My story is about a Mormon pioneer, but this story takes place long before he moved across the plains.

I am proud to call myself a descendent of this man. He was my fifth-great grandfather, was the cousin of Brigham young, and was involved in the Carthage jail incident. His name was Willard Richard. I will be telling the story from his perspective. The mob had already reached the door. John Taylor and I were fending off the attackers guns with our canes. Hyrum Smith had already been killed by shots to the face and back. Joseph pulled out his pistol and fired six shots. Three misfired, but two screams could be heard from outside. Through the nearly-closed doorway I saw a man fall backward down the stairs. Suddenly John screamed. He had been shot in the chest, just as he was about to jump out the window. Youll fall into the arms of the mob! I yelled as he hung over the sill. He was shot again, this time in the hand and thigh. This sudden pain brought him back to his senses and he crawled under the bed. Joseph ran to the window. The crowd was multiplying. I heard another gunshot and saw the flame of the barrel. In that same instant I heard a sickening thud as the Prophet was shot in the back. I leaped toward the window to catch him, but it was too late. Joseph fell through the window and onto the ground. I leaned over the sill and cried, Joseph! His body didnt leave my sight until I knew he was dead. Then, in an act of horrible rage and brutality, some of the men from the mod surrounded Josephs body. They began shooting it with their guns. I became sick with grief and anger. That was when I noticed the silence in the hallway. They dont want me as much as they want to see Joseph dead. I thought to myself. Still, I felt the murderers would be back for me. I felt it in my gut. I realized there was a deep pain in my ear. I raised my hand to feel it and found a piece of my lobe gone and blood on my fingers. I heard a groan from the far side of the room. John Taylor was still alive. Thank God, hes alive. Hes got to live, hes got to. I thought to myself. Wait, I whispered. Wait. I can hide you. When the mob comes back for me youll live to tell the tale. Dont leave me! Take me with you! John groaned. His condition was worsening. After a brief argument, I dragged his nearly lifeless body across the room and hid him in one of the cells. I covered his body in a mattress and put pressure on his wound so that he would survive. This is a hard way to treat you, John, but I want you to live, I said quietly. Theyll be back for me. I want you to live to tell the story. He groaned. I heard a noise. The mob had returned! I held my breath as the men walked closer. Suddenly they stopped. I heard a cry from the street, The Mormons are coming! They Mormons are coming! The mob has turned, I gasped. I heard the men run out of the jail onto the street. I remained still for a long time, until I opened the door and walked into the kitchen. The jailer, Mr. Stigall, emerged from his hiding spot with his family. He helped me to carry John into the room, where I cleaned him up. I found his pocketwatch, smashed by a bullet. It had frozen at 5:16, on the 26th second. I looked at my own watch. Five-thirty! How fast it all happened, I cried softly, as if John, unconscious, could hear me.