I have found a good country and more business than I can manage alone; come and help me. Better leave your family until you can see for yourself. You may not like it, though I do. Money is plenty, everything new, and prices keyed up to old “forty-nine” times.

“Eureka.” Come; I am camping in four feet of snow, and cooking meals in a frying-pan, and charging a dollar; selling “slap jacks” two bits each; oats and barley at twelve cents, and hay at ten cents per pound, and other things at same kind of prices; can’t supply the demand. Go to William Booth, San Francisco, and tell him to ship you and the children with the goods, to Walla-Walla, Washington Territory, via Portland, Oregon, care Wells, Fargo & Co.’s Express.

These two letters are copied here, to carry the reader and the writer over a period of twelve years, leaving behind whatever may have transpired of interest to the work now in hand, to be taken up on some other page, in proper connection with kindred subjects of later date.

Lee’s Encampment is located near the summit of the Blue Mountains in Oregon, on the great highway leading from the Columbia river to the rich gold fields of Idaho and Eastern Oregon. It is fifty miles south of Walla-Walla, and is also one of the out-boundaries of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, occupied by the Walla-Walla, Cayuse and Umatilla Indians.

The roads leading out from the several starting-points on the Columbia river, to the mines above-mentioned, converge on the Reservation, and, climbing the mountain’s brow, on the old “Emigrant trail,” cross over to Grand Round valley.

During the spring of 1863, the great tide of miners that flowed inland, to reach the new gold fields, necessarily passed through the Reservation, and thence via Lee’s Encampment. This circumstance of location gave abundant opportunity for observation by the writer. Of those who sought fortunes in the mines, I might write many chapters descriptive of the motley crowds of every shade of color and of character, forming episodes and thrilling adventures. But my purpose in this work would not be subserved by doing so, except such as have bearing on the subject-matter under consideration.

Of the thousands who landed at Umatilla City and Walla-Walla, en route to the “upper country,” few brought means of transportation overland. There were no stages, no railroads; and what though Haley & Ish, Stephen Taylor, and many others, advertised “saddle trains to leave for the mines every day of the week, at reasonable rates,” which were, say, sixty dollars, on ponies that cost perhaps forty dollars; yet there were hundreds that could not get tickets even at those rates. The few who engaged reserved seats were started off on saddle-horses of various grades, under the charge of a “conductor,” whose principal duty was, not to collect fares, but to herd the kitchen mules,—every train had with it one or more animals on whose back the supplies and blankets were carried,—and indicate the camping places by pulling the ropes that loosed the aforesaid kitchens and blankets, when, like other trains, at the pull of the rope, the whole would stop, and not be startled into unnecessary haste by “twenty minutes for dinner” sounded in their ears. One or more nights the camp would be on the Reservation, thus bringing travellers and Indians in contact.

I have said that many could not get places, even on the backs of mules, or Cayuse ponies. Such were compelled to take “Walkers’ line,” go on foot and carry blankets and “grub” on their backs. The second night out would find them also on the Reservation, and those who had the wherewith, purchased horses of the Indians; some, perhaps, without consulting the owners. Not stealing them! No. A white man would not do so mean a thing; but ropes are suspicious things when found in the pack of one of “Walker’s” passengers, and if a pony was fool enough to run his head into a noose, the handiest way to get clear of him was to exchange with some other man of similar misfortune, and then it was not stealing in the eyes of honest white men.

If the Indian missed his property, and, hunting along the line, found him under a white man, you might suppose he could recover his horse. Not so, my lord! Not so. The white man had proof that he had bought him of some other man, may be an Indian. Such was sometimes the case, for I do not believe that all men are honest, white or red; and these red men were not behind the white in sharp practice; and it is safe to say, that those of whom I am writing now were peers of those who sought to outwit, them.

The horses of saddle trains would sometimes “stray away,”—often those of freighters,—and, since time was money, and strangers might not understand the “range,” the Indians were employed to hunt for the straying animals, and paid liberally if they succeeded; and thus it made the stock of other trains restless, and often they would run away—and so the business increased, and the Indians grew wealthier, notwithstanding their own sometimes followed off a rope in the hands of white men.

