“‘I am indebted to you more deeply than you can even imagine. You have been a kind friend and benefactor, and now that the time has come for us to part, I should be more than criminal did I not reveal myself to you in my true character. The disguise is no longer necessary for my protection. I am a woman.’
“Involuntarily I exclaimed, ‘Great Heaven! is it possible!—and I, all this while, so stupid as not to see it in your conduct! This accounts for everything I thought so strangely reticent, so singularly delicate and refined in your manners.’
“‘Let me go on,’ said she, interrupting this rhapsody. ‘Our relation to each other, so changed, must not affect the deep sense of obligation your kindness has imposed; and besides, my history, with all its sad vicissitudes, will afford ample apology for the deceit of which this confession convicts me. When I came to you and begged for the passage you so generously granted, I was a poor heart-broken woman, but now with the multiplied evidences I have of a protecting Providence, I am comparatively happy. Listen to my story. Just before the great rebellion I was married to one I dearly loved. Our home was in Tennessee. I was nineteen, and my husband, whom I will call Mr. Gordon, a few years older. Early in the Summer of 1861 he espoused the Union cause, which brought him in great disfavor with his relatives and neighbors. Their frequent persecutions drove us from the country. We sought a new home in California. There he engaged in extensive mining enterprises, all of which terminated in failure. He became utterly discouraged, and realized in the current idiom of the country the condition of one who had “lost his grip.” I urged him to return to the States, but our means were nearly exhausted. With the hope of replenishing them, as a last resort he staked and lost everything at a gambling table. To my constant entreaties for reformation, he promised well, until intemperance seized him in its deadly coil. Naturally high-spirited and honorable, misfortune and dissipation soon reduced him to a wreck.
“‘In the Spring of 1866 we were living in a mining camp at the Middle mines, on the western slope of the Sierras. One night (I shall never forget it) my unfortunate husband, while intoxicated, became embroiled in a desperate quarrel at a game of faro, with a player of much local popularity. A fearful fight followed, in which he killed his antagonist. He was followed into the street and his arrest attempted by a sheriff’s officer. He fled in the direction of his home, was fired upon and seriously wounded, and in three shots fired by him in return, he killed one of the arresting party. The others fled. The crowd, attracted by the firing, pursued him so hotly that he ran to the hills and secreted himself in the forest.
“‘During the succeeding six days of bitter anguish I was in a state of terrible suspense. Late one night relief was brought by a messenger from my husband, who said he was lying at a miner’s cabin in the mountains, fifteen miles distant, seriously wounded, and required medicine and attendance. I instantly determined to go to him. The man, an old friend of my husband, discouraged me, lest I should be followed by the officers, and the hiding-place discovered. This objection I overcame by donning male attire, and following his guidance astride a mule. I reached the bedside of my wretched husband without exciting suspicion, and after several weeks of careful nursing, his condition was so improved that he could commence a journey to the States. Fear of discovery prevented longer delay, and our friend providing us with means of conveyance, we started on our weary route.
“‘You may readily conceive that the task was disheartening, for to escape detection it was necessary to avoid all travelled routes, and literally pick our way through mountains, valleys, defiles, and cañons, fording rivers where we could find opportunity, and obtaining food from ranches and at points remote from the large settlements. My husband’s condition required constant attention, and on me alone devolved all the labor and care of the journey. No one, to see my embrowned face and knotty hands, would have ever dreamed that I was aught else than the tough wiry boy I appeared, or that I concealed beneath my disguise a heart torn with anguish and shaken by continual fear.
“‘We selected, as least liable to interruption, a route through Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, intending, after our arrival in Montana, to find some easier mode of completing our journey. Five long weary months during which travel was about equally alternated with delay, found us encamped on the Columbia plains in Washington Territory near the western border of Montana. Oh! it had been a terrible perambulation. And now, when beyond the pursuit of sheriffs, and near the close as we supposed of our journey, my poor husband, weakened by the internal hemorrhage from his wound, was prostrated by an attack which in a few days terminated his life.
“‘I was alone in the wilderness, several hundred miles from the nearest settlement. For two days and nights I lingered in that lonely camp beside the dead body of my husband, without a sound to break the fearful stillness, save the yelping of coyotes, and the midnight howl of the wolf. On the third day I heard the welcome sound of an approaching pack train. The men having it in charge dug a grave and gave my husband decent burial. I accompanied their train to Helena, preserving my male incognito without suspicion. After a brief period of rest and refreshment, I disposed of my effects and went by coach to Benton, where I was so fortunate as to fall in with your party. You know the rest.’
“The recital of this eventful narrative made a profound impression upon me. I could scarcely realize that it had fallen from the lips of the mild-mannered, resolute, active little Johnny, who had been to us all such a pleasant but enigmatical companion. My sympathies were all warmly enlisted in favor of the brave woman, but she refused all further proffers of assistance, assuring me that she was provided with ample means for the completion of her journey, and had many able and willing friends who would greet her return to them with joy. I took leave of her at Sioux City the next day with real regret, and often since have recalled to mind the thrilling history of her experience in the mountains.”