I was so stiff that I could hardly stand, but he led me to the
door where we were welcomed by a good-natured woman, to whom he said,
"Well, Mrs. Lennox, you see I've brought the little girl. I don't think
she'll be much trouble, unless she talks you to death."
Then he told her that I had, during the ride, asked him more questions
than a man six times his size could answer. But she laughed, and
"'lowed" that I couldn't match either of her three boys in asking
questions, and then informed him that she did not "calculate on making
the move until the roads be dryer and the weather settled." She
promised, however, that I should have good care until I could be handed
over to the Brunners. After a few words with her in private Perry
McCoon bade me good-bye, and passed out of my life forever.
I was now again with emigrants who had crossed the plains in 1846, but
who had followed the Fort Hall route and so escaped the misfortunes
that befell the Donner Party.
Supper over, Mrs. Lennox made me a bed on the floor in the far corner
of the room. I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head touched the
pillow, for I remember nothing more until I was awakened by voices, and
saw the candle still burning and Mrs. Lennox and two men and a woman
sitting near the table. The man speaking had a shrill voice, and his
words were so terrifying that I shook all over; my hair felt as though
it were trying to pull itself out by its roots; a cold sweat dampened
my clothes.
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