Autobiography

I was born in the Genesee Valley, Livingstone County, State of New York,

on the second day of May, A. D. 1827. I was number two of a family of

eight children,--six boys and two girls. My mother, while not in the

popular sense an educated woman, having but a common-school education,

had, as the philosopher Hobbes termed it, a large amount of "round-about

common-sense." While she gave, as a religious mother, her assent to

Solomon's declaration that he who spares the rod spoils the child, it

was only in the most flagrant instances of disobedience that she put the

doctrine in practice. She was firm, consistent, and truthful, indulging

in no unfulfilled threats or promises of punishment in case of

non-compliance with her orders. In fact, she acted upon the

principle that certainty and not severity of punishment was the

preventative of disobedience. Her all-prevailing governing power was

affection--love,--thus exemplifying the teaching of the Master that "he

who loveth Me keeps My commandments." I say it now, after eighty years

of memory, that we obeyed her because we loved her. She has gone to her

reward. My observation and experience is that the mother's influence

over her sons, if she be a true and affectionate mother, is far stronger

than that of the father. Her love is ever present in the conflict of

life; it remains as an enduring and restraining force against evil, and

a powerful impulse in favor of honor and right. Someone has said that

there are but three words of beauty in the English language: "Mother,

Home, Heaven."

My father owned a farm of forty acres in the Genesee Valley, and I first

saw the light of day in a plain but comfortable frame house. Back of it,

and between two and three rods from it, quietly ran in a narrow channel

a flower-strewn and almost grass-covered spring brook, whose clear and

pure waters, about a foot in depth, were used for domestic and farm

purposes. I mention this brook because connected with it is my first

memory. I fell into that brook one day when I was about three years old,

and would have drowned had it not been for the timely arrival of my

mother. As the years advanced, observation extended, experience

increased and enlarged, and I became a parent myself, I have often

considered how many children would have reached manhood or womanhood's

estate wanting the almost divine affection and ceaseless vigilance of a

mother's love.

The next circumstance in my life distinctly remembered occurred some two

or three months after the water-incident stated above. Running and

romping through the kitchen one day, I tripped and fell, striking my

forehead on the sharp edge of a skillet, making a wound over an inch in

length and cutting to the bone. The profuse flow of blood alarmed me;

but my mother, who was not at all a nervous woman but calm, thoughtful

and resourceful in the presence of difficulties, soon staunched the flow

of blood and drew the bleeding lips of the gaping wound together. The

doctor soon after added his skill; then Nature intervened; and, to use

the stately language of court, the incident, as well as the wound, was

closed.

I have stated these two events not as very important factors in the

history of a life, but because they illustrate the teaching of mental

philosophy, that memory's power of retention and in individual's ability

to recall any particular fact depends upon the intensity of emotion

attending that fact or event. Especially is this true of our youth and

early manhood, when our emotional nature is active, vigorous and strong.

In after years our emotional nature is not so active and not so readily

aroused; still it exists, a latent but potent factor in memory's domain.

Given the requisite intensity, it will still write in indelible

characters the history of events on the tablets of memory.

Memory is of two kinds--local and philosophical. Local memory is the

ability to retain and recall isolated and non-associated facts. The vast

mass of early facts accumulated in memory's store-house rests upon this

emotional principle. As the years increase and the mind matures, other

principles become purveyors for that store-house. The laws of

classification and association become in after years the efficient

agencies of the cultivated mind to furnish the data for reflection and

generalization. The operation of these laws constitutes philosophic

memory. But such facts have no pathos,--no coloring. The recalled facts

of our youthful days have a thrill in them; not always of joy, sometimes

of sorrow. I must, however, dismiss these imperfect thoughts on mental

philosophy, and return to autobiography.

My father, not being satisfied with his forty-acre farm, in the Genesee

Valley, but being desirous of more extended land dominion, and inflamed

with the glowing description of the fertile prairie and wooded plains in

Southern Michigan, made a trip to that territory in the summer of 1831

and purchased in St. Joseph County two tracts of land of 160 acres

each--one being on what was afterwards called Sturgis Prairie; the

other, in what was known as the Burr Oak Openings. St. Joseph County,

now one of the most populous in that great State, then had less than two

hundred people within its large domain. Near the center of the prairie,

which contained five or six sections of land, there were four or five

log houses--the nucleus of a thriving town now existing there. There was

also quite a pretentious block-house, manifesting the existence of the

fear that the perfidious savage,--like the felon wolf,--might at any

time commence the dire work of conflagration and massacre. There were

many Indians in that section of the country. They belonged to the then

numerous and powerful tribe called the Pottawattomies. Southern Michigan

is a level and low country, abounding in small and deep lakes and

sluggish streams. These lakes and streams were literally filled with

edible fish. Deer and wild turkeys, also the prairie chicken, pheasant

and quail, were abundant. Strawberries, cherries, grapes, plums, pawpaws

and crabapples--as well as hazelnuts, hickory nuts, black walnuts and

butternuts--were everywhere in the greatest profusion in the woodlands.

It was a paradise for Indian habitation. I cannot omit from this a

slight digression--the statement that, having lived on the frontier most

of my life and having become acquainted with many Indian tribes, their

habits and customs, they do not, like the tiger, or many white men,

slaughter just for the love of slaughtering, but for food and clothing,

alone; hence, game was always plentiful in an Indian country. The

buffalo, those noble roamers over the plains, and which a century or

less ago, existed in almost countless numbers, have nearly disappeared.

The destructive fury and remorseless cupidity of the white man have done

their work. The indian and the buffalo could and would, judging by the

past, have co-existed forever. Now the doom of annihilation awaits them

both.

In the spring of 1832 we started for our new home in the wilds of

Michigan. Our outfit consisted of a wagon loaded with household goods

and provisions--two yoke of oxen and a brood mare of good stock. We

reached our destination in a little over a month. I say "we" and "our"

because I wish it to be understood that I took my father and mother and

elder brother along with me to our western home, for I thought that they

might be useful there. I distinctly remember but two incidents of that

journey; of not much importance, however, in the veracious history of a

life. I became bankrupt in the loss of a jack-knife that a confiding

friend had given me on the eve of our departure, with which I might

successfully whittle my way through to the land of promise. I was

inconsolable for a time. I had lost my all. My father, to alleviate my

grief, promised me another. So true is it that faith in a promise,

whether human or divine, assuages grief, lifts the darkening cloud, and

often opens up a fountain of joy.

We had to cross Lake Erie on our journey. The not over-palatial floating

palace in which we embarked was struck by a storm. She pitched and

rolled and lurched in the tumbling and foaming waters. The passengers,

save myself and some of the crew, as I was informed, lurched and foamed

at the mouth in unison with the turbulent waves.

I was confined, for fear I might be pitched over-board; but I felt no

inclination to join in the general upheaval. Since that time I have

journeyed much on the lakes and on the ocean, in calm and in storm, but

have ever been immune from that distressing torture.

We arrived at our destination on the first of June. There was no house

or building of any kind on the land purchased by my father. By the

kindly invitation and permission of a Mr. Parker, a pioneer in that

country, we were permitted for the time being, to transform his

wood-shed into a living abode. My father immediately commenced the

cutting and the hauling of logs for a habitation of our own; but before

he had completed the work he was summoned to join forces then moving

westward for the subjugation of Blackhawk and the hostile tribes

confederated under him, who were then waging a ruthless war on the

settlers of Illinois. Any signal success by this wily chieftain, and his

confederate forces might, and probably would, have vastly increased the

area of conflict and conflagration. Indian fidelity as a general rule,

is a very uncertain quantity. There are, I am glad to say, many noble

individual exceptions, but perfidy is the general trait. Vigorous action

was taken by the Government for the subjugation of the hostile tribes

and for the capture of Blackhawk. This was accomplished in the early

summer of 1832.

On the morning after my father's departure I accompanied my mother to a

spring about a quarter of a mile from Mr. Parker's house, where we

obtained water for domestic purposes. Mr. Parker's house was on the

southern edge of the prairie which was fringed by a thick growth of

hazel, sumach, plums, crabapples, wild cherries and fox grapes. This

fringe was narrow and only extended back from two to four rods--beyond

which was the open timber. The trail to the spring was in the open

timber, but close to the inner circle of the copse. Nearing the spring,

we saw, skulking near the outer edge of this thicket fringe, five

Pottawattomie warriors. They seemed to be somewhat agitated and were

intently observing the movements of the white soldiers and listening to

the roll of the drum and the call of the bugle. My mother hesitated at

first, but went on to the spring, and, having filled her pails with

water, we went back with quickened steps to the house. Shortly after,

these warriors came to the house. Mr. Parker, who imperfectly understood

their language, succeeded, however, in explaining to them the meaning of

this martial array, and they left, seemingly well satisfied. We saw them

frequently afterwards and often purchased from them choice venison,

turkey and other game birds, as well as fish, for a mere trifle. But

those were troublous days and full of dire apprehension to the lone

settler. Every night a few, principally old men, would gather at Mr.

Parker's house, and when the door was closed and securely fastened, the

light extinguished, the few men would lay down with their loaded rifles

by their side. The door was not opened in the morning until a careful

reconnoissance had been made through the port-holes, of the surrounding

country. Apprehension has in it as much of terror as actual danger. The

one is continuing--the other but momentary, and the one usually

increases in its fervor, while the other disappears with its cause.

My father returned after an absence of about two months. He won no

military glory--he saw no hostile indians--Blackhawk and his

confederates having surrendered before the hostile country was reached

by the command to which my father belonged.

Peace having been secured and confidence restored, father proceeded

diligently in the erection and completion of a double log house on his

own domain.

