Mr. Kelly, with faltering steps, supported by the strong arm of Andy, was among the first to search the spot; his intense distress for the unknown fate of his family urged him on, although he dreaded to think of what the bloody spot might disclose to him. The dead bodies of Mr. Sharp, Mr. Taylor, and our colored servant, Franklin, were discovered lying where they had fallen. Poor Frank had been shot by an arrow that pierced both his legs, pinning them together, in which condition he had been murdered by the ruthless wretches by having his skull broken. Both Mr. Sharp and Mr. Taylor left large families at home to mourn their loss. Mr. Larimer came up with an arrow wound in one of his limbs. He had passed the night in trying to elude his savage pursuers, and was very tired and exhausted, and very much distressed about his wife and son, a robust little fellow of eight or nine years. But Mr. Wakefield was nowhere to be seen. After searching the brushwood for some time, and a quarter of a mile distant from the scene of attack, they discovered him still alive, but pierced by three arrows that he had vainly endeavored to extract, succeeding only in withdrawing the shafts, but leaving the steel points still deeply imbedded in the flesh. Mr. Kelly took him and cared for him with all the skill and kindness possible. No brothers could have been more tenderly attached to each other than they. He then procured as comfortable a conveyance as he could for them, and picked up a few relics from our demolished train. Among them was a daily journal of our trip, from the time we were married until the hour that the Indians came upon us. This he prized, as he said, more than he did his life. The next thing that was necessary to do, after the wounded were cared for, was to bury the dead, and a wide grave was dug and the four bodies solemnly consigned, uncoffined, to the earth. A buffalo robe was placed above them, and then the earth was piled on their unconscious breasts. At that time the question of color had occasioned much dissension, and controversy ran high as to the propriety of allowing the colored people the privilege of sitting beside their white brethren. Poor Franklin had shared death with our companions, and was not deemed unworthy to share the common grave of his fellow victims. They lie together in the valley of Little Box Elder, where with saddened hearts our friends left them, thinking of the high hopes and fearless energy with which they had started on their journey, each feeling secure in the success that awaited them, and never, for a moment, dreaming of the grave in the wilderness that was to close over them and their earthly hopes. They were buried on the desolate plain, a thousand miles away from their loved wives and children, who bemoan their sad, untimely fate.