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Lights and Shadows of a Long Episcopate
Being Reminiscences and Recollections
of the Right Reverend
Henry Benjamin Whipple, D.D., LL.D.
Bishop of Minnesota

New York: The Macmillan Company, 1899.

Chapter X

AUGUST 18, 1862, the Sioux Indians began a massacre which desolated the entire western border of Minnesota. Eight hundred people were murdered. Many of these victims of savage vengeance had given me true-hearted hospitality, and my heart was filled with sorrow. I had feared an outbreak. Again and again I had said publicly that as certain as any fact of human history, a nation which sowed robbery would reap a harvest of blood. Thomas Jefferson said, "I tremble for the nation when I remember that God is just." In subsequent pages the causes of these Indian wars will be found.

The Sioux were a warlike people; they had been our friends. General Sibley, who was chief factor thirty years for the Northwest Fur Company, said: "It was the boast of the Sioux that they had never taken the life of a white man. In the earlier days of my residence amongst them I never locked the door of my trading-post, and when I rose in the morning I often found Indians camped on the floor. The only thing which I have ever had stolen was a curious pipe, which was returned by the mischievous boy who took it, after I had told the Indians that if the pipe were not returned I should keep the door locked." The Honorable H. M. Rice, who was chief factor among the Chippewas, has told me substantially the same thing.

The history of our first negotiations with the Sioux for the purchase of their lands, which included all of southern Minnesota, I do not know; but white men as well as Indians say that there was much deception connected with it.

I was in the Indian country when the Sioux came for their annual payment in June, 1862. They had made bitter complaints about the non-payment for the land sold from their reservation. Pay-Pay, an old Indian whom I had known at Faribault, came to me and asked, "How much money shall we receive at this payment? "" Twenty dollars per head," I answered, "the same that you have always received."

A few hours after he brought Wa-cou-ta to me, saying, "Tell him what you said."

I repeated my statement, feeling much anxiety, for it was evident that the Indians had heard that they were not to receive their payment.

When I returned from the Upper Agency, where I found the Indians most turbulent, I said to a trader's clerk, "Major Galbraith, the agent, is coming down to enroll the Indians for payment." He replied: "Galbraith is a fool. Why does he lie to them? I have heard from Washington that most of the appropriation has been used to pay claims against the Indians. The payment will not be made. I have told the Indians this, and have refused to trust them."

I was astounded that a trader's clerk should claim to know more about the payment than the government agent. I had never seen the Indians so restless. Every day some heathen dance took place,--a monkey dance, a begging dance, or a scalp dance. Occasionally one of the men would refuse to shake hands with me. I knew what it meant, that he wanted to boast that he would not take the hand of a white man, which was always a danger signal.

I left the Sioux country, sad at heart, to pay a visit to the Chippewa Mission, and went as far as Bed Lake. There I found the Chippewas much disturbed, showing that a storm was brewing. On my arrival at Crow Wing, Mr. Peake brought a letter from the post-office for Hole-in-the-Day, marked "immediate." I saw that the address had been written by Mr. Hin-man. Hole-in-the-Day had gone to Leech Lake, and we asked one of his soldiers to read the letter, which said:--

Your young men have killed one of my people--a farmer Indian. I have tried to keep my soldiers at home. They have gone for scalps. Look out.


As the Sioux and Chippewas were bitter enemies, it was evident that Little Crow had made some treaty of peace with Hole-in-the-Day. I at once inquired if there were any Indians away, and finding that a family were camped on Gull River, twenty miles distant, I sent for them that night and they were saved. On my return journey, a day from Gull Lake, my Indians saw tracks and told me that they belonged to the Sioux. I laughed at them and said, "There isn't a Sioux within a hundred miles." But they refused to go on. They stooped to the ground, and wherever they found traces of a footprint they carefully examined the crushed grass to see if the juice which had exuded were dry or fresh. Suddenly we came to a place where there had been a camp, and one of the men picked up a moccasin, which he brought to me, saying, "Is that a Chippewa moccasin?"

"No," I said, "it is a Sioux moccasin."

The moccasins of the tribes are all made differently. The rest of the journey was of unceasing vigilance.

On Saturday I left Crow Wing for St. Cloud and heard of a party of Sioux back of Little Falls. I spent Sunday in St. Cloud, and that day these Indians committed a murder at Acton in order to precipitate a massacre. They reached Little Crow village before daybreak; a council of soldiers was called, and, against the advice of Little Crow, who afterward became their leader, they began their fearful warfare.

