I could easily have killed him at any time previous to this, but as he had done me no harm, and was not likely to do any, I took the advice of my friends and let him peaceably pursue his brilliant campaigns for the sake of eclipsing the renown of Don Quixote.
It seems that two of his men had stationed themselves in the brush near the Brick Church by the road leading from his headquarters at G. W. Murphy‘s to Big River Mills. On a certain evening between sunset and dark, when Sheriff Murphy and himself were riding by the church on their way from Big River Mills, those two men in ambush fired off their guns. The valiant Colonel drew out his pistol and commenced firing; but to prevent the sheriff from taking a pop at the two men, he cried out to him to dash on to Big River Mills for more men, which he did and soon returned.
The Colonel remained on the ground and was master of the field, but his horse was slightly wounded by a shot nearly perpendicular, which might have been made by himself. The horse, however, not understanding the matter thoroughly, threw his master high in the air; but luckily the Colonel came down head foremost, and striking on a rock he received no injury except a ringing in his head like the rattling of a cow-bell.
He dispatched one of his men to Irondale to telegraph to the authorities at St. Louis the astounding intelligence that at the Brick Church, Col. Bowen had encountered the irrepressible “Sam Hildebrand” and his band of out-laws; that his horse had been shot from under him, but that single-handed he had driven the enemy from the field, and only received a slight wound. This Don Quixote campaign against me terminated in a spree, and the Colonel returned to St. Louis.
Previous to this, however, by Col. Bowen‘s orders, my wife and children were removed, first to Irondale and then to Farmington; they remained at the latter place under the supervision of the sheriff for a month. They were kindly treated, but my wife was anxious to escape from the ceaseless annoyance of Bowen‘s military operations.
On a certain night a friend of mine from Illinois, named Crittenden, proceeded into Farmington with a light wagon, and before the break of day my wife and family were in Ste. Genevieve county, on their way to Illinois. They stopped for breakfast at a house by the roadside, and by a strange coincidence it proved to be the house of the late James McLaine. The widow, not knowing the party, made them very welcome, and in apologizing for her straitened circumstances, observed: “I am now left a destitute widow, and all these poor little children of mine are left orphans, by the hand of Sam Hildebrand.”
Mrs. McLaine‘s father, George Shumate was present, and while the good woman was preparing breakfast, he addressed himself to Crittenden, and gave a terrible account of my desperate deeds.
After breakfast the party arose to continue their journey; the widow would have nothing for her trouble. My wife, taking Mrs. McLaine kindly by the hand, said:
“Mrs. McLaine, I am sorry for you—truly sorry for you and your dear little children; sorry for the many hardships you have had to encounter. I know how to sympathize with you, for I am a widow myself.”
“You a widow?”