Uncle Jeff, much to my satisfaction, allowed me to accompany the lieutenant. I had a good horse, too, and had no fears about making my way back safely, even should the country be swarming with Indians.
When the lieutenant spoke of the possibility of the farm being attacked by the Redskins, Uncle Jeff laughed. "They will not venture thus far," he observed. "But even if they do come, we will give a good account of them. Not to speak of my rifle, Bartle's and Gideon's are each worth fifty muskets in the hands of the Indians; our other four fellows, with your trooper, will keep the rest at bay, however many there may be of them. The sergeant, too, will be able to handle a rifle before long, I hope; while Clarice and Rachel will load the arms, and look after any of us who may be hurt. But we need not talk about that; the varmints will not trouble us, you may depend upon it."
When Bartle Won heard of the disappearance of the troopers, and that we had examined our men, but had been unable to elicit any information from them as to what had become of the truants, he observed,—"Leave that to me. If they know anything about the matter, I will get it out of them before long. As to the fellows having tumbled into the torrent, I do not believe it. They are not likely to have gone off without our people knowing something about it. They are either in hiding somewhere near Roaring Water,—and if so, I shall soon ferret them out,—or else they have gone away to take squaws from among the Indians, and set up for themselves."
The lieutenant did not think that the latter proceeding was very probable; but their absence was mysterious, and we had to confess that we were no wiser as to their whereabouts than we were at first.
CHAPTER III.
MY FAMILY HISTORY—MY FATHER, ONCE A CAPTAIN IN THE BRITISH ARMY, COMES TO AMERICA AND MARRIES UNCLE JEFF'S SISTER—HE SETTLES ON A FARM IN OHIO—CLARICE AND I ARE BORN—MY GRANDFATHER'S FARM DESTROYED BY A FLOOD—THE NEXT YEAR OUR FARM IS BURNT—MY FATHER RESOLVES TO MIGRATE TO THE WEST—WE SET OFF IN WAGGONS WITH AN EMIGRANT TRAIN—PROSPEROUS COMMENCEMENT OF JOURNEY—PROVISIONS RUN SHORT—I WITNESS A BUFFALO HUNT—THE EMIGRANTS SUFFER FROM CHOLERA—MY MOTHER DIES—MANY OF THE EMIGRANTS TURN BACK—MY FATHER PERSEVERES—FIERCELY ATTACKED BY INDIANS—WE KEEP THEM AT BAY—AGAIN ATTACKED, WHEN A STRANGER COMES TO OUR ASSISTANCE—CLARICE GIVES HIM A BOOK—HE PROMISES TO READ IT—WE CONTINUE OUR JOURNEY, AND REACH FORT KEARNEY—REMAIN THERE FOR SOME MONTHS—MY FATHER, THOUGH STILL SUFFERING, INSISTS ON SETTING OUT AGAIN—HE SOON BECOMES WORSE, AND DIES—I AM DIGGING HIS GRAVE, WHEN AN EMIGRANT TRAIN COMES BY—UNCLE JEFF IS THE LEADER, AND WE ACCOMPANY HIM TO ROARING WATER.
UT the readers of my Journal, if so I may venture to call it, would like to know how Clarice and I came to be at Uncle Jeff's farm. To do so, I must give a little bit of my family history, which probably would not otherwise interest them.