I love to think of that old log house with its hewed puncheon floors and

thick oaken doors, where my youth was spent. It was a home of peace, of

comfort, of plenty and prosperity. Its site was a beautiful one on a

knoll near the great military road leading from Detroit to Chicago, and

about midway between those cities. The next spring my father, my older

brother and myself accompanying him, went to the nearby timber land and

got two hundred young sugar maples, black walnuts and butternut trees

that were presently planted in concentric circles around that home

castle. My father did not believe in drilling ornamental trees into rank

and file, like a column of soldiers. He had faith in Nature's beauty and

did not think it could be improved by man. Nature should be subordinated

to man's will only when cultivation becomes an essential element to the

growth, which as a general rule holds only when the tree or plant or

shrub is not indigenous to the soil.

In the fall of that year I was prostrated by a large abscess in the

right groin. I could neither stand on my feet, nor sit in an upright

position. A pallet on the floor, or in some shady nook outdoors when the

weather was propitious, was my favorite, and for most of the time my

lonely, resting place. On the morning of which I am about to write, my

mother was urging my father, as the abscess by its color indicated that

it was ripe for the surgeon's lance, to go for a doctor to examine it

and my condition, and if proper, to open it and let out the long

accumulated poison. The nearest doctor lived some thirty miles away, but

my father, yielding to my mother's persuasions, concluded to go. Before

he had arisen from his seat at the table he requested my brother to

bring in some stove wood. Boy-like, brother piled up such a quantity on

his left arm that he could not see over it, and, bending backward, he

came into the house seemingly oblivious to my location, tripped against

me and fell, striking the end of the wood upon the abscess. Effectually,

but not in a very scientific manner, this opened it. I swooned away, and

it was sometime before consciousness returned to me. As proof of my

brother's surgical skill, a star-shaped scar over an inch in length,

remains today. There were some mitigating circumstances, however, in

this surgical work:--it saved a lonely journey and a large doctor bill.

He received no compensation--but otherwise--for his effective treatment,

and the resultant benefit.

On account of sickness and the want of opportunity, I did not attend

school until I was nine years of age. I had a large number of picture

books containing stories of bears, panthers, lions and tigers. I had to

hire other boys to read them to me, and this kept me in a bankrupt

condition. I was frantic to be able to read them myself, and when

opportunity offered I soon accomplished this purpose.

When I was fourteen years of age the district school was taught by one

Dowling--an Irishman--full six feet in height, a fine specimen of

physical manhood, and an excellent teacher. He was employed by the

Directors not only to teach, but also, if necessary, to subjugate the

rebelious spirit theretofore existing among the larger boys attending

the school. His presence and firm and courteous manner dispelled all

fear of insubordination.

An incident occurred at that school which has remained fresh in my

memory. There was a boy attending by the name of Joe Johnson. In age Joe

was between fifteen and sixteen. He was quiet, meditative, awkward--the

victim of many tricks, the butt of many jokes. One day Dowling ordered

all who could write to turn to their desks and within half an hour to

produce a verse of original poetry, or as near an approach to it as they

were able to go. We had learned that for Dowling to command was for us

to obey. I was sitting next to Joe. After meditating a few moments he

rapidly wrote the following:--

"I saw the devil flying to the south,

With Mr. Dowling in his mouth;

He paused awhile and dropped the fool,

And left him here to teach a common school."

I looked over Joe's shoulder and read as he wrote, and when he had

completed the verse--oblivious to the conditions--I laughed outright.

Mr. Dowling, with vigorous application of his hazel regulator, soon

restored my reckoning, and indicated my true latitude and longitude. Mr.

Dowling read Joe's poetry to the school, to show the ingratitude of the

pupil to his preceptor; but the matter was otherwise received by the

older pupils, and it was dropped. This incident no doubt revealed to Joe

that he possessed poetic ability of the highest order. Joe, after he had

arrived at manhood's estate, published a small volume of poems full of

wit, beauty of description, and pleasing satire.

I attended the district school in the winter and worked on the farm in

the spring, summer and fall, until I was eighteen years of age, when I

left the farm and enrolled myself as a student at the Albion College, a

Methodist institution strict in its discipline, thorough in its

teachings, and of good repute for its excellent educational work. I was

there over four years, but did not graduate because of failing health.

In measuring up intellectually with a host of other young men in debate

and composition, I was inspired with the faint hope that I might at

least win a few victories in the actual conflict of life. I gave much

attention to the languages, and was especially proficient in Greek and

Latin. I had an inclination and love for that line of study. I did not,

however, neglect the exact sciences, but I had no intuition assisting in

that direction. What I know of mathematics, and my studies in that line

were quite extensive, is the result of pure reasoning. If proper here,

let me observe that the best teacher of the exact sciences is he who

obtains a knowledge of them as I did, because he will more fully

appreciate all the difficulties met with by the ordinary student.

He who intuitively sees the relation of numbers, form and quantity,

needs but little, if any, assistance from a teacher. It is he who, by

slow and laborious process of correct reasoning, discovers or unfolds

these relations, that needs the sympathetic assistance of a teacher.

I left school because my physician thought I needed more ozone than

Greek--more oxygen and sunshine than Latin, and more and better physical

development for any success in life's arduous work and its strenuous

conflicts. While under the care of Nature's physician, I spent most of

my time in hunting and fishing, with occasional work on the farm. This

continued for nearly a year. The treatment was beneficial, and I enjoyed

it. During this time I received an invitation from a literary society in

the town to deliver before them a lecture, on such subject as I might

choose and on such evening as I might designate. I accepted the

invitation, and chose as my subject "The Eclectic Scholar." I named a

day one month ahead. As this was my first appearance before a public

audience, and that, too, composed of the companions and acquaintances of

my youth--the most unpropitious of all audiences for a young man to

face--I spent nearly the entire month in the preparation of that

address. I will not attempt to give its substance or a skeleton of the

topics discussed. It was published in the local paper with flattering

comments, but I have neither the manuscript nor a copy. My first

intention was to read it, but I finally concluded to commit it to

memory, and to deliver it without the aid of the manuscript. An incident

occurred in this connection that, annoying as it was to me at the time,

I cannot omit. After the address had been memorized, I went to a dense

copse on the land of Mr. Parker, selected a small opening and delivered

the address with proper gesticulations to the surrounding saplings,

thinking no human ear or eye heard or saw me; but I was mistaken. Old

man Parker was out pheasant hunting. He was near me when I commenced to

speak, and, quickly concealing himself, saw and heard from his ambush

the whole performance. When I picked up my hat to go, he arose, came

into full view, clapped his hands and said, as he approached me, "Well

done, Orange." As I was not in a conversational mood I did not tarry. At

the appointed time I had a full audience. A vote of thanks was tendered

me and a request for a copy for publication. Since that time I have

learned that many of the great addresses of the world by orators, and

statesmen, are first carefully written, then memorized, then repeated in

front of mirrors, before delivery to the audiences for whom they were

intended.

Late in the fall of this year I concluded to study law, and to make its

exposition and practice my life work. With this end in view I entered

the office of Hon. John C. Howe, of Lima, La Grange County, Indiana.

Here let me say by way of parenthesis, that our esteemed brother lawyer,

James B. Howe of Seattle, is a near relative of his. A brief description

of my preceptor may be admissible. He was a quiet, somewhat reserved

man, and a great student. Though inclined to be taciturn, yet, when in

the mood, his conversation was charming. I have often thought his mind

was a little sluggish in its ordinary movement; but, let it be

stimulated by an important case or a large fee, and he seemed to be,

like Massena, almost inspired. It is said of Napoleon's great Marshal

that in the ordinary affairs of life he was a dull and even a stupid

man; but that when he saw the smoke of battle, and heard the roar of

cannon, the rattling of musketry, and saw the gleam of bayonets in the

hands of the charging legions, he was seemingly inspired, and never,

amid the roar and tumult of battle, made a mistake. In a sense this was

true of my preceptor. He was of strong physique and could work with an

intensified industry that approached genius. He possessed great power of

generalization and could readily reduce complicated and voluminous facts

to their proper classes, and thus completely master them. Few men in

American history have possessed this ability in a pre-eminent degree. I

might, among the few, mention John C. Calhoun and Oliver P. Morton of

Indiana. Another characteristic of my preceptor was his preferential

love of English Reports and English authors; hence, in addition to

Blackstone's Commentaries, I read Starkey on Evidence; Chitty and

Stephen on Pleadings; Chitty on Contracts, on Notes, and Bills of

Exchange; Coke on Littleton; Hale's Pleas to the Crown; Archibald on

Criminal Law; Lord Redesdale's Equity Pleadings and Jurisprudence; and

Seldon on Practice. I read Dr. Lushington's Admiralty Reports.

Seemingly, I had no use for admiralty, living as I did in the inland

empire; but I found such knowledge of great use after I was appointed to

a Judgeship in Washington Territory. A little brushing-up and some

additional reading enabled me to try the admiralty causes brought before

me to the satisfaction of the bar. I cannot close this brief reference

to my law preceptor without the narration of an incident in which he was

one of the principal actors. The sheriff of St. Joseph County, Michigan,

had been elected for four consecutive terms, and it was alleged and

conceded that he was a defaulter in a large amount. He had given a

different set of bondsmen for each term, and the question arose which of

these sets was responsible. My preceptor was employed by the county; the

bondsmen, of which my father was one, employed Columbus Lancaster,

afterwards a delegate to Congress from Washington Territory, and one of

the judges in the provisional government of Oregon. Lancaster was a

witty and eloquent speaker and a successful trial lawyer. As the case

was an important one, and the counsel distinguished, many lawyers

attended the trial. At that time the laws of Michigan gave three

justices of the peace, sitting in bank, all of the powers, by the

consent of the parties, of the Superior Court. This was a trial before

such tribunal. But little evidence was taken, just enough to raise the

legal questions involved. The argument of Howe was clear, compact and

to my mind conclusive. It had for its basis English authorities and

cases. Lancaster answered in an eloquent and witty speech, and after a

brief reply from Howe the case was submitted. The justices retired, but

in a short time returned. Their judgment was for the defendants. Howe

was manifestly disappointed and he said to Lancaster: "I will offer

this: You may choose any three from the lawyers present, and we will

re-argue the question and I will agree to abide by their decision." The

answer of Lancaster was characteristic; he said: "I never run all day to

catch a rabbit, and then let him go just to see whether I can catch him

again."

