While Pawn was talking to Everett, Mr. Duly said he would shoot him; but Mrs. Smith and myself begged him not to shoot, for well we knew that if he did, the balls would shower around us again with renewed fury. “It is too good a chance to throw away,” said he; “the Indians will kill us all, sooner or later, and I’m bound to make one less of them, while I have a chance!” The women then all begged him not to shoot; and I urged as a reason that, perhaps, he might escape, and let the world know what had been our fate. Upon this he desisted from his purpose. After the savages had shot Mr. Everett, as I have just related, Uncle Tommy Ireland rose up out of the grass, and plead with them to save the women and children. Two of the Indians, who were only three or four rods distant from him, drew up their guns, and fired with murderous aim! He fell to the ground with a groan, shouting in anguish, “Oh, God! I am killed!” He had received seven buck-shot, two of which passed through his left lung, one through his left arm, and the rest lodged in various parts of his body. When Mrs. Everett and Mrs. Wright came back from their interview with old Pawn, they reported that he said they would spare the women and children. We, therefore, thought that since we were in their power so completely, we had better go with them at once. When we all got out of the grass, I found there were not as many killed as I had at first supposed, although many of us were wounded. The rest all went to the place where these three Indians were waiting for us, for they dared not go into the slough after us, but I could not go without first seeing my husband. I went to him, and found him fallen over upon his side, probably having died without a struggle. One hand was lying on his face, and the other still grasped his trusty rifle; his hat was on his head, and his dog lay by his side, watching over his lifeless remains. I could see no blood about him. I kneeled down beside him, and there, in the tall grass, alone with the dead, but surrounded by cruel enemies seeking my life, and dead and dying friends, I took my last farewell of poor John, expecting soon to follow him. I took his cold hand in mine, leaned over and kissed his brow, and looked, for the last time, on him who had been my companion for twelve years, and had now laid down his life in trying to protect his wife and little ones. I did not shed a tear, that I am aware of, when I parted from him thus.