Scarcely had we turned out our horses when we were surrounded by forty Indian warriors, their faces all blackened. I soon became convinced that they had been watching for us, and intended to rob, if not kill us. Many of them had on good broadcloth clothes, which I suppose they had taken from the people they had murdered at the Mountain Meadows. Most of them had good guns, and they were very insolent, helping themselves to whatever they wanted.
A few minutes after they came, a mourning dove alighted on a willow at the head of the spring, about twelve rods from our camp. The wind was blowing hard from the south, waving the willow on which the bird rested. The Indians commenced shooting at it. With a sudden impulse, I raised my rifle and fired. If I had had the dove in my hand, I could not have cut its head off more nicely than I did.
The Indians seemed astonished, and for a short time were quiet. In our small company—only five of us—was a mountaineer by the name of Hardin. I felt that he was the only man that could be relied on in case of trouble. He had loaded a double-barrelled shotgun with navy balls, and stood leaning by the side of the carriage, the butt of his gun on the ground, the muzzle resting in his right hand.
Three Indians crawled under the carriage and commenced scuffling. Instantly one barrel of his gun went off, taking off the upper part of Hardin's ear, and tearing away the rim of his hat. It knocked him down, and I thought he was killed. The chief threw the back of his hand to his mouth and gave the war whoop.
I cocked my gun and put the muzzle against his belly. He stopped yelling, and Hardin sprang up and attempted to shoot him; but I interfered, telling the men that our lives depended on our keeping the chief.
I then spoke in Ute, and ordered the Indians to their camp, but kept the chief a prisoner. We hitched up, and putting the chief into the carriage, drove until three o'clock, then rested until dark, when we hitched up and drove rapidly until midnight. We then camped, tied up, and stood guard without a fire until morning. After breakfast, we gave the Indian a shirt and plug of tobacco, and told him to "git."
Years after, I became intimately acquainted with this chief Jackson. He was a bad man; and while he lived there was no peace with his band. Without doubt, all that saved our scalps at that time was the fortunate shot in killing the dove, and the course we pursued in keeping the chief a prisoner.
After turning the Indian loose, we passed a painfully anxious day; our animals were so exhausted that we had to take several rests, and were fearful of being followed by the Indians. Just before night, however, we had the good fortune to pull into the town of Pinto, the frontier Mormon settlement.
We were kindly received by the good people of that ward, and after resting a few days, continued our journey. The monotony of the desert was now pleasingly changed by the many ranches and busy villages we passed. At Parowan, two hundred miles south of Salt Lake City, we encountered a scene that I shall never forget. I remember distinctly, the "Exodus," as it was called, from Nauvoo, when sixteen thousand souls left their homes and commenced that marvelous journey of fourteen hundred miles to the unknown valley of the Salt Lake. But that exodus was like a small rivulet by the side of a mighty river when compared with the seventy-five thousand men, women, and children that we now met in one continuous line of travel.
Horses, oxen, and cows were harnessed or yoked to wagons and carts; and one family by the name of Syphus, was moving their effects on a handcart drawn by a pair of yearling steers. Mothers and children walked along as merrily as if going to a corn husking; each family moving its little bunch of cows and flock of sheep, and all starting on the journey (that was never completed) to Sonora, in Mexico, or some other place.