Both of these men have long since been gathered to their fathers. They

were just men and true, and in ability far above the average.

I was admitted to the bar in the fall of 1850. Under the laws of

Michigan at that time, admission to the bar was not necessary to

practice law in that State, but it was the usual and dignified course.

The class seeking admission was quite a large one; most of them, in fact

all of them save myself, were old lawyers seeking admission in the

regular and time-sanctified order. An afternoon was given by Judge Wing,

who presided, for the hearing of the petition of the applicants. The

Judge and the Bar were the examiners. They all took a free hand. I

thought I could discover a disposition on the part of the Judge and the

Bar to put the old practitioners, whose knowledge of elementary

principles had been somewhat dimmed by the lapse of years, at a

disadvantage as compared with the accuracy of a young man fresh from the

books. Hence, many questions were rushed to me for a full and accurate

statement of the text-books, which in most cases I was able to give, to

the manifest pleasure of the examiners. We were all admitted. In

anticipation of so propitious a result, we had provided a banquet for

Bench and Bar. At its conclusion the Judge said, "a motion for a new

trial would be in order, and if such motion was made he would take it

under advisement till the next term of the court, when he had but little

doubt that it would be granted."

After my admission to the Bar I diligently continued my legal studies,

confining myself, however, almost exclusively to American Reports and

authors, such as Kent's Commentaries; Story on the Constitution, on

Equity Jurisprudence and Pleadings; Greenlief on Evidence; Gould on the

Form and the Logic of Pleadings; Bishop on Criminal Law; and many

others. I have continued this extensive reading during all of my

professional career when books were at hand. Looking back from a

standpoint of eighty years' time, I am satisfied that I have read too

much, and reflected, reasoned, analyzed, generalized and thoroughly

digested too little. I often think of the saying of Locke, the

philosopher, that if he had read as much as other men he would have

known as little as they. There is much truth in this statement. To read

without thought, without reflection, without analysis and a thorough

digest of what one reads, is a waste of time. More, it weakens the

memory, does not accumulate knowledge, and incapacitates the mind for

serious work. While I have no admiration for a correctly-styled "case

lawyer," yet, were I to live my professional career over again, I would

get my legal principles from a small but well-selected library of

authors of established repute; and then I would consult leading cases on

each topic or subject, as a help for their proper and logical

application. The practice of law consists in the application of a

well-defined legal principle to a certain combination of facts. Whether

the principle applies is a question for the courts; whether the facts

that enter into the definition exist is a question for the jury. But, as

I am not writing a legal treatise, I leave the topic here.

My father caught the gold fever, and early in the spring of 1849 started

with an ox-team across the plains to the gold-fields of California. He

returned in the winter of 1851-2, having been moderately successful. For

many years I had been a sufferer from neuralgia. Its painful development

was in the forehead. I was a pale and emaciated specimen of the genus

homo, weighing less than 150 pounds. My father was of the opinion that

the air of the Pacific Coast was rich in ozone, and his physical

appearance indicated that his judgment was sound. "Go west, my son," he

said; "go to Oregon--not to California--for you would amount to nothing

as a miner. You will be subject to a continual alkaline bath on the

plains, and this will prepare you for the renovating effects of the

salubrious air of the Pacific Coast." My father was not a physician, but

I readily consented to take his prescription, provided he would pay the

doctor's bill. This he willingly consented to do. I soon found three

other young men who had the Oregon fever in its incipient stages. It

soon became fixed and constitutional, and they determined to go. A wagon

was soon constructed under my father's direction--light but strong, with

a bed water-tight and removable, so that it could be used as a boat for

ferrying purposes; a strong cover for the wagon, and a tent which in

case of storm could be fastened to the wagon to supplement the

effectiveness of the cover. Each furnished a span of light, tough and

dark-colored horses. White was not allowed on account of their alleged

want of toughness and durability. Each was allowed two full suits of

clothes and no more, and two pair of double blankets and no more. The

object was to prevent overloading. Each was to have a rifle or shotgun,

or both, and a pistol and sheath-knife. I am thus particular, because in

this day of railroads and Pullman cars, these things are fast passing

from memory.

On the first of March, 1852, we left Sturgis, Michigan. Our first point

of destination was Cainesville on the Missouri River. We did our own

cooking and slept in our wagon when the weather was clement; at hotels

and farm houses when it was inclement. None of us had ever tried our

hand at cooking before, and our development along that line had a good

deal of solid fact, and but little poetry in it. We could put more

specific gravity into a given bulk of bread than any scientific cook on

earth. Taken in quantity, it would test the digestive energies of an

ostrich; but we took it in homeopathic doses. We lived in the open air

and survived, as our knowledge of the culinary art rapidly increased.

The moral of this mournful tale is:--mothers, teach your sons to do at

least ordinary cooking; they may many times bless you in the

ever-shifting, and strenuous conflict of life.

I was born and reared in a cold climate; but when the mercury fell, the

atmosphere lost its moisture; and while the wind was fierce and biting,

it was dry. You can protect yourself against such cold; but when you

come to face the cold, damp, fierce and penetrating winds that sweep

over the prairies of Illinois and Iowa when winter is departing, they

find you, and chill you through any kind or reasonable quantity of

clothing.

On account of snow-storms we stopped for a week, in the latter part of

March, at a farm-house in the outer settlements of Iowa. The people were

intelligent and refined. Our hostess had two lovely daughters, and we

young men were at home. Prairie chickens were very abundant in the

vicinity, and with my shotgun I more than kept the family supplied while

there. Our hostess was a good cook and we lived high. A short distance

away was a log school-house also used for a church, and we accompanied

the family to church on Sunday. The minister was a Methodist

circuit-rider; and while he was not an eloquent man and did not, like

Wirt's blind preacher, in the wilds of Virginia, tell us with streaming

eyes that "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a

God," yet with force and emphasis he preached Christ and Him crucified

for a sinful world. This was the first church service we had attended

since leaving home, and it gave us all a touch of homesickness.

As soon as the storm abated and the weather gave indications of more

sunshine and less downpour, we bade adieu to our hostess and her fair

daughters, and journeyed slowly onward over horrid roads towards

Cainesville. We arrived at this bustling outfitting town on the 23rd of

April. We found there a large number of persons and prairie schooners,

but most of them were on a voyage to the gold-fields of California. By

diligent inquiry I found seventeen wagons, with an average of four

persons to the wagon, whose destination was Oregon. We agreed to cross

the Missouri River on the 2nd day of May, and on the afternoon of that

day we were all safely landed on the western shore. We were now beyond

the realm of social constraint, conventional usage, and the reign of the

law. It was interesting to me to note the effect of this condition upon

a few men in our party. They seemed to exult in their so-called freedom.

They spoke of the restraining influence of organized society as tyranny,

and of the government of law as government by force. A meeting for

organization was called for that evening. I was elected chairman, and in

response to a request for my views, I said, that we on the morrow were

to start on a journey of over two thousand miles through an Indian

country; and while it was reported that the tribes through whose country

we were to pass were at peace with the whites, yet it was a sound maxim,

in the time of peace to be prepared for war; and that our safety, and

that of our property, depended upon our strictness, watchfulness and

unity of action, and these beneficial results could only be secured by

organization; hence I proposed that, without being myself a candidate

for any position and not desiring any, we organize ourselves into a

semi-military company by the election of a captain and a first and

second lieutenant. A motion was made in accordance with the views

expressed by me, and seconded; I declared it open for discussion. One of

the persons mentioned above, who thought he had just enhaled the air of

perfect freedom, arose and said that he was opposed to the motion; he

did not propose to be lorded over by any one; he would be governed by

his own judgment and wishes. I replied that we did not propose to lord

it over any one, but to govern in all ordinary matters by common

consent, and in all matters by the laws of safety and decent morals. The

motion was put and it was carried with only five dissenting votes. A

vote was taken by ballot for Captain, and to my astonishment I received

all the votes but two--one of which was cast by myself for a gentleman

who had crossed the plains and who had returned to the States to get

married, and, having accomplished that purpose, was returning with his

wife and an unmarried sister of hers to his home in Oregon City; the

other vote, presumptively, was cast by a gentleman that, on account of

his military appearance and the arsenal of weapons which he carried on

his person, and his alleged thirst for Indian blood, we styled Colonel.

