Cyrenius Mulkey, "One of the Bravest," unpublished typescript, Oregon Historical Society Research Library Mss. 981, pages 170-173  Mulkey's Gold Hill story is considerably different from all other known versions. The Gold Hill pocket was discovered by James Willis Hay. Mulkey spells Chavner "Cavenno."




    I was born in Tabbo Grove, Lafayette County, Missouri, February 26, 1832, and lived there with my parents until April, 1835, when my father moved to Johnson County. At that time there were very few settlers in Johnson County. Our neighbors were from two to six miles apart.
    My father located on a fine tract of land and lived there for nine years, during which time he improved the place quite extensively, fenced the farm, built a good house and barn, also a saw and grist mill. Father had also put out the first orchard within twenty miles of us, and we had a great plenty of fruit. When we left the farm I was twelve years old, and if I do say it myself, I was quite an industrious boy. I did all kinds of men's work, plowing, teaming, handling stock of all kinds, and in fact I was doing a man's work at everything on the farm.
    In April of this year my father sold the farm and moved into what was then called Van Buren County, near Lone Jack, in Jackson County [Missouri]. This was also a new country, three or four miles from one neighbor to another. We went to work and built and fenced as much as we could in two years. At the expiration of that time, Father took the "Oregon fever," sold his farm and commenced getting ready to come across the plains to Oregon.
Cyrenius Mulkey, "Eighty-One Years of Frontier Life," unpublished typescript written circa 1913, Oregon Historical Society Research Library Mss. 981, page 1


    I packed up as quickly as I could and started on my eight-hundred-mile journey across the mountains to California [in the summer of 1848]. The country on from where Mr. Turpin lived was entirely unsettled, so I was practically alone. I traveled that day until about nine o'clock at night, staked and hobbled my horses, and went to sleep.
    On the third day, late in the afternoon, I came up to my people; they were right at the mouth [of] the canyon where Canyonville now is. The next day we went through [the] canyon into the Rogue River country. Everything went well until the third day. On that we had to pass what was known as the "point of rock," a place that the Indians never allowed a white man to pass without a fight, and this was no exception, for they were laying in the road waiting for us. They held us up about two hours before we could drive them back so we could pass. We got through without losing a man or anyone getting wounded. From this time on there was nothing of importance occurred until we reached General Sutter's Fort in the Sacramento Valley.
Cyrenius Mulkey, "Eighty-One Years of Frontier Life," unpublished typescript written circa 1913, Oregon Historical Society Research Library Mss. 981, page 17


    We now made up our minds that we had money enough, and to return to Oregon. We struck out for Sacramento Valley, and the first place that we made a halt was at Potter's Ranch, near where Chico now is. They had a store there and I fitted myself out in fine Spanish style--fine silver-mounted saddle, bridle and spurs, very fine Spanish chaparejos at one hundred dollars apiece, a half dozen red silk sashes and two of the best horses on the ranch, also a big Mexican hat that they call a "sombrero." Right here was one of the finest dressed boys that you would find in a month's travel. We remained at Potter's Ranch about two weeks. I had something of the same idea as Clara Baldwin, that money was of no use except to buy what you wanted, so I spent it freely, but still had a nice little bunch to take home with me.
    We struck out for Oregon. I felt very anxious to see any dear old mother, who had tried so hard to keep me from going to California. We went to Major Redding's in the Sacramento Valley, near where the town of Redding is, and stayed there a few days, expecting someone would come along and strengthen our party so that we could go on to Oregon.
    We were only three in number, myself, McCullough and "Struttin'" Bill White. By the way, this man White afterwards settled in the Umpqua Valley at some place near Roseburg. I think we remained in this camp about ten days, but no one came along. White and McCullough proposed that if I would keep camp that they would go up about twenty miles to a mining camp called Shasta, and see if there was anyone there who wanted to go to Oregon. We were not safe to make the trip with less than twenty well-armed men, as the Rogue River Indians were a bad lot, and had held up forty of us the year before. The Indians where we camped were hostile, and I did not like the idea of keeping camp all alone, but I told them all right, and they struck out. They were gone about eight days. They did not find any company, but the same evening that they returned to camp there came along five men on their way to Oregon. This made eight in all, so we held a consultation as to what we should do. The five men were very anxious to go on. As for my part I did not like the look of things, but I was between two fires. I had taken the mountain fever three or four days before while the boys were away, and I was afraid to go back to that hot Sacramento Valley on account of my fever, and afraid to go on on account of the hostile Indians.
    Those five men had decided to take the chances for Oregon. Mat McCullough said to me, "Cy, are you going with these men? If I was you, I would not go, for the Indians will kill you all sure." I replied, "If I stay in this country I will die with the fever, and I might get through with the Indians all right." So I decided to take my chances for Oregon, while Mat went back to Grass Valley. White and I joined the Oregon party, making seven in all, and only three rifles and very little ammunition to protect ourselves with. We knew if the Indians found us it meant death, but our idea was that, there being so few of us together, we could steal through the country and that the Indians would not see us. This was our only chance of escape. We kept a sharp lookout for Indians all the time. For a long distance we did not see any Indians, but would often see fresh signs. Everything went well until we were on the Siskiyou Mountain near the Oregon line. The mountains were all on fire, and the smoke was densely thick so that we could not see a man more than fifty yards, and the first thing we knew we were right onto an Indian camp. We had surprised them as much as they had us. There was only a few of them. We had got off from our road on to an Indian trail and did not know it, but we knew which direction it was to our road, so we soon found it again and came out at or near where Ashland now is.
    We went on and made camp that night on the opposite side of Rogue River about a half a mile from Gold Hill station on the railroad. All this time I was growing very weak from my fever, and was barely able to ride horseback. Had I been where I could have stopped, I would have done so, but it was ride or die at this time. I had grown very weak, and was doing no work whatever. The men took care of my horses and stood guard for me.
    I will tell you how I used to doctor for my fever. When we would get into camp I would strip my clothing down, and lay down on [the] dampest place I could find, with my naked abdomen on the ground or in the water as it happened to be. This gave me great relief, and I got the fever almost broken in this way. Now here is where my trouble commenced. As I have told you, we went into camp near Gold Hill station. The next morning [August 31, 1849], just as the first sign of day made its appearance there were about one hundred Indians raised out of a little dry gulch not more than one hundred yards away from us. As they made their appearance they made a charge, shooting and whooping the war whoop. They came running as fast as possible toward our camp. The owners of the guns fired at them when they made their appearance, so you can see that there was no time to load before they would be onto us. We stood facing and looking at them until they were within twenty-five yards of us. An old man by the name of [John] Meldrum, who used to live near Salem, Oregon, broke and run. When he started he halloed, "RUN, boys, run!"
    During the fight there were at least twenty arrows shot through the clothing of different ones, but none of them drawing the blood. Struttin' Bill White had five arrows shot through his hat; I had eight holes shot through the legs of my trousers. A poisoned arrow that entered my thigh was one of the first which was fired by the Indians, and struck me when I was in bed asleep. I jumped up and saw the arrow sticking in me and pulled it out, broke [it] in two and threw it down. You see in my case of having so many arrows through my trousers it was this way. I was only a small boy, in my seventeenth year, and small of my age, and at that time there was no clothing to be had in the country, so I had to buy the smallest man's suit that I could get and cut the sleeves of my coat off so that I could wear it, and also had to do the same with the trousers. So the trousers were very large for me, and hung very loose around my legs, something like the old style of the Chinaman dress, and you can see that there was plenty of room to hit the trousers and miss me. If any one of these arrows had hit me from six to eighteen inches higher up they would have killed me, but in this case as in a great many others I was extremely lucky.
    We were camped in the edge of the prairie and ran farther back into the prairie. The Indians ran into our camp and grabbed up all our effects, and then went back into the timber. There we were without horses, provisions or anything else, and I was badly wounded. I was shot in the thigh with a poisoned arrow and bled very freely. Now the only thing to do was to get out of that country. The first place that we could get any relief was on the North Umpqua River, where Winchester now stands, so we struck out. I was weak from my fever and was bleeding very much from the wound. We did not travel many miles until I gave out entirely, and two men would walk along, one on each side of me. I would lean an arm on each man's shoulder. With that assistance I was only able to go two or three hundred yards at a time. I would get so weak that I would let all holts go and fall to the ground, but I traveled as fast as I possibly could, for the Indians were following up and shooting at us all the time. When I would fall down the men would beg me to get up and go on, and just as soon as I possibly could get up I would go on again.
    As I had forgotten to state, about two weeks before the Indians robbed us, a small schooner [the W. L. Hackstaff] was wrecked at the mouth of Rogue River; it had come from Vancouver, the Hudson Bay fort, near where Portland now stands; it was loaded with merchandise purchased from the Hudson Bay Company for the California mining trade. Her cargo was all lost, but the men aboard all got ashore and made their escape.
    Aboard of this ship they had besides other goods a lot of domestic calicoes, sheeting and flannels of all colors. The ocean tide naturally floated the ship and cargo and the Indians got all of the goods. This had happened about two weeks before they robbed us. After the Indians robbed us they disappeared for some time, I should think for about two hours. The first we saw of them after the robbery the whole band of about one hundred came running down the river on the opposite side from us, at what is now known as Long Prairie. Each Indian carried a flag made of goods that they had got off the ship; they were coming in the shape of a charge, whooping the war whoop as loud as they could. Each Indian carried a flag of five or six yards on a pole about ten feet long, and they were running just fast enough to straighten the flags to full size. I don't think that I ever saw anything that would have looked so romantic in a picture. Just think, one hundred Indians under a general charge, each carrying a large flag of different color and all halloing at the top of their voices. They passed on ahead of us, and when out of sight, and at a point where our trail came near the bank of he river, they hid themselves in the brush, and when we came along they shot across the river at us, but before the arrows got to us we could see them and dodge away from them. They went on ahead of us again, and when they came to another suitable place they did the same thing. They kept on in this way for a number of times, and finally came to the conclusion that we had no ammunition, as all this time we had not fired a shot at them. So at length they went on ahead of us out of sight and swam over to our side of the river, and hid in the brush until we came along, and when we came near they made a general charge on us. Our men had the three rifles, and all told only fourteen loads of ammunition. They held their fire until the Indians were within about thirty steps of us, and then all fired into the bunch, about one hundred of them. At the report of the rifles, two Indians fell to the ground; the other Indians grabbed the wounded Indians and ran back into the brush, and that was the last we saw of Indians.
    All the forenoon the Indians had given us a number of good chances to shoot at them, but we dared not shoot away our ammunition. We had to keep our powder in case of a charge, which finally came. The Indians thought as they had given us so many good opportunities to shoot at them that we had no ammunition, and that they had us at their mercy, and could kill us at their leisure. Our trouble was not yet over. This was just below the point of rocks and we had to get across the Rogue River, and we were afraid that the Indians would waylay and kill us while we were in the river. The men held a council and decided to leave the road and take to the mountainside. By going down to the mouth of Jump Off Joe Creek to cross the river, a little-used route, we would miss the regular ford and fool the Indians. [Mulkey is either mistaken about the name of the creek where they crossed, or he's here describing a plan that didn't come to pass. The mouth of Jumpoff Joe Creek is about 30 miles from Rock Point as the crow flies.] We left the road and got quite a way up on the side of the mountain. This was very rough traveling and made it much harder on me than the road, and I fell down as usual.
    We stopped at this place quite awhile, as we had seen no Indians after leaving the road. All the time I was lying there I was studying what to do. I finally made up my mind that it was impossible for me to get through on that route and decided to go back to the road. I thought I might meet someone or that someone might overtake me, and that I would get assistance in that way, and that if I was off the road I would not see anyone and they would not see me. I concluded to go to the road and take my chances alone. So I got up and started for the road by myself.
    The men composing the party were William Gage, William Wilkinson, "Stutterin'" Bill White, Kellis Grigsby, a man by the name of [Arthur] Saltmarsh and quite an old man by the name of [John] Meldrum, who at that time lived near Salem, Oregon; in fact they all belonged to Oregon. Here was where my friend Gage came to my relief. When I started away from my party Gage said, "Cy, where are you going?" I explained to him that I had decided to go to the road and stay there. He said, "I will go too. You shall not go alone." We struck out for the road, and Wilkinson, Saltmarsh and Mr. Meldrum followed. White and Grigsby took the mountain route.
    We traveled along as best we could, two men helping me all the time. White and Grigsby soon got tired of the mountains and returned to the road and overtook us. Soon after they joined us I fell down to rest, and all at once I found that I was all alone. I looked around and saw my party all together solemnly holding a council. Sure enough there was White and Grigsby. They were scared almost to death all the time from the first, and at this council they proposed to the other men to kill me, saying that it was impossible to ever get me through, and that they would all lose their lives trying to save mine. Here is where Gage came to my assistance again. He swore to them that if they killed that boy he would kill them, saying at the same time that if that boy had to die in that country, that he would die with him. How was that for a friend? You now see that I owe sixty-four years of my life to my friend William Gage. He traveled on down the river, wondering all the time how we were going to get across. We were afraid to go to the regular ford, as we expected that the Indians would be there and kill us while we were in the river. We kept on trusting to Providence until we got within about eight miles of what is now Grants Pass. Here we discovered a small island in the river, and the water being very clear we could see the bottom all the way across to the island. We decided to try and get to the island. Now here was more trouble for the boy. I could not swim a stroke, and the river was very swift and deep. Here my would-be murderer came to my assistance. Mr. Grigsby took me across that river safely. He was a large man, about six feet one inch in height, weighing 185 pounds. When we got to the island we had no trouble in reaching the next bank.
    Now that we were off from the road that we traveled on down the river through the timber until we came to the open prairie just above Grants Pass. Out in the prairie we noticed a small bunch of willow brush and supposed that there was water there, which there was.
    We went out and hid in the brush until dark. When we got to the spring, as usual I stripped my clothes down and lay down in the mud and water for about five hours I think. After crossing the river I stopped bleeding, and it was wonderful how fast I gained my strength. By this time it was dark, so we started out. We knew which direction the road was and went to it. By this time I had recovered my strength so that I could walk alone, and did so. We traveled slowly. The nights were quite cold, and occasionally when we came to a deep gulch, where the Indians could not see us, we would make a fire and warm and rest a while. We never made any regular camp. We traveled on in this way for four days and three nights without anything to eat except what grows and what one of the men killed [with] a rock. We could have killed a lot of game but did not dare to use our ammunition until we got out of the hostile Indian country. At that time the country was entirely unsettled. The farthest house south was a ferry house on the North Umpqua River where Winchester stands now. A Mr. Scott had built a ferry there to ferry the Oregon and California travel across the river. We made the distance from Gold Hill to North Umpqua, about 150 miles [it's about 80], in four days and three nights.
    We found plenty of "grub" at Mr. Scott's. We were out of the hostile Indian country and everyone could travel to suit themselves. After breakfast a gentleman who was sick with the mountain fever and was lying over at Mr. Scott's said to me, "Little one, do not be in a hurry; there are some Klickitat Indians camped down on the river, and they come up here every day. When they come I will buy you a horse to ride home."
    It was about 150 miles to Yamhill County, where my mother lived at the same cabin where she and I had the scuffle when I started for California the year before. I accepted his proposition. Sure enough, the Indians came and he bought me a horse, saddle and bridle. I remained at Mr. Scott's that day. The next morning I saddled up my horse to go and the same gentleman, Mr. Woods, said to me, "Boy, how much money will it take to pay your expenses home?" I told him that I thought about $25.00. He gave me the money and I struck out to see my dear old mother, minus two fine horses and one not so good, a silver-mounted saddle, bridle and spurs, my fine clothing and thirty-six hundred dollars in gold dust.
    I was awfully anxious to see Mother, but I dreaded the meeting, for she had called the turn on the windup of my trip. She argued with me that the Indians would kill me, and that I would starve to death and all that kind of thing, but nevertheless I was bound to see her. When I arrived at home Mother met me at the gate. I said to her, "Mother, I am not dead, nor starved to death, though I have been very close to both starvation and death."
    I found Mother getting along pretty well with those six little children. I remained at home that winter, shaking with the ague all the time. I had got over the ague by the springtime, and was ready to go to work. I heard that Mr. William Martin, who was afterwards appointed receiver in the first land office that was established at Winchester in the Umpqua Valley, wanted a man. I went to see Mr. Martin and learned that he wanted a man to do some plowing, so I made a bargain with him at $75.00 a month. When my month was up I asked Mr. Martin what his price was on a very nice little pony, with blue eyes, which he had at that time. He told me $75.00, and I said, "All right. I will take him." He said, "Are you going to quit?" And I said, "Yes, farming is too slow for me." I took the pony and went to my mother's. In a few days General Lane came along. He was following some soldiers who had deserted and wanted a few citizens to go with them. He proposed to give the citizens a reward of $30.00 for each deserter whom they captured. The soldiers had belonged with the seven hundred mounted dragoons who had come across the plains the year before, 1849, and a good many of them were under General Lane's command during the Mexican War. When on muster at Oregon City about three hundred of them deserted in order to go to California to dig gold. This was a trip of eight hundred miles, through a country that was entirely unsettled, and these men had no way to taking supplies except what they could carry on their backs.
    General Lane knew this, and knew that more or less of them would come to suffering and want, so it was more as a charitable act that he followed them than for anything else. We followed them as far as Grave Creek in the Rogue River Valley, at which place we succeeded in overtaking eighty-three of them, including what we had arrested at other places. The greater number of these men were almost naked and without provisions, so you can see that we had very little trouble in making arrests. He returned the deserters to Oregon City, and there General Lane paid us the reward.
   
