Yakima County, Washington - Chapter 5: Reminiscent, 1904 (part 1 of 2)

Chapter 5: Reminiscent

Driven by stern necessity, the early pioneers often accomplished tasks which would be considered next to impossible under ordinary circumstances. Accustomed from their youth up to toil and danger and the hardships of the strenuous life they led, they came to treat as commonplace deeds of daring and heroism that would now be heralded on the front page of the modern daily. It is to be lamented that the scope of this volume and the limitations of its authors will not permit the publication of all the incidents of thrilling interest, the anecdotes and stories which might be told concerning the early days of these three counties. Certain it is that such a collection carefully compiled would make a volume of surpassing interest. The long, tedious journeys across the Plains with ox-teams and pack-trains, the frequent brushes with the Indians, the hardships and struggles which attended efforts to establish pioneer settlements, have surrounded those early days with a host of delightful recollections both of an adventurous and humorous nature. No attempt will be made to incorporate here any extensive collection of these, but realizing that a few incidents and stories of early days may help to interpret the spirit of the times and to add interest to these pages, we have given space to a limited number.

Long I paused in the evening dim And gazed at the headstone black and dim- Black with the fires of many a year, Sweeping the sandhills far and near, The coyote's cry came thro' the shades, A lizard troubled the spear grass blades, And a light gray cloud passed overhead, Dropping a tear - for it knew the dead.

I mused and wondered the more I thought - Who she was who lay in that lonely spot. Was she slender and fair to view With a soul to dare and a hand to do? A hero's heart in her woman's breast Beating with passion to know the West, Yet soothing with ways that never fail The long, wild leagues of the Overland Trail - With a woman's vision of faith and hope Viewing the mountain's western slope - Till the setting sun on the western sea Beckoned her on to its mystery?

The cactus grows on the drifting mound; The wolf and the sandstorm scar the ground; The wolf and the wind may wail and sweep Above the bed where she lies asleep - Not the wind nor the wolf shall disturb the rest Of the woman hero who loved the West.

Retrospective

I can but feel that all of my pioneer friends have well earned the right to live in this, the state of Washington. Washington I am sure will never surrender, but will forge ahead till it reaches the foremost rank in our grand republic; and Kittitas county will be typical of a fourteen-inch nickel-steel gun, on board the battleship of statehood. It was in the year of 1876 that our mule team pulled our wagon into the sagebrush near where Ellensburg now stands ; our wagon was loaded with myself, wife, three children, and a few of the immediate necessaries of life. When starting on our trip west we had intended to go to the Sound, but now it looked as if we were going to the rag basket. Our pocketbook had for some time shown unmistakable symptoms of fatal collapse. Our trail led back nearly two thousand miles, and it was a rough one, its varying altitudes ranging from near sea-level to snow-cloud-level and, as we had left no money at the other end on which to draw, we felt that we must cast our lot with the few settlers who had straggled into the valley during the last five years. Many of them were now working on the ever present problem as to how they were to cover up their outsides and fill up their insides, and we soon found ourselves trying to solve the same problem - it seemed to be catching. Some two years later, when we were all showing symptoms of improvement in our finances, there came another problem to solve; it was this: "Shall the white man or the red man knock under"? Some of the white men, while studying on this problem, got the flummadiddles of the heart so badly that they had to hit the back trail on jackrabbit time, declaring as they left, that our climate was so outrageously bad they would not live in it. But the majority of our people were Indian proof and were located here with the avowed intention of thoroughly analyzing this somewhat rebellious appearing piece of nature's handiwork, now known as Kittitas county. At first the work was hard and the pay small, and often the wolf of poverty peered in through the screen do:rs. But, by loading up with a tremendous charge of the fulminate of hope, though we ofttimes had but a pinch of the chloride of expectation with which to shot the charge, we feel that we have brought down the game and think the game is worth the struggle. And now my heart tells me that I must drop a tear for those who have entered their chambers of eternal sleep while bravely battling, not only for their own betterment, but in knocking away the rough places for those who have followed into this count}-.

A Pioneer Justice Court

State Senator A. J. Splawn, of Yakima county, Ellensburg's pioneer merchant and a well known pioneer of eastern Washington, relates the following story of a trial in the Kittitas valley in the early seventies :

"The year 1871," he says, "developed two characters which furnished a disturbing element, that up to that time had been lacking in the valley. They were Pat Lynch and 'Windy' Johnson, both sons of Erin. The latter derived his name from the fact that his mouth seemed to be the most useful organ in his body. Innumerable quarrels soon brought on a fistic encounter, in which my bighearted friend Tom Haley acted as referee to determine which was the better man. By way of warning Windy said to Pat, 'Are ye ready to die?' Pat answered, 'Sure not, ye blatherskite.' The battle began and for the first" half hour Windy had things his own way, wiping the earth with Pat, who all this time was playing a waiting game. Windy's forced fighting soon exhausted him and he wanted to stop. But not so with Pat, who proceeded to put the finish on Windy, not stopping until Johnson called upon the referee to stop the fight.

a shotgun across the saddle in front of him, and started for 'Robber's Roost,' the name given to my old store. When he reached that part of the trail that crossed Windy's place he was hailed and ordered to go back and not to attempt to cross. However, Pat was not in the habit of taking a circuitous route to reach his destination to please anyone, certainly not Windy, so he continued on his way. Windy then fired his rifle, the bullet taking away a part of Pat's hat rim. Pat dismounted and blazed away at Windy with his shotgun, tearing away the tail of Windy's old coat. Thereupon Windy very wisely concluded to cease hostilities and to get satisfaction through the law.

"Pat was arrested and the case came up for trial before Fred Bennett, J. P., who knew more about Ayers' Almanac than the statutes of Washington territory. Six jurors were selected and the trial went on. Pat was a foxy Irishman and wanted to make a wise move, so he asked a friend of mine if it would be about the right thing to 'trate' the jury and was told it would do no harm to his case, so he struck out for the store. There was no whiskey on hand. He asked for Hostetter's or Old Plantation bitters, but they, too, were out. The only thing in that line was Vinegar bitters, so he purchased seven bottles, - one for the Court and one for each of the jurors.

"His thoughtfulness was well received. The court as well as the jurors 'hit' the bottle quite frequently during the course of the trial. When the evidence was all in and the case went to the jury, there were only three in their places. The court and four jurors were out. For two hours they attempted to be present all at one time, but failed on account of a portion of them always being out taking in the beautiful scenery of Kittitas valley by moonlight. Finally the court and four jurymen were present, and the judge announced that there were not likely to be as many together again that night. So the jury proceeded to render a verdict which acquitted Pat. Pat afterward became a good citizen, leaving as a monument to his memory a brick block in Ellensburg, which he gave to the Catholic church upon his death."

A Pioneer Stockman'S Adventure

A good illustration of the vicissitudes which were likely to attend a journey with cattle to the mining districts during the early days is furnished by the experience of Leonard L. Thorp, one of the oldest living pioneers of Yakima county, who kindly told us his story, as follows:

"On February 14, 1866, Jack Splawn and I left the Moxee settlement with 160 head of fine beef cattle, bound for the mines of British Columbia and Montana. We were both in our early twenties then. Outfitted with good saddle horses, blankets and the remainder of a pioneer cowboy's equipment, and accompanied by a friendly Indian whose name

"We drove east across the ridge to the Columbia, striking that river at the White Bluffs. Here we swam the cattle and horses to the farther bank and ferried our luggage over in Indian canoes, all without accident. Then we came down onto Crab creek, where our troubles commenced. We discovered that the gentle warmth of springtime had made a premature appearance, for the weather suddenly turned cold again, forcing us to go into camp. Ice froze in March to the depth of a foot. The comforts of camp life under such circumstances are not very numerous, but we endured our privations without discouragement, and late in March were again ready to proceed eastward. By about April 1st, we were on the Spokane river to which we had made our toilsome way through two feet of snow. The aspect of the intervening wilderness had been dreary indeed, and the lugubrious howling of coyotes had served only to accentuate its loneliness and desolation. But the range was simply grand and the picture of it in my mind's eye is in striking contrast with the bare and brown hillsides of today. Bunchgrass was everywhere in abundance and primeval luxuriance, the bunch-grass which in later years furnished subsistence for tens of thousands of cattle and horses.

"We crossed the Spokane river by ferry about fifty miles below the falls, swimming the horses and cattle as usual. On the farther bank we pitched camp and I remained with the herd for a few days while Jack made a trip to Colville for the purpose of looking up the prices of beef there. We were exceedingly anxious to do as well as possible with the cattle, hence gave close attention to the different markets. Jack's report being unfavorable, we determined to go elsewhere with our stock, so we drove the band on to within a dozen miles or less of the falls, where another camp was established. This was about the middle of April.

