On our arrival we made our camp one mile below the post, on the bank of a small stream. No Indians were visible until the day appointed for the council we had ordered. Messengers had been sent out to the several Indian camps, notifying them of our presence.

They came at the appointed time in full force, men, women, and children. The council was held near our camp, in a large army hospital tent. The Snakes were represented by their great war chiefs, We-ah-we-we, E-he-gan, and O-che-o.

Before opening council, and while arranging the preliminaries, we announced the presence of Ka-ko-na,—the captive wife of Tah-home,—and the purpose for which she had been brought along.

This announcement created great excitement among the Snake Indians. They collected around the tired little squaw, and scanned her closely, for the purpose of identification. She was frightened, and shrunk from their questions, saying to Tah-home that she was “No Snake.” She had either really lost her native language, or was afraid to acknowledge that she could speak it.

Meanwhile, through the kindness of Gen. Crook, while we were encamped at Antelope valley, sending for Donald McKay, who was in Government employ, we were supplied with an interpreter. Donald is not only a scout, but he is a linguist in Indian tongues,—speaking seven of them fluently,—the “Shoshone Snake,” included. Ka-ko-na, satisfied that she would not be forced to go with her own people, listened to the Snake talk; suddenly, as though waking from a dream, she began talking it herself, and was soon recognized and identified as a sister of one of “O-che-o’s” braves.

Her father had been killed, her mother had died, and her relatives all gone, save this one brother. Stoical as they appear to be, there is, nevertheless, deep feelings of human affection pervading the hearts of these people; especially for brother and sister, and even to cousins; but, strangely enough, they carry their ideas of practicability beyond common humanity in their treatment of mothers, by casting them off as worn-out beasts of burden when too old for labor.

This is even worse than among civilized people, who pray for the death of mothers-in-law and step-mothers.

The fathers are treated with great kindness,—at least when they are possessed of worldly goods, and even when poor they are exempt from labor,—are buried with the honors due them, and their graves held sacred as long as the graves of other fathers generally.

After the usual preliminaries of smoking the peace-pipe, both parties proffering pipes, and after drawing a puff or two, then exchanging, passing the pipes around the circle, until all had proclaimed friendly intention by smoking, Col. Otis, commander of the District of the Lakes, present, together with a number of officers from the post,—we opened the talk by saying, substantially, that we were there to represent another department of the Government; that we knew all about the history of the past, and had come to offer them a home on a Reservation, and to provide for their wants; and that we were prepared to assist them in removing to the new homes at Yai-nax, on Klamath Reservation.

The chiefs were suspicious and wary, not disposed to talk, but were good listeners. After two days, passed in “making heart,” they said they could not give an answer without “Old Win-ne-muc-ca,” the head chief of all the Shoshones, Snakes.

The council was adjourned, and this celebrated old fraud was sent for, a distance of one hundred miles.

Meanwhile we waited for his appearance, sometimes visiting the Indian camps several miles away.

On one occasion I went on horseback and alone with We-ah-we-wa. He seemed anxious to give warning to his people of our coming, and sent runners ahead on foot for that purpose. As we rode away from our camp I had some misgivings, when I remembered that the man beside me was one of the most bloodthirsty savages that had ever led a band of braves to a banquet of blood. He it was who had directed, and assisted too, in the many scenes of robbery and murder on the CaÑon City road.

He was more than an ordinary man in mental power, had in former years, while a captive, lived on Warm Springs Reservation, had learned the Chinook jargon, and could speak “Boston” sufficiently well to make himself understood.

After leaving our camp, and while en route to his, he told me of his capture years before; of his confinement in a guard-house, and exhibited the scars that had been made by the fetters he had worn; then of his escape and subsequent adventures, and narrow escape from recapture and death.

He did not appear to shrink from mention of his own crimes and exploits, but sought to impress me constantly that he had only acted in defence of his own rights. There was in the face of this man a cunning, treacherous look that was anything but reassuring.

On crossing a little stream fringed with willows, we came suddenly on his camp. Not a house, tent, or lodge was to be seen, but scattered around among the sage bushes were several half-circular wind-brakes, made of sage-brush and willows. The women and children ran out at our approach. The chief called them back. They came shyly, and with wondering eyes gazed on the man who had come to move them to a new home. I learned from him that they had never been to the post, and that few white men had ever called on him; hence the curiosity they had on being close enough to see how a white man looked. This chief was the owner of three sleek, fat, healthy-looking wives; they lived on roots, fish, and grasshoppers. The entire outfit for house-keeping was carried from one camping place to another on the backs of the squaws.