    At that time General Lane told me that he was going to California about the first of June [1850], and intended to try and get the Rogue River Indians together when he got into their country. He wanted to make a treaty with them, and he wished me to go with him as interpreter. He also said that we might be able to recover some of my property, which the Indians had robbed me of the year before. I told him I would go, and did so.
    The Rogue River Indians at this time had four or five hundred head of horses, which they had stolen from people traveling through their country. At that time the Klickitat Indians inhabited the Willamette Valley, and their chief, Quatley, was very anxious to make a raid on the Rogue Rivers and get their horses, so he proposed to the General that he take about forty of the warriors and go along. In case General Lane did not succeed in making a treaty, he proposed that he, Quatley, would make the raid and get the horses. General Lane agreed to the proposition, and Quatley with his Indians, and about forty white men, made up our company. We had about five hundred head of beef cattle with us which belonged to General Lane, Martin Angel and Phil Thompson. They were driving the cattle to California. We got along all right with camp and stock until we reached the South Umpqua River, near what is now Canyonville, where we made camp for two days. During this time the General had Quatley and his Indians out hunting for the Rogue Rivers. He found a small band away up near the head of the South Umpqua, and got them to come to camp. With him there was a boy about fifteen years old whom the Rogue Rivers had captured from the Calapooia Indians. This boy could talk very good Chinook and so could I. Between the two of us the General held a council, and it was agreed that the Rogue Rivers should all get together and meet us on what is known as Big Bar on the south side of Rogue River, and just above what is now Gold Hill station on the railroad.
    According to their promise they met us and after a council which lasted two days they made and signed a treaty. Chief Joseph, as we named him for General Joseph Lane, made General Lane a present of a small Indian boy, whom the Rogue Rivers had captured from the Calapooia Indians, as his part of good faith. General Lane killed two beeves and gave the Indians a big potlatch feast, which made everybody happy. During the treaty an Indian rode my best horse, which they had robbed me of the year before, into camp. This horse was returned to me, as was also one hundred in gold dust which an old Indian had saved. The balance of the gold dust, they said, they had thrown into a deep hole in the river, so this was all that I recovered. The Indians got about twenty thousand dollars from us the year before. The General, of course, was going on to California with his stock. After thinking the matter over the General got afraid that as soon as he separated from Quatley and his Indians that they would make a raid on the Rogue Rivers to get their horses, and in that way break the treaty. The General finally asked me to bring Quatley and his Indians back to the Willamette Valley, which I did, and I remained in Oregon the remainder of that season.
   
    The next February we got a party of twenty-seven men together and started for the Salmon and Scotts rivers in the northern part of California, where we intended to prospect for gold. We had to pass through the [region] inhabited by the same band of Indians with whom we had made the treaty the year before. We found them friendly and all right.
    We traveled on until we came to the Big Shasta River in Shasta Valley, from which place we had to cross a high mountain range in order to get into the country we were headed for. We found the snow was so deep that we could not get over, and we had to remain where we were until the snow melted away.
    We had been in camp about three weeks when we accidentally discovered Yreka on Saint Patrick's Day. There had been a very heavy thunder shower, and afterward one of the men went down to the little well which we had sunk to get water from. He happened to notice a small piece of gold which the rain had beaten the dirt from, so he went back to camp and got his tools and sunk a hole about four feet deep. He found bedrock at that depth and then it was three or four dollars to the pan as fast as he could wash them out. This all happened on the seventeenth day of March, 1851, and it turned out to be one of the best camps ever found in Northern California. We never would have found the gold except by accident. The country where this discovery was made was smooth and comparatively level and looked more like a farming country than like a gold mine.
    General Lane and party had gone on to California and sold out their cattle. That same fall Scotts River was discovered, and there was a great stampede to that place. The General came back to Scotts River and wintered there, and when the snow went off from the range he came over to Yreka. This was the first time we had met since making the treaty with the Rogue River Indians. We were, of course, glad to see each other, and spent several days very pleasantly.
    After a few days the General said to me, "Cy, I am going home to Oregon and run for Congress, and I cannot get away from here in time to announce my dates when I will meet the people of Oregon, and at what different places I will address them. I intend starting in the Umpqua Valley and will wind up at Oregon City. I want you to take my announcements and go on ahead of me. I wish you to deliver my papers to Col. Ford, Mr. Marion Goff, Henry Owens and Nesmith. Get them all together and then make the delivery."
    I said, "General, you are foolish. There is not a man of the Pacific Coast who can beat Mr. Thurston for the office." Mr. Thurston was our first Congressman, and he was the man who got the bill through Congress donating to the settlers of Oregon three hundred and twenty acres of land each up to 1854. "Besides, you know that the Indians have broken the treaty and are very hostile, making it a very dangerous trip for one man all alone." He replied, "That is just the reason why I want you to go. You understand the Indians so well that you can go [where] others could not."
    I finally told him, "All right. Get your papers ready, I will take them." I set out on my journey all alone. I did a good deal of my traveling at night and would never take any chances of making a regular camp. I went over the worst part of the road at night, and got through all right, and delivered the papers as directed.   
    It so happened that Mr. Thurston, who was on his return to Oregon, took the fever at Panama and died. This gave General Lane a clear field, and he was elected.
    After I had delivered the papers for the General, I bought some pack mules and fitted up a small pack train, loaded it with bacon, flour, butter and green apples and went back to Yreka. I sold everything at a nice profit except the green apples. I only got two dollars and a half a pound for them. I went from Yreka to Scotts Bar and bought a claim from Judge Snelling, paying him one thousand dollars for it. After buying the claim I took Abel George in as a partner. We worked all summer and until late in the fall, stripping the ground twenty feet deep and did not get a cent. I then decided to go back to the Willamette Valley to spend the winter and persuaded a Mr. Abraham Way, who was from New York City, to accompany me. It was now late in October and the weather was very cold. The night we camped on what is known as Emigrant Creek near where Ashland is, the snow fell to a depth of about thirty inches, making it very difficult to travel. The snow was about the same depth all the way down through the Rogue River Valley, Umpqua and Willamette valleys, and all the way through to Portland. On the Calapooia Mountains the snow was about four feet deep. Mr. Way stayed in Portland all winter, and I spent the winter in Yamhill County.
Cyrenius Mulkey, "Eighty-One Years of Frontier Life," unpublished typescript written circa 1913, Oregon Historical Society Research Library Mss. 981, pages 32-45.  Mulkey's 1849 account conforms to Meldrum's.


    I lived on my ranch for six years, being engaged in the stock business, raising horses and cattle. During the six years I accumulated about five hundred and fifty head of cattle and about forty head of horses.
    On the ninth day of October, 1855, all the Indians in that part of the country where I lived, and for a distance of about nine hundred miles, commenced hostilities on the same day. The different tribes which took part in the hostilities were the Rogue Rivers, Klamaths, Modocs, Dalles, Walla Walla, Cayuses, Snakes and the Shoshones. These tribes had all held a council of war during in the summer before and had decided to join all of their forces together and commence hostilities on the same day, which they did. They had discussed the matter at the time of the council, and had decided that if they all worked together in this way they could drive all the settlers out of the country and in that way keep it for themselves again. This war of the North and East, meaning the country east of the Cascade Mountains, was very unexpected by the settlers, and worked a great hardship on them, but the people of Southern Oregon suffered the worst. The Rogue River Indians killed a great many of the settlers--men, women and children. They also killed a great deal of the stock which belonged to the settlers, and then burned all of the houses except a few where the people had fortified themselves. The Indians also burned all of the grain and hay which the settlers had raised.
    When the news of this outbreak was received at Eugene City, I proposed to my neighbor, a Mr. Joseph Bailey, that we get together a company of volunteers and go to the assistance of the settlers in the Rogue River Valley. Mr. Bailey agreed to do this, and the next day we went to Eugene City and announced our intention, and made a call for volunteers. We secured nineteen names that day, and on the third day we had increased the list to ninety-three men. We held an election and selected our officers, making Mr. Bailey captain and myself lieutenant. We had no transportation, so we did not wait to get any. We took our chances on getting something to eat with the settlers along the way, and when they did not have enough to feed us we killed anything we found from a chicken up to a steer. We did not make any regular camp until we reached Wolf Creek in the Rogue River Valley. All the way down through Cow Creek Canyon, before coming to Wolf Creek, we found houses, barns, hay and grain stacks still burning, and also found a great number of dead stock which had been killed by the Indians. Poultry of all kinds was scattered all through the woods. In a distance of fifteen miles we only found one residence that had escaped the fire. This place was Mr. Wagoner's home, where the neighbors had fortified themselves against the Indians. [Wagoner's house was burned and his family killed.] We went to Wolf Creek, which was a distance of about one hundred and sixty miles from Eugene, where we had started. This trip was made in four and a half days. When we arrived at Wolf Creek we found Captain Smith of the regular army in camp with about one hundred and fifty men. There were also two companies of volunteers from Southern Oregon. With these three companies and our company, which was Company A, we were about four hundred strong. When we reached Wolf Creek we learned that about five hundred Indians were encamped in a body about twenty miles from Wolf Creek on the high mountain range between Rogue River and Cow Creek. The scouts had located them three days before.
    Major Bruce, who had taken command, called all the officers together, and after talking the matter over it was decided to make a forced march on foot, as the country was so rough that it was almost impossible to get a horse through it. We stayed in camp until after dark and then made a start for the Indians, going over about as rough and mountainous a country as there is in Oregon. We expected to make the Indians' camp before daylight, but the country was so rough that we did not reach their camping ground until about eight o'clock in the morning. On arriving at the place where we expected to find the Indians, we found that they were all gone, and the signs showed that they had been gone about two days. The next thing to find out was the direction in which they had started.
   
    Right there was where the officers made their great mistake. It was like this: When we arrived on the ground where we had expected to find the Indians, we all mixed up and went to hunting for the trail. There was not an officer who had ten men of his company under command. We all scattered in every direction, looking for the Indian trail. I took a look at the country and made up my mind which way they were the most likely to have gone, and then started in that direction, hunting for their trail. The whole army finally followed after me. I had six of my men with me, and were about a quarter of a mile in the lead of the main army. I was traveling up a sharp ridge between the deep canyons and had found the Indian trail where they had all come together.
    Indians, in such cases as this, never leave their camp in a body, but scatter so as not to make any more signs than they can help. They know the country and have a certain place for all to get together again. I looked across the canyon to my left and saw the Indians on the next ridge. On an air line the ridge was about three-quarters of a mile distant, but we had to travel about three miles to get across the canyon. We passed the word back to the men and showed them where the Indians were. Then all hands made a run for the Indians, myself and party being in the lead. We were the first to reach them, and we opened the battle before we got within gunshot of their fortifications. There were about forty young bucks came out from their fortification and danced a war dance; as we advanced nearer to them they retreated just over a little "sugarloaf" mound and disappeared. This was done to deceive us, which it did. We went direct to where we had seen them last, which was within gunshot of their fortifications. The fortification was located in a very steep, heavily brushed canyon. The timber and brush were so thick you could not see an Indian or anything else in it.
    At this place there was a kind of bench formed on the "backbone" of the mountain, and there were two creeks heading in this flat, one of which flowed in a southerly direction into Grave Creek and the other north into Cow Creek. The main fortification was right at the foot of the steep mountain and at the edge of the little flat, and a little way down the creek, which flowed north. When we got to where we had last seen the Indians, we, of course, looked around to see what had become of them. In less than a minute there was about twenty shots fired at us, and two of my men fell badly wounded. (One of them, John Gillespie, died in a few minutes. The other man got well.) In an instant after the shooting I told my men to take the wounded men out of sight of the Indians, and they only had to move them about twenty steps until they were entirely hidden from the Indians.
    At this time up came the whole army, and they were in about the greatest state of confusion that I have ever seen a company of men in my whole life. Everybody for himself, and everybody howling, "Where are the Indians?" I showed them, and over into the brush and timber they went. However, they called a halt very soon after passing this little knoll, for the Indians opened fire on them as fast as they came in sight. There were between four and five hundred of the warriors behind their fortification. Our men soon found out how the Indians were situated, but it was impossible for a few men to run them out of their fortification. Then our men were so badly scattered that it was impossible to get enough of them together to charge the fortification. So the fight went on all day in the same way. Just as soon as I got my wounded men taken care of, I returned to the battleground. My other four men had already returned, so I went alone, but did not get right into the hard fighting. I could see from the smoke and the report from the Indians' guns about how they were located. I was hid in the brush and timber on a raise which was about five or six hundred feet above the battleground [Mulkey must mean five or six hundred feet away and higher in elevation] and could tell from the report of both the Indians' and our men's guns about what was going on. Occasionally I would see a man, but the brush and timber was so thick that I saw very few of either. I kept moving along until I had traveled the whole length of the battle line. I was taking observations and I do not think that anyone ever saw a battle fought at such a disadvantage as this one was. Here was four hundred of our men scattered all over the battleground in this thick woods, and every man for himself in the brush where they could not see each other, in many cases not more than twenty feet distant. What made it worse, they were shooting at every bush that happened to move by either Indian or white man, so you can see that in many cases our men were shooting at each other.
    After taking in the situation as well as I could, I returned to where our dead and wounded were located. I found nineteen dead and wounded who had been carried off the battlefield while I had been away. I knew what should be done, but it was impossible for me to do it. You see that I did not know where a single one of the officers were except that they were on the battlefield, but there was not a one of them who had any control over his men. It was a singlehanded and everybody-for-himself fight. I could see that there was but one possible way to win the fight, and that was to call all of our forces off and collect them together as best we could, then make a general charge. Even then it [was] almost impossible to get them all together. The mountain was so steep, and the brush and timber so thick, that it was impossible to line the men up in shape to make a charge. I decided to make a trip to the opposite side of the mountain, which was the Rogue River side. As I have told you there were two small creeks heading near the Indians' fortification, one flowing north into Cow Creek and the other flowing south into Grave Creek, which was a tributary of the Rogue River. I took the Rogue River side and came to the creek, I should think, about two hundred and fifty yards below the Indians' fortification. I then crawled along up the creek through the brush until I was within a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards of where the Indians were. I was near enough so that I stole two of their horses. I could see a good many Indians and got a good view of the squaw, Sally Lane, who was commanding the battle. She was located upon the mountainside about six or seven hundred yards and out of range of our muzzle-loading rifles, and at an elevation of six or eight hundred feet above the battleground, and had the fortification between us and her. The place where she was stationed, on the mountainside, was not very busy, there being quite a space of open ground. The squaw was on horseback, and was giving directions to the Indians. Her position was such that she had a full view of both Indians and volunteers. I have never seen but one other person who had as powerful [a voice] as had Sally Lane, and that was her father, Chief Joseph Lane, who was the main council chief of the Rogue River Indians, the same people we were fighting. I could hear her at that distance just as clear and distinct as though we were very near her.
    This is how she got the name of Sally Lane: In 1850 when General Joseph Lane made the first treaty with the Rogue River Indian tribe, in honor of General Lane, we christened her father "Joe Lane," and herself "Sally Lane." She was a large, stout woman, and had a voice like a man, only more so. I remained in hiding where I was for about one hour, I think, watching Sally and her warriors. While I was lying there hid in the brush, I discovered two horses near me. They had long ropes on, so I decided to take them to camp with me. I crawled up until I got hold of their ropes. I went out to the end of the ropes and pulled, moving the horses very slowly until they came close to me. I would then go out to the end of the rope and proceed as before. In this way I got out of danger. I then got one of the horses and led the other until I reached the place where our dead and wounded were. When I got there I found about thirty dead and wounded, who had been carried off from the battlefield.
    About this time Captain Bailey came out of the brush with eighteen of our men who had got together, and he proposed to me that we go down below where the Indians were located on the Cow Creek side, and then follow up the creek to where they were, which would partially place us on the Indians' side of their fortification. I told Mr. Bailey that I had investigated that part of the battleground very carefully, and told him as nearly as I could just how the situation was. I also told him at this time that I did not think we could accomplish anything in that way, and that I felt sure we would lose some more of our men. However, he insisted and we went. We got within gunshot of the Indians without seeing them until they opened fire on us, and three of our men fell badly wounded. We grabbed up the wounded men and retreated back the way we had come, to where our dead and wounded were.
    By this time it was growing late in the evening, and our men were all leaving the battleground and coming where we had left the dead and wounded. We had to retreat about a half mile into a very steep canyon where we could get water. About the time we were getting ready to start, some of the men who had come in from the battlefield told Captain Smith that there were three of his men who had been killed and were lying at a certain place yet uncared for, so Captain Smith detailed a corporal with six men to go and get them. The Indians did not pay any attention to them until they went to move the dead bodies, at which time they opened fire on the soldiers and wounded two of them. The other soldiers then grabbed up the wounded men and retreated back where we were. Captain Smith then detailed twelve men and sent them to get the bodies. They met with [the] same defeat, only they had three men wounded and one killed. The Captain then gave up trying to get his men and went into camp, leaving the dead on the battleground. Besides the three soldiers we left four volunteers dead on the battlefield. These seven men were left on that battleground for eight days before they were buried. I and Captain Bailey went back eight days afterwards and buried them all in one grave.
    We went into camp with twenty-three dead and forty-odd wounded. The next morning at daylight the Indians attacked us in our camp and fought us until noon, but they soon found out that we had the best of it as we were hid in the brush and they were doing the moving, which gave us a great advantage over them. About noon they withdrew to their fortification where we had fought them the day before. We then buried our dead, made litters on which to carry our wounded and went to Wolf Creek, where we had left our supplies.
    We buried twenty-seven men who were killed in this battle of "Hungry Hill." We named it Hungry Hill for the reason that we did not have a mouthful of food all the time we were there. Besides the twenty-seven men who were killed, we carried to our camp on Wolf Creek some forty-odd who had been wounded on the battlefield. There were five of these wounded men who died afterwards.
    I have never seen a detailed account of this battle in print. Not even in the history of the Indian wars of Oregon, which only speak of it as the battle of Hungry Hill. I think that all of the officers were like myself ashamed to give the battle in detail. After resting up for two or three days I took eighteen of my men and patrolled the road from Wolf Creek to Hardy Elliff's road house, which was situated at the head of Cow Creek, a distance of eighteen miles. This patrol was to guard the Oregon and California travel from one stage station to another. I continued this until in December, at which time I got a dispatch from the quartermaster, I. N. Smith, asking me to come to Corvallis. Mr. Smith sent word that he wanted me in his office to act as purchasing agent for his department.
    I left my command and went to Corvallis, and worked in the Quartermaster's Department until the war was closed in June. After the war was closed the Indians were all moved from this country to Grand Ronde Reservation in Yamhill County. I then returned to my ranch and remained on it until the summer of 1859. The cattle business got rather dull in Oregon, so I concluded to drive my cattle to California, close them out and quit the business.
   
