in history. I paid my fare, one hundred and ten dollars, but I also took my turn with the whip and reins.

We got along quite well till we got on the Humboldt River, near where the city of Elke, Nevada, is now located, and there we had a little trouble with the Indians. A short time before we got there, a brother of Sr. Grannilich, of Lower Lake, California, had been robbed by the Indians; but he was a brave man and had fought his way through to Salt Lake, although he had lost his six mules and everything he had. Our condition looked desperate for awhile, but we could talk their language. Lot Huntington could talk it much better than I could, and was one of the best Indian fighters in the Territory. We did not let on that we could understand them. We wanted to see what they intended to do. We were well armed and prepared for a desperate struggle. I had a large flask of powder hanging by a cord to my side, and a hideous looking brave pointed to it and wanted me to give it to him, but I turned off with a disgusted look and paid no heed, when in the twinkling of an eye he drew a huge knife and cut the cord and took my powder flash. The Indians laughed; but whether it was at his dexterity or my chagrin I do not know. I do know that I felt that strange sensation along the spine that I had often felt before.

Lot soon found out that their being so hostile was on account of the Government not having sent them their annuities according to a certain treaty. Every year the Government gave them blankets, calico, and other goods, but that year their presents were late, and they got it into their heads that they were not going to get any. Finally Lot began to talk with them in their own language and explained to them that they were all right, and that we would meet the agent in Salt Lake, and all would be right, and that they would get their presents in due time. We soon got on good terms with them, and Huntington hired them to bring in the mules that they had taken from John Mayfield sometime before. The Indians, who were of the Piute tribe, were to bring the mules to the Pine Station, which was some fifty or sixty miles on towards Salt Lake, for which they were to get a certain number of red. blankets, which I afterwards heard that they did according to contract. In those times the stations were far apart, and it was dangerous traveling much of the way between Salt Lake and California.

After the usual amount of hardship that was incident to traveling in those early days, we landed in the city of the Saints, where I found my mother well, only in a little trouble with the church, or the ward officials. Of course I had written that I was coming to take the family away, the family had told of it, and they were looked upon as apostates. I, of course, was branded on account of leaving the train that I left Salt Lake with, and we were in a bad box. But there was plenty of money in circulation, for Johnson's Command had come into the Territory, and it made times. so lively that I concluded to stay over winter. I got a house in the thirteenth ward, but a short distance from where our misson

chapel is now located, and there I went into winter quarters; but I found I was spotted as an apostate, and was warned by some of the Saints, or members of the church, to flee from the city or I would be killed. I do not like to mention names, but I could give the names of those who warned me.

Now, I know that if I should tell only the absolute truth about this, many of the people of Utah would say it was not true; but at the same time they know that I do know of very many of the dark deeds that were done in those times, and many of them know of the attempts that were made on my life, and some of them know that I am now carrying wounds that I received in the attempts that were made to put me out of the way. The young men that are now sent out to represent the Utah church are ignorant of these things and of course do not believe them; but I know that many of their fathers know, and I could call their minds to facts that they would not or could not deny.

One evening an old lady by the name of Able, who was our neighbor, and was also a neighbor to us in Nauvoo, came to me and warned me to flee for my life. She had heard her husband and two others of the brethren planning to put me out of the way. The other two men were Elijah and Elisha Everets. They were drummers in the Nauvoo Legion. We had been well acquainted with them in Nauvoo also. (They were twins.) Now I do not know that the old lady told the truth, but subsequent events rather confirmed the truth of what she said. I was in no condition to fly, and don't know that I would if I had been possessed of wings, for I had become rather stubborn, and I confess I was in a very bad state of mind, and I said too much for my own good. I know of a number of my friends who were in the same condition that I was, but they were wise enough to hold their tempers, and they got along much better than I did.

