LOWER SCOTTSBURG, Sept. 6, '53.

Your friend,
    G.T.A. [George T. Allan--see above]

    We are indebted to Judge MILROY for a copy of the following letter, which we publish with pleasure, and which we doubt not will be interesting to our readers:
    DEAR SIR: * * * I pity those families that have sold comfortable homes in the States, and lost the earnings of years--as most of them have--in getting to Oregon; and bitterly do they repent it; but they are there and there they must remain, to commence life anew--without the means to build themselves comfortable houses, or to open their farms, for the reason that it most generally takes all their money--and most of them have besides to sell their wagons, even, and what other stock they were so fortunate as to get through with--to furnish themselves with provisions and clothing the first year or two; as all the necessaries of life, together with tools, farming implements and labor cost enormously high. True, they got their land for nothing, after living on it a certain length of time, an unnecessary condition, for few of them are able to get away from their claims, and still fewer would have their claims if they could get away.
    The people in the States have an imperfect and very erroneous idea of Oregon. They are falsely told by letter writers, and generally believe it to be a land of broad fertile valleys, covered with long, waving grass and gorgeous flowers of a thousand variegated hues, nodding under a cloudless sky to the cool breezes of the Pacific, and watered by a thousand meandering streams flowing from the mountains and fringed with trees that afford a cooling shade for man and beast; where the emigrant can pitch his tent, build his cabin, kill game in abundance for his family, open his furrows on every side, drop in his grain and wait till bounteous Nature restores it to him a thousandfold.
    It is a "great country," and no mistake, but its greatness consists in its being so full of great mountains that there is scarcely room in any one place for a square, good-sized farm. The settlements are in a succession of long, narrow valleys, separated by mountains and extending nearly in a straight line between the Cascade Mountains, on the east, and the Coast Range, on the west, from the Columbia River to California, a distance of three hundred and fifty miles. One road runs through all the valleys and it is almost the only road in Oregon. Some of the mountains that separate the valleys cannot be crossed with wagons without great labor and difficulty.
    Every valley has a stream of water running through it, but I saw no tributary streams to any of these valley streams, excepting the Willamette. The soil in the valleys is generally gravelly and barren and cannot be tilled with much profit. There are found, in some places, small narrow strips of low ground, along the margins of the streams, that produce well. Springs have also been found that will irrigate an acre or two, but such places are about all taken up.
    The large pumpkins, turnips, potatoes, cabbages &c. that you read of being raised in Oregon are all greatly exaggerated; or if found growing at all beyond the ordinary size are found singly and alone, in some small, moist spot, near a spring or well.
    Many of the late settlers have acknowledged to me that they were deeply disappointed in Oregon and were sorry that they had ever left the States; "but (each one would say) I will never acknowledge it in my letters, to be laughed at; no, no, let them find it out as the rest of us have. The more comes, the better it is for us."
    The people (at least the old settlers in Oregon) are indolent and outlandish. their greatest pride consists in wearing a pair of buckskin breeches, with long fringes down the seam, a huge pair of Mexican spurs, and in talking jargon, as it is called, a mixture of Indian and English gibberish, intelligible to none but themselves, and looked upon by them as the highest accomplishment a man can have. They lounge about their cabins, letting their wives make a living for them by cooking scanty meals for travelers, whom they charge exorbitant prices, and whom they will not treat with respect if they cannot talk jargon. The Californians call them the d----d Walla-wallas, and when down here they are so well aware of the detestation in which they are held that they will not acknowledge their country.
    At the town of Jacksonville, situated in the mines in Rogue River Valley, in Oregon, I saw the "Marion of the Mexican War"--Gen. Joe Lane, of Indiana. He was about concluding a treaty with the Indians, with whom he had been fighting--not much to the satisfaction of the majority of the Oregonians, however; they, standing aloof from danger, and talking in a terrible, furious, quixotic vein, of death and destruction to the Indians, yet were perfectly willing to leave that delightful pastime to the brave and generous Californians who went over from there to assist them. The course pursued by Gen. Lane, under the circumstances in which he was placed, meets the approbation of every honest, sensible man. The General resides in Umpqua Valley, near Winchester, where I became acquainted with one of his sons. There resides, in the same valley, a large number of bachelors--old "forty-niners"--most of whom came to California in that year, and failed in making their piles, or could not keep them when made. They lived in the mines so long that they became lazy and indolent in their habits, and went up there and took claims and built cabins on them and live there like bears. They will elevate their shaggy eyebrows at each new emigrant, and push their dirty fingers through their uncombed, bushy hair, and ask in a voice that sounds as hollow as the braying of a half-starved jackass in an empty barn, if "there has been many girls crossed the plains this year?" There is a chance for old maids!
