in peril of being deserted by his friends, made a spring at the extremity of one of the flying horses and actually seized the appendage aforesaid, and there he clung like Tom O’Shanter’s witch, and so escaped.
Soon after this disastrous and bloodless defeat of the assaulting party, Brown, securing his prisoners, struck his tents and moved into Nebraska, carrying his prisoners with him. Here a council of war was held, and some of the party were for shooting or hanging the prisoners, but Brown, whose philanthropic feelings would not permit him to shed human blood, prevailed on his comrades to spare their lives, remarking that, although they were scarcely fit to live, they were not fit to die, and to spare their lives would give them time to repent hereafter.
One of the party was a young physician from Atchson, a wild, rattling, devil-may-care kind of a fellow, always ready for an adventure that promised either excitement or sport, but who really had nothing very bad in his composition. Brown took him under his special care. As has been hinted heretofore, Brown was of a religious turn, and, whether at home or encamped on the wide prairie, had always an altar erected in his house or tent, at which it was required that all present must engage in worship. One evening when about to retire he called upon the doctor to offer up a prayer.
“By G—,” said the doctor, in language more profane than polite, “I can’t pray.”
“Did your mother never teach you to pray?” inquired Brown.
“0, yes,” said the doctor; “but that was a long time ago.”
“But you still remember the prayer she taught you?” said Brown.
“Yes.”
