For more information on this family go to this link - Frances Benton

This is the true story of an Indian girl, Burleigh Willard's great-grandmother, who came to be the mother of nearly a score of full-time Christian workers over four generations.

CHAPTER ONE: Massacre on the Mississippi
The only thing you could say for sure about the men around the campfire was that they were frontiersmen. From the way they handled their rifles and kept sentries posted, they appeared to be soldiers, although they were not in uniform and carried an assortment of rifles and muskets. As soon as they had finished eating, they extinguished the cooking fire and slipped into the forest.
They were indeed soldiers, and Captain Brian waited anxiously for the return of his scout. They had been searching for days for a band of Indians who were roaming the forests and thought to be responsible for raids on several settlements. Soon after sundown Brian heard a low call from the woods. He answered cautiously and was relieved to see a tall, lean man, dressed in buckskin, moccasins, and a coonskin cap, emerge from the darkness.
"Where have you been all this time?"  demanded Brian harshly.
"I found traces of Indians and finally located their camp," Jones replied. "They are just a short way up the river."
"How many of them are there?"
"Only about a dozen men. The rest are women and children."
"Their braves must be away on the warpath. Let's attack now before they come back."
The men Brian called together to plan the attack were a nondescript group. They were settlers and hunters who had been recruited to fight in the Black Hawk War. The war had started because the Indians had been ruthlessly pushed from pennsylvania all the way into Illinois. Now Black Hawk was making a last stand east of the Mississippi River. He had been joined by Algonquin-speaking Indians from Wisconsin and Iowa. It was a band of one of these tribes--the Sacs--that Jones had located. They had become detached from the main group and were camped on the shore of the Mississippi in northern Illinois. Finally the war--in which young Abraham Lincoln participated--was ended by a treaty in Saint Louis in which Black Hawk agreed to relinquish all land east of the river in exchange for the right to settle in Kansas and Oklahoma.
But the treaty came too late for the little band of Sacs. Brian was an embittered man. He was determined to kill every Indian he could find. The men who followed him were no less full of fear and hatred. Most of them had lost members of their families or close friends in the Indian raids and were grimly determined to even the score.
While it was still dark, they surrounded the camp. The little clearing was quiet in the hush of early dawn. As he crept closer, Brian could hear the murmur of the great river just beyond the tepees and the sleepy twitter of birds as they stirred in their nests. It was still nearly dark where he crouched when he heard the cheery whistle of a cardinal and knew that the first rays of the sun had reached the highest branches of the oak tree above him where the bird was singing. As if the cardinal's call were a signal, the camp began to come to life. Squaws crouched before their cooking fires and blew the embers into flame. Children and men began to appear.
Brian knew they could not remain concealed much longer, so he aimed carefully and deliberately at the nearest brave and fired. For several minutes the crack of the long rifles was accompanied by screams of agony and terror as the Indians sought vainly to escape.
As the firing died down, Brian shouted, "Morgan, Farrow--fire the wigwams! Smoke them out!"
Two men dashed from cover and, snatching burning brands, set fire to the shelters, one by one. No one was spared. The women and children who tried to escape the flames were clubbed or shot to death. Some died screaming in the flames.
When the massacre ended, the soldiers gathered in the center of the smoldering camp.
"Everyone be perfectly quiet!" ordered the captain. "If you hear so much as a groan, hunt out the body and finish him off. We don't want any survivors."
In the silence that followed, Merrill heard a thin wail. It sounded like a child in distress. Searching carefully through the ruins, the soldiers overturned a large scalding vat and uncovered two small children. The oldest--three or four years old--was holding his hand over his sister's mouth, trying in vain to stifle her sobs.
The captain swung his rifle high in the air to club them to death. He was surprised to be grabbed from behind by one of his own men. He struggled to get loose but could not break the desperate hold.
"Don't kill them, captain," pleaded Merrill. "They're just children. They won't hurt anybody."
"They're Indians. They are worthless. They'll only kill you when they grow up. Turn loose of me so I can kill them now."
Merrill continued to struggle with the infuriated captain.
"Give them to me," he pleaded. "I have been married twenty years and don't have any children. I need someone to help me on the farm. If you'll let me have them, I'll take them to my wife and return and fight with you as long as you need me."