    I drove the cattle to the Applegate River in the Rogue River Valley that summer, and went on to California the next spring. When I got to California I found that cattle had depreciated in value very much in that country as well as in Oregon. I then decided to hold my cattle until the next year, which was much worse. I held them two years and they got cheaper all the time, so finally I closed them out at about $5.00 per head. This broke me up in the cattle business. So I left the country. During that heavy drought there was no feed, and the stock was dying all over the country and cattle could not be sold for any price.
Cyrenius Mulkey, "Eighty-One Years of Frontier Life," unpublished typescript written circa 1913, Oregon Historical Society Research Library Mss. 981, pages 66-74


    I want to tell you what it cost us to live in California during the early gold digging days in 1848, '49 and '50. I will give you our highest prices first. In some of the remote mountain camps we paid, during the winter months, as high as $3.00 a pound for flour, $3.00 for bacon, $3.00 for beans, $2.00 for rice, $3.00 for coffee, $2.00 for sugar cane (made at the Sandwich Islands), $16.00 for tobacco. Tea and all other provisions cost at the same rate, but this was in the camps which were located away back in the mountains, where they were snowed in for a great length of time each winter.
    At that time we got all of our flour from Chile, and a great deal of it was full of weevils. These were different from grain weevils. They were a white worm about one inch in length with a body about the size of a small pencil, and having red or black heads. For this flour we paid at Fort Sutter in the Sacramento Valley a dollar a pound by the sack. For bacon one dollar, sugar one dollar, coffee one dollar, tea eight dollars, tobacco eight dollars, rice one dollar and all other provisions at the same rate. In order to get the weevils out of the flour, we made a sieve by punching holes in a tin pan, but sometimes we would just run our hands through the flour and pick the weevils out, but we could not get them all, and what we did not get out was cooked in the bread. When the bread was baked it put me in mind of the crackling bread that Mother used.
Cyrenius Mulkey, "Eighty-One Years of Frontier Life," unpublished typescript written circa 1913, Oregon Historical Society Research Library Mss. 981, page 122


    During the past 20 years I have talked to scores of forty-niners. I have met them in abandoned and long-forgotten mining camps in Idaho and Montana, on the park benches of San Diego or Los Angeles, at Jacksonville, at Sumpter, on the beach at Nome, Alaska, at Anvil Creek and in homesteaders' cabins in remote districts.
    Recently I spent an afternoon with Cy Mulkey at the Soldiers' Home at Roseburg. Cy is a forty-niner. He is more than a forty-niner, he is a forty-eighter, for he visited Captain Sutter at his fort where the city of Sacramento now stands in July, 1848.
    As a kaleidoscope is made from dozens of bits of many-colored glass which together form a harmonious whole, so from the fragments of many a tale told me by the forty-niners I am going to try to present a picture of the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49. [Note that what follows, though in quotation marks, cannot be taken as a quotation from Cyrenius Mulkey.]
    "Late in November, 1846, a party of emigrants consisting of 14 families from Missouri arrived at Sutter's Fort. One of the men of this party named Weimer at once enlisted as a soldier under General Fremont and was sent to Santa Clara for the winter. Mrs. Weimer with her seven children remained all winter at Sutter's Fort.
    "Early in the spring Weimer was sent with three others to get the effects of the cannibalistic Donner party and in June, his term of service with Fremont having expired, he secured work with Captain Sutter and J. W. Marshall, who were building a sawmill at Coloma, Mr. Weimer was to oversee the work of the Indian laborers while Mrs. Weimer was to do the cooking. Among the Americans who were working on the mill were J. W. Marshall, who was in charge of the work, Henry W. Bigler, a Mormon, Azariah Smith, Bennet and Scott, who were skilled carpenters, Stephens and Barger and Johnson and Brown, who did the rougher work such as felling the trees and whipsawing the lumber, and Weimer with his crew of Indians. The Indians were at work digging a mill race. Each night Marshall turned the water in to help carry away the dirt and to enlarge the race. On the morning of January 24, 1848, after turning the water off so the men could resume their work on the race, Marshall noticed on the bedrock, across which the water was still trickling, some dull yellow flakes. He picked up several of the larger pieces. Marshall did not know what they were but thought they might appear to be copper or gold. He handed one of the larger pieces to Mrs. Weimer, who said, 'I'll put it in my lye kettle, and if it is gold it won't discolor.' She made soap that day, and in the bottom of the soap kettle she found the bit of yellow metal as bright as ever.
    "Marshall gathered an ounce or more of the substance, ranging in size from a pinhead to a kernel of corn and took it in to Sutter's Fort to see if it could be gold. Captain Sutter tried it with some nitric acid procured from the gunsmith. It was not affected. He then weighed out enough on a scale to balance three Mexican dollars and submerged the scale pans in a bowl of water. The scale pan with the yellow metal proved heavier. Finally Captain Sutter said 'It was gold all right.' Marshall started at once for the mill in spite of the heavy rainstorm. Next day Captain Sutter started for the mill. The water was shut off, and it was found that there was considerable coarse gold on the rocky bottom of the mill race. Captain Sutter told the men that it was gold but urged them not to mention the fact till the mill was completed.
    "The workmen put in all their spare time picking up the nuggets and coarser gold dust. A teamster secured a spoonful and tying it in a rag went to the fort for supplies. Captain Sutter was very strict about allowing his men and particularly the Indians to have liquor.
    "Two Mormons, named Sam Brennan and George Smith, had a little store called the 'shirt-tail store.' They traded liquor, tobacco and trade goods for hides and tallow. The teamster from the mill went to their store, called for a bottle of brandy, and threw down his rag in which was the gold dust, in payment. A dispute arose as the teamster continued to assert that it was gold. Finally he said: 'If you think I am a liar take it to Captain Sutter and see what he says.' Smith did so and came back and accepted it in payment for the bottle of brandy. The news was out.
    "Henry Bigler at the mill put in all his Sundays picking up nuggets and found that he could find them almost anywhere along the river. He wrote to some of the other boys in the Mormon brigade, among them Martin, Green and Evans. They told Hudson, Willis and Fifield, who came at once to where Bigler was at work.
    "On March 11, the sawmill started running. A party of Mormons, consisting of Jesse B. Martin, Ephraim Green, Israel Evans, Wilford Hudson, Sidney Willis and Ira Willis, started prospecting and discovered what was later called Mormon Island. In one day they picked out of the cracks in the bedrock where the water had washed the gravel away over $250. One of the party found that by putting the gravel in an Indian basket made of grass roots and shaking it in the water the gravel and dirt would wash away and the gold remain. The others secured Indian baskets, while those who couldn't get Indian baskets used wooden chopping bowls or secured tin milk pans, and so the discovery of the miner's gold pan, like the discovery of gold itself, was an accident.
    "Late in the fall of 1848, on the Knapp ranch in Tuolumne County, a nugget was found weighing 396 ounces, worth over $8500. In 1849, on Sullivan's Creek, a miner unearthed a nugget weighing 408 ounces. Big nuggets were reported from many sections. A nugget worth more than a thousand dollars was found near Georgetown in Illinois Gulch in El Dorado County, and shortly thereafter a still larger one in Georgia Slide in Hudson's Gulch. W. L. Wode, of Salem, Or., picked up a nugget on Scott's Bar worth over $3000. A boulder of gold quartz was picked up on Pilot Hill that brought over $8000. At Carson Gill near Angel's Camp, in Calaveras County, a nugget weighing 2340 ounces was found. The lucky miner who stumbled on it sold it for $43,534. W. A. Farrish found a nugget at Sierra Buttes which weighed 1596 ounces and for which he received $17,655, and so from Hangtown and Feather River, from Scott's Bar and French Ravine and from dozens of other localities came the word of rich diggings, and each new discovery but added to the fame of the gold fields and brought thousands of eager gold seekers from the four corners of the earth. Soon 92 percent of California's population were men and they were all young men. There were no gray-haired forty-niners in those days. Sutter was ruined financially. His possessions were swept away. He lived on a small pension in Pennsylvania and died in 1880 in Washington, D.C. J. W. Marshall died in poverty, an unhappy recluse. Bennett lies buried at Salem, Or. None of those who discovered the gold reaped the benefit of their discovery."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 13, 1913, page 4


    Cy Mulkey of Roseburg is probably the last survivor of a class not uncommon 50 years ago. He knows the Pacific Coast from Los Angeles to Nome better than many men know their own back yards. He has prospected, run pack trains, lynched cattle rustlers, strung up horse thieves, freighted and fought Indians all over the West. He came to Oregon 66 years ago.
    "I put in six months at school once, learning about 'See the cat eat the rat,' 'See the dog run the cow,' and all those little three-lettered animals that I couldn't take much interest in, so I stopped. I was [born] in Lafayette County, Missouri, on February 26, 1832. In 1835 my father moved to Johnson County, where he could have more elbow room. In Johnson County in those days neighbors were six or seven miles apart.
    "In those days boys had to work, and by the time I was 19 years old I could do a man's work at plowing, teaming or handling stock. Johnson County began settling up, so my father moved to what was then called Van Buren County. We built a cabin, fenced the farm and worked hard for two years, when father took the Oregon fever. My father was a Campbellite preacher. In spite of his being a preacher, he had a great fondness for good horses. He had the best-bred and speediest horses in the whole country. I followed his love of horses more closely than I did his love of preaching. We finally compromised on this basis--that every other Sunday I would go to church and the Sunday between I could do as I pleased.
    "About three miles from our ranch there was a meadow called the Big Creek Bottom. The fishing was good, the swimming couldn't be beat, and there was a straightaway level turf for about a quarter of a mile. On my Sundays I used to take one of our best horses down there, and the boys from all over the neighborhood would come with their best horses and we would race our horses. I cleaned the boys out of pocket knives, baseballs and marbles. Money we didn't have in those days. I kept this up for a couple of years and my father never found it out. About that time a man named Armisted Millner came there from Kentucky. He brought with him a thoroughbred Kentucky horse that he said could beat anything in the whole country. Our nearest neighbor was a man named Adams, who lived four miles away. His boy, Hughey, was two years older than I. I had outrun all of his father's horses and all of the horses he could get hold of. Hughey borrowed the new Kentucky horse and we arranged a race. By raking and scraping from every possible source we each raised $1.10 in money. We added to this all of the pocket knives, marbles and every other treasure we had and we finally bet our hats also. We ran the race and I crowded the Kentucky horse out by a nose. As bad luck would have it, just as the horses were coming in so close together you could cover them with a blanket, a neighbor of ours, who was hunting for a lost cow, came by and saw the close of the race. I felt sure he would tell my father. My father had what was, at that time, a very peculiar notion, and that was not to whip his boys. If we did anything wrong he would talk to us for an hour or two and I would rather have taken half a dozen lickings than a lecture from my father.
    "A few days after the race, instead of calling me Cy, my father said, 'Mr. Mulkey, won't you set up and have some dinner with us?" My father was scrupulously polite--I could hardly choke down my dinner. After dinner he said, 'If you will accompany me to the orchard, my son, I would like to have a talk with you.' For a while he talked to me as if I were a perfect stranger, making me feel dreadfully uncomfortable. Finally he said, 'My son, how long have you been engaged in the business of racing horses?'  I said, 'Two years.' He said, 'How do you like that business?' I thought I might as well tell him the truth so I told him I liked it fine--that I thought is was a great business. He started to tell me how every criminal who ever landed in the penitentiary or was hanged had started doing something just for fun, like horse racing or gambling, and had finally got into the habit of it. After about an hour's talk I begged him to whip me and let me go, but he wouldn't do it. He said, 'I am going to make one request of you that I hope you will grant, and that is that you will never race another horse as long as I am alive. When I am dead, you can do as you please.' I promised him, and what's more, I kept my promise.
    "It was only a short time after that that we got ready for our trip to Oregon. We took two wagons, each one with four yoke of oxen, and in addition we took with us 43 head of cattle, five well-bred horses and 150 head of sheep. We started in April, 1847. My father and Johnson Mulkey, who is the grandfather of Fred Mulkey of Portland, brought the first sheep to Oregon that ever crossed the Rocky Mountains. We had something over 300 head when we started and we got to the Willamette Valley with 223. We lost all but seven of our 43 head of cattle. The Indians stole all of our horses and we lost some of our oxen on the way across. It took us six months and 16 days to make the trip."\
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 15, 1913, page 6


    "We reached the Willamette Valley late in the fall of 1847," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg. "One day in the spring of 1848, while in Oregon City on business for my mother, I saw a [illegible] sailing vessel by the side of the river. Someone told me that they had just come from California where gold had been discovered. There were three passengers on the boat and they had from $1000 to $1200 apiece in gold dust. Hotel accommodations in those days, in Oregon City, were a minus commodity. The passengers lived on the boat. I was consumed with curiosity to learn all I could about it. Adventure's call, to me, has always been irresistible. I went down into the ship and one of the passengers took a small tin pan out off the stove, got his buckskin sack and poured the pan nearly full of gold dust. It was coarse gold and had many nuggets. Some of the nuggets he said were worth about $20 apiece. For an hour I asked questions about mining and how to get to the California mines. I was 16 years old, but I was small for my age and weighed only about 100 pounds. The sight of that gold dust set in with me. I decided that I would go to California.
    "I hurried home and told my mother about the gold discovery and asked her if I could go. She told me that [illegible] she could spare me she was not in any circumstances to fit me out to go. But father had given me a shotgun when we started across the plains, which I traded to an Indian for a pony. My outfit consisted of an Indian pony, a very much worn saddle and a firm resolution to go. I heard that there was a party of men up on the North Yamhill who were fitting out to go to the gold mines. Mother refused her consent and I hated to go without it. But nevertheless, I decided that if I could not secure her consent, I would go anyhow, as I knew how desperately in need we were of money.
    "One afternoon a neighbor called, and I heard him tell my mother that Mr. Woods, a neighbor of ours, and a party of gold hunters had started that day for California. I couldn't sleep that night for worrying about not being on the way. I got up at daylight, lit a fire as usual, went out, caught my pony, saddled him and tied him to the yard fence before breakfast. Our home was a log cabin 16 feet square made with round logs with the bark still on, all in one room. There were no windows and the floor was of earth.
    "After breakfast I said, 'Mother I would like to have my clothes." She said, 'What do you want with them.' I said, 'I am going to California.' She jumped into the doorway and said 'I will not let you go.' I had a pair of blue jeans which I wanted to wear. [Blue jeans hadn't been invented yet.] I saw the coat hanging on a wooden peg which was stuck in the wall. I took it down, put it on and walked to the door where my mother was standing. I told her that my only desire for life was to be of assistance to her. I said knew that I would be successful getting gold. She told me that if I was not killed I would come home sick and ragged and without a cent. [illegible] near the fireplace some of the other children got into a worse than usual squabble and for a moment she looked around. I saw my chance and made a jump for the doorway. She caught at me and got the tail of my coat. She held on and I pulled until the cloth finally tore and I left, in possession of the upper half of the coat, giving the lower half to my mother. I jumped over the fence, untied my pony, waved mother goodbye and headed for California.
    "I made my pony go the next 40 miles as fast as I could keep him at it. Next day I was at Marysville, 100 miles away. I ran across William [illegible] there--an old acquaintance who had come across the plains with us. He invited me to stay all night with him. Next morning he asked me where I was going. I told him to the gold mines in California. He said, 'How can you go without provisions, blankets or [illegible] of any kind?' For the next hour he argued with me, trying to get me to go back home. When he had run out, I said, 'Are you all through, Mr. [illegible]? He said he was. I told him I was going, and he had had all that talk for nothing. I was going to California and there was nothing but death could stop me. I told him if I couldn't do anything else, I was going to kill my pony for the meat and pack it on my back and walk to California. He gave up and said, 'I will fit you out in good shape if you are bound to go and you can give me half of all you make.'
   "The Indians in the Rogue River country were very hostile so I pushed forward with my pack horse and outfit as fast as I could. Beyond Marysville there was no settlement. I traveled until nine o'clock that night, camped and hobbled my horses and went to sleep.
    "On the third day, late in the afternoon, I came up to Mr. Woods and his party of gold seekers. They were at the mouth of the canyon just where the town of Canyonville was afterward located. We went through the canyon safely and got into the Rogue River country.
    "On the third day we had come to what was later known as the Pilot Rock, a place that the Indians then allowed a white man to pass without a fight. The Indians were armed with bows and arrows. We had guns and succeeded in getting by without having anyone killed or wounded, though I can't say as much for the Indians. We reached General Sutter's fort in the Sacramento Valley without any more trouble from the Indians. Next morning we pulled out for Sutter's mill where the discovery of gold had been made. After traveling about 6 miles we came to a camp that had just been discovered. It was called the American Dry Diggings. It was afterward known as Hangtown and still later was christened Placerville. It was [illegible] o'clock in the morning when we got to these diggings so we decided to spend the day there and learn how it was done."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 17, 1913, page 8


    "I was 15 years old when we started for Oregon in 1847," said Cy Mulkey, a resident of the Soldier's Home at Roseburg. "Most of the emigrants had lived on the frontier in Missouri, and the men were natural hunters. In 1847 game was abundant on the plains. A few years later, when the emigration had become more heavy, the game became killed off and scared away from the emigrant trail, but in 1847, after crossing the Platte, there was hardly a time you couldn't see antelope or buffalo, wolves, coyotes and jackrabbits. Twice we had to stop our train for several hours to let big herds of buffalo go by. One of the stops was on the North Platte, and the other was on the Sweetwater. We spent the Fourth of July at Independence Rock. We celebrated by staying there all day and giving the stock a rest and the children a chance to have a good time. I will never forget that day, as I killed my first big game then. That don't count deer. I killed a mountain sheep with massive big horns, and I also killed a buffalo. I was small, even for 15 years, but I felt very large that evening.
    "I drove four yoke of oxen on our provision wagon, milked our cows and took my turn standing guard. Sometimes, in crossing the plains, the oxen would be stampeded by a herd of buffalo, and with tails up and eyes rolling, they would join the buffalo and get away. Our oxen stampeded once, but it was not from buffalo. It was one of the most remarkable sights I ever saw. We were on the South Platte River. We stopped for a few minutes to eat a cold lunch at noon. We had gotten out of our wagons and were sitting on the ground eating our lunch at a little distance from the wagons. The oxen were standing there with their eyes closed and their heads down, when suddenly they commenced to kick and snort and stamp, and then they broke into a run, and away they all went. There were 32 wagons with four yoke of oxen to each wagon. They had been stampeded by a horde of crickets. They climbed up the oxen's legs and stampeded them. The oxen ran for two miles, the men running after them, trying to overtake them or head them off, and the women running along at the rear, with the lunch in one hand and a baby over their arms, and many of them dragging another child by the hand, while the older ones came running along behind. We finally got the oxen stopped, and, as the prairie had been perfectly level, the wagons had not upset, so nothing was hurt.
    "All my life I have had a tremendous curiosity to see what lies over the next hill. In coming across the plains I was always anxious to get to the top of the next rise to see what lay beyond. That feeling has kept me traveling all my life until I have covered the whole West from Mexico to the Arctic Circle. Excitement to me is more than food or drink.
    "When I was a small boy, I made a peculiar determination, and that was never to start for any place and let myself be turned back. No matter what the difficulties or the counterattractions, I would go ahead and do what I had started to do. I have had to do a lot of fighting, a lot of running, and I have gone through a lot of hardships to carry out my determination, but I have always done it.
    "The last two or three months of our trip we saw a good deal of hardship. After we left the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, our oxen got the footevil, and we had to abandon them. We put our cows in their places, and they got so poor that we had to leave them also. We finally had to abandon one of our wagons. A little later our cattle got so weak they could not pull even the wagon we had, lightened as it was by throwing away all of the goods we could possibly spare.
    "Some of the emigrants cut their wagons in two and made a two-wheeled cart and instead of four yoke of oxen, they would have maybe a cow and a horse for a team. Some lost all of their oxen and had to finish their journey afoot. They would get some neighbor to carry their bed clothes and grub, and they would throw everything else away. Time and again, on the last end of the trip, I have seen some women take a feather bed, rip it open, scatter the feathers to the four winds and take along the ticking to make clothing for the children. Toward the last, a good many of the emigrants went on pretty short rations.
    "At Laurel Hill we only had three of our 16 oxen left. My father and his brother, Johnson Mulkey, were traveling together. They talked the matter over, and Uncle Johnson suggested that we let him take our three head to help out his cattle, and then he and Father would press on. Father was sick with the mountain fever. My Uncle Johnson Mulkey said he would take Father to Dr. Welch, near Oregon City, and would then send a fresh team to bring Mother and us children on to the valley. It was raining when they left, and it soon started to snow, and for the next 11 days it was very cold, either a cold rain or snow falling most of the time. We had little or no provisions, and no shelter except our wagon.
    "On the twelfth day Jim Fruit and John Boggs came to our camp with a good team and took us to Foster's place at the foot of the mountains. Word had been left there for us that Father had died and had been buried at Clackamas City, a mile and a half above Oregon City. Uncle Johnson Mulkey had gone on to his ranch, near where the city of Marysville, now Corvallis, was later located. Mother was alone, without money and with seven children on her hands. I can remember yet how grave, and yet how resolute she looked."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 18, 1913, page 8