The pictorial papers containing the Civil War scenes, which the traders kept on their counters, deeply interested the Indians, who plied questions about the battles and their results. Up to this time, August, 1862, the Union troops had been defeated. Major Galbraith had enlisted a company of Renville Rangers, largely made up of mixed bloods, and many of the Indians supposed that the Government had sent for them to fight because so many of the white men had been killed. They said, "Now we can avenge our wrongs and get back our country."

The morning of this day of blood, Mr. Hinman was sitting on the steps of the Mission House at the Lower Agency, talking with a man who was building our church, when suddenly a rapid firing was heard at the trading-post a quarter of a mile away. Sun-ka-ska (White Dog) appeared on a run, and when asked what the firing meant, answered: "The Indians have bad hearts and are killing the whites. I am going to Wabasha to stop it." In a few minutes, running at full speed, Little Crow appeared, and the same question was asked him; but he made no answer and ran on to the government barn, where Mr. Wagoner was trying to prevent the Indians from taking the horses. Little Crow cried, "Kill him! "and he was instantly shot.

Mr. Hinman hastened to Mr. Prescott, the interpreter, who lived near by, to notify him of the outbreak. Mrs. Hinman was absent from the mission, but Miss West, the missionary, was advised to leave and cross the river, which she did, meeting on the way to the ferry a white woman and child whom she took under her protection. As they reached the bluff, after crossing the river, they met a party of Indians in war-paint and feather, who greeted them pleasantly with "Ho! Ho! Ho! You belong to the missionary. Washte! (Good!) Where are you going? "Miss West pointed to a house in the distance, and they said, "No, we are going to kill them," and motioned her to take the road leading to Fort Ripley. They threatened to kill the other woman, but to Miss West's statement that she had promised to take care of her they answered, "Ho! Ho! "and parted.

For weeks we had no tidings from the Sioux or Chippewa missions. They were dark days. When news came, we found that both missions had been destroyed; but our hearts were made glad when we learned that the only lives saved during that holocaust of death were by the Christian Indians, or friendly Indians, who had been influenced by the missionaries.

The wily chief, Hole-in-the-Day, had planned for a massacre at the same time on the northern border. But Enmegahbowh had sent a faithful messenger to Mille Lacs, to urge the Indians to be true to the whites and to send men to protect the fort. More than a hundred Mille Lacs warriors went at once to the fort, but meantime Enmegahbowh himself walked all night down Gull River, dragging a canoe containing his wife and children, that he might give warning to the fort. Two of his children died from the exposure. Messages were also sent to the white settlers, and before Hole-in-the-Day could begin war the massacre was averted.

The Commissioner of Indian Affairs, who was at the fort, was so filled with gratitude at the Mille Lacs Indians for their protection that he promised them that they should not only be rewarded by the Government, but should not be removed from their reservation. Pledges to that effect were incorporated in a treaty made shortly after, but the pledges were broken.

It would be too long a story to tell of the heroism of Taopi, Good Thunder, Wabasha, Wa-ha-can-ka-ma-za (Iron Shield), Simon A-nag-ma-ni, Lorenzo Lawrence, Other Day, Thomas Robertson, Paul Maza-kute, Wa-kin-yan-ta-wa, and others who, at the risk of life, saved helpless women and children.

The following statements were made at the time of the surrender of the captives.


On the morning of the 18th of August, 1862, I was preparing to go down to the Mission House, the residence of our minister, the Rev. Mr. Hinman. He had promised to go with me to assist in laying out our burial lot near the new church. My child had been buried but a few days before. As I was about starting, an old man (Tah-e-ini-na) came to my house and said, "All the upper bands are armed and coming down the road." I asked, "For what purpose are they coming? "He said, "I don't know." The old man had hardly gone out when Ta-te-campi came running to my house and said, "They are killing the traders." I said, "What do you mean? "He said, "The Rice Creek Indians have murdered the whites on the other side of the Minnesota River, and now they are killing the traders." I said, "This is awful work."

