The members of our party were Bill and Jack Evans, Curly Smith, Mose Cunningham of Camden Point, and one of his neighbors, whose name I do not now recall, Wall Brinton and myself. Our horses were in good condition, and, though the war was over, we supplied ourselves well with arms and ammunition and it was well we did, for in all my experiences, I never suffered such hardships or came so near losing my life as on this journey home after the war was over. We traveled a long distance, as it seemed then, and met with no difficulty except lack of food. Homes in that country were few and far between and when we chanced upon a house no one was at home but half starved, ragged women and children. They had little to offer us and lived themselves by taking their dogs to the woods and chasing game or wild hogs which had gone through the winter and were unfit for food. They always offered to divide, but we did not have the heart to accept their offer, and lived on such game as we could kill as we traveled along. We always gave these women such encouragement as we could, told them the war was over and they might soon expect their husbands and sons to return to them. We did not say if they were still alive, but we and they sadly understood always that such a condition might well have been added.

I do not recall how we got across the Arkansas River, but I do remember that in the heavy timber on this side we came upon nine men in camp who claimed to be "bushwhackers." They invited us to join them and as we were tired and hungry we did so. We rested the remainder of the day and at night they told us there was to be a dance—frolic—in the neighborhood and invited us to go. We did so and witnessed a dance in truly Arkansas style. I took no part, but enjoyed looking on at the others. When we reached camp late in the night we all spread our blankets down around the fire and slept, feeling the greatest security. Next morning three of their men and three of our horses were gone. We said nothing, but cooked and ate our breakfasts and went back to the cane-brake to make further search for the horses. We hunted until noon, but could not find them. We returned to the camp where the six remaining members of the party were and got dinner. After dinner at a given signal we drew our navies and made them disarm, which they did with much more haste than "bushwhackers" would have done. We then asked them to tell where our horses were. Three of the six proved to be really our friends and knew nothing about the horses. The other three were in with the men who had gone. The missing horses belonged to Mose Cunningham, Wall Brinton and myself. They told us various stories. One said that my horse had been taken by the son of a widow woman who lived seven miles east. Others said the horses had been taken to Fort Smith, twenty miles west. We settled the matter by saddling three of their horses and riding away. We rode the remainder of the day and until two o'clock in the night without anything to eat. About this hour we came upon a house and roused the inmates and told them we must have provisions. We got a ham, some flour, sugar and coffee and started on. By nine o'clock next morning we had gotten far up into the rugged, mountainous country where it seemed safe to stop. We dismounted and cooked breakfast, but took the precaution to send two men back on the mountain to keep watch. I had eaten my breakfast, saddled my horse and was ready to go. The other boys were taking more time. I reminded them that we might be followed and that they had better make haste. I had scarcely uttered the words when the boys on the lookout came running down the mountain and before they reached the camp a company of soldiers appeared at the crest. They commenced throwing hot lead down at us, and we returned it and kept it up until the boys got into camp and grabbed up a handful of provisions. I made a breastworks of my horse and stood and shot across my saddle until the horse fell at my feet. By that time our guns were empty, and without time to reload we ran to the mountains, leaving everything but our guns and the clothes upon our backs.

It was disheartening to think that, tired and hungry as we were, we could not have peace long enough to cook and eat the poor provisions secured at the farm house the night before, and it was still more disheartening to reflect upon where the next meal was to be found. In spite of this we still had much to be thankful for. Although left on foot and without provisions, we still had our lives and plenty of powder and lead, and, in those days when human life was so cheap, these were our greatest concern.

The party attacking did not follow us into the brush on the mountain side. We had all the advantage there and were desperate enough to have used it to any extent and without much conscience, had occasion required. Our little party was scattered, each man taking care of himself. Some kept moving up the mountain while some crouched like hunted quails in what appeared to be safe hiding places. In a little while our pursuers gathered up our horses and the fragments of provisions we had left and started away. After a long wait the boys began to signal each other and shortly we were united.

