would have penetrated Heaven. Their tears melted the heart of the Mother of Sorrows. Their crime was that they had struck against the power of gold.
The women huddled beneath the window of the house where I was incarcerated for smallpox.
"Oh Mother, what shall we do?" they wailed. "What's to become of our little children!"
"See my little Johnny," said one woman, holding up a tiny, red baby—new born.
"That's a nice baby," I said.
"He sick. Pretty soon he die. Company take house. Company take my man. Pretty soon company take my baby."
Two days after this raid was made, the stone that held my door was suddenly pushed in. A fellow jumped into the room, stuck a gun under my jaw and told me to tell him where he could get $3,000 of the miners' money or he would blow out my brains.
"Don't waste your powder," I said. "You write the miners up in Indianapolis. Write Mitchell. He's got money now."
"I don't want any of your damn talk," he replied, then asked:
"Hasn't the president got money?"
"You got him in jail."
"Haven't you got any money?"
"Sure!" I put my hand in my pocket, took out fifty cents and turned the pocket inside out.
