He is thin and wiry looking, with some straggling bristles for a beard and thick short hair, still quite black, covering a head which looks as if it had been flattened directly on top as well as back and front as they were wont to do. This peculiar cranial development does not affect his intelligence, however, as we have before observed in others; he is quick-witted and knows a great many things. Yutestid says he can speak all the leading dialects of the Upper Sound, Soljampsh, Nesqually, Puyallup, Snoqualmie, Duwampsh, Snohomish, but not the Sklallam and others north toward Vancouver.

Several incidents related in this volume were mentioned and he remembered them perfectly, referred to the naming of “New York” on Alki Point and the earliest settlement, repeating the names of the pioneers. The murder at Bean’s Point was committed by two Soljampsh Indians, he said, and they were tried and punished by an Indian court.

He remembers the hanging of Pat Kanem’s brothers, Kussass and Quallawowit.

“Long ago, the Indians fight, fight, fight,” he said, but he declared he had never heard of the Duwampsh campaign attributed to Sealth.

Yutestid was not at the battle of Seattle but at Oleman House with Sealth’s tribe and others whom Gov. Stevens had ordered there. He chuckled as he said “The bad Indians came into the woods near town and the man-of-war (Decatur) mamoked pooh (shot) at them and they were frightened and ran away.”

Lachuse, the Indian who was shot near Seneca Street, Seattle, he remembered, and when I told him how the Indian doctor extracted the buckshot from the wounds he sententiously remarked, “Well, sometimes the Indian doctors did very well, sometimes they were old humbugs, just the same as white people.”

Oleman House was built long before he was born, according to his testimony, and was adorned by a carved wooden figure, over the entrance, of the great thunder bird, which performed the office of a lightning rod or at least prevented thunder bolts from striking the building.

When asked what the medium of exchange was “ankuti” (long ago), he measured on the index finger the length of pieces of abalone shell formerly used for money.

In those days he saw the old women make feather robes of duck-skins, also of deer-skins and dog-skins with the hair on; they made bead work, too; beaded moccasins called “Yachit.”

The old time ways were very slow; he described the cutting of a huge cedar for a canoe as taking a long time to do, by hacking around it with a stone hammer and “chisel.”

Before the advent of the whites, mats served as sails.

I told him of having seen the public part of Black Tamanuse and they both laughed at the heathenism of long ago and said, “We don’t have that now.”

Yutestid denied that his people ate dog when making black tamanuse, but said the Sklallams did so.

“If I could speak better English or you better Chinook I could tell you lots of stories,” he averred. Chinook is so very meager, however, that an interpreter of the native tongue will be necessary to get these stories.

They politely shook hands and bade me “Good-bye” to jog off through the rain to their camping place, Indian file, he following in the rear contentedly smoking a pipe. Yutestid is industrious, cultivating a patch of ground and yearly visiting the city of Seattle with fruit to sell.

THE CHIEF’S REPLY.

PART III.

INDIAN LIFE AND SETTLERS’ BEGINNINGS.

CHAPTER I.
SAVAGE DEEDS OF SAVAGE MEN.

At Bean’s Point, opposite Alki on Puget Sound, an Indian murdered, at night, a family of Indians who were camping there.

The Puyallups and Duwampsh came together in council at Bean’s Point, held a trial and condemned and executed the murderer. Old Duwampsh Curley was among the members of this native court and likely Sealth and his counsellors.

One of the family escaped by wading out into the water where he might have become very cool, if not entirely cold, if it had not been that Captain Fay and George Martin, a Swedish sailor, were passing by in their boat and the Indian begged to be taken in, a request they readily granted and landed him in a place of safety.

Again at Bean’s Point an Indian was shot by a white man, a Scandinavian; the charge was a liberal one of buckshot.

Some white men who went to inquire into the matter followed the Indian’s trail, finding ample evidence that he had climbed the hill back of the house, where he may have been employed to work, and weak from his wounds had sat down on a log and then went back to the water; but his body was never found. It was supposed that the murderer enticed him back again and when he was dead, weighted and sunk him in the deep, cold waters of the Sound.

At one time there was quite a large camp of Indians where now runs Seneca Street, Seattle, near which was my home. It was my father’s custom to hire the Indians to perform various kinds of hard labor, such as grubbing stumps, digging ditches, cutting wood, etc. For a while we employed a tall, strong, fine-looking Indian called Lachuse to cut wood; through a long summer day he industriously plied the ax and late in the twilight went down to a pool of water, near an old bridge, to bathe. As he passed by a clump of bushes, suddenly the flash and report of a gun shattered the still air and Lachuse fell heavily to the ground with his broad chest riddled with buckshot.

There was great excitement in the camp, running and crying of the women and debate by the men, who soon carried him into the large Indian house. He was laid down in the middle of the room and the medicine man, finding him alive, proceeded to suck the wounds while the tamanuse noise went on.

A distracted, grey-haired lum-e-i, his mother, came to our house to beg for a keeler of water, all the time crying, “Mame-loose Lachuse! Achada!”

Two of the little girls of our family, sleeping in an old-fashioned trundle bed, were so frightened at the commotion that they pulled the covers up over their heads so far that their feet protruded below.

The medicine man’s treatment seems to have been effective, aided by the tamanuse music, as Lachuse finally recovered.

The revengeful deed was committed by a Port Washington Indian, in retaliation for the stealing of his “klootchman” (wife) by an Indian of the Duwampsh tribe, although it was not Lachuse, this sort of revenge being in accordance with their heathen custom.

“Jim Keokuk,” an Indian, killed another Indian in the marsh near the gas works; he struck him on the head with a stone. Jim worked as deck hand on a steamer for a time, but he in turn was finally murdered by other Indians, wrapped with chains and thrown overboard, which was afterward revealed by some of the tribe.

There were many cases of retaliation, but the Indians were fairly peaceable until degraded by drink.

The beginning of hostilities against the white people on the Sound, by some historians is said to have been the killing of Leander Wallace at old Fort Nesqually. One of them gives this account:

“Prior to the Whitman massacre, Owhi and Kamiakin, the great chiefs of the upper and lower Yakima nations, while on a visit to Fort Nesqually, had observed to Dr. Tolmie that the Hudson Bay Company’s posts with their white employes were a great convenience to the natives, but the American immigration had excited alarm and was the constant theme of hostile conversation among the interior tribes. The erection in 1848, at Fort Nesqually, of a stockade and blockhouse had also been the subject of angry criticism by the visiting northern tribes. So insolent and defiant had been their conduct that upon one afternoon for over an hour the officers and men of the post had guns pointed through the loop-holes at a number of Skawhumpsh Indians, who, with their weapons ready for assault, had posted themselves under cover of adjacent stumps and trees.

