Married, in Jacksonville, Oregon, on the 23rd of February, by the Rev. Mr. Williams, Mr. JOHN LOVE to Miss SOPHIA HARRIS. Pittsburgh papers please copy. This young lady was wounded during the Rogue River War, in October, 1855, in an attack made by the Indians upon her father's house; and in the fight which followed, her arm was broken, and her father and her little brother were shot dead. The house having been burned by the savages, she and her mother escaped to the chaparral, each armed with a rifle, and defended themselves for twenty-four hours against a body of twenty Indians, until rescued by a party from Jacksonville. This sounds like the deeds of some of the famous heroines of Kentucky and Tennessee, in the fearful encounters with the savages by the early settlers. John Love, you've got a true woman for a wife. As you are in name, so be to her in reality. She is a girl every American ought to be proud of.
Daily Alta California, San Francisco, March 3, 1860, page 2

DIED.

DIED.

Jacksonville Post, August 7, 1920, page 1  Fred Lockley also reprinted this account (below), in 1925, attributing it to a "legal brief" pamphlet by Turner.


    "When there is no recreation or business for thee abroad, thou mayest have a company of honest old fellows in their leathern jackets in thy study which will find thee excellent divertissements at home," says Thomas Fuller. Acting on Fuller's advice an evening or so ago I began looking over some books I had purchased at a second-hand bookstore a few days before. Among the books was a thin pamphlet which on further investigation on my part I discovered to be an old law brief. A law brief is not exactly the form of book one would pick up for light reading before the fireplace, but I have found interesting material in all sorts of unexpected places, so I decided to give it the once-over. It was a brief in behalf of the settlers who had lost their homes during the Rogue River war, and after a few pages of legal quotations and citations here is what I ran upon--a bit of Oregon history about which I had often tried to find further information. The attorney quotes William M. Turner, who writes as follows:
    "It happened in '55. A heavy cloud had been gathering over the settlers in Southern Oregon. The fame of the lovely valley lying under the snow-capped Siskiyous, threaded by sparkling streams, covered with luxuriant grasses, the hiding place of antelopes and deer, surrounded with hills that were yellow with gold, had attracted attention, and immigration had poured fast into the Rogue River country from California and Northern Oregon.
    "It was the old frontier story--the white was crowding the red, and the latter was sullen and out of temper. Although the government had established a reservation in Rogue River Valley and made fair provision for the Indian, he was jealous of the encroachments of civilization, and his discontent was manifested by the occasional murder of a prospector a white traveler. At last the cloud burst, and it swept over the outlying settlements like a whirlwind of death. Murder by prowling bands of Indians had become so frequent that the patience of the whites was exhausted. A company of volunteers had been quietly organized, and on October 8, 1855, they struck the first blow on a large band of Indians who professed the utmost friendship to the settlers. Those who survived the slaughter hastened to the reservation and persuaded the few who were remaining there to join them, commenced their work of retaliation at that point, and then, striking down the river, continued it in their flight and did it fearfully well.
    "In July of the same year George W. Harris, with his family, consisting of his wife, a daughter about 11 years of age, and a manly boy of nearly 9, had come from the Willamette and settled in a little valley through which passed the main line of travel, lying about 40 miles north of Jacksonville. Mr. Harris was a worthy, industrious citizen, quietly building a home for his family, who were happy and contented with the little spot where their weary feet had found rest. The house, a log building, was beautifully situated on a slight eminence in the little valley, and on every side, except the south, the ground was clear and open. Mr. Harris had felled several trees in the vicinity of the house, and on the morning of the ninth was busily engaged in making boards from one of them, not having the slightest apprehension of immediate danger. That October morning had dawned beautifully on the peaceful home. The throats of the songbirds were bursting with melody as the rising sun bathed the hills with mellow light and streaked the eastern horizon with gold and purple. Slowly the shadows of the tall pines crept down the western mountain as the morning wore on, and the unconscious victims little dreamed that other shadows were falling in that mellow sunlight like cruel, hateful things on the brown sward of the little valley.
    "Under cover of a large copse of willows, just out of range, a band of 15 or 20 warriors, with the warm blood of the murdered Wagner family, who lived two and a half miles to the southward, yet undried on their brown hands, stole silently, stealthily toward the doomed home. Some of the fiends were probably half-crazed with liquor obtained at the Wagner ranch and, pressing too eagerly for a favorable position for the attack, which was made at 9 a.m., were evidently discovered by Mr. Harris. Leaving his work, he walked rapidly into the house and, setting his ax in a corner of the room, he took up his shotgun without saying a word, stepped to the door and endeavored to close it. Little Sophie accompanied her father to the door, looking in his face in a wondering, half-frightened way, but asked no questions, and just as they reached the door the Indians fired a volley of at least a dozen shots into and through it. Mr. Harris, struck fair in the breast by a rifle ball, stood firmly till he had discharged both barrels of his heavily loaded gun, then staggering backwards fell, never again to speak to those who so sorely needed his protection.
    "The daughter was shot through the left arm by the same volley that mortally wounded her father, but she uttered no cry nor showed the slightest sign of pain, but, bleeding freely, ran upstairs and threw herself on the bed. It was now that the courage of the woman, that splendid quality that turns the fibers of the most delicate hearts to cords of steel, that mocks the valor of the stronger sex, was sorely tried. Mrs. Harris had observed her husband's movements, understood them, and at once realized the situation. For a moment only was she appalled. Instantly recovering her self-possession, the brave frontier woman took the weapon from the grasp of her dying husband, closed the inner door, and, rushing upstairs, seized an Allen revolver which was lying on the roof-plate and discharged it rapidly in the direction of the assailants through a hole in the chinking. The act doubtless saved her life and that of her daughter, for the Indians, who had now made a second rush, shrank back under cover of a large pine tree which stood about 20 paces from the door, not knowing that the house had but a single defender.
    "Fortunately, Mr. Harris had prepared a large number of cartridges for a possible emergency, and, perfectly familiar with firearms, his wife commenced loading and firing toward the tree, which was afterwards found to be scarred with bullets. Changing her position from upstairs to downstairs, always keeping one barrel in reserve and carefully guarding all approaches to the house, Mrs. Harris kept up a steady fire for hours, and the Indians must have been convinced that the house was full of armed men, for they never exposed their cowardly forms. They returned the fire, however, sending bullets through the chinking of the house, filling the room with splinters, but without effect. At 2 o'clock the Indians drew off, striking toward the Haines ranch, about a mile to the westward, where they did bloody work. Their retreat took a load from the mother's heart. Strung up to its utmost tension for five long hours that seemed ages, it now relaxed, and she who had fought like a tigress for her offspring was now herself but a sobbing child. Was it strange that the mother's heart should be bursting? Tricking through the floor above were drops of blood, and Mrs. Harris ran wildly upstairs. Little Sophie, with her lips pallid from the loss of blood, was lying on the bed in a fainting condition, and her mother learned for the first time that she had been wounded."
Oregon Journal, Portland, February 2, 1925, page 6