As the Colonel was an open candidate for the office, the opinion

prevailed that he had voted for himself. The first and second

lieutenants were soon elected and a quasi-military organization was soon

formed. The first lieutenant was unpopular with the men. He was a good

man, but possessed no fitness for the position; he had much of the

_fortiter in re_, but none of the _suaviter in modo_. The second

lieutenant was a doctor by profession and was eminently fitted for the

position; he was calm, cool in danger, discreet in words and action, and

courageous in conduct. Thus equipped, the next morning at eight o'clock

we rolled out and made about twenty miles; we camped on a plateau

covered with grass and by a brooklet of pure, cold spring water. The

second and third days were but repetitions of the first. The fourth day

we reached the Loup Fork, a large tributary of the Platte. We ferried

over it successfully and resumed our journey across the valley of rather

low but rich land, still covered in places with a mass of tall dry

grass, the fading glory of last year's beneficence. We were in the

Pawnee country. When we were about two and one-half or three miles from

the river, from seventy-five to a hundred Indians arose suddenly out of

the grass, stopped our teams, and by their unearthly yelling came near

stampeding our horses. We were caught unprepared. We did not expect to

meet hostiles, or even troublesome Indians within an hundred miles of

the Missouri River. Many of the guns were not loaded. A lame chief,

pretty well dressed in buck-skin, with a sword by his side, a pistol in

his belt, a fine rifle in his hand, and a photograph of ex-President

Fillmore, in a metallic frame, on his breast, was in command of the

Indians. He, and three subordinate chiefs were standing near the head of

the train, and I sent the doctor--the second lieutenant--and another

discreet person to confer with them and ascertain what this meant. The

other Indians in open order extended the full length of the train, and

were about five rods away. All had bows and arrows or firearms. They

used the weapons in their movements, with incessant yelling, in a

menacing manner. All things being in readiness, I went to where the

doctor and his companions and the chiefs were, near the head of the

train. I asked the doctor what they wanted. He answered that they wanted

one cow brute, a large quantity of sugar, tobacco and corn, for the

privilege of crossing their country. They were in a squatting position,

marking on the ground the boundaries of the country claimed by them. I

told the doctor that we had no cow brute and could not give one; that we

had but little sugar and tobacco, and could spare none; that if they

wanted corn to plant, we would give them a sack of shelled corn, and no

more. They understood what I said, and quickly sprang to their feet and

covered the doctor and myself with their guns. I had a double-barreled

shotgun by my side. I seized it; but before I could get it into

position, the muzzles of the guns were lowered, the yelling ceased, and

the sack of corn was accepted as toll. This was to me a new and rather

startling application of the doctrine of _posse comitatus_ for the

enforcement of an unadjudicated demand; but I have since learned that

civilized nations use battleships and cannon for that purpose.

The great Carlyle declares that if a person possess a quality in a high

degree, whether that quality be mental or physical, he is unconscious of

the fact; but if he be deficient in any quality, either moral or

physical, he is always conscious of the deficiency; and, seeming to act

on the supposition that what he feels so distinctly, he fears others

might perceive, he is constantly hedging: therefore, a dishonest man is

always talking about his honesty, and a coward about his bravery. All

the men of our company behaved well but one, and that one was "the

Colonel." I cannot refrain from recalling an incident connected with

him. I have mentioned the unmarried lady who was accompanying her sister

to her Western home. She was sitting in the wagon with the reins in her

hand and a pistol in her lap, during all the excitement and uproar. As I

passed up and down the train, I saw the Colonel, either at the rear or

on the side of the wagons, away from the yelling Indians. The last time

I passed the wagon, the Colonel stuck his head out from the opposite

side and asked, "What are you going to do, Captain?" I said, "Fight,

sir, if necessary." The young lady, looking at him, exclaimed: "Yes,

sir; fight if necessary. Get on the other side of the wagon; be a man!"

Although the Colonel subsequently, by his conduct at Shell Creek,

partially redeemed his reputation, yet the insinuating jeers of the men,

as to which was the safer side of the wagon, kept him in hot water, and,

taking my advice, he left the train after the passage of Shell Creek,

at the first opportunity. It was a good riddance, for a coward driven to

bay, and constantly wounded by the shafts of ridicule, is dangerous.

Our toll having been paid and the excitement having abated, we resumed

our journey across the Loup Fork valley and over the slightly elevated

high land that separate its waters from the Platte. We descended from

this high land by an easy grade, and made an early camp. Wood, water and

grass were abundant.

We knew that a large ox-train, consisting of forty wagons or more and

known as the Hopkins train, would cross the Loup Fork the next morning.

There were quite a number of women and children in the train; hence our

gallantry, as well as our bravery, prompted assistance. Further, we had

concluded that it was wise to travel in larger bodies through the

country of the Pawnees. According to our estimate, this train would

arrive at the danger point, or toll gate, between ten and eleven o'clock

a. m. Thirty of us volunteered to go back, to assist in case of

difficulty. We were mostly mounted and ready for the start, when we saw

a horseman rapidly approaching us, and we rode out to meet him. He told

us that the Hopkins train had been attacked by the Indians, that two of

his company had been seriously, if not mortally, wounded; and he asked

for a doctor. The doctor was with us and readily consented to go, after

returning to the wagon for instruments and medicine he might need. The

rest of dashed up the gentle slope--hurry-scurry, pell-mell. At the top

we slackened our speed for observation. We saw that the Indians had

abandoned the conflict and were hurrying to the river, on the further

side of which was their village. The occasional puff and report of a

white man's rifle, at long and ineffective range, no doubt quickened

their speed. We struck out on an acute angle to cut them off from the

river, but failed. Those in boats had either reached or were near the

other shore, some three or four hundred yards away; those in the water

swam with the current and were practically out of danger: the boys,

however, took some shots at the retreating heads. I think no Indian was

killed or wounded by the shooting, but some of the boys were of a

different opinion. We were at the river bank but a short time; but

before we left it, the lame chief and his two subalterns, mentioned

above, came down to the opposite shore, raised their hands to show that

they had no weapons, then jumped into a canoe and rapidly crossed the

river to us. They asked permission to go up with us to see their dead

and to care for their wounded. The chief said five Indians were dead and

many wounded. We saw but three dead and two slightly wounded. Two white

men were wounded--one with a flint-headed arrow in the chest, the other

shot with a large ball through the fleshy part of the thigh close to the

bone. Although the arrow-head had entered the chest cavity, it had not

pierced any vital organ, and recovery was rapid; the other wound was of

a complex character, which I cannot mention, and was dangerous if not

mortal. This man was slowly recovering, however, while he remained with

us and under the doctor's assiduous care. What the final result was I

never knew. The wounded having been attended to, the train was soon on

the move for our camp. After a consultation held that evening, it was

agreed that we should travel together through the Pawnee country, and

that I should have general control of our united forces.

Shell Creek, which was full five days' travel ahead, was said to be one

of the boundary lines separating the country of the Pawnees from that of

the Sioux. Notices stuck up along the road warned us to look out for the

Pawnees at Shell Creek. It was their last toll-collecting station. This

fact and their difficulty with the Hopkins train put us on our guard.

From what we saw of the action of the Indians, there were manifest

indications, that they were collecting at Shell Creek. We saw every day

on the opposite side of the river, long lines of them journeying towards

that point. In the afternoon of the fifth day after our union, we

arrived on the plain, through which the creek had cut its way to the

Platte River. We made a corral with our wagons, some seventy-five or

eighty rods from the creek.

A few small flags of different colors were floating from the top of the

bank descending to the creek, indicating that the Indians were there. I

called for seventy-five volunteers to go with me to the crossing. I am

glad to say that the Colonel promptly stepped forward; and more than the

requisite number offered to go. Where the road crosses Shell Creek

valley, if it is proper so to call it, it is from fifteen to twenty feet

below the general face of the country, the valley not being over four or

five rods in width. It is a small stream, but its shallow waters flow

over a bed of treacherous quick sand. The earlier immigrants had cut

down the nearly perpendicular bank so as to make the descent and ascent

practicable, to and from, the narrow valley. They had also, from the

nearby timber in the valley of the Platte River, obtained stringers,

placed them across the creek, and covered them with heavy split or hewn

cottonwood puncheons.

I formed my volunteers in a line, open order, and facing the crossing.

In this order we marched quite rapidly towards the creek until we were

eight or ten rods away, when an order of double quick was given,--we

dashed down to the bank, and found from seventy-five to a hundred

Indians, all armed, at different points along the bank and near the

crossing. We covered them with our rifles and shotguns. There was an

ominous silence for a short time. They soon arose, however, and all but

two crossed the creek and went to a bald knoll a short distance below

the crossing. One or two started to come up to us, but we waved them

off. The puncheons had been removed from the stringers and thrown into

an irregular pile on the further side of the creek. Two Indians stood

upon the pile. I asked for two young men to go down to replace the

puncheons. Quite a number volunteered. I selected one standing near me,

and another called Brad. Both were stalwart and muscular. Brad was a

great boaster, but a noted exception to Carlyle's rule. He was as

courageous as a lion. The puncheons were thick, water-soaked and heavy.