"At this time the Kootenai mines in British Columbia were very prosperous and as reports indicated that we might do well with our beef in that camp, I decided to go thither, with a part of the cattle, taking Washington along as a companion, and leaving Jack at the camp to look after the remaining stock. With sixty of our strongest steers we started, Washington and I, and in a few days, we were on the shores of Lake Pend d'Oreille in Idaho. Here we embarked aboard a little steamer for the mouth of the Pack river, 250 miles up which stream the mines were located.

"A more uninviting spot than the mouth of Pack river was when we landed there could hardly be imagined. It was late in the afternoon. The rain was descending in torrents and soon had us thoroughly drenched, but we were accustomed to facing the elements, and cared little for such slight inconveniences. The ground was marshy where we camped and covered with a thick growth of a species of wild grass unknown to us. Next morning when we went after our three horses, we found two of them dead, evidently poisoned, but strangely enough, none of the cattle were injured in the least, so far as we could see, by this noxious herb of the swamp.

"Packing up the remaining horse, we started on foot with the cattle, despite the rain which still poured down upon us with unabated severity. Indeed we did not again see the sun until we reached Joseph prairie, sixteen miles south of the mines. The effect of the continued rainfall upon the trail may be imagined. In several places there was considerable snow and as soon as the news spread up the road that we were going in with a bunch of cattle, every packer and traveler halted until we should pass. All were willing to allow us the privilege of breaking the trail.

"We paused for a few days' rest at Joseph prairie, then pushed on to the mines, where I had no difficulty in disposing of the cattle to a man named Lord at ten cents a pound on foot, a good price, to be sure, but no more than it was worth to drive the animals so far. During the whole trip I had not once removed my clothes and when I arrived in camp they were mouldy and decaying on my back.

"We remained in town a few days and then set out on our return trip to the Spokane country. I secured a horse for $65, but when only about four miles out, he was attacked with mountain fever and the result was that he had to be driven the rest of the way light. This left me again on foot, so I was compelled to get out as I had got in, namely, by trudging through mud, snow and water. Full twothirds of the outward trip was made in a heavy rain. One afternoon about four o'clock, while plodding along with Washington, who was about as companionable as most Indians are, I was startled by hearing a voice on my left. Turning sharply, I saw a monstrous negro standing on a high log some two hundred feet away. "'What is it?' I asked.

"The negro inquired if I had seen a cattleman named Thorp in town, and if so, where he was, explaining that he and his companions were friends of the stockman and were anxious as to his safety. I replied that I had seen such a man. that he had sold his cattle and was probably on his way out. They then wished to know if I knew him and where I had last seen him. From the very first I had been suspicious of the ugly looking gang before me (the negro was accompanied by three whites, all mounted), so I told the spokesman that their friend was probably some distance in mv wake. I represented myself as a disheartened and financially embarrassed prospector, disgusted with the country. Washington kept out of sight. The men finallv invited me to camp with them, but I chose rather to travel as long as possible, then camped off trail without fire. Next day at noon I met a German .who inquired if I had passed a small party of men with a big black horse. I referred him to the negro's party, with whom I had seen such an animal. Later I met another man, who said they had stolen a horse from him, and subsequently we learned that the gang of outlaws, for such in truth they were, had come into conflict with the Canadian officers who attempted to capture them. In the fight, the sheriff was killed, also one of the men I had met. The four desperadoes fortified themselves in a cabin and prepared to fight to the death. They were attacked in their stronghold by enraged miners who shot their cabin to pieces. Of course all were riddled with bullets, one, it is said, being hit not fewer than thirteen times.

"Upon my return from a hurried trip home to pay a balance due on the cattle, Jack and I decided to take the remainder of the stock to Blackfoot; Montana, twenty-five miles from the present city of Helena. We went up the Spokane river to the bridge kept by F. D. Schnebly, who later became a pioneer of Kittitas county, crossed there, and proceeded to the Cceur d'Alene mission. There we had the misfortune to lose two of our horses, which fell into the hands of Indian thieves. From the mission we crossed the Bitter Roots by the Mullan military road and late in July we reached Blackfoot. The town was a typical western mining camp, busy, flourishing, wide open, full of gold diggers and gamblers and desperate characters. By selling our cattle in small bands, we obtained a fair price for them.

"But our troubles were not over. Just as we were about ready to set out on our homeward journey, an event occurred which greatly disturbed and annoyed us. For safe keeping we had buried a package containing $1,750, in a dense fir thicket below camp, taking pains that no one should discover its hiding place. Our secret, however, was not secure. In some way a man known as 'Dirty Tom' obtained knowledge of the whereabouts of our treasure. This fellow had recently come to camp with a party of Oregonians, with whom also came my grandfather, and was lying around our camp at this time. Tom and the money were missed about the same time, late one October afternoon, and surmising that the two were associated, we started on the trail of the man. About dark we came to a fork in the road. Jack took one of the branches and I the other, the understanding being that we would push on to Quinn's station, forty miles and farther from our camp. I traveled until I could no longer see my way, then tied my horse, crawled into a haystack and waited for dawn. When I reached Quinn's next day, Jack was already there. So was our man. Of course he denied having anything to do with the theft and tried to enlist the sympathies of Quinn in his behalf. In this attempt he failed utterly. We took him back to camp with us, and insisted that he show us where the money was hidden, for we had already satisfied ourselves by search that it was not upon his person. At last after much persuasion he took a pick and shovel, went down to the thicket and began digging near the spot where we had buried the money. Gradually he worked up the hillside for a distance of about sixty yards, where he uncovered the stolen property. We let him go free and the next day, he repaid our clemency by swearing out warrants for our arrest, claiming that the money had not been stolen, but that we had forgotten its hiding place. Fortunately, among our friends in town was a blacksmith, who was also chairman of a vigilance committee. He came out alone to see us and satisfy himself as to the truth of the matter, and we soon convinced him that we were in the right. Soon after, notices appeared in Blackfoot, requesting one Dirty Tom to leave the country at once or meet the vigilance committee. Tom left.

"Late in October, we got started for home. At Missoula City I received a message stating that grandfather was very ill at Blackfoot and requesting that I return forthwith. I did so. For six weeks I remained by his bedside, nursing him back to health. On the 4th of December, I set out with him on our long westward journey, traveling with a new spring wagon and a good team. The Mullan road was closed by winter's snows, compelling us to make a long detour south and to cross the Rocky mountains opposite the headwaters of Snake river. At Fort Hall we sold our rig and boarded the stage to the Bear river country, where we should strike the main stage line between Salt Lake and Boise, at that time owned by Ben Holliday. There were four of us in the stage, an Englishman named Cooper, grandfather, the driver and myself. The Indians were plundering and marauding in that region during the years 1866 and 1867, so that travel was exceedingly dangerous. The second day out we found the buildings burned and saw signs of the pillaging redskins on every hand. The driver called a consultation among the passengers for the purpose of deciding what course we should pursue. By a unanimous vote we decided to push ahead and fight if necessary. I thereupon left my seat inside the coach and took a seat in the boot with the driver, where I remained day and night during the four hundred-mile trip. All this time we were untiring in our vigilance. We traveled as rapidly as possible, spending little time at the stations or places where the stations had lately been, for indeed some of them were completely wiped out by the predatory savages. As it happened, however, we fell in with no hostiles and early in January we rode into Umatilla unharmed.

"There I left grandfather, who was quite exhausted from the effects of the long, tedious dayand-night ride, and started alone toward home. It was very foolish in me to do so for I too was thoroughly exhausted and in a poor condition to endure the fatigues of the remaining journey. I followed the Columbia until I found a couple of Indians who had a canoe. The river was very high at that time and full of floating ice and slush. I told the Indians that I wanted to be ferried across. They shook their heads negatively, pointing to the wild stream, and advising me to go back to Umatilla and stay a while longer. But I persisted. I offered them all the money I had, two dollars, to put me across and at length, after considerable argument, prevailed upon them to try. 'If you want mimaluse,' said they finally, 'all right.' Soon we had launched the frail canoe, and were struggling with long poles to clear away the slush ice and force a passage. For hours we worked, our clothes thoroughly drenched with cold water. The first hundred yards of our passage were made on top of the ice, but it was no child's play to cross the open channel, as all who have tried it at that season of the year well know. About one o'clock we succeeded in gaining the Yakima side, and I started immediately on my long walk, knowing that forty miles intervened between me and the first human habitation, Colonel Henry Cock's ferry on the Yakima, where Prosser stands. There were ten inches of snow on the ground and the temperature must have been about twenty degrees below zero.

"Right across the hills I went, over what is now known as the Horse Heaven country. I walked all night in the snow, which became deeper as I advanced. During all this time I had had nothing to eat and nature was asserting her claims in a most emphatic manner. Sleepy and tired and famished, I lay down in the snow from time to time, protecting myself as best I could from the piercing cold with my one light blanket. It was impossible to build a fire. I knew that my only hope lay in keeping in motion as much as possible, so all the next day and all the succeeding night I staggered along. My feet, ears, nose and hands became frozen and it was only force of habit that kept me moving.