“Shortly before the shooting of Wallace, rumors had reached the fort that the Snoqualmies were coming in force to redress the alleged cruel treatment of Why-it, the Snoqualmie wife of the young Nesqually chief, Wyampch, a dissipated son of Lahalet.

“Dr. Tolmie treated such a pretext as a mere cloak for a marauding expedition of the Snoqualmies.

“Sheep shearing had gathered numbers of extra hands, chiefly Snohomish, who were occupying mat lodges close to the fort, besides unemployed stragglers and camp followers.

“On Tuesday, May 1, 1849, about noon, numbers of Indian women and children fled in great alarm from their lodges and sought refuge within the fort. A Snoqualmie war party, led by Pat Kanem, approached from the southwestern end of the American plains. Dr. Tolmie having posted a party of Kanakas in the northwest bastion went out to meet them.

“Tolmie induced Pat Kanem to return with him to the fort, closing the gate after their entrance.”

The following is said to be the account given by the Hudson Bay Company’s officials:

“The gate nearest the mat lodges was guarded by a white man and an Indian servant. While Dr. Tolmie was engaged in attending a patient, he heard a single shot fired, speedily followed by two or three others. He hastily rushed to the bastion, whence a volley was being discharged at a number of retreating Indians who had made a stand and found cover behind the sheep washing dam of Segualitschu Creek. Through a loop-hole the bodies of an Indian and a white man were discernible at a few yards distance from the north gate where the firing had commenced.

“He hastened thither and found Wallace breathing his last, with a full charge of buckshot in his stomach. The dying man was immediately carried inside of the fort.

“The dead Indian was a young Skawhumpsh, who had accompanied the Snoqualmies.

“The Snohomish workers, as also the stragglers, had been, with the newly arrived Snoqualmies, in and out of the abandoned lodges, chatting and exchanging news. A thoughtless act of the Indian sentry posted at the water gate, in firing into the air, had occasioned a general rush of the Snohomish, who had been cool observers of all that had passed outside.

“Walter Ross, the clerk, came to the gate armed, and seeing Kussass, a Snoqualmie, pointing his gun at him, fired but missed him. Kussass then fired at Wallace. Lewis, an American, had a narrow escape, one ball passing through his vest and trousers and another grazing his left arm.

“Quallawowit, as soon as the firing began, shot through the pickets and wounded Tziass, an Indian, in the muscles of his shoulder, which soon after occasioned his death.

“The Snoqualmies as they retreated to the beach killed two Indian ponies and then hastily departed in their canoes.

“At the commencement of the shooting, Pat Kanem, guided by Wyampch, escaped from the fort, a fortunate occurrence, as, upon his rejoining his party the retreat at once began.

“When Dr. Tolmie stooped to raise Wallace, and the Snoqualmies levelled their guns to kill that old and revered friend, an Indian called ‘the Priest’ pushed aside the guns, exclaiming ‘Enough mischief has already been done.’

“The four Indians of the Snoqualmie party whose names were given by Snohomish informers to Dr. Tolmie, together with Kussass and Quallawowit, were afterward tried for the murder of Wallace.”

Their names were Whyik, Quallawowit, Kussass, Stahowie, Tatetum and Quilthlimkyne; the last mentioned was a Duwampsh.

Eighty blankets were offered for the giving up of these Indians.

The Snoqualmies came to Steilacoom, where they were to be tried, in war paint and parade.

The officials came from far; down the Columbia; up the Cowlitz, and across to Puget Sound, about two hundred miles in primitive style, by canoe, oxcart or cayuse.

The trial occupied two days; on the third day, the two condemned, Kussass and Quallawowit, were executed.

One shot Wallace, two Indians were hung; Leschi, a leader in the subsequent war of 1855, looked on and went away resenting the injustice of taking two lives for one. Other Indians no doubt felt the same, thus preparing the way for their deadly opposition to the white race.

It certainly seems likely that the “pretext” of the Snoqualmies was a valid one as Wyampch, the young Nesqually chief, was a drunkard, and Why-it, his Snoqualmie wife, was no doubt treated much as Indian wives generally in such a case, frequently beaten and kicked into insensibility.

The Snoqualmies had been quarreling with the Nesquallies before this and it is extremely probable that, as was currently reported among old settlers, the trouble was among the Indians themselves.

There are two stories also concerning Wallace; first, that he was outside quietly looking on, which he ought to have known better than to do; second, that he was warned not to go outside but persisted in going, boasting that he could settle the difficulty with a club, paying for his temerity with his life.

A well known historian has said that the “different tribes had been successfully treated with, but the Indians had acted treacherously inasmuch as it was well known that they had long been plotting against the white race to destroy it. This being true and they having entered upon a war without cause, however, he (Gov. Stevens) might sympathize with the restlessness of an inferior race who perceived that destiny was against them, he nevertheless had high duties toward his own.”

Now all this was true, yet there were other things equally true. Not all the treachery, not all the revenge, not all the cruelty were on the side of the “inferior” race. Even all the inferiority was not on one side. The garbled translation by white interpreters, the lying, deceit, nameless and numberless impositions by lawless white men must have aroused and fostered intense resentment. That there were white savages here we have ample proof.

When Col. Wright received the conquered Spokane chiefs in council with some the pipe of peace was smoked. After it was over, Owhi presented himself and was placed in irons for breaking an agreement with Col. Wright, who bade him summon his son, Qualchin, on pain of death by hanging if his son refused to come.

The next day Qualchin appeared not knowing that the order had been given, and was seized and hung without trial. Evidently Kamiakin, the Yakima chief, had good reason to fear the white man’s treachery when he refused to join in the council.

The same historian before mentioned tells how Col. Wright called together the Walla Wallas, informed them that he knew that they had taken part in recent battles and ordered those who had to stand up; thirty-five promptly rose. Four of these were selected and hung. Now these Indians fought for home and country and volunteered to be put to death for the sake of their people, as it is thought by some, those hung for the murder of Whitman and his companions, did, choosing to do so of their own free will, not having been the really guilty ones at all.