    "We started in the spring of 1847 with 16 oxen," said Cyrenius Mulkey, for the past 66 years a citizen of the whole West, but at present a resident of Roseburg. "We abandoned one of our wagons on the plains, and when we got to Laurel Hill we had only three of our 16 oxen left, and our few milch cows were too weak to work. My father, who was dangerously sick, went to Oregon City with his brother, Johnson Mulkey, agreeing to send for us as soon as fresh oxen could be secured. My mother, with her seven children, was left with short rations to make out the best she could.
    "As I was the oldest boy I felt that I was in charge of the party. I took my responsibility pretty seriously, and on the eleventh day of our enforced stay I decided I would go up into the mountains and see if I could find any of the cattle that had strayed away from us some time before, so that we could take them with us when the fresh team came for us. The snow was 18 inches deep. I struck out on the road that we had come. After backtracking for a couple of miles or so, I struck a little creek, which I followed up the mountain until I came to the head of it. I found three of our cattle here. As it was still light, I thought I would go a little farther and see if I could find the others. Just about the time I struck a small round mountain, it began snowing heavily, so I decided to hurry back to camp. I traveled for an hour, when, to my astonishment, I discovered somebody's tracks partly covered with snow. I knew that there was nobody else in the country and I couldn't imagine whose tracks they were. I knew they must have been made within the past hour or two or the snow would have filled them up, but darkness was closing in and I had not time to do anything but hurry on. It was dusk when I again struck more tracks, where apparently two people had been, and then I discovered that I had circled that mountain two or three times and that the tracks were my own. It was dark and I was miles from camp and lost. The snow was deep and I was so tired I could hardly wade through it.  I decided the only thing to do was to find a stream of water and follow it until I struck camp or stay with it until I got to the Columbia River. The wading was bad and I kept falling down and I was so tired that I could hardly lift my feet. Long after dark I struck a stream, but I couldn't tell which way it was flowing. I lay down on my stomach, put my face in the stream and discovered which way it was flowing. It seemed to be flowing in the wrong direction. Apparently it was flowing back into the mountains. However, there was nothing to do but follow it, even if it was flowing uphill, so I crashed my way through fallen timber and over all sorts of bad going until I struck the road. Finally I was so completely exhausted that I felt I couldn't lift my feet if my life depended on it. I sat down to rest for a moment or two and that's the last I remember for several hours.
    "It was midnight or later when I woke up sore all over and chilled to the bone. I was so stiff I could hardly move, but I got up and stumbled along, down grade in the direction the stream was going. I stumbled along for what seemed like hours and finally struck a cleared place I recognized as the road. I had completely lost all sense of direction and didn't know which way to go. I knew that our wagon was about two miles from where the creek crossed the road. Finally I made up my mind which was the right direction and traveled as fast as I could for an hour, until I knew I had gone more than two miles. That was a hard job, making up my mind to turn around, travel the two miles back again to the creek and then two miles more to our wagon, but there was nothing else to do, so I turned around and started back. When I had gotten back to the creek I heard what sounded like a voice. I listened and I heard a distant call. I hurried toward it and found that it was my mother. She had been hunting for me all night, but had not dared to leave the road for fear she would get lost and the children would be completely alone. We walked together to camp and got there just about daylight."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 19, 1913, page 8


    "Early in the spring of 1849, I quit my job hauling logs for Kilburn's sawmill," said Cy Mulkey, Oregon pioneer of 1847. "In company with two brothers, Ben and Houston Crisp, who hailed from Texas, and the two Davis boys, John and Tom, and Elisha Biddle and Mat McCullough, all five of whom had come from Missouri the same year I did, 1847, I struck out prospecting. Strictly speaking, you couldn't call it prospecting, for you could strike gold most anywhere.
    "We went to Yubaville and laid in enough supplies to last us all summer and then struck out for the hills. We went up the north fork of the American River. On the third day out, in the afternoon, we came to beaver dam country, where we had a good deal of trouble in getting across with our outfit. A few miles on the other side of the beaver dam we struck a small creek coming through a beautiful little valley. It was nearly noon, and as we probably would not find a better camping place, we decided to stop there. I am going to tell you this story to show you what weighty consequences sometimes come from trivial incidents, and to show you how some of the rich strikes were made in '49 in California. John Davis and myself, as soon as the packs were off, began getting dinner. Oftentimes, in a party, you have one fellow who doesn't want to hold his end up. Mat McCullough was not much of a hand to do his share of the work. As a matter of fact, he was the laziest white man I ever saw. He not only didn't want to do his share of the work, but he wanted the others to wait on him constantly. As soon as we came into camp he would unsaddle his riding horse, spread out his saddle blanket for a pillow, he would lie down and at once go to sleep. As soon as the coffee had come to a boil and the bacon fried, John said to me, 'Cy, better go wake Mat up--tell him dinner's ready.' The boys began talking about it, and said, 'It'll do Mat good to miss his dinner. He's too lazy to live. He lets us do the work, and all he wants to do is be waked up for his meals.' We decided to eat without him to teach him a lesson. As we were sitting around eating dinner, John Davis said, 'What's the matter with playing a trick on Mat?' I was 17 years old, and I loved to joke and play tricks better than to eat. When it came to fun, I was willing to do more than a man's work. In fact, I was a regular old man for fun. We discussed what kind of trick we would play on him, and finally decided to pull off an Indian scare. Each of us had a tie rope for our saddle horses. The Mexicans call these McCartys [mecates].
    "John said, 'We will tie five or six of our McCartys together, tie one end around Mat's leg and the other end to that bush near him. We'll fire three or four shots, yell like Indians, and Mat will wake up, think the Indians are after us, and run like a towhead.' I was so afraid Mat would wake up that I didn't stop to finish my dinner. I went to the different saddles, got the tie ropes, tied them together, fastened one end securely around Mat's leg and tied the other to a bush. Then we got our guns, went up on the hillside, where we could hide, and fired four or five shots. Mat rolled over, sat up, rubbed his eyes and started to yawn. We fired four or five more shots, and when several of the boys gave the Indian war whoop, I yelled to Mat to run for his life, that the brush was full of Indians. I tell you, Mat stopped his yawn in the middle. I thought I had seen things move fast, but no jackrabbit or coyote ever lit out much faster than Mat did. He jumped straight up and lit running. He never noticed the rope around his foot, and when he came to the end of his rope, it threw him so hard that he bounced up like a rubber ball.
    "Mat had an ugly temper. He saw how we had played a trick on him, and he was furious. As he sat there he began cussing us, and swore he would kill the first man that he saw, and that he would kill every one of us for playing the trick on him.
    "We sneaked back a ways and held a council of war. The boys all decided they had better stay out of camp for the rest of the afternoon, to let Mat cool off. The rest of them thought that I was just a kid, and Mat wouldn't hurt me, and so they told me to sneak into camp, get two or three picks and a shovel or two and their pans, and we would spend the rest of the day prospecting.
    "I watched my chance and got the tools and took them out to where the boys were. We started down the creek, and traveled for about a mile and a half when we came to a small gulch with a little water running in it. We crossed the gulch and traveled up beside it for possibly a couple of hundred yards to where a dry gulch came into it. We struck up the dry gulch and went up that for maybe a hundred and fifty yards, to where it made a short turn around a point of rocks.
    "I had spent most of the summer and fall of the previous year, 1848, in prospecting and mining, and somehow or other I had a hunch that this would be a good place. We could see that water had run in the dry gulch during the winter, and right where the point of rocks cut across the gulch, I stopped on the upper side of it and said to Ben Crisp, 'Let's sink a hole here.' We had been out on our trip for three days and this was the first time we had gotten out our tools to do any prospecting, and this was the first time since we had left camp that anyone had mentioned stopping to prospect.
    "I was carrying one of the picks and began digging. The other boys all stopped and said, 'All right; we'll sink a hole here to bedrock and see what we get.' We struck bedrock at about 2½ feet. I got a pan of dirt, walked over to the little gulch with water in it and washed it and found a good-sized nugget and a lot of coarse gold. We weighed the nugget and it weighed $83. Well, that was all we wanted. We all struck in and worked like beavers. The dirt ran from $6 to $8 to the pan. There wasn't a spot where we struck bedrock that wasn't rich. We stayed here between three and four months, and the lowest we made was about $75 a day, and from that up. We named this camp Grass Valley, and it proved to be one of the best and richest strikes in that district."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 21, 1913, page B4


    "After we had worked for three months in the dry gulch that was afterwards called Grass Valley Diggins," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg, "our grub gave out. We got our horses up, put their pack saddles on and started back for Yubaville for more provisions. Our party had over $10,000 worth of dust so we didn't stint ourselves in any way in laying up a good supply of provisions.
    "We found, upon our return, that 20 or more men were working our claim. We felt sure with a whole country to pick from we could strike something equally good, and as we wanted more elbow room, we decided to strike into new country that had never been explored. We followed the Yuba River about half way to the summit of the Sierra Nevada mountains. From there we struck north, crossing the Big and Little Butte rivers, the Bear River, the Chico River and then crossed the south fork of the Feather River. We went on until we struck the middle fork of Feather River. It lay in a deep canyon. The bottom of the canyon was about four miles from the summit of the mountains. The country was rough and broken and, of course, there were no trails. We had come more that a hundred miles to get new country and we certainly had found it, for there was no sign that a white man had ever been in there.
    "When we left Yubaville we brought along two new partners, Frank Bidwell and Commodore Elliott. Elliott was 19 years old. I was 17. As we were nearer of an age than any of the rest, we became great chums.
    "We scrambled down the mountain to the stream and made camp for the night. Next morning as we were eating breakfast, some Indians came into camp. I told the other fellows that Commodore and I would look around a bit and see if there were any indications of good ground. I handed one of the Indians a pan, one a pick and another a shovel, and gave each of them a big piece of jerky, as they used to call dried beef.
    "The river bank was steep and bushy. We walked along the bank for a mile and a half until we came to a place where the river ran in against a bluff. We had to climb the bluff. From the top of the bluff I saw the river made a horseshoe bend. I called Commodore's attention to it and said: 'The river runs like a horseshoe here. We can strike straight across and hit it again.'
    "Where we hit the river again, a large gravel and sand bar had been formed. About the center of the bar was a small lake with willows and other vegetation growing thickly around it. We worked our way through the brush and suddenly I noticed that there was no noise of the Indians following us. Tools in that country were worth more than their weight in gold because there were none to be had short of Yubaville. I thought the Indians had stolen our tools and got away from us. We struck back for the lake to find out which way the Indians had gone. When we struck the lake there were the Indians and there were our tools. You couldn't guess in a year what those Indians were doing. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it. All around the edge of the lake there was a sort of young clover or sorrel growing. The Indians were eating that green stuff just like a lot of cows. That was a new one to me.
    "After we had laughed for a bit I said: 'Let's let the Indians get their fill of that clover and while they are doing it, we will sink a little hole and try a pan or two.' Pretty nearly everybody has some little superstition or hobby. My hobby was to be the first one to try a pan of dirt when we were prospecting. We worked our way through willows and brush and struck the river in a clear place. About 30 feet from the edge of the water we began sinking our hole. After throwing off a foot of sand we came to the gravel, which was also about a foot thick. As soon as we had come to bedrock I shoveled a pan of the gravel and ran to the edge of the river to pan it.
    "The first pan ran over $8. When we had washed out eight or 10 pans we had $85 worth of nuggets and coarse dust. The Indians had joined us, so we all went back to our camp and showed the rest of the bunch our cleanup.
    "Now you know how the famous rich bar on the middle fork of Feather River was discovered. It was discovered while we were waiting for those Indians to get their fill of sheep sorrel."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 22, 1913, page 8


    "It was in July, 1848, that we arrived at what we called the American Dry Diggings," said Cyrenius Mulkey of Roseburg. "Its name was later changed to Hangtown and still later to Placerville. It was located about 20 miles from where J. W. Marshall discovered the first gold in Sutter's mill race. We got there about 10 o'clock in the morning."
    "With a boy's eagerness, I stripped my horses, turned them out to graze and got out a pick and shovel and a milk pan and got to work at once. I went over the hill to the opposite side where I found two men were mining in a dry gulch. The gulch was only about two feet deep and there was a little bit of water on the bedrock that had seeped through and lodged in the hollows of the bedrock. They had worked in the shallow gulch for 40 or 50 feet.
    "I went back to where they had commenced digging and started to work in the opposite direction. I filled my pan with gravel from near bedrock, went to the little puddle where they were doing their washing and washed my first pan. I had never seen a pan full of dirt washed before, but the gold was coarse and I guess I saved most of it. After I had washed five or six pans of dirt, one of the men came to me and said, 'Well, little one, how are you making it?' I told him it was a new business to me. He said I was welcome to work any place I wanted to. I washed a few more pans and finally quit.
    "I put what gold I had in my pan and started for camp to show the rest of our party. The man there that had told me to work wherever I pleased hailed me, took the pan, looked at the gold and then told me that if I wanted to, he and his partner would take me in, giving me an equal interest with them. I told them I would think it over. I went to our camp and found that all the boys were gone except Mr. Woods. The leader of our party, Captain Woods, was the father of George L. Woods, who later became governor of Oregon. Captain Woods took my gold to his tent where he had a gold scale. He weighed it and found that there was $26.35. That was the first money to amount to anything that I had ever had in all my life. The most money that I had ever owned before was the $1.10 that I won on a horse race.
    "Before we settled down to mining, we wanted to see the place where the gold had been discovered, so next morning we started out early for Sutter's mill. We camped on the south fork of the American River near Sutter's mill that night. Next day we struck out for Ford's Bar on the middle fork of the American River. We found Cole Ford and a party hard at work on Ford's Bar and doing well. We went up the river about four miles where we found a bar of our own. We worked on this bar until late in the fall, when we struck out for Sutter's Fort in the Sacramento Valley. We stayed at Sutter's Fort for 10 days, at the end of which time we went to San Francisco.
    "Mr. Woods, who had been in charge of our party, and Al Hill took passage on a small schooner for Portland. I gave Mr. Woods half of my gold dust to take home to my mother and kept the rest to pay expenses during the winter. Expenses at that time, in San Francisco, were exceedingly high, so I decided to winter in Napa Valley. I went to Napa City and from there I went out to York Creek. I became well acquainted with General Vallejo, who was wonderfully kind to me and invited me to stay all winter with him, but I was too anxious to be out of the hills.
    "I will never forget that winter. Out on York Creek there were lots of game; deer and quail were particularly plentiful. The deer had apparently had never been hunted and were perfectly fearless. I would often run across a buck who, instead of running away, would stamp his feet and shake his horns at me, trying to drive me off. Near what is now Napa Soda Springs they were very numerous. I had no buckshot nor, for that matter, any other shot, but I bought bar lead and would spend my evenings cutting it into strips and then cutting the strips into small chunks. I had all the deer meat and quail I could eat that winter. Before the winter was out, I went to Sonoma and from there to Santa Rosa. I had a friend, William Moore, who was located on the Russian River, and I went up and visited him for some time. One of his nearest neighbors was Kit Carson, who had a wild horse ranch 15 miles further up the river. I had heard so much about Carson that I decided to go up there and visit him a while.
    "In those days you were perfectly welcome to go and visit for a spell with anyone. I got to Kit Carson's ranch on Saturday evening. Next morning 10 or 15 Mexicans went out and rounded up a lot of his wild horses. They drove between 800 and 900 of them into a big corral. After roping 40 or 50 of the wildest, they turned the rest out into the range. There were about 300 Indians around the corral watching the fun. The Mexicans picked out 40 young Indians to ride the horses. They put hackamores on the horses and blindfolded them. You never saw a livelier scene in your life than what went on during the next few minutes. The young Indian bucks got on the horses and while two or three Indians held the lunging and pitching horses, the Mexicans tied the Indians to the horses with ropes, fastening the ropes around the Indians' ankles and bringing them tight around the horses' bellies. Then the blindfolds were pulled off and the 40 bucking, pitching horses, accompanied by 100 or more horsemen, scattered over the prairie. Frequently a horse would go over backwards but the Indians were quick as cats and they would squirm around so they were sitting on the horses' bellies while the horse was trying to bite them and kick them. When the horses were all nearly worn out, they were herded back into the corral and the ropes loosened and the horses turned out to rejoin the main band.
    "This ranch was quite a celebrated place. General Fremont visited with Kit Carson for a few weeks a few years before I was there."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 23, 1913, page 8