It was a long and weary trudge to Fayetteville. We were compelled to keep near the main traveled road, (which was little better than a bridle path), because the country was so rough and the timber so heavy that we feared we might lose our way. Our only food was the game we killed—squirrels and wild turkey and now and then a deer. This we dressed and broiled over a camp fire and ate without bread or salt. Hard as this method of subsistence was, it had at least one advantage over an army march—we had plenty of time. The bare ground had been our resting place so long that we were quite accustomed to it, and even, without the luxury of a blanket, we slept and rested much.

At Fayetteville we got the first square meal since leaving the camp on the Arkansas River, and, as it was by no means safe to remain there, we secured such provisions as we could carry, and started on, still on foot. Above Fayetteville the country became less mountainous and, although we always slept in the timber, we found little trouble in securing food. We crossed Cowskin River and made our way to Granby, where the lead mines were located. In a little valley shortly out of Granby we found a drove of poor, thin horses. They had fared badly during the winter, but looked as though they might be able to help us along somewhat, so we peeled hickory bark and made halters and each man caught himself a horse. We had not gone far when we discovered that riding barebacked on the skeleton of a horse was a poor substitute for walking, so we turned our horses loose and continued the journey on foot.

Johnstown, a small town in Bates County, is the next point, I remember distinctly. A company of militia was stationed there and all the people in the country round-about were colonized in and near the town. Although we knew the militia were there, we took our chances on going quite near the town, for we were compelled to have food. Late in the afternoon we stopped at a house in the outskirts of the town and found the man and his family at home. The man belonged to the militia company, so we held him until the family cooked supper for us. After we had eaten we started on, taking the man with us to prevent him from reporting on us, advising his family at the same time that if we were pursued it would be because some of them had informed on us and in that event the man would never return. They were glad enough to promise anything that would give them hope of his return, and we felt quite sure we would not be discovered from that source.

We left the house between five and six o'clock and had not gone far when we saw three militia men who had been out on a scout, riding toward us. When they came within a hundred yards or so the leader called on us to halt. He asked, "Who are you?" Wall Brinton replied, but I do not recall what he said. The leader evidently did not believe him for he replied by telling us to consider ourselves under arrest. This was, under our circumstances, equivalent to opening hostilities, so we replied with our navies. One horse fell with the man on him. The other two hastily assisted the rider to mount behind one of them. They galloped back and took another road toward the town. We hurried on to a thick grove of timber some distance ahead where we could secure protection against the attack that we felt sure would later be made upon us. As the news of our presence had now gone back to headquarters, our prisoner could be of no more service, so we turned him loose. We reached the timber and waited and watched, but, for some reason, no attempt was made to capture us. Darkness soon came on and we lost no time in making our escape. At daylight next morning we were at Little Grand River, fifteen miles north.

Shortly after we left our hiding place in the timber near Johnstown, it began to rain and rained on us all night long as we journeyed. Little Grand River was running nearly bank full, but we had to cross. We made a raft by binding logs together with hickory bark, placed the guns and clothing upon it and pushed out, each man holding on at the rear, swimming and pushing. We were soon across and as it seemed to be a wild, uninhabited spot, we built a fire and warmed ourselves and dried our clothing, and all got a little sleep, one man always standing guard. About ten o'clock I grew restless and uneasy and awakened the boys and told them we had better move on, as that company of militia might start early in the morning to follow us and, if they did so, they might be expected to appear at any time. Wall Brinton, our captain, agreed to this and we made another start, although some of the boys opposed it and said we had as well be killed as run ourselves to death.

We traveled westwardly, up the river, about two miles and then north to the bluffs where we found what appeared to be sufficient protection in the timber and hills to warrant a stop for further rest. It was a beautiful day after the rain the night before and we lay in the warm sunshine and slept as well as hungry men could sleep. We peeled slippery elm bark and ate it, but it did little to satisfy our hunger.

