Part 2 (2/2)
Driskol. He did not even refer to the goose when apologizing to me for scoldings he had given me.
We arrived late at night at the ferry, and found everything in turmoil of excitement. Two men, an old man and his son, Briggs by name, if I remember correctly, had been killed by the Indians in Tye Valley, about thirty miles away. The murders created intense excitement, all fearing it was the signal for a general ma.s.sacre of the settlers around the Dalles and the isolated traders on the Walla Walla road. The Smith brothers had returned and had been a.s.sisting the two men at the ferry in fortifying the post. The house, a mere shack, was being walled in with rock, port holes for the rifles being left. Our absence had created uneasiness on the part of the Smiths, but they knew it would be futile to attempt to find us. Besides, it was thought more than probable that we had already been ma.s.sacred and to undertake to find us would be only to throw their own lives away.
Their surprise and pleasure was therefore great when we rode into the station at 11 o'clock at night. They at once informed us of the murder of the old man and his son, and heartily congratulated us when in return we told them of our own adventure. The two men at the ferry were positive that the Indian did not belong in that section, and by our prudence, they said, we had saved our horses and probably our lives. The next day we all joined in completing the fortifications, and when finished felt that we could ”stand off” two or three tribes. Yet, notwithstanding our confidence, we felt that in the event of a general outbreak we were still in a dangerous position and that every care should be exercised. Upon my own part, I felt no uneasiness. Zim Smith was there, a rollicking devil-may-care fellow, and I believed he alone was the match for all of the Indians east of the Cascade Mountains. A careful guard was maintained, however, our horses kept near at hand, and we anxiously awaited results.
Several days thus pa.s.sed. The Smiths and Driskols seriously discussing the situation. They had ventured their all in the cattle speculation, and to abandon them to the mercy of the red devils was an alternative hard to contemplate. But what could four men and a boy do opposed by hundreds of blood thirsty savages? Under all the circ.u.mstances, it was finally determined to embrace the first opportunity of getting out of the country. Our lives, they argued--I had no say--were worth more than cattle. Besides, we could not save the cattle cooped up in a stone fort as we were. We knew that the news would be carried to Walla Walla and that returning miners would travel in strong parties.
A few days later a company of forty or fifty men came along, and as they were well armed, we determined to join them. The two men at the ferry also abandoned the place and went with us.
I omitted to say that Wall Cushman, one of the owners of the ferry, had gone below some time before my arrival there, and I had no opportunity of renewing my acquaintance of the spring before.
We arrived at the Dalles without incident worthy of mention. There I sold my horse, saddle and bridle, rifle and revolver to a man who said he was going on a prospecting expedition, and took a Columbia River steamer to Portland. As horses and arms were in demand, not much trouble was experienced in selling, and most of the company with which I was traveling made similar disposition of their ”outfits.”
Going down the river, Zim Smith, who was quite a talker, told the story of the goose in my presence and in the presence of a crowd. I was terribly mortified, and informed his brother that ”Zim was making fun of me.” He laughed and mollified my feelings so far as to say, ”Zim is only talking and means nothing by it.” ”In fact, he thinks you are a great boy.” But I had made up my mind that I had seen enough of the wild life of the mines, mountains and plains; I would go home and attend school.
No more Indians, miners, and rough men for me. I had seen and experienced enough, and was heartily sick of it all. I had experienced a ”Call of the Wild” and was satisfied. And I want to say to my young readers again, whenever you experience a similar call--don't.
The trip home was made mostly on foot, the great flood of the early winter of 1861-2 having washed out bridges and roads, seriously interfering with stage travel. An occasional boat made trips as far as Albany and Corvallis, but we failed to make proper connections. Hence from Oregon City to Albany we traveled on foot, but it was a weary journey in the mud.
Here, if the reader will pardon a digression, I will relate a little anecdote ill.u.s.trative of the times. We were pa.s.sing through French Prairie in Marion County. The spot, one of the richest and most beautiful in all Oregon, derived its name from the fact that it was settled princ.i.p.ally by Canadian French, employees of the Hudson Bay Company. They were typical frontiersmen, hospitable and generous to a degree. We had asked at several farm houses for accommodations for the night, but there was so much travel that all were full and running over.
Our party consisted of six, the Driskols, Smiths, Ben Allen and myself.
Trudging through the mud, all were tired and hungry. As we neared the upper edge of French Prairie, Ben Allen remarked that he had an old friend, a Frenchman, and he was satisfied we would be welcomed to his home. He lived nearly a mile off the road, but that was better than walking to Salem, six or seven miles. Accordingly, we turned off to the home of Ben's friend. The old Frenchman received us with open arms. He was simply delighted and gave us the best of everything the house afforded. In fact, the old man fairly danced with delight that ”Bin” and his friends had paid him a visit.
