Monday, May 15.
Alas, alas! How can I write the disastrous happenings of this day?
My hand trembles and my pencil refuses to write intelligibly when
I attempt to record the sad, oh, so sad, accident that has befallen
us. We parted from our visitors this morning, and started on our way,
feeling rested and glad to be journeying on again. How little we knew
of what a day would bring forth. We stopped for lunch at noon in a
little vale, or depression, on the prairie, but where there was no
water. Just as we had finished our lunch, Neelie came, she said, to
see if we could make an exchange for the afternoon, her mother riding
with mine, and I with the young folks in the family wagon. Of course
it was soon arranged, and I told her I would come as soon as I helped
mother put things away. (We sometimes visit in this way.) Mrs. Kerfoot
soon came around, and when everything was ready I started to go to
their wagon. It was the last one in the train. As I was passing Mr.
Milburn’s wagon he called to me to “Come and get a drink of water.” He
had taken a long walk, and found clear, pure water, not very cold, but
much better than none at all. I gratefully accepted a cup. He and his
sister then invited me to ride with them. I told them of my engagement
with Neelie, and, of course, they excused me. Oh, that I had accepted
their invitation; just such a little thing as that might have prevented
this dreadful accident. Such great events turn on such little hinges
sometimes. About three o’clock in the afternoon, as we were plodding
along after the fashion of emigrant teams, we young people in the last
wagon, having a jolly sociable time, with song and laughter, fun and
merriment, the front wagons stopped. Ezra, who was driving, turned
out of the road and passed some of the wagons to see what the trouble
was. Mr. Kerfoot came running toward us, calling to Neelie, “Get the
camphor, daughter, Mr. Milburn has shot himself somehow, and has
fainted.”
Ezra got out to go with him and Neelie asked, “Shall we come, too,
papa?”
“No, my daughter, you girls would better stay here, your ma and Mrs.
Raymond are with Gus, and they will know what to do.”
Before he had finished what he was saying they were running to the
place of the accident. We could only wait, hoping and praying, oh, so
earnestly, that it might not prove so serious as Mr. Kerfoot’s manner
and tone caused us to fear. Afterward, Winthrop came to us; he was
pale, with compressed lips, and sad eyes; he came up close, leaned
upon the wagon wheel, and said in a low tone, “He is dead.” Oh, how
dreadful. We all left the wagon and went to the front as fast as we
could.
I have gathered from witnesses the following account of how it
happened. There was a flock of prairie chickens ahead of the wagons to
the left of the road. Mr. Milburn and several of the boys took their
guns and were going to try to thin their number. The wagons had not
halted, but were moving slowly on, the hunters had gone on a little in
advance of the wagons, they tried to fire all together, one of the
boys snapped two caps on his gun, it failed to go off, so he threw the
gun into the front wagon, and took his whip, in disgust. The wagon had
moved on to where Mr. Milburn was standing with his gun raised; there
was a shot, Mr. Milburn dropped to his knees, turned and looked at his
sister, saying, “Gus, I am shot.” And fell forward on his face. She was
in the next wagon.