    While out, alone, in Rogue River Valley, about the close of the Indian war there, I saw, one day, a number of Indians at a distance, approaching me with guns in their hands. I was not frightened, of course, but became very suddenly sensible of the fact that I had no important business to detain me longer in that vicinity.
     From Jacksonville, in company with a companion, I crossed the Siskiyou Mountains, which divide Oregon from California, and also divide the Cascades from the Sierra Nevada mountains. While camping out, in crossing the Siskiyou Mountains, I was, one night, while lying down, struck twice on the neck by a large snake, which, fortunately, happened not to be of a poisonous species. I was not much alarmed, of course, but gave a very sudden and striking illustration of the sudden rises men sometimes make in California.
    By looking over your map you will see in Northern California, near the boundary of Oregon, the great Shasta Butte, a mountain peak, 18,000 feet high, the upper half of which is buried in the snows of ages. No human being has ever reached its summit. Fremont attempted it, but failed. A gentleman of this place ascended a thousand feet higher than Fremont's mark, but was forced to abandon the undertaking as impossible. For a description of this peak, see Fremont's Report.
    At the base of this mountain is a beautiful valley, in which this town is situated; and in and around this valley are the richest gold mines in California. The town of Yreka is three years old--poll 1500 votes--has several fine hotels--two express offices--a regular police--watchmen who walk the streets at night and cry the hour--streets swept once a week, &c. There is a feeling of security displayed here at night that I have seldom witnessed in any town in the States. Door and windows of dwelling houses, shops, stores are often left open at night, and the most valuable goods exposed; yet a theft is rarely known.
    We have judges, sheriffs, constables and justices to administer the laws and enforce justice, but the terrible Judge Lynch often relieves them of their duties by a summary proceeding, which I have several times witnessed. Murders are of rare occurrence here, though two were committed last week.
    A vast amount of merchandise and provisions, of every kind, is brought to this place, and the only way to get it here, over the mountains, is by pack mules; frequently along the brink of frightful precipices, where the least false step would precipitate the mule and pack hundreds of feet below.
    Sunday is always the great day for business in this place. On that day the miners come in to get their tools sharpened--to lay in their supplies of provisions--to hear the news and to relax and amuse themselves. The noisy din commences in the morning and increases till night. The gaming saloons are open; female gamblers, richly dressed, mingle with the noisy throngs that surround the gambling tables and bars. Bands of musicians, seated upon elevated platforms, play the sweetest airs to "sooth the savage." Shouts of laughter are heard from the various saloons and along the crowded sidewalks. The auctioneer, with long Mexican spurs on his heels, rides swiftly up and down the narrow streets, crying the bids and throwing the horse upon his haunches with a heavy Mexican bit as he wheels. Hand over hip the heavy sledge hammer falls upon the ringing anvil; and amidst all this babel-like confusion of sounds the deep tunes of the minister's voice are heard, preaching in a small church nearby, crowded with an attentive congregation, whose ears are often saluted with a strange medley of words, something like the following; "Oh! my beloved hearers, let these truths"--"Four ounces, four ounces for this fine young horse, five can I hear?"--"Ten dollars in bank, who'll tap it?"--"Let me entreat you to believe"--"[illegible] double O, red"--"Just a-going, just a-going for"--"The Apostle Paul says"--"I'll go you ten dollars better"--"Ninety-five, ninety-five dollars for"--"The devil and his angels," &c., &c.
    Do not think that profane language, drunkenness, quarreling and fighting are the natural consequences of such gatherings here. You will rarely see, in the older states, the same number of men collected together that do not carry these vices to a greater extent. Men do not hastily quarrel when everyone carries a knife and revolver in his belt, ready for instant use. Mirth and apparent good feeling generally prevails; yet it always seems to me like the sportive playing of a tiger, that may, in an instant, turn to ungovernable fury--to rend and destroy, for I have seen such crowds, one minute in boisterous good humor, and in the next an infuriated mob, howling like demons:
    We have, here, a population composed of nearly all nations. The Indian and the negro jostle each other on the sidewalk. The burly Englishman and the frisky Frenchman touch glasses at the bar. The swarthy Spaniard nods to the grim Chinese. The dark Chileno and the broad-sombreroed Mexican smoke together. The American is saluted with a friendly "how you vas," from Mynheer [sic--'mein herr"] of Holland.
