We both laughed, and we were both wrong to laugh. In the following year, we again went upon the Humboldt, and shortly after we had done so, old Mr. Pierson decided to move further south, to Winamucca Valley, near Red Rock. When the family were passing up the east side of Honey Lake, they were attacked by Indians and all of them were murdered. When found, the body of the old man was literally riddled with bullets. Mrs. Pierson and Hattie were lying in each other's arms, clasped tightly, as if in the effort to shield each other from death. They had been slain in the same manner.
Intelligence of this was brought to us. And I can never forget the effect it had upon Butch' Hasbrouck when he heard it.
His face became lividly white, in spite of the tanning by exposure it had so long had. Without a word, he turned, lifted his rifle and his shot-pouch, took a small bag which he filled with parched corn, and was leaving us. Throwing my arm around his neck, I said:
"Where are you going?"
"After them as killed my Hattie."
"Do you think I shall not go with you?" I asked.
"Hand H'i too?" exclaimed Brighton Bill.
Arnold and Painter were already preparing to accompany him, and, in less than an hour, we were all upon the homeward road.
Our search was, for some two weeks, completely in vain. Although, near the scene of the murder, keen eyes could make out the trail, it was lost at a short distance from it, owing to the rocky nature of the soil. However, where we had first seen it, Butch' affirmed that he had discovered the track of a white man. Arnold and myself thought as he did. If so, this man was Cockrell. The belief in this fact made Hasbrouck untiring in his attempt to recover the trail.