Reluctantly the captain gave in and allowed Merrill to leave with the terrified children. His wife was surprised when her husband appeared with two frightened Indian children, but she took them in and soon won their confidence and love.

We cannot understand or condone the barbarism demonstrated by Brian and his men, but such atrocities were committed on both sides in the bloody conflict. Our history books dwell on the Indian massacres of white settlers, but they often ignore events like the one related in this story. It was the Indians who suffered most and were finally robbed of their lands and their freedom. History doesn't often tell either of exceptional people like Merrill and his wife who rose above fear, hatred, and prejudice to offer help to the victims and to open their hearts and homes to the orphaned Indian children.
After the war was over, Merrill returned to his farm. He found the Indian children shy but contented. They were named Tom and Frances. As they grew, they began to help doing the chores around the house, clearing the fields, planting, and hunting. Tom was especially good at stalking wild turkey, and he brought in meat for the hungry family.
But Tom and Frances had not seen the last of tragedy. This time it came in the form of cholera. Both Mr. and Mrs. Merrill were stricken and died form it. The children were again orphaned and homeless, but by this time they had been accepted as part of the community. The Rockhold family took them into their household, and there they grew into their teens as useful members of the family. Their new parents were not old according to our standards, but the rigors of the frontier had taken its toll on them, and they both died while Tom and Frances were young.
They were considered adults, however, old enough to care for themselves. Finally, one of the settlers suggested that, since a caravan was soon to leave for the Kansas territory, they ought to send the Indian children along. They might be able to reunite with their tribe. So their friends raised the necessary funds to pay for their passage on the caravan that was to start west that fall.

CHAPTER TWO: A Home on the Prairie
Tom and Frances started west that fall with mixed feelings. They were old enough to realize that they wouldn't have been turned over to the wagonmaster if they had been white, and they didn't want to leave their home in Illinois. Still, they were young and embarking on a new adventure. Perhaps they would find their people.
The pioneers crossed the Mississippi into Iowa and proceeded slowly south and west. They had been delayed in starting, and winter came early that year. By late October, realizing that they would soon be winter-bound, they looked for a place to camp for the winter. They found it in a sheltered hollow near a stream not far from a settlement in southern Iowa.
Several families from Wisconsin had established farms in the area, and the corn crop that fall was excellent in the rich Iowa soil. The immigrants joined heartily in the harvesting. After the corn had been gathered, each farmer announced a "husking bee." These husking bees were at once a community effort to husk corn; at the same time they served as social events. Frontier families had little opportunity for fun and relaxation, so these gatherings were a highlight of the year. Everyone in the community gathered at each farm in turn and helped husk the corn. Afterward there were contest, prizes, and general hilarity. One of the immigrants at least would have reason to remember for a long time the husking bee at the Benton farm. Young Dennis Benton was the life of the party. Not only was he the host's son, but he was one of the most popular young men in the community. At the husking bee he found himself beside the Indian maiden, Frances. As they rapidly husked the pile of corn before them, Dennis was interrupted by a cry of surprise at his side. He glanced at the girl beside him and saw that she was holding an ear of bright red corn in her hand. As she looked up at him, a blush spread across her face, and she lowered her eyes, because she knew that a red ear of corn meant a kiss was expected by her partner.
Dennis joined in the laughter and teased her unmercifully but found himself strangely moved by the dancing black eyes of his partner. His eyes wouldn't leave her graceful figure as she moved about the yard, and he noticed how the firelight glanced from her black hair. Later he found a place at her side by the fire, and they laughed together over parched corn and mugs of hot apple cider.
Iowa had not suffered so much from the Indian wars as had the states east of the Mississippi, so Dennis had no trouble accepting the fact that Frances was an Indian. She seemed like his own people because of the good training she had received from the Merrills and the Rockholds. He soon became a frequent visitor to the immigrants' winter camp, and when spring came, he and Frances were married.
They remained for a while on the Benton farm in Iowa, but soon the opportunity of obtaining new land in Kansas became too strong for their adventuresome spirit, and they set out--taking Tom with them--for a new home.