    Such is Yreka, at the present day. It is probable that it may, in future, become the capital of a flourishing state, composed of Southern Oregon and Northern California.
    Boarding here is $16 per week; single meals, $1; flour, beef and potatoes, each, 20 cts. per pound, and milk $2 per gallon.
    When I hear from you I'll write again, and
Until then, I "remain, hushed in grim repose."
Weekly Times, Delphi, Indiana, February 17, 1854, page 2


    We have been favored with the subjoined interesting details of an overland journey from Illinois to the "Far West," transmitted to England by a gentleman formerly a resident of Nottingham. The route lay through the valley of the Great Salt Lake, the abiding place of the followers of Joe Smith, respecting whose position, religiously, morally, and socially considered, important and interesting particulars are furnished, which will tend greatly to enlighten the minds of those who may entertain the desire or intention to visit this supposed terrestrial paradise. The letter is dated "Gold River Valley, Oregon Territory, April 18th, 1854," and in respect of the journey observes as follows:--
    "We found it impracticable to rest regularly on the Sabbath; the great length of the journey, the uncertainty of grass and water, and the danger of being overtaken by snowstorms on the mountains at the latter end rendered it necessary to travel all the time we were able, and rest only in such places as offered facilities for encampment. Many through ignorance of physical law, and some from conscientious motives, acted differently, and the consequence was the road for hundreds of miles was strewed with famished dead and dying creatures, forsaken wagons, and scattered property. We arrived at the settlements in this valley on the 31st of August, [1853,] with abundance of provisions to spare; our horses and cattle in fine order; our wagons and equipments sufficient to have taken us back again if necessary, whilst many whom we passed on the road, equally equipped with ourselves, arrived a month afterwards with a mere wreck of what they started with. Some would have perished on the mountains had it not been that trains of provisions were forwarded for their relief from Oregon and California. * * *
    "After crossing the Missouri we proceeded up the River Platte 500 miles, then through the northern portion of Mexico, and the South[ern] American states. We took a new route, leaving the City of the Saints 100 miles to our left. There we fell in company with an intelligent Englishman and his wife, who had made their escape from the city, and from whom we ascertained the following particulars. They had been influenced by the preaching of the apostles and elders of the Mormon Church in their own land, had conformed to the doctrines and requirements of the church, and ultimately resolved upon emigrating to this part of the world. They carried their resolution into effect and proceeded to the City of the Saints, which unhappily for them proved to be a second Sodom. President Young, who is practically prophet, priest, and king, has seventy wives; the bishops, elders, and indeed all others who choose, have as many as their means will enable them to support. Drunkenness is common, and encouragement given to theatrical performances, music, dancing, and whatever will please the senses. Much disquietude exists, particularly amongst females, many of whom are subjected to scanty means of subsistence, and at the same time have many additions to the common trials of domestic life without its usual aids and sympathies. Some sincerely pious persons have become insane, others blasphemous, and many atheists; this last was the case with my informant, who was originally a member of the Baptist Church. But there are multitudes to whom the theory and practice of Mormonism is sufficiently attractive to secure their ready adherence, and these are, numerically considered, strong enough to overcome the insubordinate and execute the will of the rulers. The officials have in their special employment an order of men called 'the Tribe of Dan,' each of whom it is requisite should possess a certain temperament, have red hair and whiskers, and swear to execute the secret councils of the church. These have in charge all who evince a spirit of opposition to the ruling powers, and they are required to supervise all communications to and from abroad previously to their being handed over to their respective owners if there be any manifestation on their part of the disposition alluded to. They are 800 miles from the nearest civilized settlements, surrounded by impassable mountains, trackless deserts, and hostile Indians; escape is therefore impossible, except occasionally during the summer months, when they may hence steal into an emigrant train to Oregon. The council or church rulers require one-tenth of all the time and property that each possesses for church purposes, and things are so managed that but few can long retain what they carry with them. The city is situated on a vast plain, the soil of which is excellent for the growth of wheat and vegetables, although there is no timber for fuel except upon the mountains, 10 miles distant; the climate is healthy, but exceedingly cold in winter. The duties of Englishmen are excessively laborious; the trials of an emigrant are severe under the best of circumstances, but especially so to one journeying to and sojourning at Deseret.
