Under the trying circumstances, it was a serious question; and the query was an earnest one with us all, "What can we do?" The heavens seemed like brass over our heads, and the earth as iron beneath our feet. It seemed utterly impossible to reach the Moqui towns, which were almost in sight, and like certain death to attempt to escape in the night with our jaded animals.
Our interpreter thought it would be better for two of the company to die, than for all to be killed.
I told him to go and tell the Navajos that there were only a few of us, but we were well armed, and should fight as long as there was one left.
He turned to go, rather reluctantly, saying again that he thought it better for only two to die than all.
I replied that I did not think so; that I would not give a cent to live after I had given up two men to be murdered; that I would rather die like a man than live like a dog.
As the interpreter turned to go, the two Indian women we had brought with us wept aloud, and accused me of bringing them along to be murdered. I went a little way off by myself and asked the Lord to be merciful, and pity us in our miserable and apparently helpless condition, and to make known to me what to do and say to extricate us from our difficulties.
I returned to camp and told the company that we would leave as soon as possible.
Some thought it was certain death whether we went or remained where we were.
I told them, however, that there would not be another one of us injured.
Our four Navajo friends who had come to us the day before, had remained, and now helped to gather our animals and pack up.