Late in the afternoon, Curly Smith, Wall Brinton and I were chewing upon our elm bark and six of our boys were fast asleep, when a company of soldiers rode up in twenty yards of us before we saw them. Smith saw them first and said to me, "Who is that?" I sprang to my feet, turning around as I did so. I knew them at a glance and knew also that we were in trouble. There was no time to plan—no time even to run—and six of the nine of us fast asleep. My first thought was to wake the boys so I called out at the top of my voice, "Who are you?" They gave no answer, but opened fire upon us. Brinton, Smith and I each took a tree and let them come on. It was a desperate situation and every load in the brace of six-shooters we carried must be made to count. When they were close enough for our work to be effective, we began on them. From the way they dropped out of their saddles I am sure very few of our bullets went astray. The captain kept urging his men on, calling "Give them hell, boys!" and we kept busy. The captain himself galloped up within two rods of me, threw his saber around his head and ordered me to surrender. I had, as I thought, just one shot left. I put it through his heart. I saw it twist, as it seemed, through his coat, and I shall never forget the writhing of his body and the dreadful frown as he fell from his horse. Most of them who were left had now exhausted the loads in their guns, and when they saw their captain fall retreated. We whirled and ran with all our might. The boys who had been asleep were gone. They had awakened and started at the first volley. A short run brought us in sight of the other boys who were at the moment trying to pass around a long, narrow slough, which lay between them and timber on the other side. Brinton's right arm was broken between the wrist and elbow. He had received the wound as he threw his arm from behind the tree to shoot. It was bleeding badly, but we kept running and calling to our companions to turn and fight. They paid no attention to us, but kept on around the slough. During this time the men who attacked us had rallied and were riding down upon us. Brinton kept calling and urging the boys to turn and fight, and finally as our pursuers drew closer they turned and fired, and this checked the men who were after us for a moment. By this time poor Wall had grown weak and sick from loss of blood and could go no farther. We had been running side by side. The last words he said to me were, "I am sick, I can't go on. I will have to surrender. Make your escape if you can." Such a thing seemed impossible at the moment, but I feared nothing so much as the "mercy" of the men who were after us. Wall threw up his well arm and I ran as fast as I could toward the slough or lake and plunged right in. The brush and vines on the other side were my only hope, aside from the discovery I made as I ran that I had one more load in my navy. Our enemies, except one man, took after the boys who were running around the lake. As I waded in water nearly waist deep the man who had followed me rode up to the edge of the lake and ordered me to halt. I paid no attention to him but waded on, watching him all the time. He rode out into the water, raised his gun as if to shoot and called the second time. I stopped and turned and leveled the muzzle of my navy at his belt and fired. He fell off his horse into the water. When I got across I looked back and saw him struggling to keep his head out of the water. I do not know what became of him. I foresaw when he came up and rode into the lake that he or I would be doing that very thing, and I felt that the chance load left in my navy was, as it proved to be, my only protection against it. The fight was still going on up the lake. I looked and saw Jack Evans down in the water and heard him calling for help. The other boys were just wading out. I ran to them and as I came up I saw blood streaming from the leg of one of the men. He had been shot in the thigh, but was still able to walk.

We soon got out of sight in the thick brush and they did not follow us. Including the man who remained with us, four of our men had been wounded in the fight. Three of them, Wall Brinton, Jack Evans and one of the Platte County boys, were compelled to surrender, and we learned that all of them, wounded prisoners though they were, were shot in cold blood. We never knew how many of their men were killed and wounded.

We hurried on through the brush back toward the river, and when we reached it we found a log for our wounded man and all swam across to the south side. After traveling a few miles down the river we crossed in the same manner and made directly north. Just before dark we came to an abandoned log house and stopped. We were in a pitiable condition. No food since the night before, tired and wet, depressed in spirits by the loss of our comrades, whom we knew had already been killed, and with a wounded man upon our hands. To remain there so close to the men who were after us meant that we would be captured and killed.

We talked the matter over. The wounded man, whose name I do not recall, in company with his brother, fell in with us at the Arkansas River. He was so weak and was suffering so much that he could go no farther, so he and his brother decided to remain at the cabin through the night and trust to the mercy of some one whom they might find next day to give them assistance and shield them from the soldiers who had pursued us from Johnstown. They agreed that the four of us who were uninjured would not be so apt to secure sympathy and that we had better move on.