    "The valley of our present home (Oregon) is a picture of beauty, 30 miles in length, and averaging about eight miles in width. The north side is bounded by mountains densely timbered, the south is covered with grass and scattered trees with luxuriant foliage, and through the center a beautiful and majestic stream, supplied by numerous streamlets from the mountains, finds its way through a narrow pass to the Pacific Ocean, which is 100 miles distant. On all sides it is surrounded by high mountains, many of which are capped with snow. The vale is beautifully varied with little hills and valleys, meadows and groves in their primeval splendor, and singing birds and lovely flowers. The best portions are already occupied; we paid 1,500 dollars for our claim of 320 acres, a portion of which we have already sown with wheat; for which we expect a good demand, as the miners in this and neighboring localities will require all that can be produced. We have a delightfully cool and bracing air which to us is a very agreeable change from the miasma of Illinois."
    We have also abstracted the following additional particulars from a letter forwarded at the same time as the foregoing one, by a member of the same family:--"We proceeded in companies of from twelve to fifteen wagons, each wagon being drawn by three or four yoke of oxen. The whole train of white-covered wagons extended for several miles, creating such a dust as to prevent our seeing further than the second yoke of oxen. We traveled in this manner about 2,500 miles, at an average rate of from 15 to 25 miles per diem, leaving Kanesville, on the Missouri River, on the 2nd of May, 1853, with two wagons, thirty-four head of cattle, and two horses. We journeyed up the Platte River, the Sweet Water Valley, across the Rocky Mountains, Green's River, and Green's River Mountains, and down the Bear River. On our way we passed the Soda Springs which are quite curiosities, and interesting not merely to the casual observer, but also to the traveler in search of scientific lore. They consist of small mounds, about five feet in height, with a small cavity at the summit in which is water containing the properties of soda, with a great similarity in taste. This, when added to cream of tartar and sugar, made excellent soda water. Upon leaving this locality we crossed Goose Creek Mountains 300 miles, and then traveled down the Humboldt River 150 miles. Its banks were strewn with the carcasses of horses and cattle, the deaths of which were caused by their drinking liquids impregnated with alkali, and their intestines were transformed into substances resembling and having the properties of soap. The only means to prevent death, when the animals had partaken of this liquid, was the speedy administration of hog's lard, which generally produced the desired result. The water we had to drink was of the worst description, and the stench from the putrid bodies of dead animals was noxious in the extreme. Several in the train were consequently sick, and some died and were interred; but their remains were generally exhumed by the Indians, who stripped them of their clothing. They were frequently, too, scratched out of their sepulchers by voracious wolves and devoured. After crossing the Nevada mountains we passed the Black Rock, and a rock from which issues a boiling spring, that will cook meat of any description in a very short period. It is known as the 'Hot Spring,' and imparts a strong sulphurous effluvium. We were compelled to travel 40 miles across the Hot Spring Desert without water of any description, and sixty with that only which we were enabled to obtain from the spring. We then had very good grass and water, but bad roads until our arrival at this valley on the 31st of August, 1853, one cow only having died. The wagons were then placed in a circle and a good encampment was thus formed, sentinels being appointed to watch. Notwithstanding our vigilance several head of cattle were stolen by the Indians, who have hitherto shown a disposition to act friendly towards us, and to trade with us, but the white men take every opportunity of destroying them, and I am not surprised at the result. * * * We are now in the midst of the gold fields, about 100 miles from the Pacific Ocean; the country intervening is very mountainous, but it is contemplated forming a wagon road, which will tend greatly to enhance the value of this locality."
Nottinghamshire Guardian, Nottingham, England, August 31, 1854, page 3


    SOME ten years ago, when travelers in Oregon suffered very severely from attacks of Indians, I was one of a party passing through that wild and unknown state, in my way to California. After a month's ride from the Willamette Valley, we diverged westward from the great emigrant trail, and found ourselves camped one evening on the trail to Crescent City, at its intersection by Deer Creek, an offshoot of the Illinois River. Our party consisted, besides myself, of two lethargic Germans, a feeble-minded young artist lately from London, and a stark taciturn hunter from Missouri. During our long journey I had tried to be companionable with each of my fellow-travelers in turn, and at last had fallen back on Kit Butler, the Missourian, with whom I gradually established terms of a smoking, not a speaking, intimacy. On the evening of our encampment on Deer Creek, supper having been eaten and the horses picketed before setting the guard, each of us betook himself to his own private relaxation. This was for the German, sleep; for the artist, self-examination by help of a small glass on a comb handle; for Kit and me, the resolving of ourselves into a vigorous smoking committee. When we had been smoking for some little time, Kit suddenly addressed me: "Mate," he said, "this hoss don't kinder fancy this har camp, he don't."