"Late in the afternoon of the third day out from Umatilla, I lay down in the trail, completely exhausted and ready to abandon hope. Presently I saw an object coming toward me from the north, but I was so thoroughly exhausted that I made no effort to investigate it. I simply lay in my snowy bed and contented myself with hoping that the object might prove to be a man and that he would find and rescue me.

"When the object came up I was pleased to see that it was Charlie Splawn on his way to Umatilla to secure the settlers' mail. For him to place me on his horse was the work of but a moment and mounting in front of me, he set out post haste for Butts's house on the Columbia river. This we reached about eleven o'clock that night, for indeed I had come only about twenty-two miles in the three days and nights. A warm fire and kind hearts soon

"Charlie went to Umatilla as soon as practicable and there had a sled made, with which to transport me home, for my toes had been frozen beyond saving and my condition was otherwise serious. Grandfather made the trip with me also. We crossed the Yakima at Cock's ferry, which was a rough flatboat with a rope cable, placed in service some time in 1866, and came up the eastern side of the river. Father summoned Dr. Nelson, the physician and surgeon at the Yakima Indian agency at Fort Simcoe, who amputated the toes on both feet. The operation was performed without anaesthetics. For over a year I was unable to do much except eat, drink and sleep and a much longer time had elapsed before I could resume the usual activities of life."

A Fatal Sheep Stampede

George W. McCredy, one of central Washington's well-known pioneer stockmen, is authority for the following story of a remarkable accident whereby a faithful sheep herder met his death in the foothills of Kittitas county:

In the summer of 1889 Cameron Brothers lost 1,200 head of sheep in Kittitas county by what is known among sheepmen as "piling up and smothering to death." One of the features of the accident, which made it the more distressing and served to bring out the heroism of one man, is the fact that the herder, familiarly known as "Hindoo John," with his dogs, was caught under the sheep and also smothered.

At the time it was thought that the herder had deserted his place and left the country. The falsity of this story was proven the following spring, when his body, with those of his dogs, was brought to light by some one examining the great pile of sheep bones on the steep hillside. Then he was exonerated from the charge of unfaithfulness. From all the circumstances and surrounding conditions the accident was accounted for in this way: The sheep had become frightened while grazing upon the steep mountain side and had run for safety toward a clump of bushes and small trees. Reaching there, the leaders cpuld get no farther and were eventually crushed down by the mad rush from their rear. The frightened sheep continued to clamber on top of one another and to be. trodden down until they could climb no higher,' but were turned aside.

The shepherd, it is thought, was trying, with the assistance of his faithful dogs, to loosen the blockade from the lower side and thus save the lives of his charges, when herder and dogs were caught under the moving, writhing mass and crushed to death. The weather was very warm and soon decomposition had set in. Within a comparatively few hours from the time of the accident the stench arising therefrom was so great that no one could approach within several hundred feet. Nor could examination be made for several months afterward. It is said that the grease from this pile of bodies ran in a stream for a distance of half a mile into the valley.

Anisiche Bill'S Artificial Nose

"When I came to the valley in 1878," continued the doctor, "and began the practice of my profession, the Indian population outnumbered the whites. This valley was a great illahe then - a monster camping ground to which Indians from all over eastern Washington came each summer. Here they fished, hunted, raced, gambled, dug kous and otherwise occupied themselves for a long period each year. Those tribes immediately surrounding us did nearly all their trading at Ellensburg.

"Wild, or Anisiche, Bill was a member of the Okanogan tribe. He was one of the bravest and most influential among the red men until the incident occurred which I am relating. One day, in the fall of 1880, as nearly as I can recollect, Bill and several other reds, who had indulged too freely in drinking bad whisky, became involved in a quarrel on Main street, then a sage brush thoroughfare on which stood half a dozen widely separated business houses. I was standing in front of Shoudy's store.

"Suddenly I heard a terrific yell and looked up the street just in time to see a drunken redskin strike at Bill with a monster knife. An instant later the greater part of Bill's nose dropped into the dust. Still the fight went on for several minutes before Bill was overcome by the shock and forced to seek support. The Indians at once gathered around their wounded comrade and attempted to assist him. At Bill's request one Indian picked up the nose out of the dust and took it down to the creek near the store to wash it.

"Upon his return, I was called to the scene and asked to 'make um good nose again.' Though I realized the hopelessness of the case, Bill persisted so earnestly that at last I stuck the nose on with adhesive plaster, fixing it up as best I could. This simple surgery satisfied the Indians and Bill, who was feeling badly cut up over his humiliation, for you must understand that among the Indians the loss of the nose is considered the height of disgrace. Death itself was preferable in the eyes of a redskin to a noseless existence.

unfortunate nose. The following day I found matters in bad condition. The nose was beginning to decay, throwing off a sickening stench, much to Bill's misery and to the disgust of his fellows. Still Bill hated to give up the nose and consequent loss of honorable standing in his tribe, so bore his trials with stoical patience. For two or three days longer he wore it, hoping for a turn in his fortunes.

"But the nose went from bad to worse. Finally his brother red men waited upon him with a demand that he either leave camp or take better care of his offensive wound. As Bill himself was beginning by that time to have his doubts about the efficacy of the sticking plaster method, he decided to throw away the old nose and seek a new one from me. This he did and begged me to do something for him.

"There was only one thing for me to do. I manufactured an artificial nose, preparing it so that it might be taken off or stuck on at will. You never saw a happier man than Bill when that nose was finished and put in place. As a matter of fact, while the red men did not entirely like the 'big medicine' of the white doctor, they regarded Bill with awe and a sort of jealous curiosity. However, he never regained the position of esteem in which they once held him. He gave me a pony for my services. Bill subsequently settled into peaceful pursuits in Okanogan county and the last I knew of him was regarded as a good citizen by residents of the Wenatche valley, where he lived. The artificial nose I made served him many years to my personal knowledge, and may yet be serving him, for Bill was as faithful to it as a one-legged veteran is to his cork limb."

A Story Of The Indian Scare

There are few pioneers of the Yakima country more widely known than Jock Morgan, at present living near Sunnyside. Nearly all who came to Yakima in an early day and most of the people now residing in the lower valley are acquainted with genial Jock. His real name is Jonathan W. Morgan, but since he crossed the Plains with his parents in 1850 he has been universally known as Jock. In 1870, when he was twenty-six years old, he was presented by Superintendent H. M. Thatcher with a unique gold and silver medal, in recognition of his being regarded as the champion stage driver between Portland and Oakland, California. "This is an honor of rare value, - a prize won only by sheer merit.

However, Mr. Morgan having attained the highest honors in staging, decided to abandon that business, so June 11, 1871, he came with his family to the Yakima valley, located upon the reservation, two miles south of Toppenish, and engaged in the stock industry. The privilege of residing upon the reservation was one granted him through the friendship of Father Wilbur, the agent, because of his friendly relations with the Indians themselves. His influence among them was as good as it was powerful.

Few there were among the residents of Yakima who kept better informed regarding the movements of the Indians in 1878, when the general supposition prevailed that an uprising of the Yakimas, Klickitats and Columbia Rivers was imminent. At his yantage point in the Indian territory, Mr. Morgan heard the rumors of war fresh from the redskins, and at night watched the signal lights on the surrounding hill tops.

Tow-hout, among the oldest red men of the Toppenish, held a position in 1878 which might be described accurately as that of signalman of his tribe. He was thoroughly versed in the marvelous sign language of his race and translated with ease and rapidity the flashes of light, the puffs of smoke, the maneuvers of the lone horseman and the gestures and motions that might come from any point.

For days and even weeks in the spring of that eventful year, says Mr. Morgan, Tow-hout daily and nightly read the wireless messages that came from Idaho and Oregon. Rattlesnake peak, on the high divide north of the Sunnyside valley, and Tumwater hill, south of Prosser, were the stations of the red signal corps. Far across the Columbia, from some point in the Blue mountains, the messages flashed over river and valley and hill to Tumwater's watchman, who caught them and sent them by way of Rattlesnake peak into the northern hills of the wild Okanogan. Often would Tow-hout tell his white tillicum of battles that had been fought between the Bannocks and the soldiers, two hundred miles to the south, or of other important military movements, and in every case the Weekly Oregonian confirmed the news days afterward. Thus did the Morgans rest secure while others fretted, for the former were constantly in touch with the situation.

All through May and June the signal man of the Toppenish read the messages passing over his head ; meanwhile the Morgans continued their peaceful occupations. Slowly the warriors crept toward the Columbia and gradually the excitement on the reservation increased. The horse figures on the signal hills, indicating victory, came oftener toward the last of June. Still there did not appear to be menacing danger on the Yakima.