    In yesterday's article I spoke of picking up an old-time legal brief and in glancing through it I ran across an account by W. M. Turner of Southern Oregon of the killing of George W. Harris by Indians and the heroic and successful defense made by his girl wife of her family. [Mrs. Harris was 35 in 1855.] The Harris family had recently removed from the Willamette Valley to Southern Oregon, where they had taken up a place. Harris was killed by the Rogue River Indians on October 9, 1855. His little girl was wounded by the same volley that killed him, but she crept upstairs and lay on her bed, not telling her mother about it. After standing the Indians off for five hours, Mrs. Harris saw them give up the attack and retire. Her husband lay dead near the doorway, where he had fallen. She saw blood on the floor in another part of the room, and looking up, saw drops of blood falling from the ceiling. She hurried upstairs and found her little girl had fainted from loss of blood. In describing what then took place, Mr. Turner says:
    "Carefully bandaging the wound, and applying restoratives, her next thought was for little David. Just before the attack the little fellow had accompanied Samuel Bowden, who lived about a quarter of a mile north, to his home, and as neither made his appearance the mother feared they, too, had fallen victims. Anxiously she waited; patiently she listened; till evening fell, and still the child came not; and as she watched and listened in vain the mocking wind among the pines seemed to say to the poor throbbing heart: 'No more--forever!' Evening came, and no new danger threatened. Should the savages return they could steal to the house under cover of darkness and fire with perfect safety, and Mrs. Harris determined on flight. Taking Sophie in her arms, and with a sad, parting look at the white face of him who had given his life for theirs, she stole from the house and hid in the chaparral.
    "Who can write the memory of that dreadful October night? Who can tell the anguish that wrung the heart of that heroic woman? As the night wore on and the sky grew higher and the stars grow colder, still they looked coldly down on her as she kept sleepless watch, holding in her arms the faint and bleeding child--the only treasure left her on earth. Now and then the stealthy footsteps of a coyote were heard close to the hiding place of the fugitives. Approaching within a few feet, one of them had smelled the blood with which little Sophie's garments were saturated, and it set up that peculiarly dismal howl that only a coyote can make. From point to point it was answered by others. From hill to hill the howl gathered and rose and swelled in melancholy cadences on the cold night air, till the bereaved and stricken woman feared they would gather and tear her and her darling to pieces. Hour after hour passed, but the stars seemed motionless. How that woman prayed for daylight, unmindful of the damages it might bring! Her thoughts now were wholly absorbed by the probable fate of the handsome, blue-eyed child, who had been so suddenly separated from them, and her anxiety was torture. Could she have known that he had been killed outright, it would have relieved the pressure on a mind already overburdened with horrors. He might have escaped to hide and perish from cold and hunger, or be torn to pieces by the wolves; he might have been captured to undergo tortures indescribable, and when at last daylight broke it was only a wonder that agonizing doubt had not driven the mother mad.
    "Again the morning dawned beautifully; again the shadows of the tall pines crept down the hills; again the songbirds filled the little valley with melody, and still the anxious mother watched. Peering out carefully she saw an Indian in the brush who himself seemed to be watching, and she shrank back again under cover. Commanding a view of the house, she soon observed three persons boldly approach it and break down the door. Supposing the savages had returned in force, Mrs. Harris now gave herself up as lost, and to add to her terror it was scarcely a moment till a band of mounted warriors poured down the valley. But a second glance disclosed the fact that they were in flight, and she knew that help was at hand. Scarcely were the Indians out of sight when her quick ear discovered the pound of heavier hoofs thundering down the road from the south, and in a few moments a detachment of dragoons and a few volunteers, under command of Major Fitzgerald, were sweeping gallantly across the valley. On came the brave boys, filled with vengeance, fresh from a battle at the ruins of the Wagner place, where they had surprised and killed five of the Indians. On they dashed till nearer and nearer, and Mrs. Harris recognized their uniforms and ran with Sophie in her arms to meet them.
    "Drawing rein suddenly, the troopers gathered around the fugitives. Covered with blood and blackened with powder, worn and haggard with exhaustion, they were hardly recognizable, and the major exclaimed, 'Good God! Are you a white woman?' Closer the gallant fellows gathered to hear her simple story, quickly told, and more than one bronzed cheek was wet with tears.
    "The pursuit of the Indians was at once discontinued. After attending to the immediate needs of the survivors and burying the dead, Major Fitzgerald ordered a diligent search for the little boy, but not a trace of him could be found. Subsequently the major furnished Mr. Harkness with an escort of eight men for the same purpose. Every ravine, every hollow, every thicket for miles around the Harris place was carefully searched, but not even the child's wagon, which he had taken with him, could be found. Mr. Bowden, who fled toward Grave Creek on the first fire, stated that the little fellow had started home before the attack, and the most careful examination revealed no trace of his remains in the Bowden house, which had been burned. There was but one hypothesis--the child had been captured and carried away, but this was abandoned. During the war that ensued, and long after hostilities had ceased, captive squaws and strolling bands of Indians were closely questioned, but they persistently denied all knowledge of the child. A year went by, and the remains of a man named Reed were found on the Harris ranch, and search was renewed for Davy, but without result, and still the pines whispered to the sad and sorrowing woman, 'Never and nevermore!' Little Sophie, afterwards the wife of John S. Love, one of the honored citizens of Jacksonville, was carried away by the fearful epidemic that scourged that town in 1869, joining her husband, who had preceded her only a few months. The intrepid mother, who did a deed as brave as any ever recorded in ancient song or story, became the wife of Aaron Chambers, and, widowed a second time, lives among us, honored and beloved."
Oregon Journal, Portland, February 3, 1925, page 10


