"The Indians have been put up to it." "They're white like us," I heard Abby Foxwell complain to mother.

"Why don't they come in to us ?" "They ain't whites," I piped up, with a wary eye for the swoop of mother's hand.

"They're Mormons." That night, after dark, three of our young men stole out of camp.

I saw them go.

They were Will Aden, Abel Milliken, and Timothy Grant.
"They are heading for Cedar City to get help," father told mother while he was snatching a hasty bite of supper.
Mother shook her head.
"There's plenty of Mormons within calling distance of camp," she said.
"If they won't help, and they haven't shown any signs, then the Cedar City ones won't either." "But there are good Mormons and bad Mormons--" father began.
"We haven't found any good ones so far," she shut him off.
Not until morning did I hear of the return of Abel Milliken and Timothy Grant, but I was not long in learning.