    "They say a rolling stone gathers no moss," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg. "I discovered that a rolling stone gets rid of its gold dust. At any rate, mine was all gone, and I decided to get a job somewhere to get some more money. In the fall of 1848 and the spring of 1849 there was a man named Kilburn, who was running a sawmill. I struck him for a job. I was 17 years old and I was small for my age. He looked at me with surprise, and said: 'Why, what can you do, boy?' I drew myself up as tall as I could and said: 'I can do anything that anyone else can do.' He said, 'What, for example? Can you drive oxen?' I told him I was a master hand with oxen. He said, 'All right, I'll give you a job.' I told him before I took the job, I wanted to know what the wages would be. He said he would pay me a regular man's wages, $16 a day and give me free board whenever the weather was bad and I couldn't work. I had been making a good deal more in the mines, but until mining opened up in the spring, I was perfectly willing to take the job at that figure. He had two teams. A sailor who had deserted his ship when it came into the Golden Gate, and had heard of the gold fields, was driving one of the teams and I was to have the other. Mr. Kilburn went with me to the corral to point out my oxen for me and to help me yoke them up.
    "They were Spanish cattle. Not the kind of oxen that I had driven across the plains, but long-legged slender animals with very long horns. He had no ox-bows so we had to hook them up Spanish style. A beam was laid across the top of their heads and strapped with rawhide thongs to their horns. The wagons, yokes, harness and all were homemade. Instead of chains, as they have in most logging camps, they had braided rawhide ropes. There was not a particle of iron in the wagon, yoke or harness. The whole outfit was of wood and rawhide. We were supposed to make two loads a day, driving to where the sawlogs were and bringing them in to the mill.
    "The second morning I went to work. Sailor Tom and I went out together and drove in our cattle. I went into the corral, caught my team, strapped on its yoke, hooked it up and drove off. Being a boy, I was sensitive and didn't want my boss to think that I couldn't do a man's work. As I came in with my load the evening before, I had noticed a log about five feet through. I sized it up and decided that I was going to load that log all by myself and bring it in the next load. It lay well on a grade so that I believed I could load it. I drove on the hillside below it, put the skids on the ground under the log with the other end resting on top of the big wooden wheel. Sailor Tom showed me how to take a rolling hitch the day before, so taking a rolling hitch with the braided rawhide rope I blocked up strongly, unhitched my oxen, got them on a downhill pull and the pulled the log up the skids and it dropped neatly on my wagon. Just as I had finished loading it, Sailor Tom drove up with his team. I took one of our rawhide ropes, bound the log to the wagon with what they called a windlass, or Spanish hitch, and drove off to the mill. When I got to the mill, I got the log off by the same maneuver that I had gotten it on. Mr. Kilburn heard me drive up and came out and said, 'Where is Tom?'  I told him that Tom was back in the woods and would be along soon. He said, 'How did you get that big log on the wagon?' I told him I had loaded it on as anybody else would. He said, 'Who helped you?' I pretended to be very indignant and said, 'I told you I could do a man's work. Nobody helped me, I did it myself.' He didn't say much but I could see he was sizing me up with great curiosity, and I heard from others that he used to do a lot of bragging about me. As a matter of fact all those kind of things are done more by knack than by main strength. If a man will only use his head he can usually make this head save his hands.
    "This was in the winter of 1848 and 1849 and during this winter most of the miners came out of the hills either to spend their money in San Francisco or some of the other towns or get jobs in the Sacramento Valley and elsewhere. A good many of the men went back to Oregon, because the bulk of the men who came first were those who were nearby. The rush from the East and all over the rest of the world began in the spring of 1849."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 24, 1913, page 8


    "It is funny how hard people will work when they have rich diggings," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg. "After our accidental discovery of Rich Bar on Feather River, we cut down some trees and made a rough log cabin. For the next ten days we all worked like Trojans, and we certainly got the dust. We were making more than a hundred dollars to the man each day.
    "Ten days after we struck Rich Bar, Ben and Houston Crisp began to complaining of feeling badly. We were in the bottom of the canyon, and during the middle of the day the sun came down into that canyon as if it were a steel furnace. The wall reflected the heat and as this was in August, the heat was almost unbearable. We had no medicine and we didn't know what was the matter with them but they both kept getting weaker and weaker. We had turned our horses loose up in the mountains in a sort of open park in the timber. It was about six miles away, and as it was high up in the mountains we thought it would be cooler. After talking the matter over we decided to take the two Crisp boys up where our horses were. I went along to take care of the sick men, as I could cook. We made litters and carried them out of the canyon, to the open country.
    "There were nine of us in the party. The two Crisp boys and myself were to get our share of the gold just the same as if we were there working. The rest of the party kept up the work on the bar. I didn't have much to do up there except to keep Ben and Houston comfortable and cook for them.
    "The Indians at this time had very little idea of the value of gold. They knew that the white men were crazy to get it but why they wanted it was too much for them. They used to skirmish around and find nuggets and bring in and trade. Pretty soon the Indians began coming to my camp. I made bread and gave them a loaf of bread for a good-sized nugget. They passed the word along and pretty soon the Indians were bringing in a good many ounces of gold. I found out from the Indians that our camp was about 30 miles from Major Bidwell's place on Feather River. Major Bidwell had about 300 Indians digging gold for him. He ran a store and traded his goods to the Indians who were working for him, for the gold dust.
    "I soon ran short of flour so I said to Ben and Houston, 'I'll cook up a lot of food and if you think you can spare me for a day, I am going to strike out for Major Bidwell's store and get a couple loads of supplies, and goods to trade to the Indians.' They told me to go ahead.
    "Next morning as soon as the morning star came up, I ate breakfast, saddled my horses and started to Bidwell's bar. It was 30 miles away and there was no trail, but by crowding my horse hard whenever there was open going, I got to Bidwell's by noon. After I had had dinner, I told Major Bidwell what I wanted. He fixed me up some cheap Spanish blankets, some calico shirts and a lot of cotton handkerchiefs. He gave me the blankets for $16 each, the calico shirts for $4 each and let me have the bandana handkerchiefs for $1 each. I had taken in enough gold dust that the Indians had brought in and traded for bread to bring out both of my horses well packed. I started back for camp and got there late that night, having made the 60 mile ride through a country without trails in one day, that is--a day of about 24 hours.
    "Next day, when the Indians came in I showed them my goods, and for the next week or ten days I certainly did a thriving business. I would give an Indian a blanket for five ounces of gold. If he had only two or three ounces I would trade him a shirt for it. For anything around an ounce, whether it was a few dollars more or less, I would give him a handkerchief.
    "The Indians lived on game, berries, roots and a sort of green clover or sorrel. When I let them have a taste of salt they fairly went crazy for it. I soon saw that salt was the most valuable thing I had in the way of trade. I had a pair of gold scales so when the Indians came in with their gold dust, I would balance the gold dust with salt and trade it weight for weight.
    "At first the Crisp boys had felt a little better, but I soon found that they were getting weaker each day. I went down to where our party were mining on Rich Bar and told them that something would have to be done. They decided to take them to Sacramento City, as Sutter's Fort was then called. We took them to Sacramento. Ben died immediately after we got there. His brother, Houston Crisp, we took to San Francisco and put him on board a boat to go to Oregon. He died at sea."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 25, 1913, page 8


    "In the summer of 1849, while in camp near the middle fork of the Feather River, I carried on a brisk trade with the Indians, trading blankets, flour, shirts, handkerchiefs and salt for gold dust," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg. "A good deal of the gold brought in by the Indians was in the nugget form, but there was about $700 of coarse gold. I was anxious to find where this gold came from, but the Indians never seemed to understand what I wanted when I asked them to direct me to the place.
    "One afternoon, when the Indians had got through their trading they all went away except two little boys. I invited the boys to stay for supper. After supper, I took a shirt and handkerchief in each hand. The little boys were sitting down on the ground by the campfire. I threw a shirt and a handkerchief in each of their laps and said: 'If you show me where the Indians get their gold I will give them to you.' They refused. They said the Indians would kill them if they told, but the red bandana handkerchiefs were too much for them and they agreed that if I would go after dark when we wouldn't be seen, they would take me to the place where the gold came from.
    "I told you before about Mat McCullough being the laziest white man that ever encumbered the earth. Mat was with me at the time. I told Mat to go with the Indian boys. 'Stuttering Bill' White went along also. They went to a bar on the south fork of Feather River, about six miles from our camp. They worked there next day and at sundown came in with $570. They had taken it out in less than a day, so you see the Indians had struck a very rich place and one that no white man knew anything about.
    "Our party of nine had decided to quit work on the middle fork and go out with Ben and Houston Crisp, who were sick. As it was not necessary for the whole party to go out with the sick men, the other four men of our party went with them, two to each litter, to carry them out. They left Mat McCullough, 'Stuttering Bill' White and myself in the mountains. We had received word that there was a great deal of cholera at Sacramento so we were all the more willing to stay in the mountains until late fall.
    "We went a few miles with them to see if they could take the sick men out all right. They told us they could make it without trouble so Mat McCullough, 'Stuttering Bill' and myself returned to our camp, packed our grub and started for the new diggings. These new diggings, or Injun Diggins, as we called them, was later dignified by the name of Stringtown. We made our camp on a high bar. Near our camp was a cold spring around which grew some brush and a few trees.
    "Our first night in camp was a beautiful summer night. The full moon made it almost as light as day. Late in the night I heard a rock fall on the gravel. I jumped up, and as I did so an Indian dodged down into the high grass and made for the spring. I hollered to my partners that we were surrounded by Indians. Mat and 'Stuttering Bill' jumped up and as they did so, five or six Indians ran out of the brush. We ran a little way and then stopped. We were in our underwear. We had left our gold dust, provisions, guns, tools and everything else in camp. The creek made a deep canyon near our camp where we hid until morning.
    While McCullough was one of the laziest men I ever saw, White was by all odds the most cowardly man I ever ran across. He insisted on starting for the valley with only our underwear on, leaving our gold dust, horses, provisions, guns and tools for the Indians. I refused to go, and Mat stayed with me. 'Stuttering Bill' was afraid to go alone so we stayed hidden in the canyon that night. Next morning I crawled out where I couldn't be seen, to size up our camp. I saw our horses come down to the spring, drink and go quietly away. I came back and told my partners that the Indians were gone. They said they were hidden in the brush and were only waiting for us to come into camp so they could kill us. We stayed hidden until about 9 o'clock when I said; 'I would just as soon be killed by the Indians as starve to death. I am not going to wait another minute for my breakfast.'
    "Mat and Bill wouldn't come with me and they didn't want me to go, but I struck out for camp. After I had started I would have gone back if it hadn't been for being afraid that the other two fellows would think I was as cowardly as they were. I looked back and I saw Mat dodging along, taking advantage of every bit of cover. Following me, and back of him, so scared he could hardly walk, came 'Stuttering Bill.' I could fairly feel my hair rise, but I decided I might as well be killed and be done with it as to be turned adrift in my underclothes without arms or food in the mountains. I went into camp and discovered that nothing had been disturbed. Evidently the Indians had been afraid to bother us. All of the gold in California wouldn't keep 'Stuttering Bill' in that camp any longer than just time enough to get breakfast, gather up our belongings, saddle up and hike out; so, much to my disgust, we abandoned one of the richest pieces of placer ground I have ever seen."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 26, 1913, page 6


    "After our experience with the Indians nothing would do for Stuttering Bill but to go back to Oregon, where he believed his scalp would be safer," said Cy Mulkey, at Roseburg, recently. "Mat McCullough and Stuttering Bill White together had taken out $540 from the bar on the south fork of Feather River, the day before our Indian scare. Each of us also had our share of the gold dust which our party had cleaned up during the summer's work. We had about $5000 apiece in gold dust for our share of the summer's work.
    "We started for the Sacramento Valley, the first halt we made being at Potter's ranch near where Chico is now. They had a store at Potter's ranch. Everything in the store was sold at California prices, and California prices in '49 were pretty near sky high, but I was a boy of 17 years old and I was headed for home, and I remembered that my mother had said, 'Cy, when you come home, if you are not killed, you will be hungry, ragged and destitute,' so I decided to show my mother she was mistaken.
    "Although I was 17 years old, I was small for my age. They had no boy's clothing in the store, but the owner picked out for me the smallest man's suit he had. I turned the sleeves of the coat and cut six inches off the bottom of the trouser legs, and even then the pants looked like a Chinaman's outfit, they were so loose and baggy. However, they were new, and I made up for the overgrown looks of the clothes by buying a fine, silver-mounted saddle and silver-mounted bridle and spurs. I bought a couple of silver-mounted tapaderos, for which I paid $100 apiece. I also bought a half dozen red silk sashes and a Mexican felt sombrero that was covered with silver and gold lacework and ornaments. I also bought two of the best horses they had on the ranch.
    "We stayed at Potter's ranch two weeks. I had an idea that money was of no value except to buy what you wanted, so whatever I saw and wanted, I bought.
    "I had $3600 in gold dust carefully saved out to take home to my mother. I was very anxious to see her as much to prove that she was mistaken when she said that I would not do well as for any other reason.
    "From Potter's ranch we went to Major Redding's, where the town of Redding is now located. We expected that someone would come along bound for Oregon, whose party we could join. McCullough, Stuttering Bill and myself were too small a party to risk traveling alone through the Indian country of Southern Oregon. After waiting for about 10 days without finding anyone who was going north, White and McCullough proposed that I take care of camp while they went to a mining camp named Shasta, 20 miles distant, to see if there was anyone there who was going to Oregon. I didn't much like the idea of holding the camp down all alone, as we had a lot of valuable stuff, but I didn't like the idea of telling them of my fears, so I let them go. They were gone eight days. When they returned they said they had not been able to find anyone who was going to Oregon. On the same day they came back a party of five men came into our camp who were bound for Oregon. Their names were William Gage, William Wilkinson, Ellis Grigsby, and man named Saltmarsh and an old man named Melburn, whose home was at Salem, Oregon. They were all Oregon men and were anxious to get back home for the winter.
    While Stuttering Bill and Matt had been gone, I had come down with the mountain fever. Two of our party, Ben Crisp and his brother, Houston Crisp, had already died of the mountain fever, so I decided it would be just as well to risk getting killed by the Indians in going to Oregon as to stay where I was and die of mountain fever.
    Matt McCullough tried to dissuade me from going. He said he had a premonition that we were going to be attacked by the Indians and killed, so we could not persuade him to come. He went back to Grass Valley. 'Stuttering Bill' was more afraid of the Indians in California than of the Oregon Indians, so he decided to go. This made seven in our party. We only had three rifles and not very much ammunition, but we knew that if the Indians found us it was all off with us anyway, so we decided not to trust to our guns but to travel by night and steal through the country, keeping out of sight of the Indians. We got along fine and didn't see an Indian until we were in the Siskiyou Mountains near the Oregon line. A heavy forest fire was raging. The smoke was so thick that it made your eyes smart. You couldn't see a person 50 yards away. We got off the main trail onto an Indian trail and the first thing we knew we ran right into an Indian camp. I don't know which was the most surprised nor which of the parties were most scared. At any rate, both parties broke and ran. We worked back into the main trail, hurried on and finally got out of the mountains, near where Ashland now is.
    "I had been growing weaker and weaker with the mountain fever. I was barely able to hold to the horn of my saddle. I was so weak that the rest of the party did all my work for me. They stood guard, took care of my horse, and did the cooking. It seemed as if I would burn up with fever. As soon as we made camp I would take my clothing off, find the dampest place I could find and lie with my stomach on the damp ground. Whenever I could strike a stream I would lie in the water. It was the only thing that relieved me from the fever and the burning sensation.
    "They say that blood-letting is good for fever. Possibly it is. At any rate a day or two later the Indians not only let a good deal of my blood, but they took all of my gold dust, both of my horses and set me afoot, hungry, ragged and broke."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 27, 1913, page 4


    "On our way up from California to the Willamette Valley, in the fall of 1849," said Cy Mulkey when I visited him recently in Roseburg, "we camped about half a mile from the present town of Gold Hill. Just at daylight next morning, more than 100 Indians ran out of a little dry gulch near our camp and charged us. The Indians were armed with bows and arrows. I stood watching them run toward us fitting their arrows and shooting as they came and all the time giving savage war-whoops until they were about 25 yards away. We only had three rifles in our party. The owners of these guns had caught them up instantly and fired at the Indians. Melburn, an old man from near Salem, Ore., started to run and shouted 'Run boys, run.' At the first fire of arrows, an arrow struck me in the thigh. This was the only arrow that struck me though there were eight arrows that went through my trousers. Stuttering Bill was shot through the hat with several arrows. Not a one drew blood, but you would have thought from his lamentations he had been mortally wounded. When I started to run, the arrow hurt me. I tried to pull it out but it broke and left part of the arrow sticking in me. We ran and the Indians, feeling sure that they could get us later, stopped at our camp to get our plunder.
    "The nearest settlement at that time was Winchester, on the North Umpqua River, about 150 miles to the north of us. The arrow in my thigh had not come out and made me bleed a good deal. We hadn't traveled many miles until I finally gave out completely. I had been sick for several weeks with mountain fever and was weak.
    "I put my arms around the shoulders of two men and they supported me. Every once in a while I would get faint and would fall to the ground. Some of the Indians finally took up our trail and following us kept shooting at us. We only had enough powder and bullets for 14 loads. We were afraid to shoot at the Indians, expecting that any moment they would charge, and we would need powder and lead at close quarters.
   "The Indians, seeing we did not shoot at them, decided we were out of ammunition. For a little while they ceased to bother us. They took a shortcut, went ahead and hid in the brush to wait for us. When we came along, they charged and with savage yells and shooting their arrows, they ran until about 25 or 30 paces from us. The men with the rifles held their fire until the Indians got near the bank of a creek about 25 yards distant, when they fired. Two of the Indians fell. The other Indians caught them up and all of them ran back into the brush.
    "This was just below 'The Point of Rocks' where the Indians always attacked the whites. We had to cross the river, which would give the Indians an excellent opportunity of ambushing us and killing us as we came across. To prevent this, we decided to leave the road and go around on the mountainside. By going to the mouth of Jump-off Joe Creek and crossing the river by this road we would miss the regular ford and possibly escape the Indians. The traveling on the mountainside was so rough I kept falling down. Our party stopped for a while to let me rest. As we were lying hidden there, I made up my mind it was impossible for me to go through by the mountain road. I decided to let the rest of the party go by that route while I took the regular traveled road and risked my chances of getting through. When they were ready to start I told them to go ahead, that as I couldn't possibly make it, I was going back to the regular road and if I got through I would join them beyond the ford. Will Gage saw me starting down the mountain and said, 'Cy, where are you going?'  I told him I couldn't make it and I was going by [the] regular trail. He said, 'Well, I'm not going to let you go alone. I'll go with you.' We two struck out and in a moment or two Wilkinson, Saltmarsh and Melburn followed us.
    "'Stuttering Bill' White and Grigsby were afraid to come so they kept to the mountain road. In a little while they decided that it was more dangerous to be alone on the mountain trail than to be with the rest of the party, so they joined us. We had been hurrying and the loss of blood had made me so weak I fell down. I told the men who were helping me that I must rest for a few moments.
    "As I lay there White and Grigsby called the rest of the party to one side for a council. Though their voices were lowered, I could hear what they said. White said it was impossible to get me through, I was sick and badly wounded and if they tried to save my life they would lose their own in doing so. White suggested that out of mercy to me, they kill me, rather than abandon me and let me fall into the hands of the Indians. Grigsby approved of the idea. Gage said, 'There is just one thing I have to say and that is, anybody that touches that boy will get killed. If he is going to die in this country, the rest of us will die with him.' Gage was a very quiet-spoken man but they knew he meant exactly what he said and 'Stuttering Bill' was almost as afraid of him as he was of the Indians.
   "We kept on down the river, making the best time we could. When we got to within about eight miles of where the city of Grants Pass is now located, we came to a small island in the river. We decided to try to cross the river. I was too weak to stand in the swift water, Grigsby, who had wanted to kill me, came to my assistance. He was over six feet high and weighed 185 pounds. He picked me up and carried me to the island. We rested there for a few moments and then crossed from the island to the other side of the river. We camped that night in a small bunch of willow near where Grants Pass is now located. [Jumpoff Joe Creek, referred to above, is about seven miles north of Grants Pass--further along the trail.]
    "There was a spring there and after the men had got what water they wanted I stripped off my clothes and lay down in the ice-cold spring for about five hours. The loss of blood and lying in the spring broke my fever. I felt stronger and was able to walk with a little assistance.
    "Shortly after dark we started, traveling most of the night. We hid in gulches during the day and during the next four days and three nights we had nothing whatever to eat except a grouse which one of the men killed by hitting it with a rock. We finally arrived at Scott's ferry, now called Winchester. A. Scott had established a ferry here to accommodate the Oregon and California travel. Here we were well taken care of, and as we were out of the hostile country, our party broke up, each man striking out to suit himself."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 28, 1913, page 16