    An old Indian woman who used to do my washing and ironing solved for me the mystery of the disappearance of the Harris boy. When the Indians of Southern Oregon rose in the late fall of 1855 they went to Jewett's Ferry, killed Mr. Hamilton, who had a pack train, and then went on to Evans' Ferry, where they shot Isaac Shelton, who came from the Willamette Valley. They next killed a Mr. Jones, who had a ranch south of the ferry, and shot Mrs. Jones and left her for dead. However, she revived and did not die till the next day. Mrs. Tufts, who was shot through the body, recovered. They burned J. B. Wagner's house. The little Wagner girl recognized an Indian who had worked for them and ran to him for protection. This Indian hid this little girl out and later took her to his mother to be cared for. Mrs. Wagner would not come out of the house, so the Indians burned the house. The volunteers found in the house the bones of a woman and a small child. They supposed the child was her little girl, but the squaw told me that Mary, her little girl, was taken by this Indian to his own people to be cared for, and when the volunteer soldiers came into the Applegate country to kill the Indians on the Applegate the chief of the Applegate tribe shot little Mary Wagner. I asked the squaw if that was so, how it happened that the bones of a little child were found in the ruins of the Wagner house. The squaw said the Indians went from the Evans house to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Harris. T. A. Reed, who worked for the Harrises, was out in the field at work. The Indians killed him. David, the little boy, had a little homemade wagon. His fate was never known. For years his mother and others hoped he would be discovered, but this squaw told me the Indians had captured David Harris and his wagon and the chief was afraid David's crying would attract attention to them, so he killed David and threw his body and his wagon into the blazing cabin where Mrs. Wagner was burned to death. When the Indians came to the Harris home Mr. Harris hurried to the cabin but was shot just as he entered the door. He died an hour later. His daughter Mary, 12 years old, was shot through the arm. Mrs. Harris had a rifle, a shotgun and a single-barrel pistol, and as the Indians approached she kept firing, and so accurately that she kept the Indians at a distance all day, and that night she and Mary left the house, hid in the brush, and next day, seeing some soldiers, they came out and were taken to Jacksonville.
Elizabeth Bigham Klippel, "Impressions and Observations of the Journal Man," Oregon Journal, Portland, July 18, 1927, page 12