They were dressed in long loose frocks, made of deer-skins, trimmed with furs, and, woman-like, embellished with trinkets; in this instance of pieces of tin, cut by them, feathers and claws of wild animals. The sleeves were small, and in the seams a welt of dressed deer-skin, two inches deep, and cut into fringes of one-fourth inch wide. They made their toilets at the little brook beneath the willows. These people maintained all their old customs. I noticed a woman’s work-basket, differing somewhat from that of those who were blessed with sewing-machines. Their needles were pointed bones, resembling an awl, and were used as such.

The threads were made of sinews of animals, cured and prepared for the purpose, very strong, but not fine enough for fancy work on silk or cambrics; and yet they make beautiful moccasins and bead-work, without other thread or needle.

The children were also clad in deer-skin clothes, as were the men; the latter being dressed with the hair and fur retained. All these people of whom I write are copper-colored, though varying in shades about as much as white people do, some of them being much darker than others; all have black eyes, and long black hair, and smooth features, except high-cheek bones. They differ in stature; those near the seacoast being smaller than those of the high lands; the latter averaging as large as white men. The women are much larger than white women.

Their habits are simple, and their morals beyond question, so far as the honor of their women is concerned. I learned from good authority that the Indian women who have never been contaminated by association with low white men are chaste. The law penalty of these people for violation of this virtue is death. One or two instances of the enforcement of this rigid rule have come within my own personal knowledge on reservations in Oregon.

Sixteen days after the opening of the councils, Win-ne-muc-ca arrived, and the council was again opened. The great chief spoke to his people in private, but declined to make a speech in our joint councils; the others speaking, however, for the people. O-che-o accepted our offer of a home, on the condition that we should return the captives that had been taken during the late war. This promise was made on our part. With this assurance, he and his band made ready for removal. The others did not. We used all our argumentative ability to obtain their consent, but unsuccessfully. They came to the council with war-paint on their bodies and arms concealed under deer-skin robes. Our party were armed, and all were on the keen look-out for trouble. Toward the close of the council-talks the medicine-man of the Snakes drew his knife, and, dropping his robe from his shoulders, displayed, what we well understood to be war-painting on his body and arms, and, thrusting his knife into the ground, said, “We have made up our minds to die before we will go to any place away from our country.”

This action and speech brought all parties to a standing posture very quickly. The situation was a very doubtful one for a few moments. The proximity of troops prevented a fight. Had we been a few miles from assistance, I doubt not blood would have been spilled.

We-ah-we-wa himself would have consented to go to a Reservation, but the medicine-man was not willing. Their chief requested that his reasons for not complying should be made known to the “big chief” at Washington, which request was granted and complied with.

The council ended, and we made preparation to remove O-che-o’s band to Yai-nax, Klamath Reservation.

Before leaving camp we had demonstrated the superiority of our doctor’s skill, by healing a sick Indian against the will of the Snake medicine-man.

The Snakes had demanded the return of their people who had been captured during the war. This we refused unless they would go on to the Reservation. These two circumstances had produced bad blood.

Before our departure a Snake woman, the wife of a half-breed, gave us warning that an attempt would be made to capture our party while on the way to Camp Warner. I made requisition for an escort of troops, which was honored, and we took up the line of march. We passed safely through this wild, unsettled region, and, on arrival at Warner, O-che-o gathered his people, and, without escort, we continued the journey to Yai-nax.

We enjoyed the rare spectacle of seeing the medicine-man practise on a patient who was taken suddenly ill and supposed to be poisoned. The treatment was novel. He made a sage-brush fire, and waited until it had burned down to embers. Meanwhile the patient was divested of clothing. The assistants of the doctor formed in a circle around the fire, and four men were selected to manage the victim of this savage practice. The prayers, songs and dances commenced simultaneously, increasing in earnestness. The patient was lying, with his face downward, on a blanket, with a slight covering over him. The medicine-man made a sign of readiness, when the sick man was seized by the four Indians, by the hands and feet, and, amid the noise of prayers and songs and dances, he was drawn forward and backward, face down, over the hot coals, until he was burnt the length of his body, so that great blisters were raised soon after.

This man did not wince or mutter or shrink from the fearful ordeal. His faith made him whole. A day or two after he was apparently well.