The Missouri River towns were teeming with settlers and wagon trains heading west. The Bentons joined one and started out on the Santa Fe Trail. Northern Kansas was too chilly for them, so they continued on down the trail as far as Hutchinson. Here they learned of land available a short distance to the south and west. Leaving the caravan they crossed the Arkansas River and began looking for a home site.
They found gently rolling prairie land covered with lush buffalo grass. Most of the buffalo had been driven from the prairie, but their trails and wallows were still visible. In the hollows between the hills water accumulated from the rains in late summer, forming small lakes where wild ducks and geese abounded. There were a few homesteaders already settled, but they were far apart. This country seemed ideal for their purpose. Finally they selected a site near the headwaters of the Ninnescah River.
Dennis began to dig into the side of a hill. The soil was sandy and easy to remove. He lined the dugout with rock and roofed it over to make a warm and safe shelter for his family. Later he built a house over the dugout with an exit on top of the hill. This split-level house soon swarmed with activity as the family grew and new settlers arrived.
In the meantime, Tom found a job with one of the ranchers who had developed quite a herd of horses and cattle. He liked Tom, but the presence ..... hired hand, who had an intense dislike for Indians and lost no chance to make life miserable for Tom. [This sentence doesn't make sense; one line at ... seems to be left out.]
One day the rancher and his wife went to town for supplies and left the ranch in charge of the two men. They were to share the duties of caring for the animals and preparing the meals. When they came in from the fields at noon, Sam proposed that they draw straws to see who was to cook dinner. The other one would take care of the horses. Our Indian friend drew the short straw and went to the house to prepare dinner. When the meal was ready, Tom rang the dinner bell, but Sam didn't appear nor answer when he was called.
Thinking something was wrong, Tom started for the bar and corral. The cattle were coming to water, and with them was a very mean-tempered bull. He did not bother a man on horseback but would attack a person on foot every chance he got. Tom was not worried because there was a fence between them. Then he noticed that the fence had been cut--every strand of it. He knew that the cattle would get out and damage the crops, so he hurried to the fence to tie the strands back together before the cattle arrived--calling for Sam to bring wire and tools.
Still Sam did not appear, and Tom was unable to mend the fence in time. He tried to frighten the cattle away from the fence, but the bull had spotted him and charged. As he ran to find shelter, Tom heard the derisive laughter of Sam as he spurred away on his horse, shouting, "It's all up to you now, Indian."
When the rancher returned he found a badly gored Tom breathing his last, and the cattle trampling his young corn.

CHAPTER THREE: One Pair of Shoes
Frances and Dennis were happy, but their life was full of hard work. There were few trees on the prairie, so most of their buildings were made of sod. The rich buffalo grass had a root system that penetrated the soil and held it together. With a special plow this sod could be cut at a depth of three or four inches in strips about eighteen inches wide. These strips were then cut into convenient lengths and stacked one on top of the other to form the walls. A roof of poles covered with grass and soil kept off the rain, and the projecting eaves saved the walls from erosion. These sod houses were warm in the winter and cool in the summer because of their thick walls.
They plowed up the sod where the soil was richest to plant wheat and corn. Frances always had a garden patch that furnished green vegetables in the summer and dried beans and peas in the fall. Their soil was ideal for watermelon and cantaloupe and for potatoes, pumpkins, and squash. They dug a root cellar to store their winter supply of food. It not only kept their produce warm and dry but served as a shelter from the tornadoes that were common in the summer.
Chickens, cows, and pigs furnished them with milk, eggs, and meat. Pheasant and quail lived in the wild plum thickets, and rabbits were so plentiful they sometimes damaged the crops. In the fall Dennis shot ducks and geese when they landed on his ponds on their way south for the winter.
To get food they could not raise on the farm and for clothing, tools, and supplies, they had to go to Hutchinson, the nearest railhead. It was nearly fifty miles away, and they spent three or four days and nights away from home, sleeping in their lumber wagon unless they were fortunate enough to find a settler's cabin before night.
Dennis added to his holdings by taking out a timber claim on a quarter section of land adjacent to his original homestead. This was possible because the government was concerned about open prairies over which the wind howled mercilessly in the winter. So they offered a quarter section of land to any settler who would plant and tend twenty acres of trees on it. Remnants of these early timber claims may still be seen on the rolling Kansas plains.