    To my eyes, a better camping ground could not have been selected. It was pitched on a flat prairie, where "wood, water, and grass" were each at hand, while, at the same time, there was no cover for lurking Indians nearer than the creek--a long rifle shot distant. But Kit, I observed, had his eye, miles and miles away, on a thin spiral column of smoke.
    "An Indian camp fire!" I exclaimed.
    "And Rogue River too near," Kit growled.
    I understood him. We were camped not far from the Rogue River, and it was likely enough the fire had been lit by an outlying party of the Rogue tribe, who had earned their sobriquet from being notoriously the most rascally Indians in all Oregon. The night, however, passed without an alarm. In the morning, the Germans' cattle, already half foundered, were found to be so badly galled by careless saddling that it was agreed we should halt for four and twenty hours, to give the poor brutes a chance of recruiting.
    Kit, who never descended to argument, made a wry face at this plan, and, catching up his rifle, prepared, as was his custom, for a hunt. I went with him, and after some hours, we got within range of a herd, and shot for supper a small elk, or wapiti deer. On nearing camp again, we saw that our party had been joined by a young Indian lad. Equipped in a suit of dressed deerskin, with a good deal of Indian finery about him, he stood in an easy attitude by the camp fire, while our artist sketched him, and the Germans were looking on lazily. This admission of the Indian into camp was against all prairie laws, as it has been found that such visitors are invariably spies, and "trouble" is pretty sure to come of their visits. Kit, therefore, throwing down the venison, burst angrily into the group:
    "I found him by the creek: I only wanted to draw him," explained the startled artist, dropping his sketching block and brush.
    "Draw him!" Kit shouted, "I'll draw a bead on the young spy's carcase if he don't make tracks in less than no time. Mate!" said the ireful hunter to me, as the frightened redskin darted across the plain, "jest fix your shooting irons right, for we'll have 'trouble' afore long. This coon knows nought of Injuns, he don't."
    Impatient to get away from our present camp, I was not sorry when the day drew to a close, and we began to prepare supper. While I chopped some wood for the fire, Kit cut up the carcass of the elk we had shot in the morning, and kneaded the flour for bread in the "prospecting" tin. When I had made up the fire, there was no water for the coffee. As usual, our companions had been loafing about, aiding little or nothing in the indispensable camp duties. Somewhat annoyed, I bade one of the loafers take our tin saucepan down to the creek to fill it. Of course there was a discussion of the lazy as to who should be at the trouble of performing this slight service. In the end, one of the Germans took the saucepan up, and, with an ungracious expletive, departed on his errand. My fire blazed away brightly. Kit's cake, propped up before it with a stone, was baking in the usual primitive prairie fashion, and the venison steaks, cut up into little chunks, threaded onto a peeled wand, were twirling over the embers. Still the German had not returned with the water. As, in spite of our hails, he did not emerge from the hollow of the creek, which had a steep bank considerably higher than a man, his fellow countryman was dispatched to see what he was doing. When he in his turn had disappeared down the bank, I noticed that Kit, who sat on the ground twirling the spit, let it fall into the fire, and seemed to listen anxiously to a sound that reached only an ear quick as his. But shortly an awful shout arose. It was a heart-rending appeal for help, and I should have certainly responded to it by rushing down to the creek but that the powerful grasp of Kit, who had now risen from the ground, withheld me. Again, and this time fearfully prolonged, the cry of a man in his extremity arose, and we saw the second German struggling desperately from the creek. Even from the distance at which we stood, we could perceive that during the few moments of his absence he had passed through a terrible ordeal, for his clothes, where not torn completely away, hung in strips about his person, and exposed the naked flesh, crimson with many slashes, telling that the cruel and silent knife had been at work on him. For a moment, this ghastly figure extended its arms piteously towards us, and uttered another cry, but fainter than before. It was his last effort. Apparently seized from behind by an unseen hand, the unfortunate man tottered for a moment, then threw up his arms, sank back, and disappeared down the creek. Kit was the first of the witnesses of this shocking tragedy to break silence. "Injuns!" he cried; but his explanation was superfluous, for as he uttered it a crowd of redskins jumped forth from the creek and charged down upon us with pealing whoops.