Belonging to O-che-o’s band was one named “Big Foot,” who would, with a cane four feet long, capture sage-brush hare, incredible as it may seem, when the fleetness of these animals is considered. He would actually run on to them and knock them down with the cane.

Our route from Warner to Yai-nax led us over a high, dry country, with occasional groves of mountain mahogany, or spruce, the whole great plateau being from four to five thousand feet above the sea level. Small lakes lay basking in summer’s sun or covered with winter’s ice. They are bountifully supplied with fish of the trout species.

On the day before our arrival we were met by a delegation of Klamath Indians, who came out to meet and give us welcome. It is a beautiful custom among Indians to send in runners to announce the approach of visitors, and then messengers are returned, or perhaps, as in this instance, the chief and his head men go in person to meet them.

They were impatient to “look into the eyes and see the tongue” of the new superintendent. Whether the Indians of our party had telegraphed our coming, or sent runners in advance, I do not now remember. The great Caucasian race justly honors the names of Franklin, Morse, and Field. These people of whom I write had been using fire as a medium of communication for untold generations. Spiritualism is also common among them.

We were treated with some exhibitions of this incomprehensible phenomenon while on this journey. The sÉance was not conducted with the aid of pine tables or the laying on of hands; the medium, or clairvoyant, working himself by wild motions of his arms and head into the proper condition. He announced that the Klamaths were at that minute encamped at a certain place, and designated the day on which they would meet us.

Subsequent investigation established the correctness of the prophecy. Whether the knowledge was obtained through fire-signals, or by the medium of spirit communication, this deponent sayeth not. There is a general understanding among them as to fire-signals, even when they have no knowledge of each other’s language.

The meeting with the Klamaths and Snakes was one of interest to all parties, from the fact that they had been enemies, and the chiefs had not met in person since peace was restored. Living in the country intervening was a small tribe of Wal-pah-pas, who were half Snake and half Klamath. They were mediators, though sometimes fighting on alternate sides, as interest or affront gave occasion.

The Klamath chief and his people had made camp, and were awaiting our arrival. The chief first addressed me, as the high chief, stating that he had heard of me, and was anxious to “see my eyes and heart, and welcome me to Klamath.” I replied by saying, “I have brought with me a man of your own color. He comes to live on Klamath.” Then, extending my hand, the chief of the Klamaths advanced and exchanged greetings with me, and also with O-che-o, chief of the Snakes. This man I consider a remarkable character. Mild-mannered, smooth-voiced, unassuming, unused to ceremonies that were not savage, he exhibited traits of character worthy of emulation by more pretentious people.

In this informal council he responded to Allen David, the Klamath chief: “I met this white man. He won my heart with strong words. I came with him. I once thought I could kill all the white men. I have lost nearly all my young men fighting. I am tired of blood. I want to die in peace. I have given my heart all away. I will not go to war. I am poor. I have few horses. I do not know how to work. I can learn. We will be friends. I will live forever, where this new chief places me. I am done.”

After these greetings and the supper over, we gathered around huge fires of pine and spruce logs, and talked in a friendly manner. Singular spectacle, away out on the unsettled plains of Eastern Oregon, to see a meeting wherein were representatives of two races and seven different tribes, speaking as many different languages, sitting in peace and harmony, without fear of harm, telling stories, some of which were translated into the several tongues.

To illustrate how these talks were conducted: a white man speaks in his own language, a Warm Spring Indian repeats it to his own people, who, in turn, tell it to a Klamath, he to a Modoc, and then it goes through the Wal-pah-pa’s mouth to the Snake’s. Often three or four sentences, of different sense, are being translated at the same time. Some wild stories are told; but oftener the white man furnishes the subject, at the solicitation of some red men asking information.

The night wears away, the fires grow dim, and, one by one, the talkers drop out of the circle, and retire to sleep unguarded. The morning sun finds the camp active, and preparation being made for moving forward. The horses and mules are driven into camp, about as motley a band as the people who were squatting around the various breakfast tables on the ground. The scenes of such a camp are enlivening indeed. Tents falling, lodges taken down, horses neighing and losing company, all bustle and confusion, while the teams are being harnessed, and the mules and Indian ponies are being saddled and packed,—the spectacle presented is an exhilarating one. But if you would enjoy the full benefit of it, take a position on the side of the camp from which we take our departure, and, while you rest your elbows on your saddled horse, take items.

