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would bounce up between Dad's legs and I'd have to hold on like a clam to keep from being thrown out of the buggy. Never once during our homeward journey of flight in the buckboard did Dad ever let his race horses slow down and all my prayers were answered in this trits expression, "We really are going like the clatter wheels of hell!" Every time we hit another irri-gation ditch Dad would glance down to see if I was still in the buckboard and each time I saw his glance, I said to myself "Dad! No more buckboard rides for me!" Dad brought me home and I told my story to Mom and the family and they were grateful that we hadn't been killed by the Indians. I asked mother and the family, nonetheless, after that if they saw Dad coming in his buckboard to tell him, "Joe isn't Home!" Mom nodded her head and said, "We'll slip you out the back door, Joe, next time we see Dad coming in his buckboard and we'll tell him, 'Joe Isn't Home!'" Reference: The senior member of this story helped organize militias in various towns throughout Sanpete County so that their citizens would be better prepared to protect themselves against Indian attacks; he spoke the Indian language, had been a member of the Mormon Battalion, and he was active in the pursuit of stolen stock taken by the Indians as the following letter addressed to his sister in San Bernardino, California, attests, "Manti, Sanpete, July the 11, 1868... "We have had war with the Indians for three years. (The Indian Wars were later named the Blackhawk Wars and extended from 1865 to 1868.) It is quite a pull back in this County (Sanpete) in the loss of stock! Yesterday, they stole horses and cattle; the night before we failed to catch them." 25 |