Quiemuth, an Indian, after the war, emerged from his hiding place, went to a white man on Yelm prairie requesting the latter to accompany him to Olympia that he might give himself up for trial. Several persons went with him; reached Olympia after midnight, the governor placed him in his office, locking the door. It was soon known that the Indian was in the town and several white men got in at the back door of the building. The guard may have been drowsy or their movements very quiet; a shot was fired and Quiemuth and the others made a rush for the door where a white man named Joe Brannan stabbed the Indian fatally, in revenge for the death of his brother who had been killed by Indians some time before.

Three of the Indian leaders in Western Washington were assassinated by white men for revenge. Leschi, the most noted of the hostile chiefs on the Sound, was betrayed by two of his own people, some have said.

I have good authority for saying that he gave himself up for fear of a similar fate.

He was tried three times before he was finally hung after having been kept in jail a long time. Evidently there were some obstructionists who agreed with the following just and truthful statement by Col. G. O. Haller, a well-known Indian fighter, first published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

“The white man’s aphorism ‘The first blow is half the battle,’ is no secret among Indians, and they practice it upon entering a war. Indeed, weak nations and Indian tribes, wrought to desperation by real or fancied grievances, inflict while able to do so horrible deeds when viewed by civilized and Christ-like men. War is simply barbarism. And when was war refined and reduced to rules and regulations that must control the Indian who fights for all that is dear to him—his native land and the graves of his sires—who finds the white man’s donation claim spread over his long cultivated potato patch, his hog a trespasser on his old pasture ground and his old residence turned into a stable for stock, etc.?

“Leschi, like many citizens during the struggle for secession, appealed to his instincts—his attachment to his tribe—his desire, at the same time to conform to the requirements of the whites, which to many of his people were repulsive and incompatible. He decided and struck heavy blows against us with his warriors. Since then we have learned a lesson.

A FEW ARTIFACTS OF PUGET SOUND INDIANS

“Gen. Lee inflicted on the Union army heavy losses of life and destruction of property belonging to individuals. When he surrendered his sword agreeing to return to his home and become a law-abiding citizen, Gen. Grant protected him and his paroled army from the vengeance of men who sought to make treason odious. This was in 1866 and but the repetition of the Indian war of 1856.

“Col. Geo. Wright, commanding the department of the Columbia, displayed such an overwhelming force in the Klickitat country that it convinced the hostile Indians of the hopelessness of pursuing war to a successful issue, and when they asked the terms of peace, Col. Wright directed them to return to their former homes, be peaceful and obey the orders of the Indian agents sent by our government to take charge of them, and they would be protected by the soldiers.

“The crimes of war cannot be atoned by crimes in cold blood after the war. Two wrongs do not make a right.

“Leschi, though shrewd and daring in war, adopted Col. Wright’s directions, dropped hostilities, laid aside his rifle and repaired to Puget Sound, his home.

“Like Lee, he was entitled to protection from the officers and soldiers. But Leschi, on the Sound, feared the enmity of the whites, and gave himself up to Dr. Tolmie, an old friend, at Nesqually—not captured by two Indians of his own tribe and delivered up. Then began a crusade against Leschi for all the crimes of his people in war.

“On the testimony of a perjured man, whose testimony was demonstrated, by a survey of the route claimed by the deponent, to be a falsehood, he was found guilty by the jury, not of the offense alleged against him, for it was physically impossible for Leschi to be at the two points indicated in the time alleged; hence he was a martyr to the vengeance of unforgiving white men.”

“John Bonser’s Death Recalls an Indian Massacre. Beautiful Abbie Casto’s Fate. How Death Came Upon Three Pioneers of Squak Valley—Swift Vengeance on the Murderers.

“The death of John Bonser, one of the earliest pioneers of Oregon, at Sauvie’s Island, near Portland, recently, recalls one of the bloodiest tragedies that ever occurred in King County and one which will go down in history as the greatest example the pioneers had of the evil effect of giving whisky to the Indians. The event is memorable for another reason, and that is that the daughter of John Bonser, wife of William Casto, and probably the most beautiful woman in the territory, was a victim.

“‘I don’t take much stock in the handsome, charming women we read about,’ said C. B. Bagley yesterday, ‘but Mrs. Casto, if placed in Seattle today with face and form as when she came among us in 1864, would be among the handsomest women in the city, and I shall never forget the sensation created in our little settlement when messengers arrived from Squak valley, where the Castos moved, with the news that Mrs. Casto, her husband and John Holstead had been killed by Indians, and that a friendly Klickitat had slain the murderers.

“The first impression was that there had been an uprising among the treacherous natives and a force, consisting of nearly all the able-bodied men in the community, started for the scene of the massacre.

“It is a hard matter for the people of metropolitan Seattle to carry themselves back, figuratively speaking, to 1864, and imagine the village of that period with its thirty families.

“The boundaries were limited to a short and narrow line extending along the water front not farther north than Pike Street. The few houses were small and unpretentious and the business portion of the town was confined to Commercial Street, between Main and Yesler Avenue.

“At that time and even after the great fire in 1889, Yesler Avenue was known as Mill Street, the name having originated from the fact that Yesler’s mill was located at its foot. Where the magnificent Dexter Horton bank building now stands stood a small wooden structure occupied by Dexter Horton as a store, and where the National Bank of Commerce building, at the corner of Yesler Avenue and Commercial Street, stood the mill store of the Yesler-Denny Company. S. B. Hinds, a name forgotten in commercial circles, kept store on Commercial Street, between Washington and Main Streets. Charles Plummer was at the corner of Main and Commercial, and J. R. Williamson was on the east side of Commercial Street, a half block north. This comprised the entire list of stores at that time. The forests were the only source to which the settlers looked for commercial commodities, and these, when put in salable shape, were often-times compelled to await means of transportation to markets. Briefly summed up, spars, piles, lumber and hop-poles were about all the sources of income.

“At that time there was no ‘blue book,’ and, in fact women were scarce. It is not surprising then that the arrival of William Casto, a man aged 38 years and a true representative of the Kentucky colonel type, with his young wife, the daughter of John Bonser, of Sauvies Island, Columbia River, near Portland, should have been a memorable occasion. Mrs. Casto was a natural not an artificial beauty—one of those women to whom all apparel adapts itself and becomes a part of the wearer. Every movement was graceful and her face one that an artist would have raved about—not that dark, imperious beauty that some might expect, but the exact opposite. Her eyes were large, blue and expressive, while her complexion, clear as alabaster, was rendered more attractive by a rosy hue. She was admired by all and fairly worshipped by her husband. It was one of those rare cases where disparity in ages did not prevent mutual devotion.

