<HTML><FONT FACE=arial,helvetica><FONT SIZE=2 FAMILY="SANSSERIF" FACE="Arial" LANG="0">I have a great story from Aunt Charlotte's boo about this name is it possable that these are the same family.<BR>
Walt Davies<BR>
<BLOCKQUOTE TYPE=CITE style="BORDER-LEFT: #0000ff 2px solid; MARGIN-LEFT: 5px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 5px">Looking for info on George (Bert) Henry Robideaux, wife Clara Belle Height Robideaux.</FONT><FONT COLOR="#000000" style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffffff" SIZE=3 FAMILY="SANSSERIF" FACE="Arial" LANG="0"></BLOCKQUOTE><BR>
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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. <BR>
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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.<BR>
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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.<BR>
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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. <BR>
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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.<BR>
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