savages, not liking to see any one showing mercy or pity to a child, instantly took aim at them, and fired. One ball went through the skirt of Mrs. Duly’s dress, and another pierced the shawl worn by Mrs. Cook, just below her shoulders, cutting a slit through the shawl, about half a yard in length, but, fortunately, neither of them were hurt. The Indians staid at the lake till Friday morning, when they decamped, taking away all the cattle, and several wagons loaded with plunder. They compelled the women to drive the oxen that drew the wagons, and also the loose cattle, which spread out over the prairie in quite a drove. While on their way to the house of Mr. Ireland, Mrs. Cook was leading little Belle Duly, aged five years, when the same old squaw who had murdered my poor Freddy came along, snatched the child away and began to torture her. First she whipped her over the face, with a raw-hide; then took her up by one arm and one leg, and beat the ground with her, till the breath was nearly driven from her body; next, tied her to a bush, stepped back a few paces, and threw knives at her, sometimes hitting her in various parts of the body. In this brutal manner, she caused the poor thing’s death, while the mother was forced to behold the sight. She then told me about a band of Indians who had found my boy, Frank. This was the first I had heard about him, and for a long time I thought, as she did, that he had died at the house where they left him. She was seven weeks with the Indians; the first half of the time she had plenty to eat, but was then sold to an old chap who was very good to her sometimes, and at other times very cruel. One day he announced to her that he was going to another band of Indians, at some distance, and some of the squaws told her, that where they were going, there was hardly anything to eat. Next morning he started off, compelling her to go with him: she made no resistance, but, after going some five miles, she offered to carry his gun for him. He gave it to her, probably thinking her a remarkably good squaw, and she soon, while walking behind him, took off the percussion cap, threw it away, and spit in the tube, to make sure that it would not go off. She then told him she should go no farther. He seized his gun and told her to go on, or he would shoot her, and pointed the muzzle at her breast. She boldly told him to shoot, then, for she was determined to go no further, and bared her breast before the muzzle, as if to receive her death-shot. But he did not do it; he dropped the butt of his musket upon the ground and looked at her in amazement. She was probably the bravest squaw he had ever seen. At last he agreed to go back with her. That night she intended to escape with a squaw, who had married a white man, and was also a prisoner. But their plan was defeated by the sickness of the squaw’s child. The next morning, however, the child was better, and the Indians all went away, save the one who owned Mrs. Cook. This was a