"Now, Simpson," he said, "we are going to be kind to you. You can have
one wagon with the cattle to draw it. Get into it all the provisions
and blankets you can carry, and turn right round and go back to the
Missouri River. You're headed in the wrong direction."

"Can we have our guns?" asked Simpson.

"Not a gun."

"Six-shooters?"

"Not a six-shooter. Nothing but food and blankets."

"How are we going to protect ourselves on the way?"

"That's your business. We're doing you a favor to spare your lives."

All Simpson's protests were in vain. There were thirty of us against
several hundred of them. Mormons stood over us while we loaded a wagon
till it sagged with provisions, clothing and blankets. They had taken
away every rifle and every pistol we possessed. Ordering us to hike for
the East, and informing us that we would be shot down if we attempted
to turn back, they watched us depart.

When we had moved a little way off we saw a blaze against the sky
behind us, and knew that our wagon-train had been fired. The greasy
bacon made thick black smoke and a bright-red flame, and for a long
time the fire burned, till nothing was left but the iron bolts and
axles and tires.