    "In the spring of [1850], after returning from the California gold fields," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg, "I went to work on William Martin's farm. After digging gold and fighting Indians, plowing seemed pretty prosaic, so at the end of the month I said to Mr. Martin that he need not pay me anything if he would give me his white pony with blue eyes. He agreed to this so I rode to my home in Yamhill County.
    "A few days after I had gone home General Lane passed our place. He was following some soldiers who had deserted at Oregon City and he wanted a posse of citizens to go with him. He promised to give a reward of $30 for each deserter captured and returned. These soldiers were mounted dragoons who had come across the plains the year before. A good many of them were soldiers who had served under General Lane during the Mexican War.
    "Stories of the fortunes being made in the California gold fields were too much for them. A large number of them had deserted and had started for California. General Lane knew that the men were not prepared to make the 800-mile trip. They had left without supplies except what they could carry on their backs. We overtook 83 of them at Grave Creek in the Rogue River Valley. Their clothes were worn out. They were out of food and were not at all unwilling to be captured. We took them back to Oregon City, and General Lane paid the reward to those of us who had gone with him.
    "On this trip General Lane told me that he himself was going to California on the first of June and on his way he was going to stop, hold a peace council with the Rogue River Indians and try to get them to cease their attacks on the miners traveling through their country. As I had lost two good horses and a silver-mounted saddle, bridle and spurs and $3600 in gold dust the fall before, I was anxious to go along in the hope that I might recover some of my property.
    "General Lane offered me a position as interpreter. I gladly accepted his offer. At this time there were a good many Klickitat Indians in the Willamette Valley. Their chief was very anxious to make a raid on the Rogue River Indians to get the horses which they had stolen from miners and packers. They had several hundred stolen horses.
    "'Quarterly,' the head of the Klickitat Indians, asked General Lane if he would let 40 of his warriors go along with him so that if General Lane failed to make the treaty, the Klickitat Indians could make a raid on the Rogue River Indians and secure the horses. General Lane agreed to this and took the Indians along.
    "We had with us about 500 head of beef cattle which belonged to General Lane, Phil Thompson and Mr. Martin and Mr. Angel.
    "We reached the South Umpqua River, near what is now the town of Canyonville, without special incident. We camped there several days while the Klickitat Indians were out scouting to find the Rogue River Indians. They located a small band near the head of the South Umpqua. They brought these into camp. With them there was a boy about 15 years old whom the Rogue River Indians had captured from the Calapooia Indians. This boy could talk good Chinook, so could I. General Lane would give me his message which I would translate into Chinook to the boy and he would translate into the tongue of the Rogue River Indians. The Rogue River Indians agreed to send runners out and get all of the tribe together at a council on Rogue River, just above where the town of Gold Hill is now located. They kept their promise and met General Lane as agreed.
    "After a two-day council they signed a treaty. We named the chief who signed the treaty for his people, Chief Joseph, naming him after General Joseph Lane. General Lane killed two beeves and gave the Indians a big barbecue. In return, the chief of the Rogue River Indians made General Lane a present of an Indian boy whom they had captured from the Calapooia Indians. During the treaty I saw an Indian on one of my horses which had been stolen from me the year before. General Lane had my horse returned to me and one of the Indians gave me $100 of the gold dust that had been taken from me. The rest of it, about $3500, they had thrown in the river. They had taken from our party the year before over $20,000 in gold dust, and of this entire amount they had only saved $100 in nuggets, throwing all of the rest away.
    "General Lane was afraid that as soon as he left the Klickitat Indians would make a raid on the Rogue River Indians, steal the horses and break the treaty he had just signed. He called the chief of the Klickitats and told him that I was his personal representative and would go back with them to the Willamette Valley and that he would hold him responsible for any harm his Indians did on the way back.
    "The Indians made no trouble whatever on the way back. General Lane went on to California while I returned to Oregon where I spent that winter.
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 29, 1913, page 6


    "In February, 1851, I joined a party of 37 men who were starting for Scott's River in Northern California," said Cy Mulkey, an Oregon pioneer of 1847, now living at Roseburg. "We passed without trouble through the Rogue River Indians' country, with whom General Lane had made a treaty the year before. When we came to the Big Shasta River, in Shasta Valley, we found the snow in the mountains so deep we couldn't get over the range. We had to camp until the snow went out.
    "On St. Patrick's Day there was a heavy thunder shower. After the rain was over one of our party went down to a little well which we had sunk to supply our camp with water. The rain had beaten on the earth we had thrown out of the well, and one of the party noticed a small piece of gold in the gravel. He went back to camp, got his pick and shovel and sunk a hole to bedrock, which was about four feet. The first pan gave him between $3 and $4, and every pan he washed showed rich dirt. We stayed right there and christened the camp Yreka. The discovery was a pure accident, as the country did not look at all like a mining country. It was a comparatively level country, and looked more like good farming land than a mining country.
    "That fall gold was struck on Scott's River, Scott's Bar being particularly rich. There was a big stampede to the new camp. General Lane, who had sold his cattle in California, wintered on Scott's River. As soon as the snow had gone off the range he came over to our camp at Yreka. This was the first time we had met since the time I acted as his interpreter in making the treaty with the Rogue River Indians. General Lane was a very cordial man. He had the faculty of making friends. A few days after his arrival he said to me, 'Cy, I am going home to Oregon to run for Congress. I am going to start addressing the citizens of the Umpqua Valley, and wind up at Oregon City. I want you to go on ahead of me as my advance guard and tell the people at each point the date I will be there to speak. Here are some papers that I want to deliver to Colonel Ford, Mr. Marion, Mr. Goff, Mr. Owens, Mr. Henry and Mr. Nesmith.'
    "I thought so much of General Lane I hated to see him beaten, as I knew he would be, so I said, 'General, you are making a mistake. There isn't a man on the Pacific Coast who can beat Mr. Thurston for Congress. He got the donation land claim bill through Congress, and he is well known and well liked.' General Lane said, 'You go ahead, get the men I spoke of together and deliver the papers to them. I can beat Thurston, all right.' I told him that the Indians had broken the treaty and were very hostile and it would be a dangerous trip, and I didn't care to make it. General Lane said, 'I know it is a dangerous trip, and that is the very reason why I want you to go. You understand the Indians, and you can go where others can't.'
    "Well, of course, when he put it in that way, I told him I would go. I made the journey all alone, doing my traveling at night and never taking any chances to make a regular camp. Mr. Thurston, who was on his way home by way of the Isthmus of Panama route to make the canvass, died at Acapulco and was buried at sea, so General Lane was elected.
    "After finishing my errand for General Lane, I bought some pack mules and pack saddles, loaded them with bacon, flour, butter and green apples, and went back to Yreka. I made a good cleanup on everything I took down. I didn't get so much for my apples as I expected, but I got $2.50 a pound for them, so I really had no complaint coming.
    "From Yreka I went to Scott's Bar, where I bought a claim from Judge Snelling for $1000. I took in Abel George as my partner in the claim. We worked all summer and until late that fall. It was 20 feet to bedrock. We had to move all the dirt back, but we knew that when we got to bedrock we would be paid for all our trouble. We got to bedrock, after several months' hard work, but we didn't get a color, so we had our summer's work for nothing."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 30, 1913, page 8


    "When I left Scott's Bar, late in the autumn of 1851," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg, "I persuaded Abraham Way, a former resident of New York City, to come to Oregon with me. The weather had turned very cold. The night we camped on Emigrant Creek, near the present city of Ashland, the snow fell until there was 30 inches on the level. In crossing the Calapooia Mountains the snow was four feet deep. We finally reached Portland, where Mr. Way spent the winter, while I spent the winter in Yamhill County.
    "When a man gets gold fever in his blood, it is pretty hard to get out. Next spring word came from the north that there had been a rich strike on Queen Charlotte Island, in British Columbia.
    "Captain Mitchell was in Portland with his brig, the Eagle. He was anxious to sell it. Mr. Way knew that I had some money and came up to our farm in Yamhill County. He wanted me to go in with him and buy the ship and make a prospecting trip to Alaska. I had a young friend named Andy Berg, who lived near our ranch. We went and saw him and he agreed to go with us. We went to Portland, bought the ship for $3000, and fitted her up for a six months' trip. As many people were anxious to go north to prospect, we had no trouble getting a full passenger list.
    "We arranged with the captain and the crew to run the ship, agreeing to give them an equal share in all discoveries made on our trip, in lieu of wages. We arranged the matter in this way: The captain, the crew, each of the passengers and ourselves should have an equal share in all claims discovered and located. The destination of the ship should be determined by a majority vote.
    "We sailed on April 21, 1852, with 63 aboard. A good many of the people who went over the Chilkoot Pass and went up to Dawson think they are sourdoughs because they went in '97. We preceded them by about 45 years.
    "The report of the gold discoveries in the north had been made by a discharged employee of the Hudson's Bay Company in the summer of 1851. The discovery had been made by an Indian on Queen Charlotte Island. The news brought down by the Hudson's Bay man created a good deal of excitement.
    "A party of 27 men fitted up the schooner Mariana and sailed up the coast on the east side of Queen Charlotte Island between the mainland and the island. When about halfway up the coast of the island, a southeast storm caught them and the captain of the Mariana decided to run into a bay nearby for protection. The captain cast anchor not far from the shore where an Indian village was. As the storm increased in severity the ship parted her anchor chains and the Mariana went ashore just in front of the Indian village. The Indians took all of the party prisoners. As the ship broke up, the cargo floated ashore.
    "The Indians of the far north at that time knew very little about civilization or trading goods. They ripped the flour sacks open, threw the flour away and kept the sacks. They tried to eat the soap, but it was so nasty that in disgust they threw away all the rest of the provisions.
    "They held a council and decided to kill the prisoners. The chief of another Indian village, which was much stronger than the village in which the prisoners were held, happened to be there at the time and volunteered to take the prisoners to his own village and keep them until spring.
    "In February three of the prisoners were taken to Fort Simpson, a Hudson's Bay fort on the mainland. The Indian chief told Governor Douglas that he had 24 more white men at his village. Captain Douglas of the Hudson's Bay Company sent word to Oregon about the prisoners. Our government arranged with Captain Douglas to go to the island and bring them to Victoria. From there they were brought to Portland. Some of the men who had been held all winter at the Indian village told of seeing the Indians with a great deal of gold but they did not know where they had gotten it. It was these stories that caused the stampede to the north.
    "Before going, we learned from one of the men who had been a prisoner all winter that the discovery was on the west side of the island. We sighted the island near what is now called Mitchell's Harbor, having been named in honor of our captain, who was the first American who ever sailed a ship into that harbor. The harbor was about 20 miles wide at the mouth and 20 miles from the mouth, a small arm of water extended back into the main harbor. It was about 4 miles up this smaller body of water that the Indians had discovered the gold.
    "When we arrived at the gold mine in May, we found the Beaver at anchor and the Hudson's Bay Company at work on the mine. The mine was located at the water's edge. The gold-bearing rock ran off into the ocean and you could trace the vein back into the mountains. It turned out to be a pocket about eight feet wide and twelve feet deep, running to a wedge shape at the bottom. The Hudson's Bay Company took $160,000 out of the mine that season, and next year $60,000 more was taken from the pocket.
    "It was the first gold discovered north of California, the discovery being made in May, 1851. The next discovery to be made north of California was at Althouse Creek, the following year, and also at Jacksonville. We stayed on the island two months, prospecting it thoroughly. We found any quantity of good mineral but we were not quartz miners. We were placer miners and all we wanted was good placer ground.
    "By a majority vote, we pulled up our anchor and struck for Jackson's Harbor on Prince of Wales Island in Alaska. We prospected there until fall, when we came back to Victoria and from there went up the sound to Olympia, where we sold our boat and traveled back through the Chehalis and Cowlitz valleys."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 31, 1913, page 6


    "After returning from my prospecting trip to Alaska, in 1852," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg, "I became restless and wanted some excitement. "Living with me on a ranch midway between Corvallis and King's Valley was a young German named Dave Myers. I said to him one day, 'Dave, farming is pretty slow. What do you say to spending this summer east of the mountains buying horses from the Indians?'
    "In '52 and '53 there was a very heavy immigration coming to Oregon. We figured that we could take some trade goods along and sell to the immigrants and also trade them to the Indians for horses. We gathered our saddle horses and pack horses and started for Portland. We purchased our goods from the Hudson's Bay Company and shipped them up the Columbia River to The Dalles by boat, Dave going with the goods, while I drove the horses across the Cascade Mountains and met him at The Dalles.
    "A friend of mine named Lige Humason was at The Dalles, in charge of a real estate office. White men were not allowed to trade with the Indians without a permit, so I went to Humason to secure some sort of a legal-looking paper to serve in place of a permit. He took a deed, folded it up, put a red seal on it, in the shape of a star, fastened it up with blue ribbons of different widths and made it look very official.
    "I had a suit made of buckskin, the coat and vest fixed up very ornamental and the buckskin trousers being fringed and beaded. My moccasins were also beaded. At The Dalles I hired a squaw to bead my saddle cover. We laid in several bolts of fine English cloth in different colors, red, blue, green and yellow. We also had 300 pounds of the finest beads we could buy, in all colors. The squaw made my saddle cover out of red cloth and did the handsomest job of beading on it I have ever seen.
    "From The Dalles we went to the John Day River. After we had traded for seven head of horses, one of them got away. While chasing it I met an Indian. He told me that I had no right to trade among the Indians. I told him to go to our camp and stay until I returned and I would show him my authority. When I got back to camp the Indian was very sulky. I got the Indian a drink of whiskey and Dave, my partner, cooked a particularly good dinner. After dinner I got out my bogus permit. I handed it to him and I saw he was very much impressed. He said: 'What is this?'  I told him that it was a permit from the governor to trade with the Indians. I told him that I was in constant touch with the governor through the pony express and that the governor knew where I was all the time. I told him I kept the governor informed how many horses I had. I told him the Indians nearest my camp were held responsible for any loss or damage done to my stock. The Indian asked me to read the permit. I put in all the frills I wanted to. The Indian went to his horse, got out his pipe and tobacco. He lit it, took three whiffs and then passed it to me. When the pipe was empty he knocked out the ashes and said: 'What's your name?' I told him Cy Mulkey. He told me that my permit was big medicine—that I could stay and trade with the Indians and he would see that no harm came to me.
    "I told him I wanted two young men to help me take my horses and goods to Butter Creek, in what is now Umatilla County. There was a big camp of Indians there. He picked out two responsible young men and we went to Butter Creek. It took us two days to make the trip. There were about 30 tepees on Butter Creek. I called for the chief, told him what my business was and read him my permit from the governor. I told him that I would hold him responsible for all my goods and horses. Every time I bought a horse I turned it over to the chief.
    "From there I decided to go to Cayuse Springs, at the foot of Blue Mountains, not far from the present city of Pendleton. The night before I left I told the chief I wanted my horses gathered together early in the morning and that I would have to have two of his young men to go with me. The horses and the Indians were there shortly after sunrise.
    "At Cayuse Springs I told the Umatilla Indians the same thing, and it worked equally well. I would brand my horses and turn them over to the chief, who took care of them until I was ready to leave. From there I went to a camp of the Indians on the Walla Walla River. I traveled all summer long, making my imitation permit do duty for a special protection from the government.
    "I finally reached the mouth of the Snake River, near where Spalding's old mission stood. There I met Major Craig. I had a very satisfactory trade with the Nez Perce Indians and, as I was nearly out of trade goods, I decided to go back to where I had left my partner. I went from camp to camp, in each case requiring the Indians to furnish me two or three young men to help me drive my horses and see that I was not molested. I came into camp with 103 head of horses.
    "Near where Pendleton now is, on the Umatilla River, there was a big camp of Indians. A Cayuse chief, named Otterskin, could hardly keep his eyes off my beaded saddle cover. He was willing to give me almost anything I wanted for it. However, I was through with it, so I told him he could have it for nothing. An hour or two later he came back to my camp, bringing an Indian boy with him. He told me: 'This Modoc boy. You can have him.'  He said the Nez Perce and Cayuse Indians used to go down into California, traveling up the Deschutes River by way of Klamath and Tule lakes and thence down Pit River to the Sacramento River. While returning from California, Otterskin said he had killed two buck Indians at Tule Lake and had taken three squaws and a boy prisoners.
    "It would have been a gross discourtesy to have refused to accept the boy, so I took him with me. I called him 'Scarface Charley.'
    "I took him with me to my stock ranch near Spencer's Butte, not far from Eugene City. He stayed with me two years and was very useful to me. One time when I was away from the ranch for a few days he took French leave and returned to his own people.
    "At the time that General Canby was killed by the Modocs, Scarface Charley was killed by the Modocs. He tried to dissuade the Indians from killing General Canby. When they insisted, he took no part in it.
    "When I got back to our camp on John Day River, my partner was there all right, and had bought 40 head of cattle and five head of American horses from the immigrants. At Olney's Creek I used the official-looking document for the last time and got two young Indians to go with me to Barlow's Toll Gate. From there we went on to Foster's and thence to Marysville. We had a delightful summer, sold our stock at a good figure, so you see it was a pleasant and profitable experience."
Oregon Journal, Portland, January 1, 1914, page 8