As soon as he was gone I heard the report of guns. I went up to the top of my house and from there I could hear the shouts of the Indians, and see them plundering the stores. The men of my band now began to assemble at my house. We counselled, but we could do nothing to resist the hostile Indians because we were so few and they were between us and the settlements. I told them not only to keep out of the disturbance but also not to go near the plunderers. Some of them obeyed me. I sent Good Thunder with a message to Wabasha, but he could not reach his house on account of the hostile Indians. The hostile Indians soon came to our village and commanded us to take off our citizen's clothing and put on blankets and leggings. They said they would kill all of us "bad talkers." We took our guns and were prepared to defend ourselves. We did not know what to do. I wanted to take my wagon and go to the whites, but I could not.

Good Thunder came back and brought news that nearly a whole company of soldiers from the fort had been killed at the Ferry. Good Thunder and Wa-ha-can-karma-za and myself went into my corn-field to talk over the matter. We wanted to escape to the fort that night, but could not because we were watched. We determined to go to the whites at the first opportunity. I proposed to take two white girls who had been taken prisoners at Redwood, and take them to within a short distance of the fort, and then send them in with a letter stating that we were ready to cooperate with the whites in any way they might direct. We were ready, but the girls were afraid to go.

Soon after this the Indians moved to Yellow Medicine. At Yellow Medicine the hostile Indians replied to General Sib-ley's letter found at Birch Coulee. They laughed at the letter because they did not believe he would spare them, or even their women and children. They sent back a saucy, indifferent answer. When we moved up to Ma-za-wa-kan, opposite the mouth of the Chippewa River, I wrote a letter to General Sibley. Good Thunder and I wrote the letter together. Thomas Robertson (he is part Indian) wrote the letter for us. The Indians forbade our sending any letters or messages on pain of death. Thomas Robertson and Thomas Robinson volunteered to take the letter to the fort. They are both part Indian. Wabasha refused to sign it, as he feared the Indians. We desired to go to the whites and to aid them, but were afraid his young men would find it out and make trouble. The Indians searched the two (Robertson and Robinson) when they started off. They even searched their moccasins. They went to bear a letter from Little Crow to the general. They did not have my letter with them when they were searched. I had sent it off by Wahacankamaza (my cousin). We went out on the prairie in the morning on horseback as if to hunt ducks. He took a circuitous route and came back to the road at Mr. Riggs' house. Then he concealed himself and gave the letter to Robertson when he came along. When they returned from the fort (Ridgely) they brought an answer to my letter. I could not see it for some time as the Indians suspected something, and my tipi was always surrounded by their guns. A few of us went down into the Minnesota Bottom at midnight and concealed ourselves in the high grass and rushes. Mr. George Spencer, whose life was saved by Chaska, read the letter to us. He drew a blanket over his head and lighted a candle under it and read the letter to us. He was covered with the blanket lest the Indians on the hill should see the light.

My heart was glad when I heard the letter. General Sibley said: "Save as many of the prisoners as you can. Get them into your possession as quickly and quietly as you can." I could not sleep after this. I was thinking all the time how we might save the prisoners. Mr. Spencer told the white women and children that I would save them, and they came flocking to our tipis like pigeons. I distributed them among my friends to be cared for. After hearing General Sibley's letter, Ma-za-ku-te-ma-ni (a chief of the Wahpeton) helped us very much. He had long wanted to run away from the Indians. He was very bold, and rebuked the hostile Indians in open council. I never attended any of the councils, but always sent Good Thunder that I might find out what was going on.

We now separated our tipis from the rest of the camp. There were only six tipis at first, viz.--my own, Good Thunder's, Wahacankamaza (my cousin), Wa-kin-yan-ta-wa (who saved Mr. Spencer), Tu-can-wi-coxta, and Mazakute-mani.

The Indians came back from their defeat at Wood Lake and immediately prepared to retreat up the river to Big Stone Lake. They threatened to kill the friendly Sioux before leaving. We intrenched our tipis, digging down four or five feet that the women and children might be safe in case of attack. We could at any time have saved a few of the prisoners and escaped. But after General Sibley's letter we wished to save all of them or as many as possible. At first most of the Indians ran away with those routed at Wood Lake. But when they knew that the general would probably spare our lives, they kept coming back into our camp every night, until after his army arrived. I was instructed to save the prisoners if possible. By God's help we succeeded, and the bad men were foiled. The prisoners numbered one hundred whites and about one hundred and fifty of mixed blood. There were two hundred and fifty-five in all. Many of the Indians of the Farmers' Band aided me in my undertaking. I wish especially to mention Wakinyanwaste (Good Thunder) the head man of my band, Wakinyantawa (who saved Mr. Spencer), and Wahacankamaza who carried the letter over the prairie. The two young men, Thomas Robertson and Thomas Robinson, who carried the letter to General Sibley, ought to be rewarded. They did it at the risk of their lives. I wish also to state that I tried to send a letter to General Sibley before. I asked Mr. Spencer to write it for me, but he could not as he was wounded in the right arm.

