[or-roots] Re: Oregon Sur names

[DaviesWalt at cs.com]

I have a great story from Aunt Charlotte's boo about this name is it possable 
that these are the same family.
Walt Davies
> Looking for info on George (Bert) Henry Robideaux, wife Clara Belle Height 
> Robideaux.

Mr. Rubedeaux's wife was dead and he had a large family of little children. 
The eldest of the six  or seven was only about twelve years old. She was a 
tattered, barefooted little girl and very  freckled. I remember the freckles 
especially, I thought they were nice. She was a fine little  worker , SELF RELIANT, 
the mainstay of her father. Everyone admired her, even the men of our  party 
were glad to give her a "lift" when she needed it. 

    Mr. Rubedeaux walked beside the oxen, and the wagon bristling with little 
heads. The little girl, I  have forgotten he name, walked and drove the loose 
cattle. getting started of a morning with  loose cattle everywhere was not an 
easy task for anyone. This small girl with her whip, took her  equal and 
effective part in the general commotion, cracking her whip and talking to her 
little herd  of lean oxen, some cows and a calf or two.

    I remember her as we passed through the snake river country. There were 
rocks everywhere, and I noticed that she limped. I was sorry for her. I would 
have given her my shoes, if she could have worn them. The fact that I was 
without shoes, myself might possibly have prevented such  an act of charity, even 
though her feet had been larger than mine. I wonder now, why someone  did not 
lend her a horse. Plenty of them were driven loose, or were led tied to the 
backs of the  wagons. Perhaps she had refused one, I do not know about that. I 
know that she walked most, if not all of the way and drove her herd of cattle. 
She drove them as though she liked it and was  glad to. everyone helped her 
when she needed it.

    One day a band of Indians came to us and rode along beside us for a ways. 
One of them in  passing the small girl, grabbed the ox whip from her hands 
and dashed away with it. That whip  was dear to her, she clutched at it and 
screamed. Her father bounded toward her, but he was to  late. The whip was gone. 
His face was so red and angry. I remember seeing him pick up a rock  and heave 
it with all his might after the laughing, galloping Indian. The rock was as 
big as my  head it could not have carried twenty feet. 

    I do not know what became of Mr. Rubedeaux and his flock of little 
motherless children. We  never saw them again after we separated from them at The 
Dalles of the Columbia, but when I think of that little girl, I know that in her 
was the making of a fine, fine woman.

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