“In the spring of the year that Casto came to Seattle he took up a ranch in the heart of Squak valley, where the Tibbetts farm now lies. Here he built a small house, put in a garden and commenced clearing. In order to create an income for himself and wife he opened a small trading post and carried on the manufacture of hoop poles. The valley was peculiarly adapted to this business, owing to the dense growth of hazel bush, the very article most desired.

“‘Casto did most of his trading with San Francisco merchants and frequently received as much as $1,500 for a single shipment. Such a business might be laughed at in 1893, but at that time it meant a great deal to a sparsely settled community where wealth was largely prospective. It is a notable fact that, even in the early days when North Seattle was a howling wilderness and large game ran wild between the town limits and Lake Washington, the advantages of that body of water were appreciated and a successful effort was made by Henry L. Yesler, L. V. Wyckoff and others to connect the one with the other by a wagon road. The lake terminus was at a point called Fleaburg, now known as the terminus of the Madison Street cable line. Fleaburg was a small Indian settlement, and according to tradition derived its name from innumerable insects that made life miserable for the inhabitants and visitors. The many miles of travel this cut saved was greatly appreciated by the Squak settlers, because it was not only to their advantage in a commercial sense, but also made them feel that they were much nearer to the mother settlement. Another short cut was made by means of a foot path starting from Coal Creek on the eastern shore of the lake. This was so rough that only persons well acquainted with the country would have taken advantage of it. While it was not practical, yet it furnished means of reaching the settlement, in case of necessity, in one day, whereas the water route took twice as long.

“‘Even at that time the great fear of the settlers, who were few in number, was the Indians. If a young man in Seattle went hunting his mother cautioned him to “be very careful of the Indians.” Many people now living in or about the city will remember that in the fall of 1864 there were fears of an Indian uprising. How the rumors started or on what they were founded would be hard to state, nevertheless the fact remains that there was a general feeling of uneasiness. During the summer there had been trouble on the Snohomish River between white men and members of the Snohomish tribe. Three of the latter were killed, and among them a chief. These facts alone would have led a person well versed in the characteristics of the Washington Indian to look for trouble of some kind, although to judge from what direction and in what manner would have been difficult.

“‘Casto at that time had several of the Snohomish Indians working for him, but the thought of fear never entered his mind. He had great influence over his workmen and was looked up to by them as a sort of white “tyee” or chief. Any one that knew Casto could not but like him, he was so free-hearted, kind and considerate of every person he met, whether as a friend and equal or as his servant. He had one fault, however, which goes hand in hand the world over with a free heart—he loved liquor and now and then drank too much. He also got in the habit of giving it to the Indians in his employ. On several occasions the true Indian nature, under the influence of stimulants, came out, and it required all his authority to avoid bloodshed. His neighbors, who could be numbered on the fingers of both hands, with some to spare, cautioned him not to give “a redskin whisky and arouse the devil,” but he laughed at them, and when they warned him of treachery, thought they spoke nonsense. He would not believe that the men whom he treated so kindly and befriended in every conceivable manner would do him harm under any conditions. He reasoned that his neighbors did not judge the character of the native correctly and underestimated his influence. There was no reason why he should not give his Indians liquor if he so desired.

“‘He acted on this decision on the afternoon of November 7, 1864, and then went to his home for supper. The Indians got gloriously drunk and then commenced to thirst for blood. In the crowd were two of the Snohomish tribe, bloodthirsty brutes, and still seeking revenge for the death of their tribesmen and chief on the Snohomish river the summer previous. Their resolve was made. Casto’s life would atone for that of the chief, his wife and friend, John Holstead, for the other two. They secretly took their guns and went to Casto’s house. The curtain of the room wherein all three were seated at the supper table was up, and the breast of Casto was in plain view of the assassins. There was no hesitation on the part of the Indians. The first shot crashed through the window and pierced Casto in a vital spot. He arose to his feet, staggered and fell upon a lounge. His wife sprang to his assistance, but the rifle spoke again and she fell to the floor. The third shot hit Holstead, but not fatally, and the Indians, determined to complete their bloody work, ran to the front door. They were met by Holstead, who fought like a demon, but at length fell, his body stabbed in more than twenty places. Not content with the slaughter already done, the bloodthirsty wretches drove their knives into the body of Casto’s beautiful wife in a manner most inhuman. Having finished their bloody work of revenge they left the house, never for a moment thinking their lives were in danger. In this particular they made a fatal error.

“The shots fired had attracted a Klickitat Indian named Aleck to the scene. As fate had it, he was a true friend to the white man and held Casto, his employer, in high regard. It took him but a brief period to comprehend the situation, and he determined to avenge the death of his master, wife and friend. He concealed himself, and when the bloody brutes came out of the house he crept up behind them. One shot was enough to end the earthly career of one, but the other took to his heels. Aleck followed him with a hatchet he had drawn from his belt, and, being fleeter of foot, caught up. Then with one swift blow the skull of the fleeing Indian was cleft, and as he fell headlong to the ground Aleck jumped on him, and again and again the bloody hatchet drank blood until the head that but a few minutes before had human shape looked like a chipped pumpkin.

“While this series of bloody deeds was being enacted the few neighbors became wild with alarm, and, thinking that an Indian war had broken out, started for Seattle immediately. The band was made up of a Mr. Bush and family and three or four single men who had ranches in the valley.

“They reached Seattle the morning of the 9th and told the news, stating their fears of an Indian uprising. A party consisting of all the able-bodied men in the town immediately started for the scene of the tragedy by the short cut, and arrived there in the evening. The sight that met their eyes was horrible. In the bushes was found the body of the Indian who had been shot, and not far distant were the remains of the other, covered with blood and dirt mixed. In the house the sight was even more horrible. Holstead lay in the front room in a pool of clotted blood, his body literally punctured with knife wounds, and in the adjoining room, on a sofa, half reclining, was the body of Casto. On the floor, almost in the middle of the room, was Mrs. Casto, beautiful even in death, and lying in a pool of blood.

“The coroner at that time was Josiah Settle, and he, after looking around and investigating, found that the only witnesses he had were an old squaw, who claimed to have been an eye witness to the tragedy, and Aleck, the Klickitat. The inquest was held immediately, and the testimony agreed in substance with facts previously stated. The jury then returned the following verdict:

“‘Territory of Washington, County of King, before Josiah Settle, Coroner.

