The Republican

An Old Man Searches Twenty-Five Years for His Lost Love.

The author of the little book known as "The Ute War" relates a very interesting story, which is given as an incident brought to light during the march of Merritt's command from the fortifications at Milk River to White River Agency:

Signs of the work of the savages met the command at every turn after they left the scene of the siege. They left behind them the dead bodies of comrades in arms to find the corpses of the unfortunate men who had attempted to serve the Government in a different capacity. The road was literally strewn with the nude and decaying remains of white men whom chance had thrown in the way of the savages.

The soldiers had marched but a few miles when the advance guard came upon a body, the remains of a white man, when, as the story was told to a correspondent of the Tribune, who was on the ground, a conversation, of which the following is a report, occurred:

"What have we here?" asked one soldier of a comrade.

"It looks like the body of a man; and it is"

"It's a white man, too."

"To be sure it is, and terribly mangled and mutilated. The red fiends have got in their work on some unfortunate fellow."

Investigation revealed the fact that the body was that of Isaac Goldstein, an Israelite, who was called "The Jew," and whose proper name was known to but very few. Fortunately, there was one soldier in the command to whom the old man had confided the secrets of his heart, and among others his great secret, the history of his own life, which, though containing material for a volume, may be related here in a few words, and without marring this narrative, indeed as properly a part of it. Old Isaac was between fifty and sixty years, but he looked to be seventy. He was ever sad and uncommunicative, seeming to bear about him a burden which, while it weighed him down, he did not care to share with others. But becoming friendly with this soldier, a private in General Merritt's ranks, he gradually confided the story of his romantic career to him. In his early manhood Isaac Goldstein had loved a fair daughter of Israel as he loved not his own life. They lived in an eastern city, and a few months promised to see them united as man and wife. This young lady had a brother who had gone to California among the first who were attracted to the gold coast. At first he prospered, and was cheerful and hopeful in his letters. At last he lost his health, and was low spirited and despondent. His sister, whose name was Rebecca, determined at once to go to her brother to comfort, and, if possible, to cure him. She had an opportunity to and did join the unfortunate party in its overland trip which perished at Mountain Meadow at the hands of the Mormons and the Indians combined. Isaac waited a long, long time for tidings of his love. At last the sad news of the massacre came. He at once went west to investigate the matter, and has remained since. He was never convinced that his Rebecca had been killed, but believed her to have been made a captive by the Indians. He determined to seek her out, and for many, very many, long years he had been searching and searching in vain for her, going from tribe to tribe, and gaining the confidence of the Indians that he might the more successfully prosecute the search. That the Utes, now of Colorado, took part in the Mountain Meadow affair, is established almost beyond dispute. And thus, according to the story related by the soldier over the remains of the long gray bearded old man as they lay upon the hard sand-stones of the bottom of Milk River canon, came "the Jew" to be trading with Douglas' Indians.

The few auditors who gathered around the surviving friend of the old Jew listened with interest and attention to the narrative. It was received with a sigh by all, and derision by none. A few moments more and the remains of "the Wandering Jew" were hidden away in a trench dug for the purpose, and covered with earth, and the following legend appears on the simple stone grave mark:

ISAAC GOLDSTEIN,
Killed by Indians.
Sept. 29, 1879.

—Denver Tribune.