But one noon, while the family were eating dinner, old Tow-hout suddenly glided into the room and without excitement silently beckoned his white friend to the door. Mr. Morgan arose from the table to learn that a great battle was raging on the Columbia and that the Indians were again claiming victory. The messages said that large

The time to flee had at last arrived. Within less than an hour the Morgans and a Miss Spurgeon, who was staying with them, were, with the most valuable things they possessed, in a wagon and on their way to The Dalles. Once again Jock Morgan, the fearless stage driver, was experiencing the exhilaration of danger as he held the ribbons of a powerful four-horse team. He drove hard up the new canyon road, recently finished by Yakima and Klickitat counties, following the north prong of the Satus. The ranch was left in charge of the men.

When within a mile and a half of the summit, the Morgans turned out from the road to seek camp for the night in a sequestered spot. They intended to be on the road again by daylight and hoped to reach The Dalles by nightfall.

Soon Miss Spurgeon announced that she heard talking, then Mrs. Morgan made the same claim. The noise, whatever it was, resembled the sound made by trees when stirred by the wind, and as quite a strong breeze was blowing off the mountain, Mr. Morgan was for a long time loth to believe that anything animate was near. However, to satisfy the women, he bade them be quiet, and started up the hillside. By making a short cut he soon reached the crest of a hill forming a portion of a basin near the summit.

Cautiously making his way to a vantage point on the hill crest, he peered through the trees and down into an Indian camp. Yes, there it was right beside him ; furthermore, it was undoubtedly a hostile camp. Several Indians were holding a pow-wow, over which they were getting excited and talking loudly. Mr. Morgan was able to understand fragments of their conversation - enough to send him swiftly to his family.

Hurriedly the horses were again attached to the wagon and as quietly as possible the party made its way to the road. Then, with the shades of night fast falling, and with the deeper shadow of a possible Indian massacre casting its cold gloom over them, the little company of whites raced back over the road toward home. All night the wagon slipped and rolled and jumped down the grade. To any but experienced frontier people the strain would have been unbearable, for there was danger in front and danger behind, but the man and the women were all in the habit of making the best of things.

When daylight at last came, the Morgan party had reached the ranch. Breakfast was at once eaten and again a start was made. This time Mr. Morgan decided to try to reach Fort Simcoe by going up the north side of Toppenish creek and over the old Indian trail. The trip was without exciting incident and at last the shelter of the agency buildings and the protection of the government were reached by the ex-

Central Washington

In the meantime Henry Craft had left the Morgan ranch with the news conveyed by Towhout and had carried it to the whites at Yakima City and on the Ahtanum. It is believed that the alarm given by Craft was the first definite information regarding the approach of the hostiles brought to the settlers and that it was the direct occasion of the feverish excitement that prevailed in the valley about the Fourth of July. There is little doubt in Mr. Morgan's mind that the Indian band he so nearly came into contact with on Simcoe mountain was the one that murdered Lorenzo Perkins and his wife a few days later.

A Romance Of Pioneer Klickitat

"Having been requested to relate an adventure with the Indians in Klickitat's pioneer days, for the benefit of the readers of this history I shall tell them about a most exciting incident which occurred at Bickleton in the spring of 1880.

"The town at that time consisted of one large building used as a store and dwelling, owned and occupied by Charles N. Bickle and his assistant, Lee Weaver. They as well as myself were tenderfeet. Our knowledge of the red man had been acquired for the most part by reading blood and thunder stories of life on the frontier. We were not cowards, but at the same time considered discretion the better part of valor in dealing with the dusky savage.

"In those days, as now, it was against the law to supply an Indian with liquor, but as the law was seldom enforced against those guilty of its transgression and the profits were large, the Indians managed at times to get large quantities of intoxicants. Occasionally a score or more of them would hang around Bickleton a day or two, or as long as the whisky supply lasted, making night and day hideous with their orgies. The Perkins murder was still fresh in our minds, aggravating our discomfort.

"One Sunday two or three of us boys went up to Bickle's store. We found some half-dozen white men and boys there and forty or fifty Indians, the latter under the influence of whisky and in a quarrelsome mood. A few moments after we arrived a young lady rode up on a spotted pony which she had borrowed from her brother, dismounted and went into the living rooms back of the store. A large, fierce-looking Indian immediately went over to the pony, a gelding, and remarked in English that 'that's my him, slapped him, and called him a dozen names. For a wonder the Irishman took his punishment without a word of protest, thinking that the wiser course, though some of us were disgusted with his lack of courage. The Indian then proceeded to take possession of the pony. He was about to take off the side saddle, when I told him that the pony was claimed by a man who loaned him to the lady and that he must allow her to ride home. After a little talking, the Indian consented to this arrangement.

"We then went into the store, several of us whites and a few Indians. Among us was a lad who had a small cartridge in one hand. For some reason the Indian who was causing the trouble slapped the boy. That was too much for me and I promptly knocked him down. Another Indian jumped on my back, and together they would probably have done me up had not a friend come to the rescue. He was a powerful blacksmith, William Twitchell by name, who had just entered the room in time to see the fracas. Marching up to us he seized one Indian by the waist band and pitched him out into the road. Then I succeeded in throwing the other and kicking him out the door. The room having been cleared of Indians, Bickle and Weaver locked the doors and barricaded them with kegs of nails, of which they happened to have about fifty on hand.

"Then commenced a scene that was true enough to the graphic descriptions I had read of border life. Imagine fifty Indians, nude to the breech cloth, dancing, shouting, yelling, shooting firearms and brandishing knives. It was enough to strike terror to the hearts of veterans, let alone a squad of inexperienced boys and young men. I have always thought that we would have been killed had not help arrived at an opportune moment. The Indians were well armed with the exception of one who had picked up a ploughshare on the porch. But just in the nick of time, as we thought, a posse of mounted police from the reservation rode up on the double-quick. As soon as the drunken Indians saw them coming they ran for their ponies and, by separating and making toward the timber, all but a dozen made their escape. Capturing the unfortunate ones, the Indian police tied them to ponies and rode away with them at high speed toward the reservation. We learned afterward that Father Wilbur, the agent, had sent the police to arrest that particular band for drunkenness. To this day I believe that we owed our lives to the opportune arrival of the police. I had the only gun in the crowd, a Smith & Wesson 32-calibre revolver.

"After the Indians had departed I escorted the young lady home, and during that ride there commenced a friendship that rapidly developed into a warmer sentiment. She became my wife

A Christmas Tale

The following touching story of a pioneer Klickitat Christmas appeared in the Yakima Herald in its issue of December 23, 1902. The author, whose name is unknown, says in introducing his tale: "It is written without an attempt at garnishment. Just a plain little story of an incident that actually took place, according to the statements of the old settlers, when our county was young and before the Northern Pacific was thought of or North Yakima founded."

"In one of the little valleys of Klickitat," runs the story, "a sturdy American pioneer had made his home. There, with his wife and little ones, he had settled and by hard work, square dealing with all and a wise selection of a homestead, became fairly successful. In the house and dairy his efforts were well supplemented by the diligence and economy of a faithful, energetic wife. The neighboring squatters, few and far between, respected him. Even the Indians, and there were quite a number living in the vicinity and on the ranch, loved him for his justice, honesty and many acts of kindness toward them. His barns and granary were full ; the haystacks studded the fields; his cattle and horses were fat; there was an ample supply of provision and provender for man and beast; everything, in fact, had been made ready for the snows and storms of winter.

"The sleighing was good, so two days before Christmas he started over the hills for the county seat, some forty miles away, to purchase a few of the always eagerly-anticipated remembrances of Santa Claus for the children, and with a hidden, cherished purpose to surprise, in some substantial manner, the dear wife on his return with a like token of love and affection.

"The next day was a typical winter day; the wind soughed mournfully through the trees along the creek; the air was damp, chilly and creepy; the dark gray clouds rolled low down on the hills about the valley, hiding their tops from view; the chickens hopped daintily out through the snow and then scurried back to their warm coop; the cattle filed off to the stream to drink and at once returned in solemn procession to the sheds; the horses bunched together in the brush under the cottonwoods ; the old watch dog hesitatingly left his warm corner by the kitchen fire, walked gingerly down the snow path, sniffed the air, then turned back and scratched at the house door for admission. Everything was dark, gloomy, forbidding and presaged a coming storm. Even the children were affected and became unusually troublesome and fretful.

"Shortly after noon the wind ceased and then the snow storm began. At first little, scattering, dry flakes, growing larger and larger, coming faster and faster until it seemed as if there were one white sheet extending down from the clouds above to cover everything below in its white, cold mantle. The storm was well on when the 'Tyee' of the Indians opened the door and asked, 'Boston man no come?' On being told he had not, the red man closed the door and hurriedly walked off. This alarmed the wife and mother. On going to the window she could faintly discern through the falling snow a group of Indians standing by the ranch gate. A feeling of coming calamity oppressed her. She felt lonely and desolate. To occupy her mind, she commenced putting her children to bed (it becomes dark early in the day in these high latitudes), and then spread the table, prepared supper for her husband and waited. The fire had almost died away; she replenished it; opened the door to look out, when a great bank of snow fell into the room. The storm had nearly ceased, but everything looked dark, cold, lonely and cheerless. She shuddered, closed the door and, weeping, went to her bedside, knelt down and sobbed out an earnest prayer to the Omnipotent to spare the father of her babies.