As more and more homesteaders came into this section of Kansas, a postal service became a necessity. Dennis offered to serve as the postmaster, and soon the house on his claim became the center of a growing community. One day a stranger presented himself at the post-office-in-a-home to mail a letter. He was tall and bronzed and said he wanted to send a letter to Missouri. Upon inquiry, Dennis found that he had taken out a homestead on a nearby section of land.
The newcomer said his name was Davey--Davey Willard. He had just arrived from southern Missouri and wanted to write home to his family to let them know that all was well and that he had secured a homestead.
Davey didn't like to talk about himself, so he answered questions vaguely or not at all. This gave an air of mystery to the handsome stranger. But everybody liked him, and little by little his friend pieced together the following story.
Davey grew up on Swan Creek in southwestern Missouri some forty miles south of Springfield. His father was a surveyor and also the local Baptist preacher. Davey was used to his father's fire-and-brimstone sermons but did not seem particularly inclined to religion.
Being a quiet sort of lad, he attended the Saturday night dances with the other young people but seldom danced himself. One Saturday night as the dance was about to break up, someone spotted Davey seated on a bench near the door and called to him, "Hey, Davey, we haven't seen you dance yet tonight."
"Oh, that's all right. I don't dance much anyway."
"What's the matter, don't you know how to dance?"
"Oh, I know how all right, but I don't like to."
"Come on, show us if you can. I don't think you know how."
Davey resisted for a while, but finally, finding himself the center of attention, which he detested, he agreed to dance to get it over with. He walked to the center of the floor and signaled the fiddler to play a hoedown. As the tempo of the music quickened and his friends encouraged him by clapping their hands and stomping their feet, Davey entered in to the spirit of the dance and gave a commendable demonstration. With the last flourish of the fiddle he leaped high into the air and ending with one last resounding stomp.
His finale brought enthusiastic applause but was too much for his long-suffering shoes. Davey felt something break, and as he walked to the bench, he cold feel his right foot slipping out of his shoe. With a sinking heart he examined the damage and found that one whole side had given way, and the upper had ripped away from the sole. Hiding his confusion, he slipped from the hall and took off his shoes. As he walked barefoot over the country trails toward home, his heart was literally in his shoes, for they were the only pair of "Sunday" shoes in the house. His father had loaned them to him to go to the dance, but he had to have them in the morning to go to church and preach. Now he had foolishly ruined the only pair of shoes his father had.
By the time he arrived home, Davey knew he could never sleep that night if he didn't tell his father what had happened, so when he got home he knocked on his parents' bedroom door.  "Pa," he called. "Pa."
"What is it, Davey?"
"Pa, I ruined your shoes. The boys made me dance, and the shoes tore."
Davey's father got out of bed and examined the shoes by the light of a candle. "That's all right, Davey," he said. "We can sew them up. I'll get the awl and thread and the wax, and we'll fix them." But search as they would, the awl and thread were nowhere to be found.
"Maybe they are in the stable," suggested Davey. "You were mending harness the other day." Even in the stable the needed articles could not be found. Finally they decided to resort to bailing wire.
Davey would have gladly stayed home the next day, but it was a hard and fast rule that the whole family must attend church on Sunday. Davey was the most embarrassed person in the whole world. His father didn't seem to mind the mended shoes, but Davey couldn't raise his eyes from the floor. All he could think of was his father preaching in shoes held together with bailing wire--and it was all his fault.
Monday was Davey's day to cut wood, so shouldering the ax, he climbed over the ridge to a stand of oak trees. His ax was soon biting into the trees, but he became more miserable with each passing minute. His chagrin was turned to a feeling of guilt and sin. Finally he could stand it no longer, and kneeling down by the stump, he cried out his hurt to God and begged for relief. As he prayed, it seemed that a great light shone into his heart, and he arose to his feet with peace in his heart.
He tried to cut more wood, but he couldn't keep his good news to himself any longer, so he started for the house. Davey was usually a very quiet person. Now he felt he would burst with joy. Walking was too slow, so he began to run. Every step or two he leaped into the air and let out a whoop of joy. His father heard him coming and ran out to meet him, wondering what could possible have happened to his son. He was afraid at first that Davey had hurt himself with the ax.