One of the two Indians standing upon them departed as Brad and his

companion approached; the other, silent and sullen, maintained his

position on the pile, and when Brad took hold of the end of a puncheon

he walked down to that end, thus compelling Brad to lift him as well as

the puncheon. Someone said "hit him, Brad." I thought the order a proper

one; so I said nothing. Brad, who was great in a power emanating from

the shoulder and culminating in the knuckles of the hand, struck, with

all his force, the Indian on the point of the jaw; the Indian fell to

the ground a limpid heap, and did not recover until nearly all of the

puncheons had been replaced. When he arose his face was covered with

blood from either the effect of the blow or his fall. He walked slowly

towards the knoll where the other Indians were, and his appearance among

them created quite a sensation and uproar. It was manifest that there

was no unity of purpose, or action among them. As soon as the bridge was

repaired we crossed over with four-fifths of the men; the other

one-fifth went back to help bring up the train, and to assist in the

crossing if necessary. I left the command with the doctor, and as the

evening was fast approaching I selected a camp about one-half of a mile

beyond the crossing, where grass, water and wood were plentiful. The

first lieutenant superintended the camping. When I returned I found that

the doctor had "the lame chief" and two other younger chiefs as

prisoners. They had crossed the line marked out by him, and he retained

them as hostages. The lame chief was somewhat reconciled to his lot, but

the young men were taciturn and sullen. The lame chief knew English and

talked it sufficiently well for us to understand him. I told him that we

would give them plenty to eat, with blankets upon which they could

sleep, and that we would part as friends in the morning. I told him

further that if the Indians attacked us that night he and the two young

chiefs would be killed. I told him that he could control the Indians,

and that we required him to do it. All of this was said to him in a most

positive and emphatic manner, and he communicated it to the younger

chiefs. I asked him what so many Indians, all armed, had come away from

their villages and to the boundary of their country for? He said the

Indians had no bad feelings towards the horse-train, but they had come

to make the cow-train pay for the killed and wounded in the fight at

Loup Fork. He said that they did not expect to find us with the

cowtrain. Certain it is, that every circumstance pointed to the

conclusion that had not our train been present, the Hopkins train would

have been compelled to contribute largely, or would have had another

fight more disastrous, perhaps, than the first. The night was made

hideous by the almost constant yelling of the Indians. I remained up

until eleven, when I retired, worn out and with an acute attack of

neuralgic head-ache. After a time I slept or dozed, notwithstanding the

uproar. The doctor also had gone to his wagon. The first lieutenant was

in command. About three o'clock he came to my wagon, and requested me to

get up; he feared, he said, an attack. The Indians, he informed me, were

already approaching us. I found that the warriors had left the strip of

timber on the river and were within one hundred yards of our

picket-line. I went around the camp and found nearly everyone awake and

up. I then went with the lame chief and his guard to the picket-line. I

told him to tell the Indians, that they must not come any nearer. The

chief began to speak immediately and continued to talk for two minutes

or more; and while we did not understand what he said, the tumult

ceased, and from thence on, comparative quiet prevailed. In the morning

we gave our hostages a good breakfast and presented them with a cow

brute so lame that it could not travel farther. I saw it killed. An

Indian with a strong, and to me almost inflexible bow, threw himself on

his back, holding the steel or iron-pointed arrow with both hands

against the string of the bow, and with his feet springing it sent the

arrow deep into the heart of the animal, which fell at his feet. This

was the first exhibition I had ever seen of the power of the bow as a

weapon and life-extinguisher. At short range, with a cool nerve, with a

full quiver, a person thus armed would be a dangerous foe.

We got an early start the next morning. We bade our hostages good-bye

without regret, and entered onto the land of the Sioux with hopeful

satisfaction. We journeyed full twenty miles that day, and camped on a

treeless plain with good water and plenty of grass, but no wood save

buffalo chips. This want of wood was to continue for hundreds of miles.

It was amusing at first, to see the ladies handle the buffalo chips.

They literaly cooked with their gloves on. But the principle announced

by the poet soon asserted itself:

"Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,

As to be hated, needs but to be seen;

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

We first endure, then pity, then embrace."

I do not mean to say that they embraced this fuel; only that they used

it as they would other fuel--simply obeying a law of necessity and

enduring it.

This morning we parted from the Hopkins train, got an early start and

made a late camp over twenty miles away.

Early in the commencement of our jurney to the sunset land, I organized

a hunting party of four good shots, two of whom I was personally

acquainted with and knew that they were well qualified for their

position; the other two were chosen on the recommendation of their

acquaintances and friends. This selection turned out to be not only

harmonious, but a fit and proper one. They organized by the election of

the doctor and myself as alternate captains, expecting that one of us

would accompany them on each day's hunt. The work was exciting, with a

dash of danger in it, and was arduous. Heretofore there had been no

opportunity for the proof of their skill. This day, having determined

from our guide-book where to camp, I accompanied them to the hills.

Shortly after noon the hunters came across a small herd of buffalo in a

gully where there was a little pool of seepage water, and succeeded in

killing two--one a yearling, the other a barren cow. I was not in at the

killing, but I succeeded soon after in ending the swift-bounding career

of a fine antelope. We cut the meat from the carcass of the two buffalo

and placed it in sacks or rather strong saddle-bags made for that

purpose. The bones, neck and horns, save tongue, as well as the hide,

were left to be more thoroughly cleaned and devoured by wolves, the

ever-ready scavengers of the plains. My trophy of this day's hunt, minus

the head and neck, was strapped to the saddle of my horse, and thus by

her, grudgingly, borne into camp; but she became accustomed to such

work, and protested only at the stinging tightness of the cinch. This

was our first ration of fresh meat since crossing the Missouri River.

The meat was a treat, fat, juicy and tender. Two days after this the

hunters, accompanied by the doctor, at an early hour started for the

hills. They returned in the early evening, each with an antelope on his

saddle. They saw plenty of buffalo, but could not approach them

sufficiently near to get an effective shot. The meat of the antelope,

while not as rich and juicy as that of the buffalo, is in the spring of

the year, when the grass is green, sweet and tender. It is of much finer

grain than that of the buffalo; and the animal is more select in his

appetite, eating only the finer grass, with a delicate flavoring of the

finest sage, which in many cases was quite distinguishable. I remember

that not many years ago the choicest beeves were steers fattened on the

rich and luxuriant bunch-grass of the hills, which a week or ten days

before marketing were driven to and herded in the valleys where the

small sage abounds. They ate it not as a matter of first choice, but of

necessity. Such beef, to the epicures, was the realization of a

long-felt want.

The work of the hunters was strenuous, and as a partial compensation for

their longer hours, and the beneficent results of the successful work by

them, they were excused from guard-duty in the night. To this all

agreed.

On the second day after the doctor's debut as a hunter, I accompanied

the hunters to the hills. We did not find game plentiful, but we

occasionally caught the glimpse of an antelope bounding away out of

range. The day was excessively hot. Late in the afternoon, however, the

hunters started a large buffalo bull from the channel of a dry creek, he

ran up the channel towards me; and as he attempted to pass me a few rods

away, I fired and struck him in the heart, and he staggered, lunged and

fell. This was my first buffalo, and I was, of course, elated with my

luck. The hunters would probably have killed him had it not been for my

fortunate intervention, for they were in close pursuit on the higher

plateau on either side, and were fast converging towards him. He could

have scarcely run in safety, the gauntlet of four such expert riflemen.

As it was, however, the honor was mine. The pelt or robe was large and

very fine, but we were compelled to leave it and the stripped bones to

be devoured by the waiting wolves. From thence on until we crossed the

Rocky Mountains, we had a liberal supply of fresh meat, consisting of

antelope, buffalo, a few deer, three elk, one brown bear, and one

bighorn Rocky Mountain sheep, or goat.

So far as travel was concerned, each day was but the tiresome repetition

of the preceding one, with very slight variations. When we arrived at

Fort Laramie we stopped for some three or four hours. We crossed the

river and made a friendly visit to the officers of the fort. We found

them to be true American soldiers and gentlemen. The commandant told us

that he had heard of the Pawnee difficulty, and had sent an officer and

a squad of soldiers to enquire into the affair. He was very anxious to

hear from us a statement of the whole matter. I gave him as full a

statement as I was able to, and both of us were of the opinion that it

was precipitated by the want of proper discipline and control of the men

in the train. This may not be very flattering to the white men, but it

is the truth, notwithstanding.

I am not a military man, but I was not impressed with the idea that

Laramie, surrounded as it is by an amphitheatre of commanding hills, was

a fit site for a fort. As against an enemy with modern artillery, I

thought it to be hopelessly defenceless. As against Indians it possibly

might do. But then, I knew nothing of Plevna, similarly situated, and so

heroically defended by the Turks against a superior and well-equipped

Russian army.

Leaving Fort Laramie, we now entered the Black Hills country. After a

two-days' journey in the hills, finding grass, water and wood in great

abundance, we concluded to rest for two days for laundry and

recuperative purposes. Our horses began to show the effects of the

journey, and the want of their accustomed food. No animal has the power

of endurance of man, unless it may be the wolf, "whose long gallop,"

says the poet, "can tire the hounds' deep hate and hunter's fire."

On the first day of our rest I accompanied the hunters into the hills

for game. About three miles from camp, on a wooded side-hill, they came

across a band of fifteen or more of elk and succeeded in killing three

of them. I was not in at the killing, but caught a distant view of the

noble antlered monarchs of the forest, as they sped away to deeper and

safer retreats in the depths of the woods. As we did not kill for the

love of slaughter, but for food, we declared the day's hunt a success,

and prepared our meat for transportation to the camp, in the usual

manner. I have killed quite a number of elk since that time in the

mountains of Oregon, but I have never seen one larger than one of those,

although I have seen much larger and finer antlers than adorned the

heads of any of them. The purpose of the antlers, in my judgment, is not

to furnish the animal a weapon in fight, but as a protection to his

shoulders as he dashes through the brush in flight from an enemy or in

pursuit of his mate. When he moves swiftly he elevates his nose until

his face is nearly in a line with his back; the antlers, extending back

on each side of the shoulders, thus affording them protection. The bucks

always lead in such flights, and to a certain extent open the way; hence

the females have no need, or not so much need, of such protection.

Somewhat disappointed with my failure to get a shot at an elk on the

preceding day, I again accompanied the hunters. We made a wide circuit

through the hills, some of which were covered with timber, while others

were bald. That it was a country abounding in game was manifest in the

signs appearing everywhere. We saw a few antelope in full flight and out

of range; we also startled from his sylvan couch a black-tailed buck,

being the first of the deer kind seen in our journey. One of the hunters

sent a ball after him as he bounded through the brush and timber, but,

unscathed, he dashed on. As the day was fast waning we turned our

horses' heads campward, and commenced the ascent of quite a high hill to

take an observation of our latitude and longitude, and also to determine

the exact location of our camp and the best route to it. The western

side of this hill was covered with brush and fallen and dead timber.