See the anxiety of each to be off first, and hear the driver of the mule teams talking in an undertone until the bells on the leaders strike a note that is in tune with the road, and then each mule settles to the collar and the wheels move. Anxious squaws are jabbering to their horses, children and dogs, lazy Indian men sitting unconcerned, astride the best horses. Stand still a little longer, and see the last man run to the fire for a coal to light his pipe, and then away to overtake his company.

The camp is now deserted, the fires are burned out, and the places where tents and lodges stood look smooth, and where the weary limbs have lain the fresh broken trees tell who were there. And now our horse, with his impatient feet, bids a hasty “good-by” to a spot that was our home for a night; we leave it behind us to be seen no more.

Our charger, now more impatient, still hurries to join the departed throng, while we turn up our coat-collar to keep the frost from our ears. Soon we come upon the lame and lazy, and perhaps an old squaw, with her basket of household treasures that has been with her through her hard life, the basket suspended on her back by a strap around her forehead, and a stick in her hand, and her body bent forward. She plods along until the sound of approaching hoofs startle her, and instinctively she looks around and stops for us to pass. Poor, miserable old link of Darwin’s mystic chain, we pity you; for you are, at least, half human, and your sons, with no filial love and no shame, are on prancing horses just ahead of you, wearing red blankets and redder paints, with feathers flying, and thoughtless of their mother; your lot is hard, but you don’t know it, because in your youth you played Indian lady, while your mother wore the shoes of servitude that you are now wearing.

As we ride on, passing little squads of old people on foot, and women with baby baskets, ponies groaning under two or three great lazy boys, teams with jingling bells, we find, nearer the front of the train, the lords of this wild kind of creation, laughing and sporting as they ride, apparently unconscious of the fact that slavery and bondage have fettered old age, and compelled it to drag weary limbs over stony roads.

We arrive at Yai-nax, the future home of a war-chief, who has cost the Government much of blood and treasure, though docile now. A lone hut marks the spot, near a large spring that runs off in a northerly direction to Sprague’s river. A beautiful valley spreads out for miles, covered with grass and wild flax; snowy mountains lie south, west, and north, the valley ascending the mountain east so gradually that we can scarcely see where the one ends and the other begins. The cavalcade halts near the spring, and soon the throng becomes busy making preparations for the night.

The next morning’s sun finds a busy camp; every able-bodied man is ordered to work; trees are falling, axes plying, and log cabins rise in rows, and the new home of the Snake Indians begins to appear to the eye a real, tangible thing.

Six days pass, and the smokes from thirteen Indian houses join in procession and move off eastward, borne by the breeze that sings and sighs, or howls in anger among the trees around Yai-nax. A council is called, and O-che-o speaks: “My heart is good. I will stay on the land you have given me. This is my home. When you come again you will find O-che-o here.”

Since leaving Camp Harney nothing has been said until this evening about captives. O-che-o now raises the question again. We meet him with the assurance that all the captives that can be found shall have the privilege of returning to their people. I was not altogether prepared for the scene that was opening. O-che-o remarked, through an interpreter, that he believed me, and that he expected that I would secure the return to him of his captured son, who was somewhere in the north; but, to make his heart easy on the subject, he would try me with a case now before us; referring to Ka-ko-na.

It was a regular bombshell. We were on the eve of departure. Ka-ko-na and Tah-home had become very strongly attached to each other, and were not willing to be separated.

O-che-o had assented to the new law which I had introduced forbidding the sale of women; but he was nevertheless anxious to detain her, unless she was paid for. This last feature he did not avow, but I well knew the meaning of his speech. He insisted that she should be brought before the council, and in the presence of the people make her choice, to go or stay. Tah-home was almost wild with fear of losing her, and reminded me of my promise at Antelope valley. Ka-ko-na was consulted, while I was endeavoring to evade the trying scene. I was satisfied that she preferred going with Tah-home; but I well knew the mysterious power of the medicine-man, and I feared that, if she was brought into his presence, she would be so much under the power of his will, through her own superstitious faith in him, that she would not have the courage to elect to go with Tah-home.

O-che-o was informed that she preferred to go with her husband. “All right; but let her come here to say so before all the people,” insisted O-che-o. I clearly saw that any further attempt at evasion would impair his confidence in my integrity.

This episode was of that kind which enlists the sympathies of all classes of men. Tah-home had won the good will of our entire party, during the trip from Antelope Valley, by his unceasing industry as a herder and camp-helper.