When they met, Davey threw his arms around his father, and with words broken by laughter and tears, he asked forgiveness for the broken shoe. He told him how God had forgiven his sins and how happy he felt. The father looked at his son in amazement. Finally he said quietly, "Davey, it's not supposed to happen that way. This is not the way I preach it, but it must be genuine to have changed you like this. You just keep it that way."
Life took on a new meaning for Davey as he worked quietly on the farm. Before long he married, and God gave his wife and him three lovely children. Then Davey's world caved in. His wife died in childbirth, leaving him with a boy and two little girls. He went about his work mechanically, scarcely able to care for the children. His mother-in-law took them to stay with her, but that left Dave alone and comfortless. He seemed to grow thinner and more withdrawn every day.
His family and neighbors became very concerned for him. Some of them thought that he should get away from the scene of his sorrow and start life over again. Finally they persuaded him to leave the children in Missouri and go with a caravan of homesteaders to Kansas. And that was how Davey found himself a neighbor of Dennis and Frances Benton.

CHAPTER FOUR [no title]
Davey's main concern was a place to live and water to drink. He solved the first by digging into the side of a hill as most of the settlers did at first. There were not trees suitable for building a log house, and he didn't have time to build a sod house. There was too much else to do. All he needed was to dig back into the hill and roof it over. With a door in front to keep out the weather, it made a good shelter, even though the walls and floor were damp in the rainy season. It was easy to dig a well in the sandy soil, and he proceeded to do so.
One one of his visits to the Benton farm Davey heard of talk of a new trading center beginning to develop fourteen miles south of his homestead. Needing a few supplies, he decided to visit Pratt Center. He found the merchants short of supplies, since there was not rail service and all goods had to be brought by wagon from Hutchinson. Having a good wagon and team of horses, Davey offered to do some hauling for them. Soon he was making regular trips from his home to Hutchinson, purchasing supplies for the merchants, then making the long haul back to his dugout and on to Pratt. It was a distance of more than fifty miles between the two towns, so the trip took more than a week.
Davey enjoyed the work. He had a few needs, and although he was very quiet himself, he liked the fellowship of others. He enjoyed the evening around the firesides in the settlers' homes where he stopped. Sometimes he had to sleep on the prairies. On those nights he got little sleep. He was usually hauling cured hams and bacon, and the aroma attracted the coyotes from miles around. These animals were not dangerous for people, but they would have made a shambles of his merchandise. Davey had to keep a fire going all night and sleep on his load with his rifle handy. He could doze during the daytime, though, as the faithful horses plodded along the trails.
When he returned home from one of these trips, he was shocked to find his dugout in ruins. Fire had destroyed the door and roof and his few belongings. Since he had not left a fire burning, he was sure someone must have burned his home. Some months later the same thing occurred, and this time some of his tools were missing. Now he was sure someone was robbing him or trying to drive him from the homestead.
Davey now realized that it was not safe to leave his homestead for such long periods. Besides, he realized how lonely he was as he enjoyed the fellowship of the ranch homes he visited. He wrote his family, broadly hinting that he was almost persuaded to return home to Missouri. To his delight he received a letter from his mother-in-law, promising to come to Kansas in the spring and bring his children with her.
Davey's delight was unbounded when they arrived. Not only was the place now secure, but there were other hands to help with the work, and the ranch began to take on a prosperous look. He started raising chickens and pigs and soon bought some cows. Mrs. Bateman filed for a timber claim on the quarter section adjoining his homestead, and together they set out twenty acres of black walnut trees.
Davey was happy for a time, but then he began to notice that the hard work was beginning to tell on Mrs. Bateman. She also talked longingly of her folks back in Missouri. Davey knew me must find a companion for himself and a mother for his children. He had thought of marrying before but had always shaken the thought brusquely from his mind. Now as he began to accept his need for a wife, an image kept creeping into his mind. It was the picture of one of the Benton girls--Laura.