The Lupton Massacre

Medford Mail Tribune, November 23, November 30, December 7, 1930, page B1  Alice Hanley's account, the basis for this article, is below:


    Briefly, the events which took place were as follows:
    George W. Harris and his family had crossed the plains from Tennessee to Oregon in 1853 and had settled the following year on a donation land claim eight miles north of Rogue River, on what was then known as the Oregon-California Trail. His family consisted of his wife, Mary Ann, his eleven-year-old daughter Ann Sophia and his nine-year-old son, David W.
    On the morning of October 9, 1855, Mr. Harris was engaged in splitting logs for fencing, and his wife was preparing to do the family washing. Sophia was busy inside, and David had been sent to the garden for a pail of potatoes. Mr. Harris became aware of a band of fifteen to twenty Indians in war paint, and hurriedly left his work and walked rapidly to the house. Although he was ignorant of the fact, the Indians had become infuriated at the wanton massacre of some eighty [sic] Indian women and children at a rancherie on Rogue River two days [sic] before, and had embarked on a bloody trail of reprisal. Mr. Harris reached the cabin and pushed his wife inside, telling her there was going to be trouble, and was instantly struck by a rifle ball in the chest. He bolted the door, told her he was mortally wounded, while she helped him to a bed in the corner of the room. He then told her he could not defend her, and she must do that herself to the best of her ability, and proceeded to instruct her in the loading and firing of the Kentucky rifle, for which he had previously prepared large quantities of ammunition. Sophia brought powder horn, cap box, bullets and paper wads. These being explained, she loaded the gun, climbed the ladder to the attic where holes in the chinking gave her a view in all directions, and opened fire. An Allen revolver, lying on the roof plate, added to her arsenal. At first there were only a few Indians, but soon she was able to count twenty-one, although it is possible she did not see all of them. Among the warriors she saw a squaw whom she had befriended, wearing a dress she had given her.
    Sometime during the forenoon a ball entered the window in the lower room and struck the girl Sophia in the arm, breaking a bone. She continued to melt lead bars and mold bullets for her mother, in spite of the pain. Mrs. Harris kept up her steady fire for nineteen consecutive hours.
    Between two and three o'clock in the morning of the 10th, the Indians retired and moved down a small creek, where they started fires, presumably for food. It gave the courageous mother a chance to go to the well for water, and bathe her injured daughter's arm. She covered the body of her dead husband and prepared to abandon her home, feeling sure the Indians would return to the attack as soon as it was light. After a short, futile search for her son David, she concealed herself in a willow thicket south of the house and near the trail. When it became light she could discern four savages sitting on the bank of the stream, near the cabin, their bare feet in the water. Suddenly she noticed them ducking under the bank into the shallow stream and disappearing. She could hear the galloping of horses, but did not know if their riders were friends or foes until she heard the rattling of sabers. It was a detachment of U.S. Dragoons from Fort Lane, under the command of Major E. N. Fitzgerald, and twenty volunteers from Jacksonville. She ran out of her hiding place. With her loosened hair, her blood-saturated clothing and her powder-burned face, she did not resemble a white woman, and was almost killed by one of her soldiers. Another soldier struck up [sic] his gun, and the bullet struck the ground in front of her.
    The soldiers now urged her to return to the cabin and prepare some food, neither she nor Sophia having eaten since the morning of the 9th. A detail of four volunteers was left with her, and the main body of soldiers moved on in pursuit of the fleeing Indians.
    A part of the puncheon floor was removed, and a grave dug in the center of the room. The blanketed form of the father was lowered into it, and the earth put back in place. . . . Then the torch was applied, and everything else belonging to the once-happy family went up in roaring flames. Mrs. Harris realized that she must abandon David to his fate. No trace of the boy was ever found. Frank A. Reed, a single man employed by Mr. Harris, was killed while attempting to escape the massacre, and his skeleton was found the following year.
Alice Hanley, date unknown. Transcribed from a typescript attached to a February 6, 1963 letter from State Highway Engineer Forrest Cooper to A. W. Parsons, Division Engineer of the Bureau of Public Roads, and attributed to Mary Hanley. Oregon Department of Transportation archives.


