Soon after we moved on to our city lot, fall of 1847, a band of Indians camped near us. Early one morning we were excited at hearing their shrill, blood-curdling war whoop, mingled with occasional sharp cries of pain. Father sent me to the Fort for help. Charley Decker and Barney Ward, the interpreter, and others hurried to the camp. It was Wanship's band. Some of his braves had just returned from the war-path. In a fight with "Little Wolf's" band, they lost two men, but had succeeded in taking two girls prisoners. One of these they had killed, and were torturing the other. To save her life Charley Decker bought her, and took her to our house to be washed and clothed. She was the saddest-looking piece of humanity I have ever seen. They had shingled her head with butcher knives and fire brands. All the fleshy parts of her body, legs, and arms had been hacked with knives, then fire brands had been stuck into the wounds. She was gaunt with hunger, and smeared from head to foot with blood and ashes. After being washed and clothed, she was given to President Young and became as one of his family. They named her Sally, and her memory has been perpetuated by the "Courtship of Kanosh, a Pioneer Indian Love Story," written by my gifted cousin, Susa Y. Gates. But Susa gave us only the courtship, while the ending of Sally's life, as told to me by a man from Kanosh, was as tragic as her childhood days had been thrilling. After she married Kanosh, several years of her life passed pleasantly, in the white man's house which he built for her. Then her Indian husband took to himself another wife, who became jealous of Sally, and perhaps hated her also for her white man's ways. One day when they were in a secluded place digging segoes, the new wife murdered Sally and buried the body in a gully. When Kanosh missed her, he took her track and followed it as faithfully as a blood hound could have done, and was not long in finding the grave. In his grief he seized the murderess, and would have burned her at the stake, but white men interfered. In due time the Indian woman confessed her guilt, and in harmony with Indian justice, offered to expiate her crime by starving herself to death. The offer was accepted, and on a lone hill in sight of the village, a "wick-i-up" was constructed of dry timber. Taking a jug of water, the woman walked silently toward her living grave. Like the rejected swan, alone, unloved, in low tones she sang her own sad requiem, until her voice was hushed in death. One night when the evening beacon fire was not seen by the villagers, a runner was dispatched to fire the wick-i-up, and retribution was complete. Sally's funeral had taken place only a day or two previous. Over a hundred vehicles followed the remains to their last resting place, and beautifully floral wreaths covered the casket; for Sally had been widely loved among the white settlers for her gentle ways.