While we were standing on the top viewing the topography of the

surrounding country, a large cinnamon bear, affrighted by our presence,

started from his lair, and in all probability his patrimonial jungle,

and dashed at a furious speed down through the brush and over the logs

and rocks of this steep side-hill. We emptied our rifles at him as he

plunged downward at such headlong speed. But one ball struck him and

that broke his right shoulder, much diminishing his speed and almost

entirely destroying his climbing powers. We soon came upon him at the

foot of the hill in a bad humor, but we quickly ended his career. He was

in fine condition; his estimated weight was from 275 to 300 pounds. We

removed the pelt, with his feet, and took them into camp as a matter of

curiosity; we also took the meat into camp, but it was not much

relished. The hide as well as most of the meat was given to begging

Indians.

At Laramie a man and his wife and one child--a little girl between seven

and eight years of age--asked permission to travel with us. The man had

started the year before, got as far as Laramie and had remained there

during the winter. His team consisted of four yoke of young oxen, well

conditioned for the trip. He had a hired man to drive them. He had a

band of forty heifers and cows. Many of the cows were giving milk;

thinking a little milk in our coffee would give it a home flavor, we

readily acceded to the request. We helped him to drive his loose stock

and do the milking. When we asked her, by politeness called his better

half, for a small quantity of milk, we found that we were dealing with a

Shylock. She had milk for sale, but not to give away. We were about to

strike when the husband intimated that our canteens were useful. We took

the hint, and after that, somehow, our coffee changed its color. To cut

this narration short, let me say that while he was six feet tall and

well proportioned, he stood still higher in the class of

antivertebrates--henpecked nincompoops--than any specimen of the genus

homo I have ever known; and she stood higher in her class of imperious

virago. How a child, sweet in her disposition, and lovable in all her

ways, could be the issue of such a union, was a mystery to us all.

Afterwards I had the pleasure of saving the little girl from drowning in

the crossing of Port Neuf near Fort Hall. A majority of the company

voted to go by way of Fort Hall and to cross the Port Neuf near its

junction with the Snake, instead of crossing it higher up, thus keeping

continuously on the highlands. I protested, but finally yielded to this

almost unanimous desire. I think the agreeable companionship of some of

the factors of the company with whom we had become acquainted, at Soda

or Steamboat Springs on Bear River, had much to do with this

determination. From the Fort, where we were hospitably entertained, to

the bluff and road beyond the Port Neuf was about five miles. The water

of the Snake and the Port Neuf had but recently overflowed the valley

between the two, and left it a miry quicksand morass, almost impossible

of passing. It took us three days of hard labor and strenuous efforts to

reach the bluffs. The heavily-loaded wagon of the nincompoop and the

virago was almost constantly mired. We had little to do with him, but

with her it was a constant conflict. At last we got her wagon to the

river. He was on the highlands with the loose stock. The river for

twenty feet or more was from seven to ten feet in depth. With a true

team and a proper wagon this space could be safely passed. Her team,

however, consisting of a horse and a mule, when they reached deep water

made a lunge, then balked. The wagon filled with water and the current

turned it over. She had insisted on driving and on having the little

girl with her in the wagon. When it went over quite a number of us young

men, who had been working nearly all day in our drawers and undershirts,

plunged into the stream, and as we passed over the cover of the sinking

wagon seized it and stripped it from its bows. Close beside me the

little girl popped up; I seized her, and with a few strokes took her to

shore, with no damage done her save a good wetting. It was a question,

for a short time, whether the virago would drown the young men who were

trying to save her, or they would succeed in their efforts. I went to

their assistance and we brought her to the shore, but she needed the

doctor's assistance. She had in ballast more water than was necessary,

and by a rolling process was forced to give it up. Their team having

been safely extricated--the wagon and its contents on shore, and soon

transported to highlands, we found among their contents a large demijohn

of first class brandy, to all appearances never opened, probably

because the Snake country had not been reached; and as the dominant

owner of said brandy was suffering from the too free use of water, we

all drank to the toast, with a delicate courtesy, for her speedy

delivery. Oblivious of the fearful danger of microbes, each tipped the

demijohn at an angle and for a duration of time suited to the occasion.

This spiritual passage having become historic, we hitched up our teams

and journeyed onward to a creek about two miles distant, where we camped

for the night. Next morning we bade a sorrowful adieu to the sweet, and

much-loved and sprightly daughter of our train and our whilom

companions, and resumed our journey down the left bank of the Snake

River. This road led us over a desolate and treeless plain of sage-brush

and grease-wood. The sun, at times, sent down its rays with scorching

power. The alkaline dust, betimes rolled up in suffocating volumes. The

pleasures of the chase were at an end. This dreary and waterless plain

was not the abode of animal life, save the lizard, the horn toad and the

rattlesnake. Game was said to be plentiful in the foothills and

mountains, but they were too far away. The few Indians scattered along

the river and the far-separated and uncertain tributaries had, I am

informed, no organized tribal relation, but were the vagabonds driven

off by contiguous tribes. Their subsistance was precarious, consisting

of fish, grasshoppers, crickets or black locusts, and an occasional

rabbit. But two incidents worthy of narration occurred in our journey

down the river. One was a stampede of our horses by the Indians about

two o'clock a. m. One of the four men detailed to guard them on that

night informed me that he was unwell, and I took his place. The horses

were on excellent grass a little over a mile from camp. A short time

before sundown we rolled up our blankets and with our arms, departed for

our night's work. We all took a careful survey of the surroundings and

the horses, and then two of us rolled ourselves up in our blankets to be

awakened at one o'clock a. m. Promptly at that time we were called. The

watchmen reported that all was well; but the horses seemed a little

restless and uneasy, and the watchmen thought that wolves were prowling

around in the sage-brush, and although unseen by them, the presence of

the wolves was detected by the keener scent and clearer vision of the

horses.

The night was star light and clear. The moon, when our watch commenced,

was just lifting its pale head above the eastern hills. We made a

circuit of the herd and passed among and through them, for some were

spanselled and others had long trail ropes about their necks. Finding

all things in a satisfactory condition, my companion took his position

on the left of the center of the herd, and I a similar position on the

right. Scarcely had we got to our position when a small band, or party,

of Indians suddenly arose from the sage-brush about midway between us,

and, with a wild whoop and flourish of blankets, startled the horses and

sent them, with all the speed they were capable of making, towards the

distant western hills. I fired a shot at long range in the direction of

the perfidious savages, but I am quite certain that it did them no harm.

They immediately disappeared, however, in the thick sage-brush, and I

saw no more of them until I had succeeded in stopping the horses. I got

hold of several trail-ropes, one of which belonged to my favorite riding

mare; I quickly mounted her, and with a dash I was soon in front of the

affrighted animals. I talked to them; they knew my voice and stopped.

The horse looks to his master as his protector. I have seen many proofs

of this fact in my lonely wanderings in the hills and mountains, with no

companion but my faithful horse. Such a horse always knows where you

are; if he does not, he will take your trail and come to you. If in a

strange wood, and you get separated from him, he will often whinny; but

I am digressing.

After having succeeded in stopping the affrighted animals, I took a

careful survey of my desolate surroundings. I saw to my left three

Indians standing on a slightly elevated ground, and I raised my rifle to

fire. They saw my movement and they quickly dropped to the ground. I

sent a bullet as near as I could to the spot; and while I think it did

them no injury, yet it was a notice that I was armed, and an admonition

not to come within range. I was satisfied that they were unarmed, save

with bows and arrows, which, to be effective, required both ambush and a

short range; so, although five or six miles from camp, I was fearful of

neither.

I saw that the horses, hobbled or spanselled, were very much impeded in

their ability to travel, only being able to go by short jumps.

Dismounting, I unbuckled some and cut the hobbles of others. About three

miles from camp I met a rescuing party, among whom was my guard

companion. I was inclined to blame him for not accompanying me in my

wild race, but I have long since forgiven him. Such an incident was not

uncommon in the early migrations to this coast. The attempts were

numerous, but generally not as successful as this one.

The next day, early in the morning, as we were moving slowly along at

the foot of a high and bald ridge, whose top was enveloped in fog, we

heard coming from the top a shrill voice saying in prolonged accents,

"Steal Hoss--God dam!" Some thought it to be the voice of an angel;

others said that if the voice was that of an angel, it must have come

from a fallen angel, because the language was very improper for one

retaining his first estate; while others suggested that it was nothing,

but an extract, or echo from my soliloquy, as I dodged through the

sage-brush and grease-wood on that awful night in hot pursuit, of our

affrighted and fleeing horses. Despite the plausibility of this last

suggestion, I adhere to Lord Byron's contention that the anatheme was

the nucleus of England's native eloquence; and if so, why not of Indian

oratory?

After passing around the point of this angelic ridge, the road diverges

to the westward from Snake River and passes over some high, bald ridges

separating it from Burnt River.

On the afternoon of the 17th of July, an oppressively hot and sultry

day, our train descended from a high and volcanic table land to the

narrow valley of Burnt River in Southeastern Oregon. The way down was

through a long, narrow and treeless canyon into which the sun poured

with focal power. This canyon, and, in fact, Burnt River valley, is the

home of the festive rattlesnake. He is of the large yellow bellied

species, fierce in his war moods, and deadly when, from his spiral coil

battery, "He pours at once his venom and his length."

Impatient with the slow progress we were making, myself and three other

young men that night, resolved that in the morning we would dissolve our

connection with the train, and hasten, with longer marches and

quickened pace, to our journey's end. Accordingly, early the next

morning we packed our provisions, blankets and other personal effects on

our horses, and, bidding adieu to our companions, shouldered our rifles

and, with reliant faith in our ability to protect ourselves, started on.