“‘We, the undersigned jurors summoned to appear before Josiah Settle, the coroner of King county, at Squak, on the 9th day of November, 1864, to inquire into the cause of death of William Casto, Abbie Casto and John Holstead, having been duly sworn according to law, and having made such inquisition after inspecting the bodies and hearing the testimony adduced, upon our oath each and all do say that we find that the deceased were named William Casto, Abbie Casto and John Holstead; that William Casto was a native of Kentucky, Abbie Casto was formerly a resident of Sauvies Island, Columbia county, Ore., and John Holstead was a native of Wheeling, Va., and that they came to their deaths on the 7th of November, 1864, in this county, by knives and pistols in the hands of Indians, the bodies of the deceased having been found in the house of William Casto, at Squak, and we further find that we believe John Taylor and George, his brother, Indians of the Snoqualmie tribe, to have been the persons by whose hands they came to their deaths.’

“The bodies were brought to Seattle and buried in what is now known as the Denny Park, then a cemetery, North Seattle. Since then they have been removed to the Masonic cemetery.

“The news of the murder was sent to John Bonser, in Oregon, and he came to the town at once. For several weeks after the event the columns of the Seattle Gazette were devoted in part to a discussion of the question of selling and giving liquor to the Indians, the general conclusion being that it was not only against the law but a dangerous practice.

“Out of the killing by Aleck of the two Snohomish Indians grew a feud which resulted in the death of Aleck’s son. The old man was the one wanted, but he was too quick with the rifle and they never got him. He died a few years ago, aged nearly ninety years.”

So we see that whisky caused the death of six persons in this case.

The Lower Sound Indians were, if anything, more fierce and wild than those toward the south.

George Martin, the Swedish sailor who accompanied Capt. Fay, in 1851, said that he saw Sklallam Indians dancing a war dance at which there appeared the head of one of their enemies, which they had roasted; small pieces of it were touched to their lips, but were not eaten.

In an early day when Ira W. Utter lived on Salmon Bay, or more properly Shilshole Bay, he was much troubled by cougars killing his cattle, calves particularly. Thinking strychnine a good cure he put a dose in some lights of a beef, placed on a stick with the opposite end thrust in the ground. “Old Limpy,” an Indian, spied the tempting morsel, took it to his home, roasted and ate the same and went to join his ancestors in the happy hunting grounds.

This Indian received his name from a limp occasioned by a gunshot wound inflicted by Lower Sound Indians on one of their raids. He was just recovering when the white people settled on Elliott Bay.

The very mention of these raids must have been terrifying to our Indians, as we called those who lived on the Upper Sound. On one occasion as a party of them were digging clams on the eastern shore of Admiralty Inlet, north of Meadow Point, they were attacked by their northern enemies, who shot two or three while the rest klatawaw-ed with all the hyak (hurry) possible and hid themselves.

CHAPTER II.
PIONEER JOKES AND ANECDOTES.

In early days, the preachers came in for some rather severe criticisms, although the roughest of the frontiersmen had a genuine reverence for their calling.

Ministers of the Gospel, as well as others, were obliged to turn the hand to toil with ax and saw. Now these tools require frequent recourse to sharpening processes and the minister with ax on shoulder, requesting the privilege of grinding that useful article on one of the few grindstones in the settlement occasioned no surprise, but when he prepared to grind by putting the handle on “wrong side to,” gave it a brisk turn and snapped it off short, the disgust of the owner found vent in the caustic comment, “Well, if you’re such a blame fool as that, I’ll never go to hear you preach in the world!”

James G. Swan tells of an amusing experience with a Neah Bay Indian chief, in these words:

“I had a lively time with old Kobetsi, the war chief, whose name was Kobetsi-bis, which in the Makah language means frost. I had been directed by Agent Webster to make a survey of the reservation as far south as the Tsoess river, where Kobetsi lived, and claimed exclusive ownership to the cranberry meadows along the bank of that river. He was then at his summer residence on Tatoosh Island. The Makah Indians had seen and understood something of the mariner’s compass, but a surveyor’s compass was a riddle to them.

“A slave of Kobetsi, who had seen me at work on the cranberry meadows, hurried to Tatoosh Island and reported that I was working a tamanuse, or magic, by which I could collect all the cranberries in one pile, and that Peter had sold me the land. This enraged the old ruffian, and he came up to Neah Bay with sixteen braves, with their faces painted black, their long hair tied in a knot on top of their heads with spruce twigs, their regular war paint, and all whooping and yelling. The old fellow declared he would have my head. Peter and the others laughed at him, and I explained to him what I had been about. He was pacified with me, but on his return to Tatoosh Island he shot the slave dead for making a fool of his chief.”

The same writer is responsible for this account of a somewhat harsh practical joke; the time was November, 1859, the place Port Angeles Bay, in a log cabin where Captain Rufus Holmes resided:

“Uncle Rufus had a chum, a jolly, fat butcher named Jones, who lived in Port Townsend, and a great wag. He often visited Uncle Rufus for a few days’ hunt and always took along some grub. On one occasion he procured an eagle, which he boiled for two days and then managed to disjoint. When it was cold he carefully wrapped the pieces in a cabbage leaf and took it to Uncle Rufus as a wild swan, but somewhat tough. The captain chopped it up with onions and savory herbs and made a fine soup, of which he partook heartily, Jones contenting himself with some clam fritters and fried salmon, remarking that it was his off day on soup. After dinner the wretched wag informed him that he had been eating an eagle, and produced the head and claws as proof. This piece of news operated on Uncle Rufus like an emetic, and after he had earnestly expressed his gastronomic regrets, Jones asked with feigned anxiety, ‘Did the soup make you sick, Uncle Rufus?’

“Not to be outdone, the captain made reply, ‘No, not the soup, but the thought I had been eating one of the emblems of my country.’”

A young man of lively disposition and consequently popular, was the victim of an April fool joke in the “auld lang syne.” Very fond he was of playing tricks on others but some of the hapless worms turned and planned a sweet and neat revenge, well knowing it was hard to get ahead of the shrewd and witty youth. A “two-bit” piece, which had likely adorned the neck or ear of an Indian belle, as it had a hole pierced in it, was nailed securely to the floor of the postoffice in the village of Seattle, and a group of loungers waited to see the result. Early on the first, the young man before indicated walked briskly and confidently in. Observing the coin he stooped airily and essayed to pick it up, remarking, “It isn’t everybody that can pick up two bits so early in the morning!” “April Fool!” and howls of laughter greeted his failure to pocket the coin. With burning face he sheepishly called for his mail and hurried out with the derisive shout of “It isn’t everybody that can pick up two bits so early in the morning, Ha! ha! ha!” ringing in his ears.