Ka-ko-na had also improved much in her manners, and had learned the art of laundress to some extent. No unseemly act had she committed to forfeit the respect due her as a woman; consequently now, when the two had become so thoroughly infatuated with each other that it was noticeable to even casual observers, a general feeling of pity and regret at the untoward circumstances was manifest throughout the camp.

The teamsters and other employÉs were willing to make up a purse to buy her of her people,—in fact, the project was put on foot to do so. I confess I was not insensible to the common feeling of regret, mixed with the fear for the result.

When the trying moment could no longer be delayed, Ka-ko-na and her master lover were brought into the circle. The moon was shining brightly, and, added to this, the light of the council fire made up a picture of romantic interest. Speeches were made on the occasion worthy of the subject.

An appeal was made to O-che-o’s better nature, in behalf of the anxious pair. He is really a noble fellow, and, to his credit be it told, a kind-hearted man, though untrained in civil ways.

He acknowledged that it was wrong to separate those who loved each other, but said “he must look in Ka-ko-na’s eyes while she made her choice.” He was not willing that Tah-home should even stand beside her while the matter was under discussion.

The latter asked the privilege of speaking, which, being granted, he poured out a speech that I little thought him capable of making. It was replete with the wild poetry of love, very impassioned, and full of pathos. Finally, Ka-ko-na was ordered to make a choice,—to go with Tah-home, or stay with her people.

The Snake medicine-man took a position in front of her, and, fixing his eyes on hers, stood gazing in her face. The whole council circle was stilled. A suspense that was very intense pervaded every mind. Silence reigned; every eye was watching the movement of the woman’s lips. The power of the medicine-man was more than she could stand, even when love for Tah-home was pleading.

She answered, “I stay,” and burst into tears. Tah-home turned as white as an Indian could. The white men present felt a cold chill fall on them. Ka-ko-na and Tah-home returned to their tent, she weeping bitterly. The council was broken up, and the excited camp was again quiet, save the sobbing of the heart-broken Ka-ko-na.

An hour or two before daybreak, I was awakened by Tah-home, who, in a low whisper, made an enterprising proposition, which was no less than to elope with his wife. I dare not assent, though strongly tempted to do so. When I refused, he then wished me to prevent pursuit. This I could not do. The poor fellow returned to his tent, and the sobbing changed to paroxysms of despair.

Our next point of destination being Klamath Agency, we had despatched part of our teams the evening previous. On one of these wagons Ka-ko-na’s goods had been placed by her friends, with the intention, no doubt, of making an excuse for her to follow. When the morning came for our departure, O-che-o was invited to accompany our party to the agency, and repay the visit of the Klamaths. The fact that Ka-ko-na’s clothing had preceded her in wagons was urged as a reason why she should go also.

O-che-o consented. We placed the camp in charge of a trustworthy white man, and turned from this new settlement with feelings of pride, and with a prayer and hope for its success. Whether O-che-o and his people shall ever reach manhood’s estate depends entirely on the policy of the Government, and the men who are selected to educate them in the rudimentary principles of civilization.

Two years afterward I again visited the settlement. I found O-che-o there, contented. He was glad to see me, and repeated his declaration that he would “Go no more on the warpath.” I found twenty-eight log houses, with chimneys, doors, and windows, occupied by the Snake Indians; also, comfortable buildings for Government employÉs, and a farm of three hundred acres of land, under a substantial fence, together with corrals and barns.

This country is about forty-four hundred feet in altitude, and, consequently, the seasons are short. When not cut down by frost, wheat and barley yield abundantly, unless, indeed, another enemy should interfere,—the cricket. They are about one and one-half inches long, a bright black color, very destructive, marching in grand armies, eating the vegetation nearly clean as they go. These crickets made their appearance in the neighborhood of Yai-nax, and threatened destruction to the crops. The commissary in charge consulted O-che-o and Choe-tort. They ordered their people to prepare for the war on this coming army. Circular bowl-shaped basins, six feet in diameter, were made in the ground, and paved with cobble-stones; large piles of dry wood, brush and grass were collected near the pits. All the available forces were armed with baskets, sacks, and other implements, and ordered on to the attack. The forces were put in position, and the alarm sounded, and this strange battle began. Let us stand by one of the basins, or pits, and witness the arrival of the victors, who come laden with the wounded and maimed enemies. Those in charge of the slaughter-pens, or basins, throw in wood, dry grass and sage brush, and when burnt down, the ashes are swept out with long willow brooms; then a fire is built around the upper rim of the basin, and as each captor comes with her load of thousands, they are thrown into the basin on the heated rocks. The children, especially the girls, are stationed around the circle to drive back the more enterprising crickets that succeed in hopping over, or through the fiery ring surrounding this slaughter-pen. Think, for a moment, of the helpless, writhing mass of animated nature in a hot furnace,—a great black heap of insects being stirred up with poles until they are roasted, while their inhuman torturers are apparently unconscious of the fact that these crickets are complete organisms, each with a separate existence, struggling for life.