The road, along which this stream of miners poured, left the valley of Umatilla on the Reservation, leading up the mountains. Near the foot of the hill, but with a deep ravine or gulch intervening, and on another hill,—part really of the valley, though sloping toward the former,—was The “Trading Post,”—Indian’s sutler store. ’Twas here that saddle trains and “Walker’s line,” halted for the night, or “to noon” and rest, after travelling a fourteen-mile “stretch.”

The “Walker” passengers were already worn out, with heavy packs of picks and pans, bottles and blankets. The situation of the post, with reference to the mountain, was to an observer like standing on the sloping roof of one house and measuring the “pitch” of the one adjoining, making it seem much steeper than it really is. So with this mountain. True, it required a broad upward sweep of vision to take in the height. On the first bench, one mile above, the trains and men seemed to be transformed into dogs and boys. On the second bench, two miles up, they looked still smaller. On the third, three miles up, they very closely resembled Punch and Judy driving a team of poodles. The Indians found here a market for their horses, and sometimes did a livery business, in Indian style.

A stalwart son of Erin, standing against the wall of the store to “rest his pack,” after looking at the trail leading up the mountain, said to the merchant doing business there, “I say, misther, is it up that hill we go?” Hearing an affirmative answer, he looked again at each bench, his brow growing darker the higher his eye went; at length he gave vent to his estimate of the undertaking by saying, “By the howly St. Patrick, if me own mother was here in the shape of a mule, I’d ride her up that hill, sure! I say, Misther Injun, wouldn’t you sell us a bit of a pony for to carry our blankets an’ things over the mountain with?”

The Indian had been in business long enough to understand that, and replied, “Now-wit-ka mi-ka pot-luetch. Chic-a, mon, ni-ka is-cum, cu-i-tan!”—“Och! Mister Injun, don’t be makin’ fun of a fellow, now, will ye? It’s very sore me feet is, a-carrying me pick and pan and cooking-traps. Why don’t you talk like a dacent American gentleman?”—“Wake-ic-ta-cum-tux,” said Tip-tip-a-noor, the Indian. “Don’t be playin’ your dirty tongue on me now, or I’ll spoil your beautiful face so I will.”

Drawing his arms out of the straps that had kept the pack in position on his shoulders, and lowering it “aisy,” to save the bottle, he began to make demonstrations of hostile character, when Mr. Flippin, the post-trader, explained that Tip-tip-a-noos had replied to his first request, “Yes, you show the money, and I will furnish the horse;” and he had replied to the second, “I don’t understand you.”—“And is that all he says? Shure, he is a nice man, so he is. Shan’t I swaten his mouth wid a dhrop from me bottle?”—“No,” says Flip., “that won’t do.”—“Away wid yees; shure, this is a free counthry, and can’t a man do as he plases with his own?”—“Not much,” replied Flip. “I say now, Mike, will you join me in the byin’ of a bit of a pony for to carry our blankets and things?”

The man addressed as Mike assented to the proposal, and soon Tip-tip-a-noos brought a small pinto calico-colored horse; and after some dickering the trade was completed by Pat, through pantomimic signs, giving Tip to understand, that if he would follow down into the gulch, out of sight of Flip., he would give him a bottle of whiskey, in addition to the twenty dollars.

The pony was turned over to Pat and Mike. The next move was to adjust the packs on the Cayuse. This was not easily done. First, because the pony did not understand Pat’s jargon; second, they had not reckoned on the absence of a pack-saddle. Flip., always ready to accommodate the travelling public, for a consideration, brought an old cross-tree pack-saddle, and then the lash-ropes,—ropes to bind the load to the saddle. Pat approached the pony with outstretched hands, saying pretty things in Irish brogue; while Mike, to make sure that the horse should not escape, had made it fast to his waist with a rope holding back, while Pat went forward, so that at the precise moment the latter had reached the pony’s nose, he reared up, and, striking forward, gave Pat a blow with his fore-foot, knocking him down. Seeming to anticipate the Irishman’s coming wrath, he whirled so quick that Mike lost his balance and went down, shouting, “Sthop us, sthop us; we are running away!” Pat recovered his feet in time to jump on the prostrate form of Mike, going along horizontally, at a furious gait, close to the pony’s heels. The Cayuse slackened his speed and finally stopped, but not until Mike had lost more or less of clothing, and the “pelt” from his rosy face.