"For hours before, away up on the plateau that divides the valley from the one in which the town is situated, a man and team had been persistently battling with the storm. The horses, wearied by their all-day wallow through the snow, were completely fagged. First one would slip off the beaten track into the deep snow and fall, and then the other. Sometimes both were down, and then the driver would get out, breast the snow, stamp it down about the horses, get them on their feet, and with words of encouragement induce them to make another effort. Night finally came. The snow still continued falling in great thick flakes. Soon the sleigh was half full. One horse became prostrate and refused to rise. The other trembled with cold, weariness and fear. The poor driver, wet by the snow, half frozen and hungry, was as exhausted as his team. He waited out ahead of the horses, uncertain if he should desert them and make one supreme effort to reach the valley alone or return to the sleigh and lie down to the alluring but deadly sleep.

"The standing horse snorted. The man looked up and there, away down in the direction he must go, were black objects approaching, struggling "through the snow. Were they wolves? Surely they must be ; no human being would be out such a night and in such a storm. Hurriedly he turned about for the rifle in the sleigh, but the quick motion was too much for his exhausted strength and he tripped, fell, and rolled over into the snow drift, unconscious.

up toward the team. They could not be wolves or the standing horse would scream with fear and endeavor to kick loose from his prostrate mate and escape. He seemed instead to recognize them. He whinnied. They came closer and surged up around the deserted sleigh. The objects were the Indians from the valley, searching for and determined to find and rescue their benefactor and friend. They picked him up, shook him, rubbed his limbs with snow, brought him back to consciousness and, bundling him up warmly and safely in their robes, placed him in the sleigh.

"Their coming seemed to reinvigorate the horses ; they tramped the snow down before them, got the animals on their feet and then quickly led them down the hill to home and safety.

"Scarcely had the good woman breathed out her fervent prayer for help and protection for those near and dear to her when a stamping and tramping of feet were heard. The dog jumped up, barked quick, joyous and sharp; the door flew open and her husband staggered in, covered with ice and snow, followed by a happy group of smiling Indians bearing his gifts in their hands.

"There were joy and gratitude in that household on Christmas Day, and we may be sure that the faithful Indians in their warm tepees were not forgotten or unrewarded."

"The first special Christmas celebration in the Yakima valley that I can remember," says Mrs. Martha (John P.) Beck, "took place the year of our arrival, 1869. The few of us that were living in the isolated region at that time were invited to spend Christmas eve at the home of Columbus Goodwin, near the site of Yakima City. The Goodwins, the doctor, his brothers, and a large family of boys and girls, came in 1865 ; the mother, Priscilla Goodwin, had died December 18th, of that year, her death being the first in the settlement.

"Columbus, or as he was generally called 'Lum,' Goodwin had a fine two-story log cabin on his ranch. The spacious kitchen served also as a dining room, and there we women loaded down a long L shaped table with all the good things we were able to cook with the limited supplies at our command. The luxuries were few. Everybody dressed as well as possible, which was not very fastidiously compared with the present standard, but we were not thinking as much of our appearance as of having a jolly time.

"After the children had been gladdened by numerous gifts brought principally by the bachelors of the community, they were given a place by themselves, and the customary dance began.

One of the fiddlers was Lum Goodwin; the other's name has escaped my mind. At midnight the crowd sat down to our crude banquet, evidently the climax of the celebration, judging from the avidity and apparent satisfaction with which the dancers cleared the table of its supplies.

"Then came some impromptu speeches by our local orators. Our toastmaster was a lawyer named Randolph, the pioneer attorney of Yakima. He was a witty speaker and withal a good one. On this particular occasion he fairly outdid himself, having braced for the event by a frequent resort to liquid inspiration. Lawyer Randolph's Christmas speech will never be forgotten by those who heard and saw him that night. For years afterward a reference to it was enough to put the bluest kind of a crowd into circus-day humor. He left us in 1870.

"More dancing and merrymaking followed the dinner and finally brought our Christmas affair to a close. It was one of those happy events that marked a bright spot in our peaceful existence."

Indian Scares In Eastern Klickitat

"The pioneers of Klickitat, who lived east of Rock creek," says Samuel P. Flower, "did not always dwell in sweet peace and perfect security in those early years. When I came in 1878 there were not more than two or three dozen whites in that rough area bounded by Rock creek, the Columbia and the Yakima valley. We were widely scattered over the country, most of us raising horses and cattle. Owing to the close proximity of the reservation on our north and west we were pestered a great deal by the Indians who roamed at will over our range. For several years in the later seventies and early eighties they continually stirred matters up in one way and another, usually by petty acts, but nevertheless serious enough to keep our nerves tense.

"Though they did not attempt any disturbance at the time of the general scare in 1878, occasionally we would see bands of them scurrying around the country looking for trouble, scaring settlers and otherwise doing mischief. This they kept up three or four years, much to our dissatisfaction. A typical instance of their little 'joking' occurred in November, 1879, which I well remember. At that time 'Old Looney,' as he was called, led the redskins in our region. He was a cripple, club-footed, a man perhaps fifty years of age, and a sub-chief. Fortunately, however, Looney was a good friend of the whites and kept his young bucks well in hand. It must also be understood that in 1879 all the Indians in this country were pretty thoroughly excited over the failure of the Bannock and Piute outbreak in

Idaho and Oregon and the desperate efforts being made in Yakima county to punish the murderers of the Perkins family. So it was but natural that our people should be easily excited by redskin maneuvers.

"One afternoon, late in November, a neighbor of mine whose name I have forgotten, came over from Goldendale with a load of supplies. Just as he was crossing Wood gulch, four or five miles south of Cleveland, and at the bottom of the canyon, one of his horses balked. He tried every means at his command without being able to make the animal budge. This was aggravation enough with night rapidly coming on and a long road ahead of him, but to make matters worse up came a yelling, racing band of Indians. 'Old Looney' was in the lead. Behind him were about thirty young men painted and dressed in war toggery and well equipped with weapons.

"On they came right up to my friend, apparently bent on annihilating him. This movement seemed only to strengthen the determination of the balky horse to stand pat, notwithstanding the fact that most of the load of flour had been taken out of the wagon as an inducement for him to move on. Riding up, the redskins circled the thoroughly frightened settler, yelling like demons and flourishing their guns and knives in his face. Some of the Indians were beginning to give vent to their hatred of the white race by prodding the sole representative paleface present, when suddenly 'Old Looney' made himself heard. At a wave of his hand, the apparently enraged Indians underwent a complete transformation. Joyous grunts and laughing broke upon the air and a number of the horsemen jumped to the ground. In an instant they had the wagon in motion again loaded with the flour and the dumfounded driver back to his place on the load. The balky horse was evidently satisfied with his share in the joke on his master, for he gave no more trouble that day. Wagon, horses and man went one way; 'Old Looney' and his band of half-earnest, half-joking bucks went the other, and the incident terminated happily."

"But," continued Mr. Flower, "a far more serious and far-reaching scare than that one had a beginning equally trifling some two years later. I think it took place in the spring of 1881 ; anyhow, it was the spring that the Oregon Railway & Navigation Company began running its trains up the Columbia river.

"About 200 Columbia river Indians, under Chief Pascopal, were at that time encamped at the mouth of Alder creek, a favorite rendezvous with them. They had gathered quietly during a period of several days without particularly advertising the fact.

On our way up the river, at Arlington, rumors of an Indian outbreak reached us. Hundreds of warriors had massed on the river opposite Willow creek, ran the report, and were about to sweep the river settlements. Settlers were fleeing to common centers of refuge and the land was about to be stained with blood. Intense excitement prevailed and the scenes of '78 were being re-enacted. At Arlington, also, I was handed a box of cartridges to take to William A. McCredy, who at that time lived in Klickitat county, near the site of the supposed hostile camp.

"However, the train pulled out after a while, and soon we reached Willow station. There the air was quivering with war rumors. At the store, near the mouth of the creek, a rude fortification had been thrown up and about a hundred and fifty residents of the Willow creek region had assembled in the utmost haste. They were racing in from the interior when I arrived.

"About nine o'clock a special engine brought a major and Lieutenant Wainwright from Fort Walla Walla to investigate the trouble. Being thoroughly acquainted with the country and the Indians and able to speak their language, I consented to accompany them over the river. We immediately crossed and proceeded to the home of Joseph Jones at the mouth of Pine creek, where we spent the night. McCredy and his family were staying there also until the excitement should have passed.