This is all I have to say.


I have nothing to say concerning myself that is not included in the statement of Taopi. Taopi was the chief of the Farmer Band, and I was his chief adviser or head soldier.

I wish, however, to make a statement concerning Wabasha. His name appears in the letter sent to General Sibley from Mazawakan. The day after his interview, in which he refused to sign the letter, he came to me and desired me to have his name attached. He said: "I want to be among the whites and live like a white man. I am a Farmer. I want to aid the whites. But what can I do now? I am watched. If I move, they will kill me. But I wish you to sign my name. I will do what I can." After this I asked Robertson to put Wabasha's name in the letter, and he did so. He put it in first--i.e. before Taopi's, because Wabasha was the head chief of the Lower Sioux. This is all I wish to add to Taopi's statement.


Some days after the beginning of the massacre, I do not remember the day, week, or month, I determined that the only safety of the friendly and Christian Indians was to escape if possible from the hostile camp. I went and spent the night with a Christian Indian named Anagmani. We talked about the matter all night, and determined to escape by the first opportunity. I went from there to the house of Mr. Cunningham where my wife and children were staying. I said to my wife, "I am tired of staying here. We can do no good. These Indians will ruin us. I want you to bake some bread as soon as possible for the journey." She said, "It is true, but I do not feel like running away. I am afraid we shall be killed." I said, "We must die anyway--we had better die now than with these bad Indians." She said, "I am not afraid to die, but I am afraid if we are taken the soldiers will kill our children also. I have pity on our children, and therefore I do not wish to go." I said, "No, the whites do nothing hastily; if we are taken they will not kill us until they council for some days, and at any rate they will not kill our children, they never make war like the Indians. It is better to go, even if we die." I then went out of the house, and looking down the road I saw a white woman with four children coming toward the house. She was crying. I went into the house, and she followed. It proved to be Mrs. de Camp, the wife of the miller at the Lower Agency. She had been taken prisoner by the Lower Indians on the first day of the outbreak. She said, "Until now an Indian has taken care of me and my children, but yesterday he came back from a war party badly wounded. He says he cannot care for white people any longer." She then looked up and saw my Bible lying on the table and asked me if I read that Book. I told her yes, that we read the Bible and prayed to the Great Spirit every day, to show us some way out of this trouble. She said, "I am so glad, now I know you will save me." I said, "I have made up my mind to run away as soon as possible, and have already told my wife to bake bread for the journey."

I went out behind the house to cut wood, and sent Mrs. de Camp and the children into the cellar. I worked then and talked with her, and when I saw any one coming along the road, I would give her word that she might conceal herself. That night I went over among the Indians to find out the news. I asked several, and learned that the scouts had brought word that Sibley had crossed the river. I also learned that the Indians intended to break up their camp the next day and move up to Mazawakan. I went home and said, "The time has now come for us to escape." My wife now made no objections. We started down into the bottom and made our way through the hazel wood and underbrush, carefully avoiding all trails. I took them through the timber and underbrush until we were just below Dr. Williamson's house. We then went into the lake (Red Lake). I carried three children, one in each arm and one on my back. We made our way to the middle of the lake, sometimes wading and sometimes stepping on the logs. Near the centre of the lake I found a collection of logs large enough to hold us all. Thinking this a safe place and not likely to be approached by the Indians, I left the women and children here and went back to scout and see if we were watched. The women urged me not to go. They said: "We are safe now. If you go, you will be killed." But I said: "No, I must go. I think God will spare me." I went through the timber and ascended the bluff through the hazel wood near Mr. Riggs' house. As I reached the high ground, I saw the smoke and flames of the burning buildings which the Indians had fired in leaving for the upper Minnesota. I went as far as the road, and where I stood I could see the last wagon of their train pass over the rising ground in the distance. I saw no one. All my relations were gone. I was left alone. I went to Anagmani's house and he was not there, but he had left a letter for me tacked to the door of his house. It said, "Friends, I have already started." That was all. I killed four chickens and hastened back to the lake where I had left the women and children. Between the lake and river there was a swamp. We had great difficulty in getting through. It was especially hard for the women. We carried the children through one by one. When we arrived at the river I sent my boys for canoes.