When the two Irishmen were once more on foot, and both holding to the rope, now detached from Mike’s waist at one end, and buried into the wheezing neck of the Cayuse at the other, a scene occurred that Bierstadt should have had for a subject. I don’t believe I can do it justice, and yet I desire my readers to see it, since the renowned painter above-mentioned, was not present to represent it on canvas.

Think of two bloody-nosed Irish lads holding the pony, while he was pulling back until his haunches almost touched the ground, wheezing for breath, occasionally jumping forward to slacken the rope around his neck, and each time letting Pat and Mike fall suddenly to the ground, swearing in good Irish style at the “spalpeen of a brute” that had no better manners, while Mr. Indian was laughing as he would have done his crying,—away down in his heart. Flip., and others looking on, were doing as near justice to the occasion as possible, by laughing old-fashioned horse-laughs, increasing with each speech from Pat or Mike.

Occasionally, when the Cayuse would suddenly turn his heels, and fight in pony style, Pat would roar out Irish, while the horse would compel them to follow him, each with body and limbs at an angle of forty-five degrees, until his horseship would turn again, and then they were on a horizontal awhile. Securing him to a post, Pat said, “Now, be jabers, we’ve got him.” After slipping a shirt partly over his head, to “blind” him, they proceed to sinche—fasten—the pack-saddle on him, and then the two packs. When all was lashed fast, and a hak-i-more—rope halter—was on his nose, they untied him from the post, and proposed to travel, but Cayuse did not budge. Mike pulled and tugged at the halter, while Pat called him pretty names, and, with outspread hands, as though he was herding geese, stamping his foot, coaxed pony to start. No use. Flip. suggested a sharp stick. Pat went for his cane, like a man who had been suddenly endowed with a bright idea. After whittling the end to a point, he applied it to the pony.

The next speech that Irishman made was while in half-bent position. With one hand on the side of his head, he anxiously addressed Tip. “Meester Injun, is me ear gone—Meester Injun, what time of night is it now? I say, Meester Injun, where now is the spalpeen of a pony?”

Mike had let go of the rope soon after Pat applied the sharp stick, and was following the retreating blankets and bottles, ejaculating, “The beautiful whiskey! The beautiful whiskey!”

When Pat’s eyes were clear enough, Meester Injun, without a smile, pointed to the valley below, where frying pans and miners tools were performing a small circus, much to the amusement of a band of Cayuse horses, who were following Pat’s pony with considerable interest.

I don’t think the goods, or the whiskey either, were ever recovered by Pat and Mike, but I have an idea that “Tip-tip-a-noor” had a big dance, and slept warm under the blankets, and possibly a big drunk.

Of course, reader, you do not blame Irishmen for their opposition to “The Humane Policy of the Government.”

The Indian, however, if detected in unlawful acts, was sure of punishment under the law, no matter though he may have been incited to the deed by whiskey he had bought of white men, who vended it in violation of law. This commerce in whiskey was carried on extensively, notwithstanding the efforts of a very efficient agent to prevent it.

Men have started out on “Walker’s line,” carrying their blankets, and in a day or two they would be well mounted, without resorting to a “rope” or money to purchase with, and obtain the horses honestly too; that is to say, when they practised self-denial, and did not empty the bottles they had concealed in their packs. One bottle of whiskey would persuade an Indian to dismount, and allow the sore-footed, honest miner, who carried the bottle, to ride, no matter though the horse may have belonged to other parties. I have heard men boast that they were “riding a bottle,” meaning the horse that bore them along had cost that sum.

Such things were common, and could not be prevented. Young “Black Hawk” learned how to speak English, and make brick, and various other arts, through the kindness of the Superintendent of the State’s Prison. These things he might never have known, but for the foresight of some fellow who disliked the fare on “Walker’s” line.

The question is asked, “What was the agent doing?” He was doing his duty as well as he could, with the limited powers he possessed. But when he sought to arrest the white men who were violators of the laws of the United States, he was always met with the common prejudices against Indian testimony, and found himself defeated. But, when he was appealed to for protection against Indian depredations, he found sympathy and support, and few instances occurred where guilty Indians escaped just punishment.