"The next morning we were up bright and early and seeking the Indian camp. We saw moving bunches of horses several miles away, but for a long time were unable to find any Indians, though near Alder creek we met two squaws. I at once opened a conversation with them, but could obtain little information. A bitterly cold rain begain falling, which added to our desire to quickly terminate our mission. Finally the squaws brought up old Willy, a wellknown Klickitat, and to him I explained that we wished to talk to the Indians ; that we had heard rumors of trouble ; that the great white chief had sent two messengers to find out the cause of the troubles and to remedy the wrongs done the Indians, if any there had been. Slipping five dollars into his hand, I bade him -go to his brethren with our message and request a pow-wow. Old Willy disappeared over the hill and we patiently awaited his return.

"It was not long before we witnessed a remarkable demonstration of the Indians' wellknown ability to play hide and seek, for they commenced bobbing up around us with startling rapiditv. Gradually their number increased until I thought that 'the whole tribe had left the reservation. At last the stragglers became fewer and fewer and it was apparent that they had shown at least all the force they intended, nor

"Through an intelligent squaw, Eliza, I explained our mission to their camp and asked for a statement of their case. Then it was that we learned that white settlers and stockmen, with more meddlesomeness than discretion, had informed the Indians that the government had issued an order forbidding them to leave the reservation any more; that, therefore, they must remain at home. Without pausing to make specific inquiries, and probably in no humor anyhow to do so, the hotheads had organized a revolt. They had gathered at least 200 warriors, squaws and children, equipped themselves for traveling and fighting, and had determined to resist the new order of affairs. Naturally they chose the broken region around the mouth of Alder creek as the place where they would meet the soldiers.

"On behalf of the government, the army officers assured the Indians that such an order had not been issued, and pledged the government's aid in support of the rights of the red men should the whites attempt to coerce them. This talk seemed to satisfy the Indians that a serious mistake had been made, as Chief Pascopal and his men promised to cast off their war toggery and lay aside their arms.

"Our mission ended, we returned to the river, where I left the officers, and proceeded on my way, having delivered the cartridges. It is almost needless to remark that the panic stricken whites at the Willows returned to their abandoned farms as soon as informed of the true situation. So quickly did it all happen that practically none of the settlers on upper Pine, Alder and Wood creeks heard of the affair until long after the excitement had died out."

When Ellensburg Was Young

Anisiche, or Wild, Bill, of the Okanogan tribe, who attained widespread notoriety because of his artificial nose, was involved in another exciting adventure in 1879 or 1880. In those days the Indians were daily visitors to the town of Ellensburg, coming in from their camps in the valley or on the surrounding hills and mountains to sell ponies, buy supplies and many of them, if possible, to lay in a goodly store of whisky. It was no uncommon sight to see scores of Indians at one time in the village. Sober, they were not especially to be feared, but when they were drinking, the safest place to be was in a building securely protected. A man started a saloon at Peshastin in the later seventies, but as it did not pay in that locality, he removed the nefarious business to Ellensburg, thereby greatly adding to the troubles of the few settlers.

that they became exceedingly quarrelsome. The Indians gathered near the creek. George Morgan, a rough cowboy, somehow had a dispute with one of the Indians. He was, however, walking away peaceably when Bill and another Indian of fully as desperate a character, began a serious quarrel. Finally Bill started after Indian Bob with a knife. The latter slipped past Morgan, who, looking back, saw Bill coming toward him with a raised knife and supposed that he was to be the victim. Morgan quickly drew his gun and fired. The ball passed through Bill's mouth, knocking out a tooth and coming out through the cheek.

The pistol shot brought a dozen other redskins and in a trice Bill and his friends closed in on Morgan, flourishing knives and pistols. No doubt they would have killed him had he not succeeded in reaching Dr. M. V. Amen's office, at the corner of Main and Fifth streets, where he crawled under a bed. The enraged redskins followed him to the door, but would go no farther, as Dr. Amen stood guard in the doorway, and the Indians have a superstitious dread of a doctor. Some of them ran around to the rear of the office, supposing that, of course, Morgan would go through the building, but in this they were mistaken, as there was only one entrance. For a long time they blustered and swore and tried every strategy to get the doctor away ffom his post, but to no avail.

In the meantime the fight became general on the outside between the drunken Indians and the whites. Fortunately no one was killed, though quite a number of shots were exchanged. At last Wild Bill mounted his horse and attempted to escape, riding through the sagebrush, and shooting at and defying the officers who were after him. William Prasbury and Jacob Becker were constables at that time. When Bill reached a point opposite the site of the courthouse, Becker fired at him, bringing the Indian's horse to the ground. However, Bill's companions gave him the needed assistance and he mounted another horse. By this time some of the citizens were mounted, and after a hard chase they captured the redskins above Canaday's brick mill.

They were brought back to town and lodged in the jail, which consisted of a half filled charcoal bin at the corner of Becker's blacksmith shop. A citizen - a noted character in those days - was employed to guard them. The Indians were soon in a drunken stupor. Some time during the night, Flood, the guard, took a pick and went into the jail. There he tried to kill the Indians to keep them from testifying against the parties who had given them the liquor, but, luckily, he failed in his diabolical purpose, though he did drive the pick point through the cheeks of some. The outcry brought help to the Indians. Subsequently Flood left the country, so strong was the feeling against him. Dr. Amen patched up the injured Indians, two of whom, Indian Bob and Wild Bill, were living two or three years ago on the Wenatche.

Recollections Of Chief Moses

Senator A. J. Splawn, one of the Yakima country's earliest and most widely known pioneers, in the following historical sketch, gives us a vivid picture of eastern Washington's famous Indian chieftain and incidentally of other well known early pioneers of this region. From the article also one may gain an excellent idea of the pioneer stockman's life in those years. Senator Splawn contributed this article to the Yakima Herald of September 30, 1902, and it is used by his permission :

I saw Chief Moses for the first time at Wenatche, September 1, 1861, where the Great Northern railway station now stands. I was in the employ of Major John Thorp driving a band of beef cattle from the Yakima valley to Caribou mines, British Columbia. As we were passing this spot on the opposite side of the Columbia river we saw an Indian village. Our appearance created considerable excitement among the lodges. Finally, out there rode a solitary horseman, riding towards the river. Riding in, he swam to the opposite shore, where we were watching his daring feat. Coming up the river bank to where I stood, he asked to whom these cattle belonged. On being told, he rode over to where Major Thorp was waiting on his horse. As he rode away I asked him his name. He replied, Suc-co-tal-sko-sum (Half Sun), but known to white men as Chief Moses. I had heard of this great chief before. He and the Major .conversed for some time. As I watched them that day, the impression made on my mind - then a boy of sixteen - will never be forgotten.

Major Thorpe was an Oregon pioneer, who crossed the Plains in 1844; a magnificent specimen of manhood, standing over six feet tall, with the undaunted eye that marks the fearless soldier ; he truly knew no fear, and Moses was tall and commanding, with a massive frame and a large head set on broad shoulders. His eagle eye ever on the alert, he sat on that blue horse like a centaur. He was then at the age of about thirty-five, the finest looking Indian I have ever met.

After finishing his parley, Moses rode back as he came, and we moved the cattle on, crossed Wenatche river, and camped near where now stands the county bridge. The place at present is owned by M. Horen.

Our horses and cattle were on fine grass, and, supper over, we retired for the night, but the mosquitoes were so numerous we could not rest, so I got up and went to the hill, a short distance off. and found they were not so bad ; returned and told the Major, so we picked up our bed and started for the hill, followed by Joe Evans, the white man, Paul, the half breed, John and Kin-ne-ho, the Indians, with Eliza, the squaw. This constituted our force. Ere long all were asleep, when the sound of horses' feet awakened us, and soon the hill was covered with Indians. Loud voices arose from that band of warriors. Presently there dismounted an aged Indian, who spoke in low, earnest tones as if pleading; only a few murmurs of assent could be heard. Suddenly, out in plain view, rode an Indian, all feathered and painted, on a milk white horse ; he commenced a loud harangue. Soon echoing whoops from all sides proved he was striking a responsive chord. Just then we heard horses fording the Wenatche river not far distant, and soon there came in view two horsemen riding rapidly by us to where the Indians were. One jumped from his horse, and throwing his blanket on the ground in front of him, with his hands he waved back that body of Indians, and soon the hill was cleared. Then I saw it was Chief Moses. He had come at an opportune time.

A few years later I learned from Nan-num-kin, an Enteat Indian, that he tried to persuade the Indians not to molest us, but failing, he swam the Columbia river at Enteat, and rode to Moses' camp and informed him of what was about to occur.