Such fragments of early history as the following are frequently afloat in the literature of the Sound country:

“THEY VOTED THEMSELVES GUNS.

“How Pioneer Legislators Equipped Themselves to Fight the Indians.

“If the state legislature should vote to each member of both houses a first-class rifle, a sensation indeed would be created. But few are aware that such a precedent has been established by a legislature of Washington Territory. It has been so long ago, though, that the incident has almost faded from memory, and there are but few of the members to relate the circumstances.

“It was in 1855, when I was a member of the council, that we passed a law giving each legislator a rifle,” said Hon. R. S. Robinson, a wealthy old pioneer farmer living near Chimacum in Jefferson County, while going to Port Townsend the other night on the steamer Rosalie. Being in a reminiscent humor, he told about the exciting times the pioneers experienced in both dodging Indians and navigating the waters of Puget Sound in frail canoes.

“It was just preceding the Indian outbreak of 1855-6, the settlers were apprehensive of a sudden onslaught,” continued Mr. Robinson. “Gov. Stevens had secured from the war department several stands of small arms and ammunition, which were intended for general distribution, and we thought one feasible plan was to provide each legislator with a rifle and ammunition. Many times since I have thought of the incident, and how ridiculous it would seem if our present legislature adopted our course as a precedent, and armed each member at the state’s expense. Things have changed considerably. In those days guns and ammunition were perquisites. Now it is stationery, lead pencils and waste baskets.”

Among other incidents related by a speaker whose subject was “Primitive Justice,” was heard this story at a picnic of the pioneers:

“An instance in which I was particularly interested being connected with the administration of the sheriff’s office occurred in what is now Shoshone County, Idaho, but was then a part of Washington Territory. A man was brought into the town charged with a crime; he was taken before the justice at once, but the trial was adjourned because the man was drunk. The sheriff took the prisoner down the trail, but before he had gone far the man fell down in a drunken sleep. A wagon bed lay handy and this was turned over the man and weighted down with stones to prevent his escape. The next morning he was again brought before the justice, who, finding him guilty, sentenced him to thirty days confinement in the jail from whence he had come and to be fed on bread and water.”

No doubt this was a heavy punishment, especially the water diet.

An incident occurred in that historic building, the Yesler cook house, never before published.

A big, powerful man named Emmick, generally known as “Californy,” was engaged one morning in a game of fisticuffs of more or less seriousness, when Bill Carr, a small man, stepped up and struck Emmick, who was too busy with his opponent just then to pay any attention to the impertinent meddler. Nevertheless he bided his time, although “Bill” made himself quite scarce and was nowhere to be seen when “Californy’s” bulky form cast a shadow on the sawdust. After a while, however, he grew more confident and returned to a favorite position in front of the fire in the old cook house. He was just comfortably settled when in came “Californy,” who pounced on him like a wildcat on a rabbit, stood him on his head and holding him by the heels “chucked” him up and down like a dasher on an old-fashioned churn, until Carr was much subdued, then left him to such reflections as were possible to an all but cracked cranium. It is safe to say he did not soon again meddle with strife.

This mode of punishment offers tempting possibilities in cases where the self-conceit of small people is offensively thrust upon their superiors.

The village of Seattle crept up the hill from the shore of Elliott Bay, by the laborious removal of the heavy forest, cutting, burning and grubbing of trees and stumps, grading and building of neat residences.

In the clearing of a certain piece of property between Fourth and Fifth streets, on Columbia, Seattle, now in the heart of the city, three pioneers participated in a somewhat unique experience. One of them, the irrepressible “Gard” or Gardner Kellogg, now well known as the very popular chief of the fire department of Seattle, has often told the story, which runs somewhat like this:

Mr. and Mrs. Gardner Kellogg were dining on a Sunday, with the latter’s sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. O. C. Shorey, as they often did, at their home on Third Avenue. It was a cold, drizzly day, but in spite of that “Gard” and Mr. Shorey walked out to the edge of the clearing, where the dense young fir trees still held the ground, and the former was soon pushing up a stump fire on his lots.

As he poked the fire a bright thought occurred to him and he observed to his companion that he believed it “would save a lot of hard work, digging out the roots, to bring up that old shell and put it under the stump.”

The “old shell” was one that had been thrown from the sloop-of-war “Decatur” during the Indian war, and had buried itself in the earth without exploding. In excavating for the Kellogg’s wood house it had been unearthed.

Mr. Shorey thought it might not be safe if some one should pass by: “O, nobody will come out this way this miserable day; it may not go off anyway,” was the answer.

So the shell was brought up and they dug under the roots of the stump, put it in and returned to the Shorey residence.

When they told what they had done, it was, agreed that it was extremely unlikely that anyone would take a pleasure walk in that direction on so gloomy a day.

Meanwhile a worthy citizen of the little burgh had gone roaming in search of his stray cow. As before stated, it was a chilly, damp day, and the man who was looking for his cow, Mr. Dexter Horton, for it was none other than he, seeing the fire, was moved to comfort himself with its genial warmth.

He advanced toward it and spread his hands benignantly as though blessing the man that invented fire, rubbed his palms together in a mute ecstasy of mellow satisfaction and then reversed his position, lifted his coat-tails and set his feet wide apart, even as a man doth at his own peaceful hearthstone. The radiant energy had not time to reach the marrow when a terrific explosion took place. It threw earth, roots and splinters, firebrands and coals, yards away, hurled the whilom fire-worshiper a considerable distance, cautioned him with a piece of hot iron that just missed his face, covered him with the debris, mystified and stupefied him, but fortunately did not inflict any permanent injury.

As he recovered the use of his faculties the idea gained upon him that it was a mean, low-down trick anyhow to blow up stumps that way. He was very much disgusted and refused very naturally to see anything funny about it; but as time passed by and he recovered from the shock, the ludicrous side appeared and he was content to let it be regarded as a pioneer pleasantry.

The innocent perpetrator of this amazing joke has no doubt laughed long and loud many times as he has pictured to himself the vast astonishment of his fellow townsman, and tells the story often, with the keenest relish, to appreciative listeners.

Yes, to be blown up by an old bomb-shell on a quiet Sunday afternoon, while resting beside a benevolent looking stump-fire that not even remotely suggested warlike demonstrations, was rather tough.

HOW BEAN’S POINT WAS NAMED.