    "Look to the cattle, or we'll all be rubbed out, by thunder!" shouted Kit, as we caught up our rifles. His warning was just in time. No white man's horse can brook the Indian whoop, and all those of ours that had hitherto been grazing quietly about, with their lariats dragging, galloped wildly over the prairie in full stampede, and were irrecoverably lost. Only three horses remained to us. They had luckily a short time before been hitched up to a tree near at hand. Before these terrified brutes could break away we had sprung to their heads, and effectually secured them by doubling their lassos. At first, panic-struck by the appalling sight I had just witnessed, and the critical position in which we were placed, I entertained the idea of flinging myself onto the back of one of the horses and flying for my life, but the hunter restrained me. "Do as I do, mate," he said, with an admirable coolness that completely reassured me; and in obedience to his example I took cover behind the horses and leveled my rifle across their backs, point-blank at the approaching rout of redskins. These, who were armed chiefly with bows and arrows, observing our demonstrations, and knowing that we were not to be taken by surprise, or without a certain loss to themselves--conditions utterly opposed to all Indian ideas of warfare--gradually faltered in their pace till they came to a standstill, and then broke and fled back to the cover of the creek in great confusion.
    There being now breathing time, I remembered the artist. Strange to say, he was nowhere to be seen, but Kit, who seemed to divine the reason of my puzzled looks, pointed up the tree beneath which we stood. I looked aloft, and dimly amid the foliage of the cedar I descried a dangling pair of bluchers that seemed familiar to me. They were the artist's. "Come down!" I shouted; "the Indians are gone." But my request met with no response, unless an irritable movement of the dangling boots was meant for a negative. Again I hailed them, when, as if to put an end to all further argument, they ascended higher among the branches, and were lost to sight. "Guess the scared critter's best up the cedar," said Kit, adding suddenly, as he glanced over the prairie, "Hurrah! Now, mate, saddle up right smart." And while I rapidly equipped the horses, to my astonishment he busied himself in casting upon the fire all the property lying about the camp, with the sole exception of our own rifles and revolvers. "If yon varmint git us, they'll only git mean plunder," he said, grimly contemplating his work of destruction.
    "The Indians in the creek, you mean?" I asked.
    The hunter shook his head, and pointed southwards.
    Following the direction of his arm, I made out through the fast fading twilight a band of horsemen galloping right down upon us. They were mounted Indians. As, doubtless, they were acting in concert with those on foot in the creek, it was plain that our position was no longer tenable. I perceived that Kit was of this opinion, for he was now hastily examining our three remaining horses. They were young American cattle that I had bought on the Columbia, as a speculation for the California market. Two of them were light, weedy-looking fillies; but the third, a powerfully made chestnut stallion, with white feet, was by far the best of the lot.
    "You will take the chestnut, he is the only horse at all up to your weight," I said to Kit, who was a seventeen stoner at least.
    "Thankee, mate," he replied; "'tis kind of ye--yes, 'tis, to give up the best hoss; but I wish 'twar my ole spotted mustang. Don't kinder consate them white feet, and that eye ain't clar grit, it ain't!"
    A few minutes were now wasted in endeavoring to persuade the artist to descend the tree and take the third horse; but, either on account of intense fear, or a conviction of the security of his "cache," he still made no sign. As the horsemen were now fast closing in upon us, and the footmen in the creek began to show themselves, as if with a design of cutting off our retreat, we were compelled unwillingly to leave this impracticable votary of "high art" to his fate. So, mounting our horses, and driving the third one before us, we put out on the back trail.
    "Hold hard, friend!" said my comrade, as the fresh young filly I rode stretched out in a slashing gallop. "If 'twur only twenty mile of good pariera from this to Vannoy Ferry thut we've got to make to save our skins, we'd throw out yon varmints right smart; but reck'lect this pariera gives out in six mile more, and we've as many mile over bad mountain range afore we git down to the open agin, that'll give these fine breeders goss!"
