CHAPTER II.
THE ATTACK AND THE CAPTURE.
A train of wagons were coursing their westward way, with visions of the future bright as our own. Sometimes a single team might be seen traveling alone.
Our party were among the many small squads emigrating to the land of promise.
The day on which our doomed family were scattered and killed was the 12th of July, a warm and oppressive day. The burning sun poured forth its hottest rays upon the great Black Hills and the vast plains of Montana, and the great emigrant road was strewed with men, women, and children, and flocks of cattle, representing towns of adventurers.
We looked anxiously forward to the approach of evening, with a sense of relief, after the excessive heat of the day.
Our journey had been pleasant, but toilsome, for we had been long weeks on the road.
Slowly our wagons wound through the timber that skirted the Little Box Elder, and, crossing the stream, we ascended the opposite bank.
We had no thought of danger or timid misgivings on the subject of savages, for our fears had been all dispersed by constantly received assurances of their friendliness.
At the outposts and ranches, we heard nothing but ridicule of their pretensions to warfare, and at Fort Laramie, where information that should have been reliable was given us, we had renewed assurances of the safety of the road and friendliness of the Indians.