    Mrs. Harris had a garden. There was only one room in their house. She had heated water in a brass kettle and was ready to commence laundry work. About eight o'clock in the morning she sent the little boy to the garden for potatoes. Mr. Harris came into the house and said "Indians in war paint." Their daughter, a girl of 12, was in the house. Just as Mr. Harris went to close the door the Indian shot him in the lung. Mrs. Harris got him to bed. She had never shot a gun. He told her how to load it and said "Now fire, or you'll be killed." She went up to the loft, looked through the port holes, and there were twenty-one Indians. The little girl melted lead for the bullets, and the fight lasted from eight o'clock in the morning to two o'clock in the night. Mr. Harris called for water from time to time, but she could not get it for him. Finally her bullets ran out, the little girl had been shot and her left arm broken, but with her right hand she had melted lead and made bullets and took them upstairs. Mrs. Harris bound the little girl's arm. Then she could see no reason why she should stay there, so the little girl went into the garden, nearly a quarter of a mile away. She called and called the little boy, but couldn't get any answer nor find any trace of him. Just at break of day she saw Indians in war paint watching the house. The girl's arm was badly swollen. She hid in a bunch of willows, and soon saw the Indians hurrying away, and she knew something had happened. She saw the volunteers coming. As they rode up she went to meet them. They saw what the battle had been like. She was so black with powder that she looked like a squaw, and someone tried to shoot her but another man knocked down the gun. They took the mother and the little girl on horseback to Jacksonville. The little boy was never found. He was nine years old.
Alice Hanley, "Reminiscences of Early Days in Oregon," 1935, Southern Oregon Digital Archive


