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.