    With horses well in hand, we had ridden some little distance, when a loud whoop in our rear proclaimed that the Indians had reached our camp, but whether the demonstration proceeded from disappointment at the destruction of their anticipated prize, or rejoicing at the capture of our companion, the failing light did not permit us to judge. Soon we heard them again in pursuit. Darkness now set rapidly in, but riding as usual in Indian file, our horses, accustomed for several weeks to follow the trail, picked it out with the greatest ease. As we came to the end of the prairie, I was delighted to see a full moon rising over the mountains, so that we should now have light to guide us in our flight--a great chance in our favor. Kit had relapsed into his accustomed taciturnity, and beyond paying great attention to the sounds in the rear, by which he seemed to regulate our pace, he betrayed no interest in anything. Knowing that all depended on our horses holding out, as we clattered up the first long mountain slope I ranged alongside of him, and examined their conditions. My own filly, though pretty heavily weighted, was as yet perfectly fresh, her stride was easy and elastic, and I felt she was warming well to her work. But an unpleasant sensation came over me, as I noticed that Kit's chestnut was already bathed in a profuse sweat.
    Now that we were fairly in the mountains, our real troubles began. Three days since we had crossed this range, and having shortly before made the passage of the great Cañon Creek, a terrific pass, the trail had not appeared more dangerous than usual. But then we had leisure and daylight to aid us; now, the white metallic light of the moon, which brought out in startling distinctness each crag and rocky point it fell upon, left many dangerous bits of our path in deep obscurity, yet we were compelled to pass over them in full career, for our pursuers now began to push us to their utmost. At intervals, above the clatter of our horses' iron-shod hoofs, the mountains behind us echoed with their whoops, and were replied to from the heights around by the peculiar cry of the white owl, proceeding, as we were aware, from red sentinels, who were able to observe each turn of the chase, and thus urged their comrades still to follow. Urged by their wild riders to the top of their speed, the hardy unshod little mustangs of our enemies scrambled after us over the dangerous trail with a catlike facility of foothold not possessed by our own cattle. To add to our embarrassments, our third horse now began to show a desire to stray from the trail, and forced us often to lose ground by swerving to head him back again. In fact, it was all we could do to hold our own, and, desperately as our desperate need required it, we pushed on. The steep mountainside, the other day painfully ascended, was now dashed furiously down; the edge of the precipice, usually traversed so gingerly, was spurred fiercely over, unheeding the appeals of our terrified horses, who quivered and snorted in very fear. Without drawing bridle, we spattered through the mountain torrent that ran down the deep gulches, and took flying the smaller streams. When the last weary mountain crest was topped, and we descended again to the wooded plain beneath, I should have felt myself comparatively safe had it not been for the deplorable condition of our horses. As Kit had foreseen, the mountain range had fearfully tried them. Though my mare, with the instinct of good blood, still answered when I made a call on her, I felt she was getting fast used up; but the chestnut was in a still worse plight: his drooping crest and laboring stride told the extremity of his distress. We had just arrived at the ford of Slate Creek, a small arm of Rogue River, when Kit's chestnut suddenly staggered, and then plunged headlong to the ground. "Four white legs and a white nose, cut his throat and throw him to the crows!" exclaimed his rider, bitterly repeating the old saw as he vainly endeavored to raise him. Meanwhile, I had ridden forward and caught the loose horse. Kit mounted him in silence, and together we entered the ford, but just before we reached the opposite bank he dismounted and, standing knee-deep in the water, put his rein into my hand.
    "Mate," he said, "we're bound to part comp'ny, if we don't want to go under; take both animals and make tracks for Vannoy: this coon'll look out for hisself, somehow. Goodbye t'ye!" And he set off wading down the creek.
    I brought my horses to his side in a moment.
    "No, no, Kit," I said, deeply touched by his generous proposition; "flight or fly, whichever it is, we'll keep together."
    "Don't rile me, young fellar," he replied, in a voice that he vainly endeavored to render harsh, and abandoned for a tone of earnest entreaty. "I tell 'ee we must part now--it can't be fixed noways different. That thur light animal 'ud burst up under my weight long afore we made Rogue River, and yourn ain't got two mile run left in him; he ain't. Now, look h'yar, if yew want to save our skins, take both them animals, it'll throw the Injuns off my trail, and ride hard for Vannoy. Rouse up the boys thar, and tell 'em Kit Butler from Boonville's cached in the timber by Slate Crick, and the redskins are out. Guess they'll be round with their shooting-irons and bring me in right away. Hurrah now, boy!"
    A moment's reflection convinced me that Kit's plan was the only one that could possibly save us, but it was with a bitterness of heart such as I had never felt before, that I shook his loyal hand--I could not speak--in token that I bade him farewell. If I acted wrongly in abandoning him, God knows that my own reflections, as I put out on my lonely trail, were almost punishment enough.
