As I was expected from the Utilla that day, he supposd that I had very probably fallen. But the victims were Mr. Kimble and the young Mr. Young,—the latter had come down from the saw-mill with lumber and was to return immediately with provisions for the families. He had arrivd within half a mile of the house, when the Indians met and shot him about 2 P. M.—about the time the priest arrivd in the camp. The team was turnd loose except one ox which attempted to hook and was shot.
Mr. Kimble remaind in the chamber through the night, suffering the most excruciating pain from his broken arm, still more distress of soul from the cries and moaning of the 3 sick children, not having it in his power to relieve their sufferings.
In the morning he resolvd to procure water for the dying children. He made his way to the bank of the stream, where he was discoverd by an Indian and shot at. He fell as if dead, remaind a short time and then secreted himself in the brush. While lying on the bank, a friendly Indian made known the fact to his wife, but advisd her not to go to him as it would discover him to the murderers. How intense must have been her feelings.
About sundown Mr. Kimble left his retreat with the apparent intention of going in to his family. He reachd the corner of the garden fence some five rods from his door, where he was shot by Frank Askaloom, who afterwards took his daughter, the amiable Miss Kimble, for a wife. He claimd her as a right for having killd her father, of which he would often speak, to her with the air and appearance of one who had done her an invaluable favor.
Who can attempt to measure the deep horror and anguish of soul, of a young woman in such hands! May kind Heaven prevent a like affliction to any of his sinful children. Her bitter weeping whenever the Indian spoke of killing her father had the effect only to induce him to propose to exchange her to another Indian who held another of the captive young women as a wife.
Why Mr. Kimble did not attempt to make his escape on Monday night, or why, after having livd out the day on Tuesday, he did not remain in his retreat till dark and then escape, is not known. He was heard to say on Monday night, “It matters but little when we die if we are but prepard.” Perhaps the pain of his arm took away the strength of resolution. Perhaps he chose rather to die in the bosom of his family, than to make the uncertain attempt to save his life, which could only be a living death while wife and children remaind captives in the hands of the murderers, the sport of their beastly passions, the victims of their cruelty. For a stranger to reach my place one hundred and twenty miles, traveling nights, there was no reasonable hope, and if he could, he might end the nights of travel and pain and days of watching and hunger only to mingle his own with the dead bodies of the slain of that station—for what mind could divine where the work of superstition would end, which had no power to fear, and many inducements to go forward?