I had a very savage watch-dog (a bull dog). I thought a great deal of him, but was afraid to take him lest he should make a noise by barking. I choked him with his collar, and then cut his throat. A half-breed woman, Mrs. Rebardo, and three children had joined us; but as we were starting, their hearts failed them. We started in four canoes. I took one, and my two oldest boys and Mrs. de Camp's boy took the other three. It was now sundown, and we started. We travelled nights to avoid detection. The first night we went down as far as Hop River. We went ashore, and it rained and blew very hard. I made a shelter of boughs for the women and children, and went out into the prairie to kill some game. I had not gone far when I heard a cry. After searching, I found a woman and three children crowded under the boughs of a tree that they had bent down to hide them. It proved to be Mrs. Rebardo and her children; she had followed us down. They were all nestled together like chickens. I took them to the boats. Soon we heard the tinkling of a bell. My wife asked me to go and kill the cow that we might eat. It was not mine, but all things are lawful to a starving man. I went in the direction of the sound. It proved to be a ram and not a cow that bore the bell. I was afraid to shoot lest the report should be heard. I took my knife and gave chase, but the ram was too fleet for me. I took my gun and four balls which were all I had. I missed two shots, but at the third I put a ball through his head. The children came out and ate the raw fat as I cut it off. We were very hungry. Before this we had nothing but some unripe grapes; all the bread was eaten the first day. We started at dark and had great difficulty in getting over Patterson's Rapids. We arrived at the Mounds the next morning. I went out to find a deserted house to search for pots or kettles in which to cook our meat. I heard a rooster crowing and soon found a house and two pots, and also some potatoes.

On my return I discovered the dead bodies of a German and two boys. I covered them as well as I could with earth, wrote on a piece of paper my name, and what I had done, and left it there pinned to the door of the house. I thought the soldiers would find it. We left at evening. My boy and all the children were sick at Rice Creek from eating raw meat. We reached the Ferry at the Lower Agency, and I was afraid to pass it in the daytime. The soldiers of Captain Marsh's Company were killed there. The banks of the river were clear at the Ferry, and I was afraid that Indians might be lurking round. We waited until after sundown and started. The night was very dark. We stopped at De Camp's house near the saw-mill on the lower reservation, and Mrs. de Camp went in to see if she could find any tidings of her husband. She brought back her Bible with her. Soon after starting again, Mrs. de Camp's son fell asleep lying down in the bow of the canoe; he was very tired. The night was very dark, and we could not see. The canoe was paddled by my son Thomas. They were ahead; and as he could not see, he soon ran into a snag,--a trunk of a tree that reached out of the water. The shock threw Mrs. de Camp's son into the river. My boy secured the canoe by throwing his arms around the snag. I was behind and heard the boy struggling in the water, and hastened to bring my canoe to the spot. I came almost by accident alongside of the body as he was finally sinking, and my wife reached down and drew him into the canoe. The women were crying and praying. I told them not to cry as they would be saved, but that I did not know what would become of me. Passing along I saw something white lying against the bough of a tree. I rowed up to it, and it proved to be the dead body of an army officer. I saw the shoulder-straps, and afterward knew it was the body of Captain Marsh.

From this place down we could hear the report of guns at the fort. We came to within one mile of the fort and landed. It rained and was very cold, for we were all wet through. I went toward the fort as far as the Perry. I feared all the while lest some soldier should discover me, and kill me. Soon after I saw a soldier coming down 'the hill toward the boat. He was one of those detailed to attend the Ferry. He took me for a white man coming up from below, and asked me how I came up. I told him: "No, I am from the Indian camp. Come and see what I have brought." He came, and saw the women and children, and rushed back to the fort for his comrades, who came and took all up with them, carrying the children in their arms. Mrs. de Camp arrived three days after her husband's funeral. He was killed at Birch Coulee. I rescued ten persons. The next day I went out with Mr. Marsh and a detachment of soldiers to find his brother's body. They promised to pay me for so doing, but I never received anything.

This is all I have to say.