In 1864 I again met Moses near Rock Island, below Wenatche. Two Chinamen coming from The Dalles, Oregon, had hired me to drive two beef cows they had purchased from Thorp, in the Yakima valley, and taking them horseback to the Chinese mining camp, where now the Great Northern railroad bridge crosses the Columbia river below Wenatche. Not far from Rock Island we saw two Indians galloping down the trail in front of us. The Chinamen were a little in advance of me when they met One of the Indians began beating my passengers over the head with his whip handle, which was an elk horn ; the other Indian came straight for me. He was a powerful fellow. Catching hold of my horse's bridle, he threw the animal on his haunches. In the meantime I slid off the horse and pulled out my revolver, intending to shoot, but he sang out : "Wake pook, nika Tyee Moses" (Don't shoot, I am Chief Moses). He said he wanted some fun, and thought he would scare me to see if I was brave, and said: "Mika skookum turn turn" (You are brave). I requested him to make the Indian cease abusing the Chinamen. This he did, and then rode away. Gathering up my passengers I found, after checking up damages, nothing more serious than a few gashes on their faces and heads, no bone? broken, and scalps still on. We soon reached the mining camp, and when those people looked upon their mutilated countrymen, the sounds were worse than a flock of geese. They expressed their gratitude to me for saving their lives by giving me an extra ounce of gold. I met Suc-co-tal-sko-sum many times afterward. In the earlier days he was more generally known as Quetal-e-can. He was a lover of sport, especially horse racing. We have often raced together when there was not a white man in many miles. The cheers went up just the same when I won as they did when I lost.

In June, 1869, while hunting lost cattle, I found Moses encamped at Rocky Ford, on Crab creek, which is now the home of T. S. Blyth, the cattle king of Washington. The Indians were having their regular spring festivities. At Moses' lodge there was a ten-gallon keg of whisky with the head knocked out and a tin cup hanging on the side as a sign for everyone to help himself. This did not indicate a health resort for a white man, but Moses was not drinking, so I concluded to stop and cook dinner, and so informed him. He pointed to a place where I could get down to the creek for water and find some grass for my horse, so I unpacked and cooked my dinner. As I finished my meal I saw a large body of Indians coming down the trail from Wilson creek to the eastward. All was excitement in Moses' camp. Men flew to arms. The new arrivals continued their course until only Crab creek separated them from Moses' warriors. I began hastily packing up to move out from between two fires. Soon Moses appeared and inquired why they came to his camp in such a threatening manner. Their reply was, they came to kill a medicine man of their own tribe who was then in the lodge of Moses, and unless he was given up he would be taken by force. Moses answered that the man had come to him seeking protection. It had been granted, and the word of a great chief once given was final ; therefore depart, or he would order his men to fire on them ; that when the medicine man saw fit to leave his lodge of his own accord he would no longer be responsible; they could do then as they wished. They departed in the direction whence they came.

we were talking he picked up the fatal tin cup filled to the brim with fire water, and swallowed its contents. My horses being saddled and packed, like the Arab, I quietly stole away. The Indians were too busy drinking to miss me for some time. I went down a few miles, and hid away for the night among the tules beside Moses lake, and could hear the Indians hunting for me during the night. Feeling that the danger from the Indians I had just left was only for the time they were intoxicated, at daylight I struck the trail on the west side of the lake and continued my way toward White Bluffs on the Columbia river. I had traveled but a short distance when, looking back, I saw the Indians coming at a gallop. Overtaking me Moses asked why I had left so abruptly the evening before. My reply was, that when I saw Chief Moses drinking like the common herd I considered it time to leave. He asked me to say nothing about the whisky for fear the soldiers would come after him.

During the Nez Perces war Chief Joseph's emissaries were continually going to and fro between the hostile camp and that of Chief Moses, trying to induce him to go on the war path, which he absolutely refused to do, as I afterward learned to my own satisfaction.

At that time, in company with E. D. Phelps and W. I. Wadleigh, we had purchased several thousand cattle on the White Bluffs and Crab Creek ranges, covering the territory from Pasco to Moses lake, and as far up the Columbia river as Moses coulee. Indians from all parts began to move towards Moses' encampment; those around Snake river points passed through our range and committed depredations such as burning our houses and corrals, driving off the saddle horses and killing cattle. Everything indicated an Indian uprising. People in many parts of the country in isolated settlements moved to more thickly-populated places for safety. This condition remained unchanged for about thirty days. People were fearful to relax their vigilance, not knowing at what hour the hostiles would be upon them. It was well known that a large body of Indians had gathered around Moses. We had heard that their lodges extended for many miles up and down the Columbia above and below Wenatche. Our cattle were running on the range adjacent to this body of Indians, and it boded no good to us in a financial way. At this time I was on a visit to the Kittitas valley. I found most of the settlers were gathered on Nanum creek, and had thrown up earth breastworks for defense, understanding in the excitement that existed the possible danger of a solitary Indian, who by chance might happen along that way, and be fired upon. That night I stayed in the fort and heard the instructions given to the guard, a boy of about 16, that if he saw an Indian to shoot him. This convinced me that my fears were well founded. A shot like that would have brought 2,000 Indians on them in ten hours.

Mr. Phelps, with whom I was associated, happened to be there also, and we knew that something had to be done at once. We concluded to go over to Wenatche and talk with Moses and learn if possible of his intentions. When we declared our purpose many begged us not to go. One man had only a few days before been to a tall mountain from which he could see the countless lodges along the Columbia for many miles. He said we would never return. But I knew Moses well, and from my many years' acquaintance with him felt that he was too much of a diplomat to engage in a war with the whites when he knew there would be no possible chance to win. We left the fort and at two o'clock that afternoon were on the Columbia river, six miles below the mouth of the Wenatche. Indian lodges were strung out on the opposite or north side of the river, as far up as Aye could see. The plains were covered with horses grazing, kept from wandering off by an occasional rider. I remarked to Mr. Phelps that we were hunting Indians, and from the outlook we had succeeded beyond our fondest hopes.

From the high range of hills a few miles north of the river, we saw dust rising and streaming behind like the smoke from a locomotive. The objects creating this disturbance were coming towards the river, and as we dismounted to watch, they soon came near enough to the river on the opposite side for us to make out a body of sixteen warriors, their gun barrels flashing in the sunshine and making an interesting sight. They came down to the river to water their horses and espied us ; two canoes near by were hastily manned and most of the party embarked. As the canoes neared the shore I saw, in the bow of the first, Chief Moses.

As he stepped on shore we met him. He looked searchingly at us for a few moments and then asked us why we came. I told him that the people in Kittitas and Yakima valleys had learned that he intended to make war on the whites and many had left their homes and moved into fortresses ; the conditions were such that some act either of the whites or Indians would cause war, and, having known him for many years, I felt it was not his desire to bring on a war with all the bad results which must necessarily follow, so we had come to see him and talk over the situation, without fear of being killed by any of his men. He told us to go up to Frank Freer's store at the mouth of the Wenatche, and we would find Freer and Sam Miller there; we could remain over nieht and on the following morning he, with some other smaller chiefs, would come and have a big talk. We rode on up and found the Freer brothers and Sam Miller at their store, feeling perfectly safe.

The few miles we traveled - between the place we left Moses and the store - we counted 190 lodges, and were told that above, In-no-mo-sech-a, chief of the Chelans, was encamped with 100 lodges, and still on up the river a short distance were the Okanogans and San Poils, numbering 150 lodges. Moses' camp of 200 lodges was at the present site of Waterville. Each of these lodges would turn out about six warriors, enough to have swept our valley. Moses was on hand promptly the next morning with the following chiefs : Smo-hal-la, of the Priest River or Push-Wa-na-pum, In-no-mo-sech-a, of the Chelans ; besides some smaller lights. On the flat in frontof the store were many Indians. I was told that among those present were five Nez Perces, of Chief Joseph's bands, which were at that time retreating up the Clearwater in Idaho, followed by Gen. O. O. Howard, whom the Indians called Day-After-Tomorrow. Moses always received news from the seat of war earlier than we did. Their line of swift-riding couriers would have been a credit to any army.

Moses spoke first, saying that he had no intention of joining his cousin, Chief Joseph, in waging war on the whites, which could only end with the killing of many on both sides and the humiliation of himself and his people, and having recognized the danger of small parties or individual Indians committing outrages upon the whites, he had at the beginning of hostilities sent word for all the Indians to come to him at once. Some Indians had thought the order meant war, and consequently on their way to join him had done as he feared. After he had all the Indians gathered around him he continually guarded them, not allowing any to leave. Every day he went around the circle that enclosed the different encampments to see that no raiding parties had gone out during the night. This had been his mission when we met him the day before. He told us to return and tell our people that Moses was their friend who did not intend to go to war, and who would hold the Indians where they were for a short time, until he was perfectly satisfied that all danger was past.

Having been on the ground at the time and understanding the conditions as they were, I believe that to the energy and foresight of Moses, coupled with his good control of the Indians, must the credit be given for averting an Indian war at that time.