    "Did you ever hear how Gold Hill was discovered?" said Cy Mulkey. "Its discovery was as much an accident as the locating of the Steamboat mine.
    "Jerome Alexander made his living by gambling at cards. During a time when the cards were running badly he went broke. He had two good saddle horses upon which he secured the loan of a hundred dollars from another gambler named Cavanno [Thomas Chavner]. Both of these men were from Jacksonville. Cavanno started for Portland on a brief trip. During his absence Alexander decided to go out on the range, get his horses and pull out for California before Cavanno returned. Alexander went to George Ish, a rancher nearby and borrowed a saddle horse to go out and find his horses, which were running wild with a band of other horses on Gold Hill mountain range [Blackwell Hill]. Ish had no good saddle horses with the exception of a colt which was not well broken and which was very spirited. Alexander was a good horseman, so he borrowed the colt.
    "After he had located his horses, Alexander had a lot of trouble trying to cut them out from the rest of the band. They would keep looking away and running back. When running the colt at top speed to head off his horses, the colt fell and threw him. Before he could get to his feet his riding horse had run off to join the others. When Alexander had picked himself up, he started off on foot to try to catch his horses. While scrambling over a little ledge to try to cut off his riding horse he noticed a ledge of quartz rock. It looked rich, though he was unfamiliar with gold in the form of quartz, only having seen gold dust. However, he put the piece of the rock in his pocket and continued the chase for his horse. The bridle reins, which were down, finally became entangled and he caught his riding horse, remounted it and drove his own two horses to Ish's ranch. Putting his saddle on one of his own horses, he got ready to go to Jacksonville.
     Just at this time there was a good deal of excitement about the Hicks mine. It was a small but very rich vein. The quartz had been uncovered in a placer mine belonging to Mr. Hicks. As Alexander was leaving, something was said about the Hicks mine. Taking the piece of gold quartz from his pocket he gave it to George Ish, told him just where he had found it and said, for all he knew it might be gold quartz. Alexander pulled out for California with the two horses he had sold to Cavanno.
    "A few days later George Ish took the ore to someone who was familiar with gold quartz and found it was a very rich specimen. Ish at once made up a party of five to go out and hunt for the ledge. They located it at once, for the gold-bearing rock cropped out over all the top of the mountain. They named it Gold Hill, which name it still bears. This was one of the richest mines ever discovered in Southern Oregon, and several million dollars were taken out of Gold Hill."
Oregon Journal, Portland, January 31, 1914, page 4


    "In 1865 I got the 'Montana fever,' said Cyrenius Mulkey, an Oregon pioneer of 1847. "I had three good wagons and 10 yoke of oxen. I wintered my stock in Surprise Valley and in the spring of 1865 I was offered a load of freight from Susanville, in the Honey Lake Valley, to Silver City, Idaho, a distance of about 400 miles. As I was anxious to go, I was glad to get the load of freight as it would more than pay the expenses of the trip. I went from Susanville by way of Deep Hole, to the Humboldt River, traveling up the Humboldt River to Winnemucca, on through Paradise Valley and across the mountains to the Owyhee River.
    "There had been a good deal of excitement about a gold discovery in Idaho basin, and many miners were going from California to Idaho. A company of Chinese was organized to go to the new diggings. There were 60 of them in the company. They had three freight teams to haul their luggage. The Chinamen walked, and each Chinaman carried on a good-sized bamboo pole his personal belongings weighing from 50 to 60 pounds. While camped on the divide between Paradise Valley and the Owyhee River, they were attacked by Indians and all of the Chinamen but one were killed as well as the three white men who had charge of the freight wagons.
    "Two days after the massacre I arrived at their camp. The whole camp was covered with the scattered possessions of the Chinamen, while dead Chinamen lay around in every direction. The three white men were also lying there unburied as well as some dead Indians. I was the first person to visit the camp after the massacre. On account of the danger of Indians and the fact of there being so many bodies to bury, I did not attempt to bury them.
    "In those days a Chinaman was legitimate prey for everyone. It wasn't considered much of a crime to hold up a Chinaman, and as the country was full of road agents, the Chinamen were ingenious enough to invent a plan to conceal their money. Taking a brace and bit they bored a hole about the size of a two-and-a-half-dollar gold piece in the end of their bamboo poles, exchanging all of their gold dust and slugs for two-and-a-half-dollar gold pieces, which were plentiful in those days, they would drop the gold pieces into the hollow bamboo pole and fit a plug in the end of the pole so that it couldn't be noticed. If they were unable to get two-and-a-half-dollar gold pieces they would take large poles and use five-dollar gold pieces. While the Chinamen expected to be robbed, they didn't expect the robbers to discover the hiding place of the money. The one Chinaman who survived the massacre told afterwards how the Indians happened to discover where the money was hidden. In the hand-to-hand fight an Indian grabbed one of the bamboo poles and hit a Chinaman over the head with it. This knocked the plug out of the pole and scattered gold pieces in every direction. After the fight was over the Indians split every pole there and found several thousand dollars in gold."
Oregon Journal, Portland, February 1, 1914, page 8


    "The discovery of Steamboat mine, on the head of Williams Creek, in Josephine county, Oregon, was like the discovery of many other rich mines, an accident," said Cy Mulkey. "It was discovered the same year Gold Hill was found; that is, in the fall of 1859.
    "A party of prospectors had found some good placer ground on a small gulch which would pay about $8 a day to a man. After taking out considerable dust they went to Jacksonville late in the fall to lay in their supplies for the winter. While they were at Jacksonville, one of the men got hold of  a piece of rich quartz rock that had come out of the Hicks mine. He was a great joker. He carried this piece of rock around in his pocket, showing it to different miners and saying that where this piece of rock came from there was enough gold to make them all rich, but he wouldn't tell where he got it. The miners believed that he had struck a very rich ledge somewhere.
    "After getting their supplies and spending a few days in Jacksonville they started back for their placer diggings. They stopped overnight at a roadhouse on the Applegate River. The professional joker got out his piece of rich quartz and told his usual story about having all the gold they wanted, but refusing to tell the location of the ledge. When they started next morning six miners who had happened to be staying overnight at the roadhouse followed them. The professional joker with the rich ore was tickled nearly to death to think he had strung these men. The followers were trying to hang back out of sight so that the miners wouldn't know they were being followed. When about a mile from the miners' placer claims they came to a steep mountain. There was a low pass to one side, where the placer miners went through with their supplies, but the six men who were following them decided to take a shortcut over the mountain and catch them on the other side. Near the summit of the mountain and about a half a mile from the placer camp the men who were following the placer miners came upon a quartz ledge. Breaking a piece of the rock off, they found it was so full of wire gold that the gold would hold the rock together. The pocket was about 400 feet long, 30 feet wide on top and was about 30 feet deep in places.
    "This was the famous Steamboat mine. Over $500,000 was taken out of this pocket. When this pocket was exhausted, apparently all the gold in the district was gone, for hundreds of men have spent thousands of dollars hunting for gold there since but have never been able to find any."
Oregon Journal, Portland, February 2, 1914, page 4


    "In the summer of 1859 the cattle business became very dull in Oregon," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg, "and so I concluded to drive my cattle to California. I drove them to the Applegate River that fall, where I wintered. Next spring I went on to California. The price of cattle was so low I decided to hold mine until the next year. After holding them for two years I closed them out at $5 a head.
    "Instead of coming out well heeled, as I expected, I came out practically broke. I had barely money enough left to fit up a four-horse team suitable for the freighting business. That fall I went to Virginia City. I spent all of the following winter freighting lumber from Washoe Valley to Gold Hill or Virginia City. The roads were so bad I could only haul 1000 feet at a load, and it took me two days to make the trip. However, I got $90 a thousand, and so I made good money. Toward the last, I had to pay 5 cents a pound for hay and grain for my four horses. I discovered that in spite of the high price I was getting for freight, the horses were eating their heads off, and I was simply working to buy feed for them, saving nothing for myself.
    "I left on April 10 of the following spring for Montana, taking 10 head of horses and 30 head of cattle. From Washoe I went to Honey Lake and from there to the Humboldt country in Nevada. About half way from Honey Lake to the Humboldt River, I camped at Deep Hole Springs. From these springs it was 32 miles to Smoke Creek and 28 miles to Rabbit Springs in the opposite direction. I did not want to stop at the springs, as it was considered a bad place to camp, but as it was a case of necessity I camped there overnight.
    "The next morning when I was ready to start, I discovered that more than half of my cattle were unable to travel. They had eaten wild parsnips and were poisoned. I bled them freely, which saved their lives but made them so weak they were unable to travel. This was in the Piute Indian country, and the Piutes were very hostile. They had killed the station keeper at the springs a little while before and had burned the house.
    "Two young men, brothers named Partridge, had come from the Honey Lake Valley just before I arrived and relocated the place. It was a splendid place for a station, as there was no feed or water for 30 miles in either direction. On the other hand, you were liable to be killed by the Indians at any time. These two young men, sizing the situation up, were pretty anxious to get out; so they offered me the place for a very reasonable price and I bought them out. I at once got busy and built a house. I built it in a rather peculiar shape to give me protection against the Indians. It was a good-sized house with two outside doors.
    "As soon as I had built the house, I cut the wild grass and made bricks 20 inches long by 12 inches wide. With this I built a wall all around the house. The wall came up as high as the roof, and at regular intervals I left portholes through which I could shoot. I made my doors very heavy and fixed them so they could be barred. I then made strong plugs to fit the portholes. I figured I was pretty well protected against the Indians.
    "I built a corral for stock and made a division in it in which to stack hay. Lumber was a luxury at $300 per thousand, so I built this corral of rock. The corral could be guarded from the house, as I made the corral gate next to the house and only 20 steps away. I cleared away every little bush and cut the grass so that an Indian could not hide within a distance of 200 yards. In those days the muzzle-loading guns could only carry that distance, so I was out of gun range.
    "All that summer there was constant travel. I usually had from 10 to 50 wagons camped at the springs from spring until November. From November on until next April, there was little or no travel. During the summer I hired some men and cut 1000 tons of hay. For this I got from 2 to 5 cents a pound. I was taking a big chance of being killed, but I made money fast and lots of it, and most men will risk their lives and sell their time and health and comfort for money."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 8, 1914, page 6


    "The second year I was at Deep Hole Springs," said Cy Mulkey, "I found a meadow 30 miles from Deep Hole and 12 miles from the main road. There was a small spring near by, and as I had more demand for hay than I could furnish, I concluded to locate this meadow and build another station. I called it the Granite Creek station.
    "As soon as I got through haying at Deep Hole, I took my men and outfit to the new meadow to put up hay there, locating my men in the center of the tract, where we could watch for the approach of Indians. I had five men and I insisted that they always go well armed. In the center of the meadow we dug a pit 14 feet square and 8 feet deep. We banked the dirt around the pit's mouth for additional protection, and in one corner we sunk a well and struck water. I now felt that the men were perfectly safe from attack. They couldn't be starved out and they had plenty of water.
    "When I had the Granite Creek camp fixed up in good shape I went back to Deep Hole. I was very anxious to make a peace treaty with the Indians, and I told the men under no circumstances to shoot any Indians unless attacked. In other words, I didn't want my men to be the aggressors. A few days after I left, one of my men was out near the edge of the meadow shooting jackrabbits. Suddenly he came face to face with an Indian. Both stopped, but neither raised his gun. The Indian had a jackrabbit, which he gave to my man. After some talk, the redskin went with my man into camp. Next day the Indian came back, bringing two more Indians with him. My haying crew fixed them up a dinner, much to their pleasure. The third day seven Indians came, all but one of them having bows and arrows. The men did not know what to do. They didn't like the looks of things very well, so one of the number waited until after dark and came to Deep Hole station to tell me about the matter.
    "I took a man from my place and all three of us rode back to the Granite Creek station. The grass on one side of the meadow was high enough to hide our horses and we tied them out of sight. I had an idea the Indians would come in force that day, so I had the regular crew of five men mow the grass near the pit while I and the man I had brought with me stayed hidden in the pit. About 8 o'clock in the morning the Indians began coming in sight in small parties, four or five in a bunch. There were 27 of them, most of them being armed with bows and arrows, though a few of them had guns.
    "When they were about 100 yards from the pit and were walking slowly, I and the extra man jumped out of the pit and I walked right up to the Indians. I could see that they were dumbfounded. They didn't know how many extra men were in the pit. They knew that only five men had been there the night before, and yet here were two extra men. How many more there were the Indians had no means of knowing. Walking up to the chief, I took his gun. Going down the line, I secured the bows and arrows of the others. The chief was afraid to make any protest, for he figured that I would not do a thing of this kind unless we had reinforcements in the pit.
    "I had the man with me take the bows and arrows and throw them in the pit. I told the Indians to remain where they were, saying to the chief: 'Have your men stay where they are, and my men will not harm them. You and I will go to one side and have a talk.' He wanted two of his men to come with him. I consented to this and I and my man went about half way to the pit where we sat down and held a council. I told the chief that I had come into the country to stay; that I meant no harm to the Indians, and that I would prefer to live peaceably with them. He said he was willing to live at peace with the white men, but every time a white man saw an Indian, he shot him.
    "I told the chief to gather together all of his people and we would decide on a time to hold a council--I would have as many freighters and other white men as possible meet them and we would talk the matter over. I told him the Indians had stolen seven of my horses, which they must return. I also told him that if he came to my station at Deep Hole, I would be responsible for the safety of himself and the Indians. He promised to send some runners into the mountains and bring down all of his people, including the women and children, and we would hold a big peace talk. I put the guns and the bows and arrows which I had taken from the Indians in my wagon and had my haying crew of five ride in the wagon. The other man and myself rode on horseback, just behind the wagon, while the Indians followed us.
    "About 100 yards from Granite Creek I had the Indians stop while I sent the men in the wagon on to the house with the guns and bows and arrows. I then invited the chief with two of his men to come to the house. I gave them flour, bacon, sugar and tea and told them to camp near the water. I told them I was not going to watch them, and that if they wanted to stay they could do so. They stayed and next morning we rode in to my Deep Hole station for a peace council."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 9, 1914, page 8


    "I can see how an Indian feels about treaties with the white race," said Cy Mulkey, an Oregon pioneer of 1845, now living at Roseburg. "The white man will keep the treaty and not break his word as long as there is money in it for him. But the minute it suits the white man's convenience, or the moment it is profitable to break the treaty, he will do so. But the Indians have a high sense of honor. They also have the characteristic of wanting to avenge an insult, to get even on the man who has wronged them. They are in tribes and have the tribal instinct.
    "If a Blackfoot kills one of another tribe, they kill a Blackfoot. It a Klickitat steals a horse, going outside his tribe, those Indians will steal a horse from a member of the Klickitat tribe. If a white man kills an Indian, the Indians will kill a white man, even though the one they kill had nothing to do the other white man's crime.
    "I brought the chief of the Piutes with several of his fellows to my camp at Granite Creek in early days for a peace talk. I suggested to him that he and I would go on to my Deep Hole station to have a talk with the freighters and travelers who were there. He, with two of his underchiefs, rode with me, while the other Indians stayed at Granite Creek station. We arrived at Deep Hole station at noon. There were nearly 50 wagons camped at the station and at least 75 white men were in camp. As we passed near the freighters they saw me coming with the three Indians, and instantly they all caught up their guns, saying, 'There's some Indians; kill them.'
    "I started my horse on a run and yelled to the Indians to come quick. We rode up to my door, when I told the Indians to hustle into the house, the white men coming on a run. I jumped off, stood in the doorway and with my gun ready to shoot, I told the freighters to stop. They told me that it wouldn't do any good, that the Indians had killed some of their men, and they were going to kill these Indians. I told them if they would wait a few minutes we could discuss the killing later. I informed them of the arrangement I had made with the Indians and told them if they were not satisfied all I asked was to permit me to keep my promise, take the Indians back to where I got them, and hostilities could be renewed. But I strongly urged the freighters to make a peace treaty, as the Indians were willing to have hostilities cease. I also told the freighters that if these three Indians were killed, the tribe would at once get together and kill every freighter they caught on the road, as well as destroy all of my own property.
    "The freighters finally drew off and held a meeting, at last coming back with the statement that they would ratify the agreement I made with the Indians. After I had given the three redskins their dinner, I asked the chief how many days before he would bring back my horses. He held up three fingers and bent down the first finger half way. Sure enough, three and a half days later the Indians came back bringing my stolen horses with them. I turned the horses into the corral and gave each of the three Indians a sack of flour, a side of bacon, 10 pounds of sugar, two pounds of tea, a plug of tobacco and a handful of matches. I also made out an order, which I gave to the chief, instructing my foreman at Granite Creek to return their arms to the Indians.
    "I lived at Deep Hole two years after this and never had any trouble of any kind with the Piutes. I hired them at haying time, and they made excellent hands. No matter how far my cattle or horses strayed away, the chief had his young men go out, look them up and bring them back without any cost to me.
    "These Indians were renegades, and the white men said they were without honor or decency, but I did not find it so. Their chief was Smoke Creek Sam. I have never known of a body of Indians more uniformly brave than these. Prior to the treaty, 13 Indians attacked 11 white men, killing one of them and wounding two of the others.
    "Two years later I sold out and moved away. The white men began aggression against the Indians and the latter became dissatisfied. They came into Deep Hole and asked for me. They could get no satisfaction about when I would return, and finally, after a particularly aggravating case of aggression on the part of the white men, the Indians went on the war path, killing the station keepers at Deep Hole and Granite Creek and burning all the road houses for 250 miles."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 10, 1914, page 8