On the morning of the 18th of August, 1862, I went out early to cut hay on the Minnesota Bottom. I worked very hard until I was tired and thirsty. I then went for water. As I ascended the hill I heard signal drums at In-yang-ma-ni's camp on High Prairie. I went immediately to the camp and was shown by the Indians to a tipi in the centre of the camp. There were a good many tipis in the camp. I think about thirty. I went into the tipi indicated and found all the chiefs and principal men assembled in council. They were all silent; no one spoke a word; a place to sit down was pointed out to me. I sat down. Mazomani (a chief) then said to me, "We have heard dreadful news." I said, "What is it that you have heard?" He answered, "The Indians at Rice Creek on the lower reservation have been killing the whites on the other side of the Minnesota River, and now the Melewakantonwans have determined to murder all the whites on the reservation, and then to make war on the settlements." I replied: "What is that to us? We are a different tribe. Their actions are nothing to us. I do not want to see a white man killed." He said: "It does concern us. Melewakantonwans are our relatives. Their country adjoins ours and is between us and the whites." I answered: "If they have ruined themselves they cannot ruin us. We will take no part in the matter. As the whites have horses and wagons, let us send them word to fly for their lives." He said: "I think it is too late for us to keep aloof from this trouble. The whites will not discriminate--the Melewakantonwans have involved us in their ruin."

At the time of this conversation a crowd of young men were standing a little way off from the tipi. All of them were armed, having either guns or bows and arrows. They stood with their arms at rest as if waiting orders from their chief. Just then, looking over the prairie, I saw a cloud of dust and soon heard the sound of horses' hoofs. I at once knew that it was the young men and warriors of White Lodge's Band coming to kill the whites and plunder the trading-posts. These were the most unruly Indians of the Upper Agency. As they drew near we immediately gave word to our young men to take position across the road and stop their advance to the Agency. In the hurry and confusion of executing this order I secretly withdrew, and ran to my house to alarm my wife. She was not in the house, and I asked two or three Indian women who were sitting there where she had gone. One of them said, "She has gone to make a call at some of the houses under the hill." I immediately ran down the hill and found her in the house lately occupied by Dr. Daniels. I told her of the disturbance, and went out and gave the alarm to all the whites living on the west side of the Yellow Medicine. We hurried as fast as possible to the Agency, and took refuge in Brick Agency Building. We fortified the building, and all the whites remained there during the day. I was the only Indian with them. Just at dusk Dr. Wakefield asked me to call some of my friends to help them to stand guard during the night. I went out and brought back five Indians and a half-breed. We kept guard walking around the building all night. About midnight I noticed that the Indians were collected in considerable numbers on the rising ground a little way off. I could see the smouldering fires around which they were sitting. (Up to this time Matoniyanke had favored the whites, but now messengers were continually arriving from the Lower Sioux at Redwood, boasting of their success, and all the Indians were fast becoming demoralized; I had no longer confidence in their friendship.) I went over to them and asked them why they were there. I told them to take the traders' goods if they wanted them, but to spare the whites. "If you are counselling the death of the whites, kill me also. I will not live."

I went back to the Agency and told the people there that we must prepare for flight. The stables were locked so that we had both horses and wagons. I had already once prevented young men from stealing the horses. They had no keys, but they were endeavoring to cut the iron with saws. It was near dawn. The Indians had all left the hill, and we could hear the report of guns and the noise of breaking boxes at the traders' posts in the valley. Five young men who were with me on guard now ran away, and the half-breed soon followed. I went into the building and said: "If we would save our lives, we must go now. It is our last chance. The Indians are all busy plundering the stores; come, come at once!"

Just then one of the traders, Mr. Garvey, came up the hill. He was badly wounded. The whites refused to allow him room in one of our wagons. I said: "No, he is yet alive. Do not leave him here to be killed. If he dies, he shall die with us." But it was not until I wrapped him in blankets and took hold of his feet to lift him that any one would help me; we then started and crossed the Minnesota Kiver and went over on the prairie. I told them that our only danger and our only hope of escape was that day. We therefore made two parties; one party riding, and one party running beside the teams. We were two days and one night without food. On the evening of the second day we reached the settlement on the edge of the Big Woods. The party that I rescued at the start numbered sixty-five souls,--men, women, and children. Three Germans of the party left us the first day to go to Beaver Creek. I remonstrated, but to no purpose. I told them that so long as we continued together we would be safe; but if we separated into small parties we would be in great danger if overtaken by Indians. The men were killed soon after leaving us.

This is all my statement.

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