    "I will be 87 years old September 18," said William Henry Cook of Oregon City. "I was born on French Prairie in 1853. My father, William W. Cook, was born in North Carolina in 1818. My mother, whose maiden name was Martha Young, was born in Missouri. My parents had three children, all girls, when they crossed the plains to the Willamette Valley, in 1852. The oldest was 6 years old. After coming to Oregon they had seven more children, of whom I was the first. Of their 10 children, only two are left--my brother Albert, who lives at Damascus, and I.
    "My parents took a donation claim of 320 acres not far from Damascus. In 1881 I moved to Oregon City and did teaming there until 1883, when my brother John and I bought a livery stable, which I ran for 13 years. John ran a blacksmith shop, and was later elected sheriff of Clackamas County. I went on the police force in Oregon City in 1896 and served 14 years. I was chief of police in 1918. I was married on June 18, 1882, to Jessie Winston. Her father, James Winston, crossed the plains in 1846, and her mother came with her parents across the plains in 1845. My wife's mother was the daughter of the Rev. and Mrs. Hezekiah Johnson. Hezekiah Johnson was born in Maryland in 1799. He married Eliza S. Harris. He was pastor of the church at Chillicothe for some years, and in 1838 went to Iowa, where he served as the first missionary of the First Baptist Association in Iowa. He and the Rev. Ezra Fisher were sent to Oregon by the American Baptist Home Missionary Society in 1845. He helped build the first Baptist meeting house west of the Rocky Mountains, at Oregon City. He started a school there, which became Oregon City university. One of his boys, William Cary Johnson, became a prominent lawyer.
    "My wife died in 1935 at the age of 78. I have only one child, Maude, who is a teacher in the Grant High School, Portland. My uncle, George Harris, with his family, lived in Southern Oregon. In October, 1855, the Indians went on the warpath and shot my uncle through the breast. My aunt pulled him through the door into the house, barred the door, and began firing at the Indians with a muzzle-loading rifle and a shotgun. Her little girl, Mary, 12 years old, was wounded in the arm. They had already captured David, the boy, who was 10 years old. My uncle, Mr. Harris, died about an hour after he was shot. My aunt, who was a good shot, kept the Indians at bay, and they finally left. She never learned what became of her son, David."
Oregon Journal, Portland, September 22, 1940, page 20