I don’t know that it was any more inhuman than a “Yankee clam-bake,” where brave men and fair women murder thousands of animated bivalves without a thought of inflicting pain. The Indians had the advantage in a moral point of view, for the crickets were their enemies. When the bake is over they shovel them into home-made sacks, and then, sewing them up, put them to press.

An Indian cricket-press does not work by steam, with huge screws. Plat rocks are placed on the ground, and the sack full of cooked crickets is placed thereon, and then another rock is laid on the sack; finally stones, logs, and other weighty things are placed upon the pile, until the work is complete. Meanwhile, look away down the sloping plane and see the line of battle, with sprightly young squaws on the outside, deployed as skirmishers. See how they run, and laugh, and shout, until the enemy is turned, and then the victory is followed up, each anxious to secure trophies of the battle. This is one kind of war where the women wield implements of destruction quite as well as their masters.

The battle has been fought and won, and the intruders routed and driven into the rapid current of Sprague’s river. The people rest from the siege contented, for the growing crop—carrots, and turnips—has been saved. This is not the only cause of gratulation, for now comes the best part of the war. The luscious cakes of roasted crickets are taken from the rude presses, and the brave warriors of this strange battle celebrate the victory with a feast of fresh crickets, and a grand dance, where sparkling eyes and nodding feathers, and jingling bells keep time to Indian drums.

Fastidious reader, have you ever been to a clam-bake, and seen the gay dancers celebrate the funeral of a few thousand sightless bivalves?—things that God had placed in hardened coffins and buried on the shore, while godlike man and woman brought them to a short-lived resurrection.

Well, then, you understand how little human sympathy goes out for helpless things, and how much of thoughtless joy is experienced in this civilized kind of feasting. The Indian has the advantage, for his roasted crickets are sweet and nutritious. I speak from “the card,” as a Yankee would say.

O-che-o and Choc-toot are safe from want. The compressed cakes are “cached” away for winter use; that is to say, they are buried in a jug-shaped cellar, dug on some dry knoll, and taken out as necessity may require. The cakes when taken from the bag—as Yankee people would say, for they call everything a bag that western people call a sack—present the appearance of a caddy of foreign dates or domestic plums when dried and put in shape for merchandise.

Since my-visit to Yai-nax, at the time of locating O-che-o and his people, others have been added to the station. Old Chief Schonchin, the legitimate leader of the now notorious tribe of Modocs, has taken up his residence at Yai-nax.

At the time of planting this Indian settlement, it was not known that any adverse claim could be set up to this portion of Klamath Reservation; since then, however, a military road company has laid claim to alternate sections of land, granted them by an act of the Oregon Legislature, by virtue of congressional legislation, giving lands to certain States to assist in making “internal improvements.”

The Government has been apprised of the state of affairs, and may take action to meet the emergency. There is, however, an embryo Indian war in this claim, unless judiciously managed.

In the treaty of 1864 this land was set apart as a home for the Klamath Indians, and such other tribes as might be, from time to time, located thereon by order of the United States. Subsequently the grant in aid of internal improvements was made. Suppose the Government concedes the right to the road company to sell and dispose of these lands, to which the Government has never had a title, and the purchaser takes possession; thus occupying alternate sections, of the country belonging to these Indian tribes, and giving them nothing in compensation. The result might be another cry of extermination, and another expensive spasmodic effort to annihilate a tribe who, in desperation, fight for their rights.

The land never did belong to the United States; else why treat with its owners for it? If the road company are entitled to lands for constructing a military road through this Indian Reservation, give them other lands in lieu thereof, or make the compensation to the Indians equivalent to the sacrifices they may make; otherwise more blood will be shed.

Their nationality and manhood were recognized in making the treaty by which this tract of country was reserved from sale to the United States. Let it be recognized still; treat them with justice, and war and its bloody attendants will be avoided.