Our course was up the narrow, silent and gloomy valley of Burnt River.

The banks of the river were fringed with a stunted growth of cottonwood

and poplar. On either side were high and treeless hills of red earth and

rocks, the still remaining evidence of the presence of tremendous

igneous agencies in the far-distant past, and which, no doubt, gave the

river its name. We camped at noon on a small brooklet which came

rollicking down from its canyon home until it reached the valley, and

then, embosomed in willows and tall rye grass, flowed silently on to the

more noisy and pretentious river. A short distance from camp in a sunny

glen we discovered an abundance of service berries and black currants,

large, luscious and fully ripe. Having tasted no fruit of any kind for

over three months, that noonday repast was not only greatly relished by

us, but it awakened associations of home and home life. As we feasted we

talked of sister, mother and the bright-eyed girl far away. All things

enjoyable must have an end.

It was time to move on. On our return to camp we came across a monster

rattlesnake, coiled up and defiant in his lonely home. Having heard it

said that tobacco was a deadly poison to this species of snake, we

concluded to stop long enough to verify or disprove this saying. We cut

some long willow switches and split the smaller end, into which we

fastened a quantity of strong, fine-cut chewing tobacco, moistened so

that the juice would flow freely, and then presented it to his worthy

snakeship with our compliments. He struck it three times viciously. We

could not induce him to strike it any more. He had got a quantity of the

juice and some of the tobacco in his mouth. It manifestly had taken all

the viciousness out of him. He was evidently subjugated. He began slowly

to uncoil, and as he lay at full length a tremor passed over him and he

was seemingly dead; but for fear he might recover we bruised his head,

not with our heels, but with stones.

In stating this little incident I have wandered somewhat from the thread

of my narrative. I do this for two reasons: First, to show that I am a

lover of experimental science; and, secondly, to show that the filthy

weed may be put to a good purpose.

Late that afternoon we made our last camp in the dismal valley of Burnt

River. The next morning we made an early start, and found ourselves on a

high sage-brush plateau just as old Sol was lifting his fiery rim above

the eastern horizon. To me an alkaline plain covered with unsightly

sage-brush, burnt with fervent heat, destitute of water and animate with

no carol of bird, or hum of insect, is the very symbol of desolation; a

silent, monotonous and dreary waste, fit only for the habitation of

lizards, horned toads, and other reptiles. Such, to a great extent was

the prospect before us. We consulted our guide-book and learned that the

only water for over forty miles was a well or spring near the road, some

twenty miles distant.

We pushed on. The day was intensely hot. Two o'clock came, and three,

and four, but no spring. We had, evidently in our headlong eagerness to

make distance, overlooked it. The sun went down in a bank of clouds,

whose storm-heads loomed above the Blue Mountains, to our left. Darkness

came on. The gleam of lightning and the sullen roar of distant thunder

warned us that a storm was coming. The fast-ascending clouds soon

covered the sky, and the darkness became intense. We called a halt, and

decided to stop for the night. We unpacked our horses and turned them

loose with trail-ropes fastened to their necks. By the friendly aid of

the lightning we were able to spread our blankets amid the sage-brush. I

must confess that as I lay that night wrapped in my blankets, with a

saddle for my pillow, startled ever and anon by the lightning's fearful

glare, and listened to the rolling thunder as it reverberated with many

voices through the canyons of the Blue Mountains, a spirit of absolute

loneliness came over me. I was homesick. I thought of my father's home,

where there was comfort and abundance. I was also troubled with the

thought that our horses might hopelessly wander away in that night of

storm. But balmy sleep--tired Nature's sweet restorer--soon put an end

to these melancholy reflections. I slept soundly despite the storm, and

did not awake until the gray streaks of morning streamed up the eastern

sky. When fairly awake, I leaped from my blankets, uncovered and

examined my rifle, and after buckling on my belt in which were a Colt's

navy revolver and hunting knife, without disturbing my companions, I

started on a hunt for our horses. I soon found their trail and followed

it with quickened speed. I found them about three miles from camp in a

beautiful little valley covered with grass, and through which flowed a

small streamlet of pure cold water. After quenching my thirst and

filling my canteen, I mounted my favorite animal, and rode back to

camp, the others following. I arrived at camp before my companions had

awakened. I aroused them with a wild whoop, and treated them all from

the contents of my canteen. We speedily packed up and hastened onward in

search of green fields, and especially running brooks. About eight

o'clock we came to a tributary of Powder River. Here we cooked our

breakfast, not having eaten anything but hard tack for over twenty-four

hours.

We made a late camp in the afternoon of that day on Grand Rounde River.

The evening of the next day found us on the west bank of the Umatilla

River. These long and forced marches had begun to tell unfavorably on

our horses. I was reminded of the declaration that man had better bottom

and finer staying qualities than any animal, except the wolf. Enured as

we were to hardship and in perfect health, with no surplus flesh, and

with muscles hardened by over three thousand miles of travel, mostly on

foot, the wolf even, could ill afford to give us percentage in a race

that involved staying qualities. Our camp being an excellent one, and

grass, wood and water, as well as fish and game, being abundant, we

decided to remain for three days to recruit our jaded horses.

While out hunting the next day, I came upon the camp of a white man,

about a mile up the valley from our camp. I made bold to appear at the

door of his tent, and found a middle-aged and jolly-looking man who

received me with open-handed cordiality. With a smile he told me that

his name was Kane, that he was the Indian Agent for that portion of

Oregon. In answer to his inquiries I told him all I remembered about

myself, and he, as a compensation, gave me a brief synopsis of his

personal history. The conversation soon turned on Indian habits and

customs; the numerical strength of the tribes in the great Columbia

basin, their war tendencies and their desire of, and capability for a

higher civilization, at least so far as the tribes under his supervision

were concerned. He argued that they had already passed from the purely

savage state to the pastorial; that they were owners of large bands of

horses, had made a commendable start in the acquisition of horned

cattle, and were very desirious of increasing their stock. He said that

quite a number of individual Indians owned from one hundred to five

thousand head of horses, "and to convince you," he said, "that these

Indians desire to advance in the line of higher civilization, I may

mention the fact that a Cayuse chief, the fortunate owner of over 2,000

head of horses, and has an only and lovely daughter, offers to give 600

head of valuable horses to any respectable white American who will marry

his daughter, settle down among them, and teach them agriculture." He

gave a glowing description of this maidenly flower, born to blush

unseen, and waste her sweetness on the bunch-grass plain. Touched by the

inspiration of his eloquence, I inadvertently expressed my desire to see

this incomparable princess. The agent responded that he had business

with the chief and that he would accompany me on the morrow to his camp,

situated about six miles up the valley. Nine o'clock in the morning was

fixed for starting. I returned to our camp, rehearsed to my companions

the incidents of the day, and took an inventory of my rather limited

wardrobe. Be not alarmed, gentle reader; I am not about to tell you what

my attire was on that interesting occasion; suffice it to say that it

was becoming to an American sovereign.

At the appointed time I was at the agent's camp. Two horses saddled,

with ropes around their lower jaw for bridles, were in readiness. I

approached the one allotted to me, but as I neared it, it snorted and

shied. I inquired if it was gentle. "Perfectly so," was the emphatic

answer. An Indian held him, however, as I volted into the saddle. He let

go, and we bounded away at a furious speed. At the distance of two miles

or more I found him willing to yield to the pressure on his jaw and to

slacken his headlong pace. We arrived at the Indian village about 10 a. m.

It was stationed on the margin of the river in a beautiful grove of

timber. It consisted of a dozen or more conical shaped tents. We rode up

to the front of the principal one, dismounted, and hitched our horses by

dropping the trail rope to the ground. The chief came to meet us, and

his reception of the agent seemed to be very cordial. I was introduced

as his friend, and we shook hands and said "Klahowa" to each other. We

entered the tent. There was no furniture, so we were seated on a roll of

bed-clothing next to the wall. An animated conversation was kept up

between the chief and the agent. I did not understand the Indian

dialect, nor could I then speak the classic jargon; hence I had plenty

of time and opportunity for observation. My eyes rolled around the

somewhat contracted royal mansion. I saw there a dumpy female of middle

age, with a heavy but knotted and uncombed head of hair silently engaged

in ornamenting a new pair of moccasins with steel and glass beads. This

could not be the princess?

The agent told me that the chief desired to talk with me about the

incoming emigration; I assented, the agent acting as interpreter. This

conversation ending, I went out to take a more accurate survey of the

village. While standing in front of the chieftain's tent, a young Indian

woman, riding astride of a very fine horse, approached the tent. She

reined up her steed a few feet in front of me, showed a little

astonishment at my presence, and lightly dismounted without any

assistance from me. She tarried for a moment to pet her horse, thus

giving me an excellent chance for observation. While I can not say that

her form was sylph-like and elegant, yet her features were not

irregular, nor was her form misshapen. She was of medium height and

stood erect. Her head was covered with a luxuriant growth of dark coarse

hair, flowing over her shoulders and extending down to her waist. Her

hair was neatly combed; around her neck she had several strings of

different-colored beads, large and of bogus pearls; she had on a short

gown closely fitting her neck and body, and extending to her knees; it

was made out of soft buckskin and was tastefully ornamented with beads,

and fringed around the bottom; her lower limbs were wrapped in buckskin

leggings with fringed stripes at the sides; her feet were covered with a

neat pair of moccasins, ornamented with beads. Such was the chieftain's

daughter as I then saw her. She dashed by me and entered the tent. I

soon after followed. I judged from the long and inquiring stare of the

mother, and the quick and abashed look of the daughter, that the agent

and chief were talking about me; and I subsequently learned that such

was the fact. By invitation of the chief we stayed for dinner. I will

not detain you by a description of that repast. After dinner we smoked

the pipe of peace and friendship, then bade adieu to the chieftain and

rode back to our camp. The next day I went up to the agent's camp and

wrote for the "Detroit Free Press" a description of the Umatilla Valley

and the surrounding country, stated the number of Indians residing

there, their mode of life, their habits and customs, together with their

desire for civilization. I stated the generous offer of the Cayuse

chief, and closed with a glowing description of the dusky princess. I

mailed the letter at The Dalles.