It was a sad farewell that we bade our wounded companion and his brother that night, and it was, for me at least, a farewell indeed, for I have never seen or heard from them since, but it seemed the best and only thing that could be done. As soon as it was dark we started and traveled all night, though very slowly, and until late in the afternoon of the day following. At that time we came near a small place, the name of which I do not now remember. We went up close to the town and stopped at a house. Two men in blue clothes were there with the family and we immediately took charge of them and ordered supper. They prepared a splendid meal for us and we ate it as only men can eat who have gone forty-eight hours without food. It was a cool evening and they had a small fire in an old-fashioned fire-place. After supper we asked them to spread some bed clothes before the fire and three of us lay down and slept while the fourth stood guard over the men. We took turns standing guard through the night and next morning ordered an early breakfast and left as soon as it was daylight.

We started north, and as soon as we got out of sight of the house turned east a short distance and then went back south about a mile to a high knoll covered with black jack. We lay there all day and watched the maneuvers of the blue coats. They scoured the country to the north far and near, but never approached the knoll on which we were hidden. We had a fine rest after our two good meals, and we needed it following the events of the past two days. When night came and everything got still we came down and went to the same house for supper. The men had not returned from hunting us, and the women were much surprised to see us. They gave us a good supper and we bade them goodby and started north, listening all the time for approaching horses from either direction. We had no difficulty, and by morning were well out of the way.

The next place I remember was in Jackson County near Independence. As we were worn out, ragged and almost barefooted, and as the war was over, we decided to see the provost marshal and get a pass on which we could travel on to our homes in safety. I went to a good Union man's house and told him what I wanted. He promised to see the marshal for me, and I directed him where to find us. Upon his return he said the pass would be provided. Next morning they sent a small company of soldiers out and we saw that we had been deceived. They looked us over carefully and talked pretty saucy, but did not harm us. We looked so shabby that they evidently thought we did not amount to much. They put us in a two-horse wagon and took us to Warrensburg, forty miles farther from home. There we were placed in a guard-house where we were kept two or three days, without telling us what their plans were. One morning a guard came and took one of our men—a mere boy—down to headquarters and quizzed him to find out if he knew anything about the fight on Little Grand River. He denied it. Then they came and got one of the other boys, but he managed also to convince them that we had been together—just the four of us—since we left the south. This seemed to satisfy them for they did not call on me, but we were not released.

The day following a guard came and marched us out to the edge of town and set us to work hoeing in a garden, with a negro woman for a boss. I called her "aunty," and cut up as many beans and peas as I did weeds. I kept my "boss" busy showing me how, and she got precious little work out of me. I began to suspect they were trying to connect us with the Grand River affair, and feared they might get some one who would identify us or pretend to do so, and I did not like the prospect, so I made up my mind I would leave them some how and go home without a pass. The guard-house was a brick building that had been a dwelling. A water tank stood out in the yard and the prisoners all went there for water. Four men stood guard day and night, and it was customary at six o'clock to turn the men in and lock them up. On the evening that I decided to escape I managed to hide in a pile of lumber that lay in the yard near the water tank, and when the guards put the men in and locked the doors they did not miss me. I lay very still until late at night. I could hear the guard pass on his beat and by the time required to pass me and return I could judge the length of his beat. When I thought it safe to make my dash I watched and after he had passed south, I waited until he had gone, as well as I could estimate, to the end of his beat, then I leaped across his path so quickly that he did not have time to think, much less shoot. I ran down a dark alley and had no trouble in reaching the outskirts of the town. I took across the fields, not knowing where I was going, nor caring much, just so I was getting away. I had been gone but a little while when I heard the town bell ring and knew the alarm had been turned in. Then I heard horses galloping out, as I supposed, on every road from town. I heard the horses gallop across a bridge some distance from town, and concluded I would cross no bridges that night. I moved cautiously on, and by and by came to a creek somewhat in the direction I had heard horses cross the bridge. I followed the creek, watching all the time for bridges and after a while came to a foot-log. I crossed and made my way out of the thick brush and stopped to get my bearings. It was a starlight night. I located the north star and took it for my guide and traveled all night.