Laura had always seemed special to him. Her ready smile and flashing eyes had always attracted him. She was kind and courteous. Had he only imagined that she was always especially friendly to him? He hoped not, because now her image obsessed his waking hours and his dreams. Finally he overcame his shyness and offered his hand in marriage. Laura smiled as if this was what she had been waiting for.
By now a school had been built near the Benton homestead, where classes were held for the children of the farm families. A preacher visited the Carmi school for services once a month. On his next visit he united Davey and Laura in marriage, and Laura moved to the Willard homestead. Then Davey hauled in lumber and built a house over the dugout which served as a basement and storm cellar. Mrs. Bateman was only too glad for Davey and the family, and she soon returned to Missouri, after selling her interest in the timber claim to Laura.
Life was not without its tragedy in those early days with no medical care. Three little graves marked one corner of the orchard before the new couple had the joy of seeing their first child grow healthy and strong. As Laura held this baby boy in her arms, her mind went back to the kind families who had befriended her mother when she was a helpless Indian baby. To honor them she named her son Merrill Rockhold. His brothers and sisters soon started calling him Mel. For some reason Laura did not like this nickname so she decided to call him Francis. She was a great admirer of Frances E. Willard of prohibition fame, but I am sure she was also thinking of her own mother, Frances. So F.M.R. Willard, as he is known to his many friends and admirers, became the namesake of the Indian maiden Frances and the two families who befriended her.
More and more people moved into southern Kansas, and new homesteads, schools, and towns came to life. Davey (now known affectionately as Uncle Dave by old and young alike) became a respected leader of the new community. One day news of a revival meeting in a nearby schoolhouse began to filter through the country. On Sunday the minister at the Carmi schoolhouse where the Willard family were faithful attendants began to warn the people against what he called "those fanatics."
"Those people claim to be saved from sin and sanctified holy. They think they are better than anyone else," he expostulated.
After listening to this for some weeks, Davey stood up during the sermon one Sunday. The minister paused: "Yes, Davey," he said. "Did you want to say something?"
"You are telling us of people who claim to have had wonderful experiences with the Lord. When I was a lad I had such an experience. I know when I was saved, and if there is anything more wonderful than that, I want to know about it. I am going over there to see what it is all about."
No amount of persuasion could shake his determination. The next Sunday the Willard family appeared at the new schoolhouse. The message Davey heard and the testimonies of the people stirred his heart. Soon he and all his family had entered into the glorious freedom of the Spirit-filled life. Laura's parents also came and were soon staunch supporters of the new church.
These meetings were not without opposition. Not only formal preachers warned against fanaticism, but young rowdies did their best to break up the meetings. One of their favorite tricks was to steal the wagon hammers while the faithful were at prayer. The wagon hammer was at once a tool and the drive pin of the wagon. The head of this instrument was a wrench made  to fit the large nut on the end of the axle which held the wheel in place. The handle was a large steel pin used to connect the double tree to the wagon. As the horses were hitched to the double tree, when the wagon hammer was removed the horses could not pull the wagon.
Many a saint loaded up his family in his wagon for the long rip home and shouted "giddy-up" to his team, only to have them walk off with the double tree, leaving him sitting in the wagon. This trick became so common that the schoolhouse was called the "Wagon Hammer" schoolhouse.
As the congregation grew, the families got together and built a church to take care of the converts from the revival. It inherited the name of the school (The Wagon Hammer Church) in the popular mind, but the faithful called it "Eden Valley."
This little white church by the walnut grove thrived and became the home of many influential men and women who have blessed the church and the world. Besides the Willard and Benton families, such well-known names as Helsel, Griffith, Taylor, and Keller appeared on the church rolls. Many of these have become full-time Christian workers in the United States and abroad. And what of the influence of Frances? Not only her namesake, F.M.R. Willard, but at least sixteen of her children and grandchildren for four generations have dedicated themselves to full-time Christian work in Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, California, and Oregon and as missionaries in Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Paraguay, and Columbia.
I am proud to be a descendant of Frances--and I also bear her name. But I am most proud of two unsung families--the Merrills and the Rockholds--who were able to rise above the hatred, fear, and racial prejudice of their neighbors to give help and love to two victims of genocide, and in so doing to become a blessing to the world, to God, and to the church.