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Saddles were on the riding horses and the Driskols were loading the packs. I had been directed to keep a close watch on the Indian, "and if he attempts to get away, shoot him," said the elder Driskol. They were perhaps twenty steps away, and one of the pack horses starting off, the young man went to bring him back.
They were typical frontiersmen, hospitable and generous to a degree. We had asked at several farm houses for accommodations for the night, but there was so much travel that all were full and running over. Our party consisted of six, the Driskols, Smiths, Ben Allen and myself. Trudging through the mud, all were tired and hungry.
Zim Smith was there, a rollicking devil-may-care fellow, and I believed he alone was the match for all of the Indians east of the Cascade Mountains. A careful guard was maintained, however, our horses kept near at hand, and we anxiously awaited results. Several days thus passed. The Smiths and Driskols seriously discussing the situation.
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