We returned to Kittitas valley and found our friends still holding the fort. After telling them of what we had seen and heard, with our full belief that all danger was passed, they returned to their homes. About three weeks afterwards Moses allowed all the Indians to return to their different homes. Our horses were brought back to the range from which they were stolen, as Moses had promised us at Wenatche. Thus ended what for a time looked like a general outbreak of hostilities.

In summing up Chief Moses as I knew him, which cqvered a period of thirty-five years, from 1861 to 1896, my conclusions are that he was more of a diplomat than a warrior. Reckless in morals, the renegades of the different tribes gathered around him. His noted fondness for the running horse often forced him to pay long prices for swift animals which it was his ambition to possess. The Indian love for liquor was his greatest fault, but he never lost that proud bearing to which his inheritance entitled him. In point of intelligence he was the equal of any Indian in history. He might well be titled the "Bismarck" of the Indian tribes of the Northwest.

Thomas Jenkins has long been a resident of Klickitat county and the Northwest, and can tell many interesting stories of pioneer life. He came across the Plains in 1844, and therefore is among the earliest of the Oregon pioneers. Mr. Jenkins has a clear memory of incidents that happened during the Cayuse and Rogue River wars. His oldest brother, Richard, was a volunteer in the Cayuse war and from him he has gathered a number of amusing stories about the Indians' idea of artillery, of which they obtained their first knowledge in that war.

In one instance the troops ran short of ammunition for their cannon and made use of brickbats, stones or anything that came to hand. This curious ammunition they rammed into the cannon and shot at the hostile savages. It is an Indian custom to carry a rifle with the stock behind, grasping the muzzle in his hand. When the cannon was discharged, one of the brickbats took the breech of an Indian's gun and broke it short off. The Indian was not accustomed to the cannon's roar and naturally thought it must be thunder. His conclusion was that the god of the white man had interposed against them and had sent a thunderbolt to destroy his gun, thus rendering him harmless to the enemy. He immediately went to the camp of the troops and gave himself up. He was not afraid to fight against men, but if God was arrayed against him he would surrender.

In another instance the volunteers had taken the small howitzers from their carriages and strapped them firmly on the backs of mules, to enable the animals to carry the guns into places otherwise in- 1 accessible. It was found that after the mules became accustomed to the firing they gave little attention to the report of those small cannon and that the guns could be shot with a reasonable degree of accuracy from their backs. When the soldiers overtook the Indians and brought these pieces into action, the red men were very much horror stricken and many of them immediately surrendered. It seemed to them that the resources of the white men in battle were unlimited when they could shoot even the mules at their enemies.

An Odd Document

The following document is a duplicate of similar agreements signed by the citizens of central Washington in 1878, at the time of the great Indian scare in this region, and is self-explanatory. It may be stated in passing that few if any of these guns were ever returned and that many of them to this day repose peacefully in Kittitas and Yakima and Klickitat homes, souvenirs of an eventful period in local history.

"I, the undersigned, a citizen of Yakima county, and Territory of Washington, do hereby acknowledge the receipt of one breech-loading Springfield needle-gun, with fifty rounds of cartridges, from the county commissioners of said county, for the protection of the people and property of Yakima county. Said gun and cartridges to be returned in good order, or accounted for, to said board of commissioners at Yakima City, at such time as the same is demanded.

"And in case of a failure to return said gun and cartridges in good order or to account for same as above provided, then and in that case, I hold myself and my heirs, executors and assigns severally bound unto Yakima county for the payment of the sum of fifty dollars U. S. gold coin for such failure.

A Pioneer Heroine

Thomas Jenkins, who settled in the Klickitat valley in 1859, ar,d who has been a resident of the Northwest since 1844, tells a thrilling incident of his first year in Oregon. A couple of Indians, friendly Klickitats, came to his homestead and left a half dozen sacks of hazel nuts and camas for safe storage. It was not long after until several Indians of a hostile tribe came, determined to steal them. Thomas and his brother were small and their father was away, so the Indians were certain they would find no difficulty in frightening Mrs. Jenkins into giving up the nuts. There were two of them, a young, active boy of about twenty years and an old man, who had in himself magnified all the hideousness of the most repulsive Indian features, the nearest to representing the attributes of Satan in human form ever viewed by man.

The Indians were laboring under a false impression when they thought to frighten Mrs. Jenkins. She had in the house for purposes of defense two old army pistols, one loaded and the other empty. The loaded one she concealed beneath the pillow of a bed in the room, the other she held in her hand. When the Indians came, the bovs, six or seven vears old, took to the corner beneath the bed, but Mrs. Jenkins stood her ground bravely. The old Indian with the ugly features drew a long case knife and brandished it menacingly as if he would kill her, but the woman backed him out of the house with the cocked, empty pistol. Three times the Indian came back with the ugly weapon in his hand and as many times was driven away. The young savage had meanwhile climbed up to the loft where the nuts were stored and was lowering them to the floor below. Mrs. Jenkins turned the empty revolver upon him and he, thoroughly frightened, refused to come down until she had put away the pistol. No sooner did he get without the door than he ran like a frightened deer. The old Indian cursed Mrs. Jenkins and aimed all manner of insulting epithets at her, but dared not come back lest she should shoot.

In a day or so the friendly Klickitats returned for their stores and were much pleased when they heard how Mrs. Jenkins had defended them. "Skookum white squaw ! Skookum white squaw !" they exclaimed in loud praise. When they left they gave her a sack of the nuts for "tenas white men," or the boys, as they said.

A Humorous Trial In Klickitat

John J. Golden, a member of the first party to arrive in Klickitat county and the founder of Goldendale, tells an amusing story of the manner of holding court in the early days of the county's history. Mr. Golden had allowed his hogs to run in the woods, where they throve and fattened on the acorns, but as they seldom saw any person, they soon became as wild as any undomesticated beast of the forest. Mr. Golden intended to let them run in the woods until the snow fell deep enough so that he could track them. The fall season, however, proved to be a mild one, and at no time was the snow deep enough to cover the ground. Mr. Golden succeeded in killing all he needed for his own use, but the rest he determined to abandon, as he did not care to take the trouble to hunt them. Three young men requested and obtained his permission to hunt them and after considerable tramping shot several.

J. H. Alexander, also an early pioneer, claimed that they had killed his hogs, and determined to demand satisfaction for his loss at the hands of the law. He was the justice of the peace for that section and unblushingly appealed to himself for justice in the case. It is not doubtful that Klickitat's present learned bar would find some irregularities in this manner of dispensing justice, but then the county was not troubled with legal advisers.

Mr. Alexander immediately took steps to apprehend and bring to justice the malefactors. Armed with a pistol which was in reality more dangerous to the user than to the one attacked, he succeeded in arresting two of the accused men ; the third, preferring rather to risk the effectiveness of the gun than to trust himself in the hands of the law, took to

Now the prisoners were in most respects fearless men, but, having been brought up on the edge of the wilderness always without the reach of the law, and never having seen any of its operations, they had formed a very exaggerated idea of its powers.

The justice appointed the time of trial for the same evening and summoned witnesses accordingly. John J. Golden was called as a witness for the defense, and, after being duly sworn, told his story. No sooner had he finished his testimony than the justice, who believed in the argumentum ad hominum method of conducting a prosecution, proceeded to revile him for his false and perjured testimony.

The trial continued through the entire night and in the morning the justice, being moved by compassion, dismissed the case and pardoned the offenders, making it evident, however, that he had left himself liable by his leniency and neglect of duty. "I ought to have hanged you both," said the justice. "I could do it and it is at my own risk that I fail to do my duty."

The poor fellows were in great terror lest they be found guilty and the clemency of the court filled them with gratitude. The justice was somewhat disconcerted, however, and felt sure that this thing of conducting a court had its drawbacks when the witnesses, who had thoroughly enjoyel the fun, came to demand their fees.

Toby And Nancy

Kittitas county's two most noted characters are unquestionably Toby and Nancy, residents of Ellensburg. There they are to be seen nearly every day - a sad picture of a dying race. Bent and tottering, wrinkled with the furrows of care and age, and picturesquely dressed in a motley garb of red and white men's clothing, they wander about the streets, poor, old, blind Toby led by a short rope and cautiously feeling his way with a cane, Nancy packing a load of food supplies or wood upon her back. Everybody knows them; all have a kindly word for them. They need not stir from their tepee on the city's outskirts for the matter of food or wood or clothing, for charity has kept them many years now, but they realize that activity is life to them.

How old they are, no one, not even themselves, knows. They were old when the first white settlers came to the valley in the later sixties. In 1873, Charles Reed employed Toby to do some road work, and at that time named him Toby. Toby worked for various people as long as he was able and since then has been supported by others. At the time of the Indian scare in 1878 he did some scout duty for the settlers. Nancy is the only wife Toby ever had. At one time they had several children, but these died years ago. Upon another page will be found late pictures of these Indian centenarians.