When daylight came I found myself in a creek bottom and in a body of very large timber. I found a large, hollow sycamore with a hole in the side reaching down to the ground large enough to admit me. I sat back into that tree to get a little rest and possibly a little sleep. I watched and listened. A good while after sun up I saw a man going with a yoke of cattle toward a field, which I could see through the timber, to plow. Two big, savage looking dogs were following him. The dogs raised their heads and came toward me as though they scented me and I made sure I would be discovered, but they turned in another direction before they got very near and did not disturb me. I sat there all day and, in spite of my hunger, slept and rested. When night came I made another start as soon as I could see the north star. I traveled all night and when morning came I still had but little idea where I was. I went up on a high hill which was covered with brush and from which I could see all about me. Everything was quiet, so I lay down and slept. I awoke about ten o'clock and saw a stage-coach loaded with passengers passing along a road below me. This was the first information I had that I was near a public road. I remained in the brush awhile and then decided to move along cautiously by daylight. I saw a house now and then and, though terribly hungry, I did not dare approach it and ask for food. Toward night I reached the rugged hills, from which I judged I must be near the Missouri River. Just before dark I found an empty tobacco barn and crawled into it and remained throughout the night. This was the third night with two days intervening—sixty hours—in which I had not tasted food, and I was worn out with my long tramp besides.

I did not sleep well that night. My accommodations were very poor and my gnawing appetite, made me wakeful. I had one comfort, however, I was well hidden, and this reflection rewarded me for much of my suffering. Since this trip home I have had a warm sympathy for all hunted beasts.

When day began to dawn I commenced observing my situation without. I saw a house near by and watched it for an hour. I could only see two women, and from the way they attended the work outside as well as in the house, I concluded there were no men about the place and that it would be safe for me to venture up and ask for something to eat, and, if I got into trouble, trust my legs, the only weapons I had, to get me out. I went up cautiously and found what I could not discover from my hiding place, that one was an old lady and the other a girl just grown. I spoke to the old lady and told her my famished condition. She said she was sorry for me, but she had orders to feed nobody on either side and that she could not disobey them without getting into trouble herself. I told her the war was over and that I was trying to get home. I had tried to quit fighting when I left Price on Red River, but had had greater difficulty in keeping myself from being killed since I quit fighting than before. She still refused to give me anything. Finally, my entreaties won the girl. She spoke up and said, "Mother, I have made no promises. You have kept your promise and have refused him food. I will give him something to eat." With that she told me to draw my chair to the table and she began to set such a meal before me as I had not tasted in years, it seemed. Cold boiled ham, light bread, milk and butter, preserves, honey, cake and pie—plenty of all, and rations I had not heard of in months. I will not attempt to describe how ravenously I ate. I was probably as shabby looking a mortal as ever sat down to a meal at a civilized table. My hair and beard were long and had not been combed for days. I had not washed my face since I escaped from the guard-house. My clothes—what was left of them—were, with walking through mud and rain, wading lakes and sloughs and swimming rivers, soiled and grimy beyond description. When I had finished eating the girl asked me if I would take a lunch along with me. Of course I told her I would, and that I would always be grateful to her, and I have kept my promise. I have many times remembered that kindness and thanked that young lady over and over a thousand times in my heart.

I took my package and bade the girl and her mother goodby and started for the woods. I soon reached level ground and heavy timber and knew I was in the river bottom. I went cautiously along until I saw the river in the distance. Then I selected a good shade and lay down and had a fine rest after my good meal. I awoke some time along in the afternoon. Everything was quiet—no sound of human foot or voice. I ate my lunch and went down to the river bank to select a good crossing place. I found a place that suited me. Then I prepared three logs and brought them to the water's edge and tied them firmly together with hickory bark which I peeled from the saplings near by. I found in a drift close at hand a clap-board suitable for an oar, and my craft was ready to sail. I might have made the crossing in daylight without being molested, but, not knowing what I might encounter on the other shore, I decided to wait for night.