I knew the agent well, and doubted not his sense of justice in his efforts to maintain peace.—If he did not mete out even-handed justice in all matters of dispute between white men and Indians, the fault was not his, but rather that of public sentiment. When colored men were “niggers,” the Indian “had no rights that white men were bound to respect.”

He who proclaimed against the unjust administration of law so unfavorable to the Indians, in courts where white men and Indians were parties, was denounced as a fanatical sentimentalist, and placed in the same category with “Wendell Phillips” and “Old John Brown,” whose names, in former times, were used to deride and frighten honest-thinking people from the expression of sentiments of justice and right.

I wish here to record that, although we did a large amount of business with white men and Indians, we never had occasion to complain of the latter for stealing, running off stock, or failing to perform, according to agreement, to the letter, even in matters left to their own sense of honor.

On one occasion, “Cascas,” a Reservation Indian, who was under contract to deliver, once in ten days, at Lee’s Encampment, ten head of yearlings, of specified size and quality, as per sample, at the time of making the bargain, brought nine of the kind agreed upon and one inferior animal. Before driving them into the corral, he rode up to the house, and calling me, pointed to the small yearling, saying that was “no good;” that he could not find “good ones” enough that morning to fill the contract, but if I would let the “Ten-as-moose-moose”—small steer—go in, next time, he would drive up a “Hi-as-moose-moose”—big steer—in place of an ordinary yearling. If I was unwilling to take the small one, he would drive him back, and bring one that would be up to the standard.

I assented to the first proposition. Faithful to the promise, he made up the deficiency with a larger animal next time, and even then made it good.

Another circumstance occurred which asserted the honesty of these Indians. After we had corralled a small lot of cows purchased from them, one escaped and returned to the Indian band of cattle, from which she had been driven. Three or four years after, we were notified by the owner of the band that we had four head of cattle with his herd. True, it was but simple honesty, and no more than any honest man would have done; but there are so many who would have marked and branded the calves of that little herd, in their own interest, that I felt it worthy of mention here to the credit of a people who have few friends to speak in their behalf. Notwithstanding their lives furnish many evidences of high and honorable character, yet they, very much like white men, exhibit many varieties.

In pressing need for a supply of beef for hotel use, I called on “Tin-tin-mit-si,” once chief of the Walla-Wallas (a man of extraordinary shrewdness, and possessed of great wealth, probably thirty thousand dollars in stock and money), to make a purchase. He, silently, half in pantomime, ordered his horse, that he might accompany me to the herds. Taking with us his son-in-law, John McBerne, as interpreter, we soon found one animal that would answer our purpose. The keen-eyed old chief, with his blanket drawn over his head, faced about, and said, “How much that cow weigh?”—“About four hundred and fifty pounds,” I answered. “How much you charge for a dinner?”—“One dollar,” I responded. “How much a white man eat?” said “Tin-tin-mit-si.” I read his mind, and knew that he was thinking how to take advantage of my necessity, and, also, that he was not accustomed to the white man’s dinner. I replied, “Sometimes one pound.”—“All right,” quoth Indian; “you pay me four hundred dollars, then what is over will pay you for cooking.”—“But who will pay me for the coffee, sugar, butter, potatoes, eggs, cheese, and other things?” I replied.

While Johnny was repeating this speech the old chief moved up closer, and let his blanket slip off his ears, and demanded a repetition of the varieties composing a Christian dinner; and, while this was being done, he looked first at the interpreter, then at me, and said, in a surly, dry tone, “No wonder a white man is a fool, if he eat all those things at once; an Indian would be satisfied with beef alone.”

After some mathematical calculations had been explained, he agreed to accept forty-five dollars, a good, round price for the cow. And I drove away the beast, while “Tin-tin-mit-si” returned to his lodge to bury the money I had paid him along with several thousand dollars he had saved for his sons-in-law to quarrel over; for the old chief soon after sent for his favorite horse to be tied near the door of his lodge, ready to accompany him to the happy hunting-grounds, where, according to Indian theology, he has been telling his father of the strange people he had seen.