    But, in reality, Kit's chances of escape were not far from being as good as my own. The plain, especially by the creek, was well wooded, so that our separation took place entirely without the knowledge of the Indians, who, though they would certainly find the foundered chestnut, would naturally conclude that its rider was away on the fresh horse. Neither would they gain any information from the hunter's tracks, for, of course, he had taken the precaution to wade some distance down the creek before he cached in the timber, and water leaves no trail. But I could not reason on all this then. I could only remember that I had left the last and best of all my comrades behind me, and that if evil came to him, I should be held accountable. Deeply plunged in such maddening reflections, I had not ridden far when the report of a rifle in my rear almost caused my heart to stand still.
    The Indians, then, had discovered Kit's cache. I pulled up my horses and turned round with the desperate determination of rejoining him at any hazard, when all at once I remembered, in impotent despair, that, with the exception of my bowie knife, I was unarmed. On parting, Kit had taken possession of my rifle and revolver, remarking that, while they might be of use to him, I should ride lighter without them. All a pretext! I saw it now, when too late. The noble-minded fellow had guessed that if I heard him engaged with the Indians, I should return, and had thus taken measures effectually to prevent me. Utterly distraught on making this discovery, I remember little more of my ride to Vannoy Ferry. Though I rode like a madman, I must yet have acted with the soundest discretion. My horse was afterwards found dead about two miles up Applegate Creek, by which the trail ran after leaving Slate Creek. At that point I must have mounted the second horse, and swam the creek, instead of following it up to Rogue River. Then I crossed the country in a northeasterly direction, and thus, by cutting off an angle, considerably shortened the distance. But of all this, I only distinctly remember pricking along my failing horse with my bowie knife, as the lights of the ferry came into view, till he also gave in and fell, throwing me over his head and inflicting on me no trifling injuries; and that wet, bruised, and bleeding, but still with the one fixed, irrevocable idea pervading my weakened senses, that Kit was in deadly peril for my sake, and that he must be saved, I burst into the midst of the ferry men as they sat round their fire in their log hut.
    "Kit Butler, from Boonville!" shouted one of the rough backwoodsmen, the captain of the ferry, in reply to my wild appeal for help. "By thunder! he's jest my fust cousin; how kim yew to quit, mister, when he war in sich a tarnation fix, eh?"
    "Talking won't get him out of it, man," I replied, impatiently; "either come along with me at once to help him, or give me a rifle and fresh horses and let me do what I can myself."
    "We'll go--don't you fear, mister," he said, more graciously; "yon darned redskins ain't goin' to wipe out the smartest mountain boy in all Oregon. And no 'muss' round! Hy'ar yew Pete--Dave--Zack--lay hold of your shootin' irons, boys, and git the animals out of the corral."
    "Ay, ay, Cap!" was the ready response; and with astonishing quickness we were all armed and mounted on sturdy mustangs, riding hard to the rescue.
    As we splashed through Applegate Creek Ford, we heard a shot to the front, followed shortly by another. "Hurrah, boys!" shouted our leader; "thar goes old Kit! He ain't wiped out jest yet, nohow. Guess it'll take a caution o' redskins to whip him. He'll make 'em see snakes and black ones at that."
    In a few minutes more we debouched onto the north bank of Slate Creek, but not an Indian was visible. The noise of our approach had effectually scared them; they had not cared to stand the brunt of a charge of half a dozen white men. As we swept up the creek, dear old Kit stepped out of his cover, his hands and face black with powder, and his forehead bleeding, but only from the splinter of a bad cap.
    "You're welkim, boy," he said, as we shook hands; "twar getting hot, though I peppered one or two of the varmints. They got on my trail right smart when yew quit; but they ain't got me this time, I reckon."
    Prudence forbade our small party from attempting the mountain passes that night to learn the fate of our comrades, but early the next day we reached Deer Creek.
    As we had anticipated, we found the two Germans dead in the creek, where the fatal ambush had been laid for them. Of the artist we could find no traces, but on our return to the ferry we found him there. Though unhurt, his plight was ludicrously doleful. The Indians had discovered him in the cedar, and it would have fared ill with him but that the sketch of the young Indian was found on his person, drawn so accurately that all his captors recognized it. Believing from this circumstance that he was a great "medicine" man whom it would be dangerous to injure, they stripped and released him.
All the Year Round, March 22, 1862, pages 45-48


Seattle Post-Intelligencer, March 17, 1891, page 5