As soon as it began to grow dark I went down and pushed my raft into the water and tied it to the root of a tree. I then got astride of it with feet and legs up to the knees in the water to see if it would bear my weight. It appeared to be sufficiently strong, so with my clap-board in my hand I cut loose. The current caught me and took me rapidly down stream, but I was sure if I kept using my paddle it would have sufficient effect to land me on the other side some time. It soon grew very dark, so that I could not see the shore on either side, and I could not tell I was moving except by the water running past my feet and legs. After what seemed a very long time, and after I had grown very tired both with my labor and my position on the raft, I felt my feet strike the sand. I got up and towed the raft to shore and pulled it up on dry land. Then I took a rest and planned. I might be on an island and in that case I would have further need for my raft. I could only ascertain my position by investigating, so when sufficiently rested I started on across the land, breaking the top of a bush every few steps to guide me back in case I should find myself upon an island. I soon came to a slough which I waded without difficulty and passed on. A little farther on I came to another slough, which I also waded. The ground under my feet seemed to grow firmer as I walked away from this slough. I passed into a body of good sized timber and finally I came to a wagon road, and I knew then that I was on the main land and the Missouri River which had given me so much trouble during the four preceding years was again behind me. My little raft might rest and I should have no need to retrace my steps by the broken bushes.

I had no idea what time of night it was. I was tired and wet, but with all that, felt much better than on the preceding night when so hungry. I thought it must be twenty miles or more to where my sister lived in the northeast portion of Clay County, so I again took the north star for my guide and set out, bearing west somewhat when I found traveling that way agreeable, but never east. I paid no attention to roads unless they led in my direction. When daylight came I was at a loss to know where I was. I saw a house in the distance and went up near it. No one was up, so I sat down to wait. In a little while a girl came out to a wood pile and began picking up chips. I went up and asked her how far it was to Greenville. She said one mile. I asked her which direction and she pointed east. I thanked her and started in the direction she pointed. I was no sooner out of sight than I turned my course due north, for I was then in less than two miles of my sister's home. I arrived shortly after sun up, and as I went into her house and sat down to a good breakfast, I felt that my troubles ought to be fairly over, now that the war had closed; but my terrible experiences on the way home caused me to doubt whether I could go back and live in peace, even if there was no war.

I remained with my sister a day or two, never showing myself in daylight, for I learned from her that now since fear of southern soldiers was over, all those who were too cowardly to go to the front but had remained at home and robbed and harassed old men and women and children, were giving the community more trouble than at any time during the war. They were all very brave then and organized companies and marched and drilled and galloped over the roads, seeking all manner of pretenses to rob and kill those who had sympathized with the south. Returning Confederate soldiers, were, in those first days after the close of the war, in greater danger than when in the front of battle, as my own recent experience had shown, and I was not alone, for my sister told me of a number of soldiers who had returned from the south only to be killed after reaching home.

I was sure I would find much the same condition in Buchanan County that I had encountered all along my route home, and I did not like the prospect that lay before me.

I learned from my sister that Trav. Turner, a neighbor of hers, was at St. Joseph fitting up a freight train for Salt Lake. I knew Turner well. He had carried food to Brother James and me while we lay in the brush waiting to hear the fate of Charley Pullins who was captured when we were all overtaken at the home of Reuben Eastin in that neighborhood, and I knew, if I could reach him, I would have no difficulty in getting away from the country. Something had to be done. If I should be discovered at the home of my sister it would give the "yard dogs," as those brave murderers of that community were called, a pretext for robbing her and probably for killing her husband or some of her family. We decided upon a plan. I shaved very clean and parted my long hair in the middle, put on one of my sister's dresses and both of us put on sunbonnets. We got in a buggy and started for Saint Joseph. We passed right through old Haynesville, the center of all the patriotic parading of the "yard dogs," on through Plattsburg and reached the home of Jack Elder, a half mile from my old home, where we stayed all night. Next morning we drove on to Saint Joseph and took dinner with my brother, Isaac. I remember this incident particularly for the family had company for dinner. I was introduced as a Clay County friend of Mrs. Wilson's and sat down at the same table, and the visitors did not suspect me through my disguise. After dinner we drove to the ferry at the foot of Francis Street and drove on. The boat was crowded and they had to place our buggy in line in order to make room for others. Two men took hold of the buggy to lift it around. My sister said, "Wait and we will get out." The men said, "No, sit still ladies, we can lift it with you in it." We sat still, and crossed over. On reaching the other side we drove out through the woods and found Turner's camp. Passing on beyond and out of sight, I removed my disguise, after which we returned to the camp and I bade my sister goodby.