    "In 1865 I was freighting between the Susanville country and Silver City," said Cy Mulkey, miner, stockman, Indian fighter, ex-sheriff and pioneer Oregonian. "After I had delivered my freight at Silver City I went to Boise City, where I found profitable work in freighting into the Boise basin mines. Just as I was preparing to continue my trip to Montana, I learned that the government wanted two companies of soldiers moved from Boise barracks to Fort Hall at the mouth of Ross Fork on Snake River.
    "As this was on my way to Montana, I took the contract of freighting their supplies and material. I went from Boise by way of Camas Prairie and Lost River to the Snake River. I made my last camp before reaching Fort Hall at Gibson's ferry on Snake River, 16 miles from where I was to deliver my freight. After taking care of my stock and getting my fire built, it was nearly dusk. I thought I would look around before dark.
    "Near my camp I found two men hanging on a tree just a few steps back from the road. They looked rather ghastly with their faces contorted and their eyes bulging out, swaying in the twilight. I found a card pinned to each of them on which was written 'Hung for passing bogus gold dust.'
    "From Fort Hall I went up Snake River to Eagle Point, where I got a load of grain to haul for the Wells Fargo stage company to Deer Lodge, Mont. Just before I reached Deer Lodge a rich gold strike was made 40 miles from there on Reynolds Creek, a branch of the Hell Gate River. Next spring I located a road house and stock ranch on Hell Gate River, where the trail turned off for the new mining camp on Reynolds Creek. I put in some hard work building a toll road from my place into the mines.
    "For the next three months my place was a regular mint. I got $3 for a meal, 50 cents for a drink of whiskey, and $1 toll for each man passing over the road. My toll alone averaged over $100 a day. I got good prices for hay, so that my stock ranch brought in over $600 a month. Miners who came with their pack horses or on horseback to the mines would bring their horses to my ranch to be pastured, as there was no feed for stock in the mines. Though I built this road on the Hell Gate River 48 years ago, it is still known as Mulkey's road."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 11, 1914, page 4


    "After the mines on Reynolds Creek, a branch of Hell Gate River in Montana, had played out," said Cyrenius Mulkey, who came to Oregon 67 years ago, "I went prospecting in the Salmon River country in Idaho. This was in 1866. Late in August we discovered some rich ground. I named the camp Leesburg. I had a man named Mitchell work my claim while I went out 200 miles distant to get our winter's grub. During the 23 days I was away Mitchell took out $574 in gold dust. Before winter closed in I took out $4500 in dust from this claim.
    "Law and order had not yet come to Montana and Idaho in those days. At Bannock miners were making big cleanups, and the road agents were reaping a harvest. The road agents got so bold on account of the lack of organization of the miners they passed the word around that any man held up who had less that a hundred dollars on him would be killed. The camps at this time were practically run by the lawless element. Often times a bunch of roughs would come into town, ride into a saloon, step from the saddle to the bar and dance a jig on the bar, their big spurs scratching the polished surface of the bar wherever they stepped. Pulling his six-shooter, one of the desperadoes would begin shooting out the lights or shooting at the feet of some tenderfoot to make him dance, at the same time announcing, 'I am a bad man from Bitter Root' or a bad man from Bear Paw Mountain or a bad man from Stinking Water, or wherever he happened to be from. After running the saloon all night long they would fall into a drunken stupor and probably not get around until late next day. It seemed to be a point of honor with them, in cases of this kind, to pay for the damage they had done. I have known them to pay as high as $800 for broken mirrors, broken lamps and broken furniture.
    "Things became so intolerable that the miners at Bannock City, Alder Gulch, Deer Lodge and Missoula quietly organized. Without letting their object be known they decided to hang a few of the worst men in each of these camps. They acted quietly and simultaneously. Like a bolt from the blue came their action. In each of the camps mentioned their committees on the same day arrested, tried and hung some of the most desperate of the bad men. In all they hung 27 men the first day.
    "Two years previously civil law had been introduced, but the tough element had secured control of the machinery of the civil law and had used it to protect their own men. In the cleanup the vigilance committee hung one sheriff, five deputy sheriffs and three judges, well-known desperadoes who had been put in office by their fellows. In addition to hanging 27 men, the committee banished 54, telling them that if they were ever seen in that territory the would be killed. This was in December, and the nearest point to which they could go was Salt Lake City, about 800 miles distant. The vigilance committee gave them three days to secure the outfit and be on the road. They pretty effectually settled government by thug law, though there were quite a few hangings for the next few years when the vigilance committee decided the community would be better without the presence of some obnoxious individuals."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 12, 1914, page 16


    "From Montana I went with Colonel Whipple and his party to Los Angeles," said Cyrenius Mulkey, one of the early pioneers of Oregon. "We arrived in Los Angeles December 23, 1867. There had been plenty of rain and the grass was a foot high. The weather was as warm as in summer. There were less than 100 voters in Los Angeles County then, as the population consisted almost entirely of Mexicans. The country was divided up into large tracts, or grants as they call them. You could buy land at from 25 cents to $10 an acre, and $10 land lay close to Los Angeles.
    "I bought 160 acres adjoining the city and decided to spend the rest of my days there. I put up a good house and fenced it and started a stock farm. The next year there was a severe drought. Just enough rain fell to start the vegetation. The following spring there was no feed in the country whatever, and the stock was dying everywhere from starvation. You could buy good horses for $2.50 a head, cattle for $3 and sheep for 25 cents. There was no way to get stock out of the country, nor any way to get feed.
    "This was too much for me, so I abandoned my intention of making Los Angeles my home and started back to Montana. I went by the western route, going through the Owens River country in Inyo County. There had been a rich gold strike in the section called Sierra Gorda, on the eastern side of the Owens River Valley. I had the misfortune to cripple one of my most valuable horses, and as I didn't want to abandon it, I stopped for awhile at a little town called Lone Pine. While stopping there and looking around, I discovered that the livery business would be rather profitable, so I bought a livery stable and also a little ranch adjoining the town.
    "Whenever a new mining camp was discovered, the rough characters from all the other mining camps would come there; so we soon had more than our share of desperadoes and bad men. As there were no railroad or telegraph lines within many hundred miles, a new mining camp was a pretty safe place for a desperado. Things got so bad that no one would take the office of sheriff. Those who tried it were unable to handle the rough cases, and they soon resigned. Without any solicitation on my part the citizens elected me sheriff. I knew that I would have to do something spectacular to enforce my authority or else I would have to quit.
    "Shortly after I was elected, I had to arrest one of the biggest bullies and desperadoes in the camp. Instead of pulling my gun and having a gun fight, I walked right up to him, which seemed to paralyze the man with astonishment. I grabbed his gun out of his hand and beat him over the head with it until I had almost killed him. That made the rougher element doubtful as to whether they could run me. At any rate, they gave me the benefit of the doubt and I had mighty good luck after that in making arrests. I made it a matter of pride to serve every warrant placed in my hands during the time I served as sheriff of Inyo County. I was reelected after my first term was up, and during my two terms only failed to serve two warrants."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 13, 1914, page 6


    "Did I ever tell you about the time I started a boarding house in one of the new mining camps?" asked Cy Mulkey. "A bunch of hard characters fixed it up to run me out and I had five fights before noon of the first day. Toward the last I got to feeling rather ugly, and I laid them out with anything that came handy. I used to have some exciting times when I was sheriff of Inyo County, California.
    "One of the most difficult cases I had to handle was when a Mexican desperado committed a murder in Sierra Gorda and fled to Kern Island. All of the population of Kern Island were Mexicans, and I knew they would assist him. I knew that if I went there openly, I would not only fail to get my man, but I would be ambushed or assassinated. No one on Kern Island knew me, and I knew no one there. I went alone and spent three days on the island.
    "The Mexicans lived in little villages, of which there were seven or eight. My plan was to pretend that I was crazy, and by wandering over the island, I hoped to run across the man I wanted. I figured that the people, thinking I was insane, would pay little attention to me. I carried two six-shooters, one tied to the horn of my saddle in plain sight, while the other, a six-inch Colt's with a cut-off barrel, I carried in my trousers pocket where it wouldn't be noticed.
    "Going into a saloon in the first little village I came to, I walked around aimlessly, counting my fingers and acting foolish. I took out my purse, in which I had only three or four dollars, and motioned everybody to come up and take a drink. I wandered from village to village, sometimes letting the fence down within a few feet of a gate or bars and turning my horse into the field. I went into farm houses, ate my dinner or stayed all night and never asked for any bill, leaving 50 cents or a dollar and acting like a deaf-mute. The Mexicans thought I was afflicted of God and they never resented my actions.
    "On the evening of the third day I traveled until quite late. Seeing a pretty good-sized house built of willow, I went in. It so happened that the people were young; they had been married only a short time, and they had no children. A bed was made for me on the floor. My peculiar actions kept the man and woman interested, and they evidently passed the word among their friends. The moon was full, the light being almost as bright as day. One after another, the people began gathering until I should think there must have been 20 grouped just outside the door. I knew they were holding a council about me.
    "While I couldn't speak much Spanish, I could understand considerable. Most of them said, 'He is harmless,' 'He is just crazy.' The young woman of the house told them of my actions and insisted I was crazy. A young Mexican half-breed, however, said that I might just be pretending to be crazy, and he said the safest way was to kill me. But the woman, when it came time to take a vote, put up such a strong plea for me that the majority of them voted me harmless and it was decided to let me live. A young half-breed then said that he himself would watch his chance to kill me. I heard him and another Mexican planning to go out on the road toward Tahune, where they would lie in the brush and assassinate me as I came along next morning.
    "But instead of starting for Tahune, I took the opposite direction toward a little village called Havilah. I had traveled Kern Island thoroughly and had not found the Mexican desperado, so I had to abandon the attempt of serving my warrant."
Oregon Journal, Portland, April 14, 1914, page 6


        Albany, Or., April 13.--To the Editor of The Journal--I have been reading with unusual interest "Cy" Mulkey's experiences as related by your splendid correspondent, Fred Lockley. That given in last Saturday night's Journal especially interested me, telling of his hauling supplies for soldiers from Fort Boise to Fort Hall. I was there in 1865, with a detachment of Company B, First Oregon Infantry, as I will relate. One of my favorite "boys" was William J. Mulkey of Monmouth, Polk County, and perhaps related to "Cy." Our company was mustered into service at Salem December 26, 1864. We spent the winter at Fort Hoskins, in Kings Valley, Benton County, and on April 10, 1865, went to Corvallis and thence by steamboat to Fort Vancouver, thence immediately to Fort Dalles. On May 6, 1865, we left Fort Dalles to accompany a government supply train of 26 wagons, six to eight mule teams each.
    We reached Fort Boise June 13 following. Our company was then broken up into detachments, one under Lieutenant J. W. Cullen, going to Camp Reed, Goose Lake country, and Captain Ephraim Palmer and myself as first lieutenant were ordered to take 40 of our men and proceed to Camas Prairie, 100 miles distant. We left the fort June 29, 1865.
    I kept a daily record, beginning on the above date and ending June 29, 1866,  when we again reached Fort Boise.
    We made our camp on Soldier Creek, on Camas Prairie, so called, as a detachment of Oregon cavalry, as I understand, was stationed there for a time. On this prairie began the Bannock War of 1878.
    My journal is now in the hands of George H. Himes, at the Oregon Historical [Society] rooms in Portland, or I could give exact dates of events following.
    About the middle of July I was ordered to Gibson's ferry, on Snake River, 150 miles distant, and above Fort Hall about 12 miles. We took our supplies on pack animal, ourselves marching; as we did all the way from The Dalles to Fort Boise and to Camas Prairie, also marching to Lost River. There we learned there was a desert to cross before reaching Snake River, so I thought best to take our pack animals and with a few of my "boys" ride across. From Lost River to Black Butte was 10 miles, and a spring was our last chance for water for 30 miles, so we filled our canteens at the butte.
    Ten miles out we met some men driving oxen loose through to water; and some miles farther on came across the wagons, turned out of the road. In one was a mother, a Mrs. Lucas, and her newborn infant, a son. The party was nearly famished for want of water, so we gladly emptied our canteens, knowing we could reach water before dark. We camped at the "Big Springs" all night. "Shoshone" I think they are now called, and next day reached Gibson's ferry, 12 miles above, where we spent one night. We met lots of immigrants crossing.
    Returning to Lost River, we took the back track for Camas Prairie, but about halfway met a team and wagon loaded with supplies for us, and bearing orders to return to Gibson's ferry and make camp at the mouth of Blackfoot, a short distance above the ferry, which we did, remaining until in September, assisting the immigrants all we could in the way of advice as to camping places, etc.
    In September we received orders to move camp to Fort Hall and got to cutting hay, as Captain Palmer was coming up with the balance of our detachment of 40 men and with teams, bringing their baggage and supplies, probably Cy Mulkey's for the most part. I receipted for the supplies as A.A.Q.M and A.C.S. October 6, 1865, at Camp Lander. I.T., the name given to the abandoned stage station we occupied, built from the adobes of the deserted Old Fort Hall, two miles away. Here we spent the winter. Before winter weather set in a wagon and several yoke of oxen, with Ira F. Powers as driver, came up from Fort Boise with supplies. Returning to Boise, he sold out, went to Portland and started a second-hand furniture store. This developed into the famous Powers Furniture Company. Mr. Powers was a noble man and did much to uplift Portland.
                CYRUS H. WALKER
"Letters from the People," Oregon Journal, Portland, April 15, 1914, page 6


    "When I was 21 years old I took a place near Spencer's Butte, in Lane County," said Cy Mulkey of Roseburg. "Two years later the Rogue River, Klamath, Modoc Walla Walla Cayuse, Snake and Shoshone Indians rose. The outbreak was carefully planned and came as a complete surprise to the settlers. The Indians killed many settlers, stole their stock and burned their houses, grain and haystacks.
    "When the news of the outbreak reached us, Joseph Bailey and myself went to Eugene and called for volunteers. We secured 93 men. Joseph Bailey was elected captain and I was elected lieutenant. In those days the volunteers didn't wait to be measured by government officers or to have transportation, ammunition and supplies furnished. Each man got his saddle horse, rifle, a pair of blankets and ammunition and we started south, taking our chances on securing food from the settlers along the way. All the way down through the Cow Creek Canyon, we found that houses, barns, and haystacks had been burned. Lots of stock had been killed. At Wagner's place we found that the settlers had built a fort.
    "Four and a half days after starting we were at Wolf Creek, about 160 [sic] miles south of Eugene. There we found Captain Smith of the regular army, camped with about 150 of his men, as well as two companies of volunteers from Southern Oregon. Ours was Company A. Altogether there were about 400 men in camp. A day or two before we arrived the scouts had located a body of 500 Indians camped on the mountain range between Rogue River and Cow Creek, about 20 miles distant.
    "Major Bruce took command of the troops, and, calling all of the officers together, we held a council. We decided, on account of the roughness of the country, to wait until dark and make a forced march on foot, reaching the Indian camp by daybreak. After a hard all-night trip we reached the Indian camp at 8 o'clock next morning, but found it deserted.
    "Indians during war time never leave camp in a body. They scatter out, leaving as many trails as possible to confuse the enemy. Instead of holding the main body together and having a few scouts locate the Indians, the mistake was made of becoming disorganized into a score of groups, each of which was following a trail, hoping to locate the Indians.
    "While a few of us were traveling up a sharp ridge between two deep canyons, we found the Indian trail where they had all come together. Looking across the canyon to the left, we saw some Indians on the next ridge. As a crow flies, the ridge was not over three-quarters of a mile away, but by the way we had to travel it took us an hour's hard work to reach there. The word was passed back that the Indians had been located and we started to hotfoot to reach their camp before they could get away. As we neared their camp about 40 young bucks came out and danced a war dance, making threatening gestures. As we advanced they retreated slowly. They finally disappeared in heavy brush over a little sugarloaf mound. Our volunteers pressed forward, hoping to overtake them.
    "When we got to where we last saw the Indians there was a fusillade. Two of the men of my company fell badly wounded. One of them, John Gillespie, died in a few minutes. Immediately after the firing most of our force arrived. They were badly disorganized. Here and there you would see an officer with a few men. It was a case of everybody for himself. The 40 young bucks had led us into an ambush, where, hidden in the timber, between 400 and 500 Indians were picking us off as fast as they could fire.
    "This engagement, the battle of Hungry Hill, as it was called, was one of the most unfortunate affairs I have ever seen. We had 400 disorganized men scattered through the woods, with the Indians apparently on all sides.
   "I took the hill on the Rogue River side and came to a creek about 250 yards below the Indian stronghold. I crawled along the creek through the brush until within 150 yards of the Indians. Sally Lane was in command of the Indians. She was up on the mountainside about 600 yards out of the range of our muzzle-loading rifles. She was on horseback and she had a full view of both Indians and volunteers. She was the daughter of Chief Joseph Lane, with whom General Joseph Lane had made the treaty. I never saw anyone, except her father, with a more powerful voice than Sally Lane. Though I was 600 yards away, I could hear every command she gave. She was tall and muscular, a good general, in fact a regular Amazon.
    "I crept up until I came across two horses with long tie-ropes. Catching their ropes, I moved slowly, leading the horses. As soon as I had gotten over the brow of the hill and got out of sight of the Indians, I mounted one and, leading the other, rode to where I had seen our dead and wounded. By this time there were more than thirty men there, either dead or wounded. Just as I got there, Captain Bailey came out of the brush with eighteen of our men. I told him what I had seen. He proposed that we go below the Indians on the Cow Creek side, follow up the creek and get to them from that side.
    "We worked our way to within easy gunshot of the Indians, when they discovered us and opened fire, wounding three of our men. Picking up our wounded men, we retreated to where the other wounded were. Dusk was coming on, so we retreated into a steep canyon where we could get away.
    "Just as we were about to leave, some of our men came in from the battlefield and told Captain Smith that three of the men in his company had been killed and were lying where the Indians could scalp them. Captain Smith detailed a corporal and six men to bring in the bodies. As they began to carry the dead troopers away, the Indians fired, wounding two of the party. The four other soldiers picked up the two wounded men and returned. Captain Smith then detailed twelve men to get the bodies. The Indians allowed them to reach the dead men and then the redskins fired, killing one of the rescue party and wounding three others. Captain Smith decided to make no further effort to bring in the bodies.
    "In addition to the three dead regulars, we left four volunteers on the battle ground. We went into camp that night with 23 dead and more than 40 wounded. Next morning at daylight the Indians attacked us, but this time we had the advantage. We were in the brush and the Indians were doing the moving about. We killed quite a few of them. They gave up the attempt to dislodge us at noon. We buried our dead and made litters to carry our wounded out to Wolf Creek. We buried 27 men before starting from camp. Five of our wounded died after we reached Wolf Creek. Eight days later Captain Bailey and I returned and found the seven dead men we were compelled to abandon. We buried them all in one grave."
Oregon Journal, Portland, May 5, 1914, page 6






Last revised November 16, 2023