by the campfire and watched the long night away with their dead.
The stars marched in solemn procession across the sky.
The slow, crawling night passed.
The first faint flush of dawn appeared in the East.
I lay near the campfire, my head pillowed on a saddle, and heard the widowed mother and her boy talking in low but earnest tones.
“We must go back—we must go back to Illinois. It is the only thing to do,” I heard the mother moan.