Opposite Alki Point was a fine prairie of about forty acres to which C. C. Terry at first laid claim. Some of the earliest settlers of the first mentioned locality crossed the water, taking their cattle, ploughed and planted potatoes on this prairie. Terry subsequently settled elsewhere and the place was settled on by a large man of about sixty years, a Nova Scotian, it was supposed, who bore the name of Bean. This lonely settler was a sort of spiritualist; in Fort Decatur, while one of a group around a stove, he leaned his arm on the wall and when a natural tremor resulted, insisted that the “spirits” did it. After the war he returned to his cabin and while in his bed, probably asleep, was shot and killed by an Indian. Since then the place has been known as Bean’s Point.

Dr. H. A. Smith, the happiest story-teller of pioneer days, relates in his “Early Reminiscences” how “Dick Atkins played the dickens with poor old Beaty’s appetite for cheese” in this engaging manner:

“One day when he (Dick Atkins) was merchandising on Commercial Street, Seattle, as successor to Horton & Denny, he laid a piece of cheese on the stove to fry for his dinner. A dozen loafers were around the stove and among them Mr. Beaty, remarkable principally for his appetite, big feet and good nature. And he on this occasion good-naturedly took the cheese from the stove and cooled and swallowed it without waiting to say grace, while Dick was in the back room, waiting on a customer. When the cheese was fairly out of sight, Beaty grew uneasy and skedadled up the street. When Atkins returned and found his cheese missing, and was told what became of it, he rushed to the door just in time to catch sight of Beaty’s coat-tail going into Dr. Williamson’s store. Without returning for his coat or hat, off he darted at full speed. Beaty had fairly got seated, when Dick stood before him and fairly screamed:

“‘Did you eat that cheese?’

“‘Wal—yes—but I didn’t think you’d care much.’

“‘Care! Care! good thunder, no! but I thought you might care, as I had just put a DOUBLE DOSE OF ARSENIC in it to kill rats.’

“‘Don’t say!’ exclaimed Beaty, jumping to his feet, ‘thought it tasted mighty queer; what can I do?’

“‘Come right along with me; there is only one thing that can save you.’

“And down the street they flew as fast as their feet would carry them. As soon as they had arrived at the store, Atkins drew off a pint of rancid fish-oil and handed it to Beaty saying, ‘Swallow it quick! Your life depends upon it!’

“Poor Beaty was too badly frightened to hesitate, and after a few gags, pauses and wry faces he handed back the cup, drained to the bitter dregs. ‘There now,’ said Dick, ‘go home and to bed, and if you are alive in the morning come around and report yourself.’

“After he was gone one of the spectators asked if the cheese was really poisoned.

“‘No,’ replied Dick, ‘and I intended telling the gormand it was not, but when I saw that look of gratitude come into his face as he handed back the empty cup, my heart failed me, and my revenge became my defeat.’ ‘No, gentlemen, Beaty is decidedly ahead in this little game. I never before was beaten at a game of cold bluff after having stacked the cards myself. I beg you to keep the matter quiet, gentlemen.’ But it was always hard for a dozen men to keep a secret.”

These same “Early Reminiscences” contain many a merry tale, some “thrice told” to the writer of this work, of the people who were familiar figures on the streets of Seattle and other settlements, in the long ago, among them two of the Rev. J. F. DeVore, with whom I was acquainted.

“When he lived in Steilacoom, at a time when that city was even smaller than it is now, a certain would-be bully declared, with an oath, that if it were not for the respect he had for the ‘cloth,’ he would let daylight through his portly ministerial carcass. Thereupon the ‘cloth’ was instantly stripped off and dashed upon the ground, accompanied with the remark, ‘The “cloth” never stands in the way of a good cause. I am in a condition, now sir, to be enlightened.’ But instead of attempting to shed any light into this luminary of the pulpit, whose eyes fairly blazed with a light not altogether of this world, the blustering bully lit out down the street at the top of his speed.”

The following has a perennial freshness, although I have heard it a number of times:

“When Olympia was a struggling village and much in need of a church, this portly, industrious man of many talents took upon himself the not overly pleasant task of raising subscriptions for the enterprise, and in his rounds called on Mr. Crosby, owner of the sawmill at Tumwater, and asked how much lumber he would contribute to the church. Mr. Crosby eyed the ‘cloth’ a moment and sarcastically replied, ‘As much as you, sir, will raft and take away between this and sundown.’ ‘Show me the pile!’ was the unexpected rejoinder. Then laying off his coat and beaver tile he waded in with an alacrity that fairly made Mr. Crosby’s hair bristle. All day, without stopping a moment, even for dinner, his tall, stalwart form bent under large loads of shingles, sheeting, siding, scantling, studding and lath, and even large sills and plates were rolled and tumbled into the bay with the agility of a giant, and before sundown Mr. Crosby had the proud satisfaction of seeing the ‘cloth’ triumphantly poling a raft toward Olympia containing lumber enough for a handsome church and a splendid parsonage besides.

“Mr. Crosby was heard to say a few days afterward that no ten men in his employ could, or would, have done that day’s work. Meeting the divine shortly afterwards, Mr. Crosby said, ‘Well, parson, you can handle more lumber between sunrise and dark than any man I ever saw.’

“‘Oh,’ said the parson, ‘I was working that day for my Maker.’

“Moral: Never trust pioneer preachers with your lumber pile, simply because they wear broadcloth coats, for most of them know how to take them off, and then they can work as well as pray.”

This conjuror with the pen has called up another well known personality of the earliest times in the following sketch and anecdote:

“Dr. Maynard was of medium size. He had blue eyes, a square forehead, a strong face and straight black hair, when worn short, but when worn long, as it was when whitened by the snows of many winters, it was quite curly and fell in ringlets over his shoulders. Add to this description, a long, gray beard, and you will see him as he appeared on our streets when on his last legs. When ‘half seas over,’ he overflowed with generous impulses, would give away anything within reach and was full of extravagant promises, many of which were out of his power to fulfill. He once owned Alki Point and sometimes would move there in order to ‘reform,’ but seldom remained longer than a month or six weeks. Alki Point was covered with huge logs and stumps, excepting a little cleared ground near the bay where the house stood. But when the doctor saw it through his telescopic wine-glasses it was transformed into a beautiful farm with broad meadows covered with lowing herds and prancing steeds whose ‘necks were clothed with thunder.’