    The bureau of public roads has approved construction of the Manzanita Safety Rest Area approximately 1.3 miles north of Louse Creek and 5.3 miles north of Grants Pass.
    And the action has brought a reopening of history hooks to one of the most compelling chapters in the story of the Indian uprisings of 1855 in Southern Oregon.
    For the rest area is to be located near the site of the former George W. Harris home.
    The choice of this location will be understood by some Oregonians, who know the Harris story, and realize that the Washington office justifies approval of a site only when it has scenic or historical value.
Story Told Many Ways
    There are many persons, however, new to Oregon, who have never opened their books to this particular story, a story told many ways by many people during the more than 107 years since Harris was murdered by enraged Rogue River Indians.
    This is the story as it is told by Miss Martha Hanley, his great-granddaughter.
    Close to the spot where Miss Hanley's great-grandmother, Mary Ann Harris, solaced her injured daughter and guarded the body of her massacred husband, tourists will relax and listen to the cooling wind in the willows.
    Few travelers will be able to visualize a pioneer mother, bloodstained and powder-blackened, waiting in a similar willow thicket and listening only for the stealthy footsteps of Indians. The most imaginative one may hear on the wind the voice of the little lost boy, David Harris, whose fate still remains unknown.
Reason for Happening
    Why did all of this happen? Students, who view Indian history objectively, may ask. And, as they are prone to suspect, there was a reason--a man named J. A. Lupton.
    Known for his hatred of the Indians, Lupton had served in the Mexican War but had no training in dealing with the Rogue River tribe, which was at peace with the whites and receiving annuities from the government. Chief Sam's band, known as "treaty Indians," lived across the river from Lupton in the Table Rock area.
    For what reason history has failed to adequately establish, Lupton, a man with "political aspirations" who had been elected to the territorial legislature, enlisted a company of about 40 whites and started on an Indian raid.
    The Indian encampment was entered. When daylight brought the wickiups into view the whites started firing. The Indians came out to see what was happening and were immediately shot down. Some retaliated.
Will Never Know
    Modern historians will never know whether Lupton's gang knew that the Table Rock village contained only old men, squaws and children, but: several writers have described the incident as one of the most "depraved and misguided" in Indian history of this area.
    Lupton, the instigator of the raid, bled to death when an arrow penetrated his chest. A 12-year-old Indian boy was found dead near the body of an Indian woman and there was an empty bow in his hand.
    This was Oct. 8, the day before George Harris was killed.
    The desire for vengeance could not be controlled, although all appeared to be quiet in the camp except for the mourning of the surviving Indians.
Employee Is Killed
    Early Oct. 9, the pickets learned that an employee of the government had been shot and killed at his fireside, approximately 20 hours after the Lupton raid. Retaliation was now dominant in the minds of the disillusioned Indians. They continued on their path of massacre down the river to Savage Rapids Dam [the dam did not exist yet], Evans Ferry and Grants Pass.
    Then to Louse Creek, where members of the Wagner family were their first victims. The Haines family were attacked, some members murdered, others captured and later killed. [The Haines women more likely died of dysentery.]
    Members of the Harris family, George, Mary Ann and their daughter, Sophia, and son, David, were unaware that anything had happened. They were going about the usual tasks of pioneer living when the attack moved to their home. Mrs. Harris was washing on the front stoop of the cabin. Harris was splitting puncheon with a mallet. Sophia, 11, was helping her mother, and David, 9, had been sent to the garden for potatoes.
    Suddenly the thuds of the mallet stopped. Harris came to the house to warn his family that there were Indians on the warpath. He had just crossed the threshold when he was felled with a bullet.
    Realizing that the wound in his lung was a fatal injury, Harris hurriedly instructed his wife in the firing of the three guns in the house, an Allen revolver, a Kentucky rifle, and a double-barreled shotgun.
    She climbed a ladder to the attic and, peering through openings in the chinking, began the defense of her home, which continued for 19 hours. Frequently she changed her location to give the Indians the impression that there were more people in the house. Suddenly she saw the Indians waving scalps, and from the red hair on one she suspected that it was that of Mrs. Wagoner. The following day her fears were verified. Mrs. Wagoner and her four-year-old daughter had been scalped.
    At one time, Mrs. Harris counted 21 Indians encircling the cabin. A squaw in the group was wearing a dress she had given her.
    During the forenoon a ball entered the cabin and struck Sophia's arm between the wrist and the elbow, but she continued to melt lead and mold bullets for her mother.
    As the frantic woman continued firing the three guns, she could hear the moans of her husband calling for water which she dared not get him. There was none left inside the house.
    After 19 hours with the guns glued to her fingers, Mrs. Harris realized that the Indians had disappeared, at least from the immediate area. She went to her husband and found that he had died of his wound.
    She ventured out the door, suddenly concerned about her daughter's injury, got water, washed and dressed the little girl's arm. She found a blanket or canvas, covered the body of her husband and prepared to abandon the house, convinced that the Indians would return to burn it down. She had seen smoke rising from neighboring hills and realized now that it had come from the burning of homes.
    Here the reports of the tragedy differ. Miss Hanley, who remembers the story as her mother, daughter of Sophia, told it to her, says Mrs. Harris tied a rope about the body and dragged it with her into the thicket and guarded it there through the remainder of the night.
    The Indians did return and she watched them burn down the house. She had more than this to frighten her. Wolves, drawn by the odor of blood, came so close she could hear their breathing. Sophia's arm began to throb and ache and swell, indicating infection in the wound.
Bathing Their Feet
    Finally daylight came and no more Indians. Four who had been bathing their feet down the stream disappeared, and Mrs. Harris began the search for her son, David.
    Her repeated calls received no answer. Soon she heard the galloping of horses. She recognized that they were the patrols and started to meet them. This was almost a mistake. The soldiers mistook her for an Indian until they recognized her red hair. One knocked the leveled gun from the hand of another who was ready to kill after visiting the Wagoner cabin.
    The other version of the story states that the house had not been burned by the Indians, that the body of Mr. Harris was buried under the floor before the troops and Mrs. Harris set it on fire to keep the Indians from knowing that Mr. Harris was buried there.
Body Is Removed
    Years later his body was removed to Jacksonville, where a monument reads: "George W. Harris, killed by Indians Oct. 9. 1855. Age 35 years, 9 months and 3 days."
    Other descendants of the pioneer couple are Miss Claire Hanley and Miss Mary Hanley, curator of the Jacksonville Museum. In the museum the double-barreled shotgun, and Little David's testament, are preserved along with documents which verify the valiant defense staged by a small red-haired woman, where the Manzanita Rest Area will beckon travelers from Interstate 5.
Medford Mail Tribune, May 26, 1963, page B2


    A quilt of the Misses Hanley, who are the great-granddaughters of Mary Ann Harris Chambers, and a lady's lace cap, were brought across the plains by Lucy Danforth Burnett, wife of Col. John S. Burnett. Also in the exhibit is an old Bible which belonged to George Harris, who was killed in the Indian massacre at Harris Creek in 1855. The Bible was one of the few possessions taken from the burning cabin by Mrs. Harris. The Harris cabin was located on Harris Creek at the foot of Sexton Summit.
"D.A.R. Sponsors Motor Caravan, Antique Exhibit," Medford Mail Tribune, August 15, 1943, page 5