A few nights after this warning I was convinced that there was something in it; for about twelve o'clock there came a crash at the door like a peal of thunder, and the door was split almost into kindling wood. This night I had a young man staying with me by the name of William Hall. Hall lived with us, but was a mail carrier over the Wasatch Mountains, and on this occasion he had just gotten home from a hard trip, tramping snow for two days and nights without sleep. I told him in the evening what might take place, and as Hall was a very brave young man he did not seem to be alarmed. We took the precaution to lay our revolvers on chairs at the head of the bed, and had them handy and in good order. At the noise I sprang up and grasped my guns, and Hall also sprang up, but he was so bewildered that he acted more like a wild man than the brave Bill Hall that he was. I suppose that the noise made by Bill made them think that I had a strong garrison in the house and they fled up the street. The leader of the band of midnight assassins was one Jason Loose, who was after that shot to death by a United States vedette, at Douglass.

At another time a man was caught at the window of my room with a gun in hand, and I was dogged and followed so that my

friends insisted on me leaving the city. Johnson's Command was then located at Camp Floyd, in Cedar Valley, sixty miles south. My brother-in-law was in business there, keeping the Mount Vernon Hotel, and he wanted me to come and go in with him. I finally consented, and after running two or three more narrow risks, I hired a man by the name of Tom Williams to take me to Camp Floyd. At that time it seemed rather a desperate undertaking for me, but Williams was a brave man, and I know if any one could do it Tom could. This Williams was a son of old Elder Alexander Williams, and a brother to Bro. Clinton Williams, of Montana. Tom Williams and a man by the name of Levi Jackman were murdered in Southern Utah sometime after this, supposed to be by Indians.

Tom came to my house after dark with a four-horse stage, and we bundled my mother and the three children that were with us into the vehicle, and rolled out for Camp Floyd, where we arrived sometime the next morning, and where I hoped I was out of trouble.

All this had great influence on me. I began to look at things as I never had looked at them before. The thought that I had indulged that they were still God's people and that in due time God would make all things right did not trouble me, and I became determined to break off all connection with them. I had spent a couple of years in California, and I had learned that the Saints (?) were no better in character than the sinners. I concluded that I would take my chances with the world, and if I had to go to hell I would just as soon go with sinners as with professed Saints. I had also gotten my eyes opened in regard to some of the things that Utah would boast of in evidence that they were so highly favored of the Lord. One, for instance, in regard to the crickets and Brigham Young's prayer, and the sea-gulls coming to devour the crickets. I had always supposed that there was something in it; but in traveling in the West I found out that it is no uncommon thing for the gulls to swoop down on an army of crickets and devour them; this they do and would do if such a man as Brigham had never lived. I, myself, have seen it several times, and there was no miracle about it.

I had not been in Camp Floyd long until I discovered that I was not out of danger, as I had supposed; for one night I had been out, and as I came to my room and was about to open the door, which was on the outside next to the street, some one sprang from behind a corner and made a thrust at me with a big knife, and instantly I threw up my left arm and dodged back. I received the knife in my left shoulder; and this escape I have always looked upon as one of the most mysterious escapes I ever knew of. I had on a tight silk undershirt that I had bought in California, and there was a hole cut in my shirt that I could easily put my hand through, but the wound in my shoulder was very slight. I kept the shirt for several years and have shown it to many as an evidence of my narrow escape. I was satisfied that I knew who the would-be assassin was, and I met him in the morning

and told him what my suspicions were and added, "If I knew it, I would not let you live long enough to say your prayers." This is not very nice to write here, and when I look back I am appalled that I was in such society and used such language. My reason for withholding the name of this man is that there are those who are related to him who are good people, and I do not wish to injure their feelings. But there are those living who know that these things are true. I could select many of them near my own age, and read this to them, and they would not dare to deny one word of it to me. It was a very common thing, when they had put objectionable persons out of the way, to say that they had gone to California, and when they threatened them they would say, "Help them over the rim of the basin," or worse, "Send them to hell across lots." I will warrant if there are any in Utah of the old stock reading this, that these phrases will sound familiar to them. It will seem queer to some people to read the frequent mention of guns and revolvers, but in those days nearly everybody went armed. Both a revolver and bowie knife were in as common use as almost any kind of tools, and much more common than books and newspapers.