Seated in home-made rocking chairs, before an open fire place in which was a roaring fire of oak logs, it was, as Zim Smith expressed it, ”solid comfort.” Finally supper was announced, and the announcement was never more welcome than to that hungry crowd. Besides ham, vegetables and other accompaniments of a farm house dinner, there was a certain stew with dumplings. This was an especially toothsome dish, and all partook freely and with relish. As we neared the end of the meal our host exclaimed, addressing Mr. Allen:
”Well, Bin, how did you like the cat!”
”Cat, h--l” said Ben.
”Oh, yes Bin, he very fine cat. We fatten him three week.”
Somehow, our dinner came to a sudden close. Urged by our host to have more, all politely declined, ”Bin” saying it was very good, indeed, but he had eaten heartily and didn't care for more.
The next morning we bade our hospitable host adieu, before breakfast, saying we were anxious to get to Salem as we expected to catch a boat for Albany, Corvallis or possibly Eugene City.
That was the first cat I ever ate and since that time I have eaten bear, wild cat, horse, mule, but as a matter of fact, I never ate a more toothsome dish than the old Frenchman's cat--until I discovered it was cat. Hence I am inclined to the opinion that it is all a matter of education.
I arrived at home after Christmas and during the rest of the winter attended the district school. Had I been told that that little district school was destined to be the last I should ever attend, I possibly should have better applied myself to my studies. I remained on the farm that summer a.s.sisting in the general work. In the fall of 1862, Joaquin Miller and Anthony Noltner started the ”Herald,” a weekly newspaper, at Eugene City. Instead of going to school, as my father wished, I applied for and obtained a position as ”devil” in the office. Mr. Noltner was of the opinion that the name was very appropriate in my case. However, I soon gained the confidence and esteem of my employers. As evidence of this, I remained three years, and during the time did not lose three days, that is, if we except the several occasions when for a week or two, the Herald was ”excluded from the United States mails for disloyal utterances.” Publication would be suspended for a week or so and then come out under another name. The columns would be filled with news and ”strictly literary matter” for a short time. Then Mr. Miller would launch out and give expression to his opinion on things in general and certain politicians in particular. After a few weeks something said would incur the displeasure of the postmaster, and we would then have to begin all over under a new name. And do you know, I grieve to admit it now, but those little vacations came so regularly that I began to enjoy them--I could go hunting.
Thus Miller and Noltner struggled along, issuing their publication under three or four different names. There was talk at different times of providing Mr. Miller a residence at Fort Alcatraz, with board and lodging at the expense of the U. S. Government. Now, I may be ”telling tales out of school” but there are few left to care, save Mr. Miller and the writer, and I trust that ”Heinie” will pardon me in thus living over the stirring times of our youth.
In the spring of 1864, I think it was, Mr. Miller sold his interest in the paper to his partner, Mr. Noltner. After that the office had few charms for me, and more and more my spirits bent to a ”Call to the Wild.” This feeling became the more p.r.o.nounced by reason of a little misunderstanding with Major Rinehart who commanded the troops at that time stationed at Eugene City. The circ.u.mstances leading up to the ”misunderstanding,” briefly are that a friend, Henry Mulkey, had been arrested for a political offense by order of Major Rinehart, and it had been determined to send him to Ft. Vancouver and possibly to Alcatraz. I went to Major Rinehart's headquarters and applied for a pa.s.s to see Mr.
Mulkey. That I played good-goody--lied like a tombstone in order to get the pa.s.s, is not necessary here to state, but I got it and arranged an escape with Mulkey. That the arrangement miscarried was due to Mr.
Mulkey, and not to the prudence of Major Rinehart or the failure upon my part to carry out the program.
Be that as it may. Mulkey was re-captured, and my own arrest was ordered. A little boy, G.o.d bless him, overheard Major Rinehart give the order to Lieutenant Tichnor, and ran and told me. Now, I did not relish the idea of a residence either at Ft. Vancouver or Alcatraz--nor did I know how long it would last. Consequently I leaped upon the best horse I saw standing hitched to the Court House fence and rode out of town, sending the horse and saddle back by a son of ”Uncle Jimmie” Howard.
That boy is now a Baptist minister and I seriously question if he would now accommodate me so far as to return a ”lifted horse.”
Under all the circ.u.mstances, I concluded to absent myself permanently-- at least until Major Rinehart's soldiers should move on. Securing an ”outfit” I joined a small company in the mountains, crossing the Cascades by McKinzie Pa.s.s.
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