In due time we arrived in the Willamette Valley. Over three months

elapsed before I received a copy of The Free Press containing my letter.

By a strange perversion the printer had changed the word "cayuse" into

"hans." This explained a mystery. Quite a number of letters directed to

the chief of the "Hans" Indians, care of the superintendent of Indian

affairs for Oregon, had been received by him. No one knowing anything

about the Hans Indians. These letters were afterwards published in the

Oregon papers. I will give from memory a synopsis of two of them. The

first was written by a Michigan man, and he was endorsed by Lewis Cass,

Henry Ward Beecher and many other noted persons. It was a plain,

straight-forward letter and unconditionally accepted the chieftain's

offer. He desired to be speedily notified, in order that he might come

on to accept his patrimony and open his agricultural school. The other

letter was written by a Virginian. He was endorsed by the Senators of

that State and by most of its Representatives in Congress. A

daguerreotype accompanied the letter. This gallant gentleman stated to

the Chief that he would scorn to accept the hand of the daughter unless

he could first win her heart. He flattered himself, however, that he

would have no difficulty in that matter. The whole tone of the letter

was that of a regular masher. I do not know whether these letters ever

reached the chief and his fair dusky daughter or not, nor do I know

whether he was blessed or cursed with a white son-in-law.

My belief is that the perverseness of that Detroit printer obstructed

the civilization of a tribe.

In conclusion, the jolly Indian agent was gathered to his fathers years

ago. The bow has fallen from the nerveless grasp of the generous

chieftain. The princess may still be alive; if so, and if her eyes by

chance should fall upon these lines, she will, no doubt, remember the

bashful and ungallant young man who met her in front of her royal

father's mansion in the beautiful Umatilla Valley in 1852.

On the morning of the fifth day after our arrival in the beautiful and

fertile valley of the Umatilla we resumed our journey. Our first point

of destination was The Dalles. There we replenished our nearly exhausted

stock of provisions. From thence, our first camp was at the eastern base

of the Cascade Mountains. We passed over this rugged and

densely-timbered range by the Barlow Route. In addition to the stillness

of the solemn and continuous woods, and the majestic splendor of the

amphitheatre of surrounding mountains, there is the steep descent at

once of Laurel Hill from a summit plateau to the valley of the Sandy

River below. While it involves some sacrifice of truth to call this the

descent of a hill, it requires a greater poetic imagination, from the

few stunted Madronas, not laurels, standing on the western rim, of this

summit table-land, to call the place Laurel Hill. I saw wagons with

their household goods and gods descend this so-called hill. None but

pioneers on whose brow and face sunshine and storm had stamped their

heraldic honors, who had swam cold and turbulent mountain streams, had

passed down steep, rocky and dangerous canyons, and had crossed

treacherous streams of quicksand, would ever have attempted this

descent. To such seasoned veterans, impossibilities had a constantly

diminishing radius. With a steady yoke of oxen--or a true and biddable

span of horses--with a long and strong rope fastened to the hind

axle-tree of the wagon and wound around some contiguous tree and

gradually loosened, the wagons were safely let down these rough and

almost perpendicular descents. My information is that no wagons pass

over this road now. It answers for a bridle-path and pack-trail, and no

more. Old Mount Hood, along whose southern base we passed, stood forth

in her imperial grandeur. The waters of the Columbia wash her northern

base and the southern base of Mount Adams, her sister peak. A huge

rock-ribbed canyon, at the bottom of which rolls the Oregon, separates

the two.

An interesting Indian tradition connected with these mountains has a

narrow yet substantial footing in fact, but a broader, more airy and

more poetic foundation in myth. It runs thus:

Prior to the tremendous conflict and convulsions mentioned herein, the

waters of the Columbia and of its many tributaries were confined in the

great basin east of the Cascade Mountains. They had no outlet to the

ocean. Mount Hood and Mount Adams had for ages been friends; but in

process of time they became estranged. That estrangement deepened in

intensity until it culminated in a tremendous conflict. They hurled

giant boulders at each other. From their tops they sent against one

another huge and flaming volumes of fire and molten lava. In their

herculean and supreme efforts for victory they tore asunder the

mountains and let the long-accumulated waters of the upper basin rush

downward to the ocean. Thus, was their separation made final and

irrevocable.

It is not in the line of this narrative to marshal the reasons for, or

against the probability, or improbability, of Indian legends. If I

should depart from this rule in this instance, I would say that the

similarity of the rocks on both sides of the great Columbia River gorge;

the presence of submarine shells embedded in the great eastern basin, as

well as the formation of its converging ridges, and the character of its

soil, lend a certain tinge of verification to a portion of this legend.

The other portion may be taken as a poetic description of volcanic

action, with an attendant earthquake or seismic convulsion of great

intensity, and of tremendous force.

From this speculation, let us return to more solid ground. There are two

rivers heading near the same point, in the marshes and the highest

tableland of the Cascade Mountains. The waters of the one, flow eastward

and find the Columbia by a tortuous course east of the mountains; the

waters of the other, flow westward and empty in the Columbia above the

mouth of the Willamette. The Barlow Road is located on the northern side

of this depression, or break in the mountains. Let this brief, and

imperfect geographic statement serve as an introduction to the following

incident:

Late in the fall of 1847 a large ox-train, with many loose cattle,

attempted the ascent of the mountains by the eastern river, but were

finally blockaded by the constantly-increasing depth of snow. There

were many women and children, as well as stalwart men, in the train. The

situation was perilous, threatening great suffering, and the possibility

of starvation; hence, two men were deputed to cross the intervening

snow-fields to the Willamette Valley for assistance. R. and B. were the

men chosen for the difficult task; and with both of them I subsequently

became well acquainted. Equipped with snow-shoes, they successfully

passed over the summit's ridges to the desolate base of old Mt. Hood.

Here they were enveloped in a dense fog--that most fearful of all

calamities to a man in unknown woods, or mountains. Even to the

experienced hunter or trapper, familiar with the topography of a

mountain range, or a dense forest, the coming-in or settling-down of a

fog envelopment, is viewed with apprehension, and alarm. A fog

obliterates all the landmarks. Darkness has different shades of

blackness;--the depth before you has an intensified blackness; the

shadow of a mountain peak makes its huge column, or wooded side still

darker. R. and B. became bewildered in the continuous fog. Their

provisions were exhausted, and they were subsisting on snails. R. was

six feet and well proportioned--brawny and enured to toil; B. was

smaller and of a more delicate constitution. R. was a pronounced

skeptic; B. was a man of faith and inclined to look for safety to a

higher power when immediate danger was impending: hence, while R. was

eagerly hunting for food, B. was engaged in prayer. One day, deep down

under the snow, R. found the slimy trail of a snail; it led directly

under B.'s knee. R. pushed B. aside, saying: "Get out of my way--I am

nearly frantic for that snail." The game was soon captured, and R.

generously divided it with his starving companion. At the conclusion of

their scanty feast, B. said to R.: "You are much stronger than I am, and

you will probably survive me: now, if I die, what will you do with me?"

"Eat you, sir: eat you!" was the emphatic reply. B., in his subsequent

narration of the incident, said that the idea was so abhorrent to him

that it nerved him up until their escape was made. The families were

rescued, and they came down the Columbia River to the Willamette Valley,

while most of the stock was left on good pasturage east of the

mountains. R. and B. have long since been gathered to their fathers.

Their trials, difficulties and dangers are over. May they rest in peace!

Crossing the Sandy we arrived at Foster's, situated at the west end of

the Barlow Road and at the western base of the Cascade Mountains. We

were now in the great Willamette Valley. What a change presented itself!

Here were green fields, meadows and pasturage lands. The breezes were

moist and balmy. For over three months we had been crossing over

scorched and desolate plains, encountering quite a number of sunburnt,

treeless and waterless deserts. In this valley vegetation of all kinds

was luxuriant and the smaller fruits abundant. For over three months we

had eaten no vegetable food, and we never before so warmly appreciated

the beauty and poetry of beets, onions, cabbages, potatoes and carrots.

I remained in the vicinity of Foster's for four days. On the evening of

the fourth day a rancher by the name of Baker, who lived on the

Clearwater offered me employment. He had let in the sunlight on about

ten acres of very fertile soil in the dense forest. This he cultivated

in vegetables. He took a canoe-load every day to Oregon City, distant

about five miles by his water route. My business was to prepare these

vegetables for transportation, for which I received five dollars per

day; but one morning he set me to rail making and after working a day at

it I struck. He was much amused at my rail making performance. He asked

me if I could shoot well; I answered that that was just to my hand. So

the next day we took our rifles and went up the creek-bottom and found

deer very plentiful. I shot two fine bucks while they were bounding

away, and Baker was much pleased by my ability in this line; so he

offered me six dollars a day for every day that I would furnish him, on

the bank of the creek, two deer. I successfully did this for ten days,

when, the game becoming somewhat scarce in that vicinity, he wanted me

to go out some six or seven miles into the foothills of the mountains.

This proposition carried with it so much loneliness and isolation, that

it was declined.