I will mention only one more little episode of the Camp Floyd experience, and pass over a great deal that was interesting to me at the time. I do not wish to give my readers too much of this kind of experience, lest I weary them. I want to hasten on to that part of my life that has been devoted to a better cause, after being born again and having been made anew in Christ.

It was one time about two o'clock in the morning; I awoke and I heard some one in my room. I lay quiet and listened and watched until I saw the form of a man between me and the window. It was moonlight on the outside, and I could plainly see the form, and I knew that whoever it was he was an intruder. On the spirit of the moment I sprang out of bed and clinched him. I instantly found out I had an elephant on my hands; for he was a big, strong man, and he had a big dragoon revolver in his hand. By some lucky turn of the wheel of fortune, I got hold of the revolver about the first of the scuffle, but it felt like it was in the grip of a vice. In the tussle the gun was discharged. No one was hurt, but it excited me till I made an almost superhuman effort and wrenched the gun from his hand, and I began beating a tattoo on his head or any place I could hit in the dark. The report of the pistol and the noise excited the neighborhood so that the provost marshal rushed in and took my nocturnal visitor to the guard-house, but not before I was master of the field. He was a rough looking fellow, as I saw after a light was struck. I think he was one of the loafers or camp fellows that follow the army. I do not know what became of the man, but the gun was left in my room, and I brought it to California with me and kept it for many years.

It was not long after this until my father came to Camp Floyd. He had gotten into difficulty with some of the officials in Southern Utah, and an attempt had been made to "blood atone" him.

I think he had some trouble with two of the bishops, and he came to the camp for protection; but lest some one should claim that there was a cause for the trouble, and that my father knew the cause of it, I refer the reader to the report of Joseph Young, who was the chairman of the Quorum of the Seven Presidents of the Seventy. (My father was one of the seven presidents.) Joseph Young, in his report after my father had left the church, gave my father an excellent character. My father had been very outspoken against some crimes that had been committed, and had accused Brigham Young of being the mover in the Mountain Meadow Massacre, and also of the Potter and Parrish murder; and he had discovered a young Danish man whom the bishop had unsexed in a most barbarous manner, all that for the crime of wanting to marry a young girl of his own nationality that the lustful bishop also wanted for a plural wife. My father brought' the young man to Camp Floyd, and finally took him to California, and he stayed with my father and his family for many years. He is now a member of the Reorganized Church and lives at or near Stewartsville, Missouri. My father had been nearly all of his life (since he was a very young man) out in the mission field, and knew but little of the dark deeds done at home, and when he came home and saw the condition of things he was appalled, and said altogether too much for his safety. It was the policy of the leader to keep such men away as much as possible.

(To be continued.)

THE TEST.

BY FERN.

HAT made Aunt so cross yesterday? What was the matter with her? She was so cross with me.' "Oh, she was not feeling well, and perhaps you did things to try her patience," was the answer.

This conversation was repeated to me by one of the parties. As I was the third party in question, I of course was quite interested in what had been said. I thought of it more and more, and I wondered if that was a good excuse that was given. I was glad that an excuse had been made for me, but really did I deserve it? Is it any credit to us to be happy and kind and patient if there is nothing to try us. When there is a test of our powers and we are tried, how do we stand it? Had I been feeling well and this little girl had done nothing to try my patience then I would have been thought patient and very good, I suppose. Is that true?

When are we patient?

when

Why, when we can be kind, when we say nothing cross, we avoid the sharp, hasty words, and angry looks and actions, while the surrounding conditions are tempting us to be the opposite. When ought we to be considered persons of strong faith? I believe when everything looks dark and we can't see and under