“One day, in the fall of 1860, while viewing his farm through his favorite glasses, David Stanley, the venerable Salmon Bay hermit, happened along, when Maynard gave him a glowing description of his Alki Point farm as he himself beheld it just then, and wound up by proposing to take the old man in partnership, and offered him half of the fruit and farm stock for simply looking after it and keeping the fences in repair. The temptation to gain sudden riches was too much for even his unworldliness of mind, and he made no delay in embarking for Alki Point with all his worldly effects. His object in living alone, was, he said, to comply with the injunction to keep one’s self ‘unspotted from the world,’ but the doctor assured him that the change would not seriously interfere with his meditations, inasmuch as few people landed at Alki Point, notwithstanding its many attractions.

“The day of his departure for the Mecca of all his earthly hopes turned out very stormy. It was after dark before he reached the point, and on trying to land his boat filled with water. He lost many of his fowls and came near losing his life in the boiling surf. After getting himself and his ‘traps’ ashore, he built a fire, dried his blankets, fried some bacon, ate a hearty supper and turned in.

“The excitement of the day, however, prevented sleep, and he got up and sat by the fire till morning. As soon as it was light he strolled out to look at the stock, but to his surprise, only a bewildering maze of logs and interminable stumps were to be seen where he expected to behold broad fields and green pastures. The only thing he could find resembling stock were—to use his own language—‘an old white horse, stiff in all his joints and blind in one eye, and a little, runty, scrubby, ornery, steer calf.’ After wandering about over and under logs till noon, he concluded he had missed the doctor’s farm, and returned to the beach with the intention of pulling further around, but seeing some men in a boat a short distance from shore, he hailed it and inquired for Dr. Maynard’s farm. Charley Plummer was one of the party and he told the old man that he had the honor of being already upon it. Stanley explained his object in being there, and after a fit of rib-breaking laughter, Mr. Plummer advised him to return to Salmon Bay as soon as possible, which he did the very next day.

“The old man had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and joined heartily in the laugh, saying he had been taken in a great many times in his life, but never in so laughable manner as on this occasion. A few days afterward as Charley Plummer was sitting in Dr. Maynard’s office the hermit put in an appearance. ‘Good afternoon, doctor,’ said he, with an air of profound respect. ‘Why, how do you do, Uncle Stanley, glad to see you—how does the poultry ranch prosper? By the way, have you moved to Alki Point yet?’ ‘O, yes, I took my traps, poultry and all, over there several days ago, and had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Plummer there. Did he mention the circumstances?’ ‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘he just came in. How did you find things?’

“‘To tell the truth, doctor, I couldn’t rest until I could see you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the inestimable blessing you have conferred upon me.’

“At this demonstration of satisfaction uttered with an air of profound gratitude, the doctor leaned back complacently in his easy chair, while an expression of benignant self-approval illuminated his benevolent face.

“‘Yes,’ continued he, ‘I can never be sufficiently grateful for the benefit your generosity has already been to me individually, besides it bids fair to prove a signal triumph for religion and morality, and it may turn out to be a priceless contribution to science.’

“At the utterance of this unexpected ‘rhapsody’ the doctor turned with unalloyed delight, and seeing that the old man hesitated, he encouraged him by saying, ‘Go on, Uncle, go right along and tell all about it, although I can’t understand exactly how it can prove a triumph for religion or science.’

“‘Well,’ continued the old man with solemn countenance, ‘my orthodoxy has been a little shaky of late, in fact I have seriously doubted the heavenly origin of various forms of inspiration, but when I got to Alki Point and looked around my skepticism fell from my eyes as did the scales from the eyes of Saul of old.’

“‘Yes,’ interrupted the doctor, ‘the scenery over there is really grand and I have often felt devotional myself while contemplating the grand mountain scenery——’

“‘Scenery? Well—yes, I suppose there is some scenery scattered around over there, but it isn’t that.’

“‘No, well what was it, uncle?’

“‘Why, sir, as I was saying, when I get a chance to fairly look around I was thoroughly satisfied that nothing but a miracle, in fact, nothing short of the ingenuity and power of the Almighty could possibly have piled up so many logs and stumps to the acre as I found on your farm.’

“Here the doctor’s face perceptibly lengthened and a very dry laugh, a sort of hysterical cross between a chuckle and a suppressed oath, escaped him, but before he had time to speak the old man went on:

“‘So much for the triumph of religion, but science, sir, will be under much weightier obligations to us when you and I succeed in making an honest living from the progeny of an old blind horse and a little, miserable runty steer calf.’

“This was too much for the doctor and springing to his feet he fairly shouted, ‘There, there, old man, not another word! come right along and I will stand treat for the whole town and we will never mention Alki Point again.’

“‘No, thank you,’ said the hermit, dryly, ‘I never indulge, and since you have been the means of my conversion you ought to be the last man in the world to lead me into temptation, besides our income from the blind horse and runty steer calf will hardly justify such extravagance.’

“Hat and cane in hand he got as far as the door, when Maynard called to him saying, ‘Look here, old man, I hope you’re not offended, and if you will say nothing about this little matter, I’ll doctor you the rest of your life for nothing.’

“After scratching his head a moment the hermit looked up and naively answered, ‘No, I’m not mad, only astonished, and as for your free medicine, if it is all as bitter as the free dose you have just given me, I don’t want any more of it,’ and he bowed himself out and was soon lost to the doctor’s longing gaze. With eyes still fixed on the door he exclaimed, ‘Blast my head if I thought the old crackling had so much dry humor in him. Come, Charley, let’s have something to brave our nerves.’”

Among the unfortunate victims of the drink habit in an early day was poor old Tom Jones. Nature had endowed him with a splendid physique, but he wrecked himself, traveling downward, until he barely lived from hand to mouth. He made a house on the old Conkling place, up the bay toward the Duwampsh River, his tarrying place. Having been absent from his customary haunts for a considerable time, it was reported that he was dead. In the village of Seattle, some marauder had been robbing henroosts and Tom Jones was accused of being the guilty party. Grandfather John Denny told one of his characteristic stories about being awakened by a great commotion in his henhouse, the lusty cocks crowing “Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead! Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead!” rejoicing greatly that they were henceforth safe.

D. T. Denny gathered up seven men and went to investigate the truth of the report of his demise. They found him rolled up in his blankets, in his bunk, not dead but helplessly sick. When they told him what they had come for—to hold an inquest over his dead body, the tears rolled down his withered face. They had him moved nearer town and cared for, but he finally went the way of all the earth.

Another of the army of the wretched was having an attack of the “devil’s trimmings,” as Grandfather John Denny called them, in front of a saloon one day and a group stood around waiting for him to “come to”; upon his showing signs of returning consciousness, all but one filed into the saloon to get a nerve bracer. D. T. Denny, who relates the incident, turned away, he being the only temperance man in the group.