Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, vol 8 | Page 4

crashed down and buried the two forever. The Columbia leaps the ruins
of the bridge in the rapids that they call the Cascades, and the waters
still brawl on, while the sulky tamanouses watch the whitened floods
from their mountain-tops, knowing that never again will they see so fair
a creature as Mentonee.

THE DEATH OF UMATILLA
Umatilla, chief of the Indians at the Cascades of the Columbia, was one
of the few red men of his time who favored peace with the white
settlers and lent no countenance to the fierce revels of the "potlatch." In
these "feasts of gifts" the savages, believing themselves to be
"possessed by the spirit," lashed themselves into a frenzy that on
several occasions was only quieted by the shedding of blood. Black
Eagle's Feather--or Benjamin, as he was called by the settlers--was the
only one of the children of the old chief who survived a summer of
plague, and on this boy Umatilla had put all his hopes and affections.
The lad had formed a great trust in his white teacher, a college-bred
man from the East, who had built a little school-house beside the
Columbia and was teaching the Indian idea how to shoot something

beside white people. This boy and his teacher had hunted together; they
had journeyed in the same canoe; had tramped over the same trail to the
great falls of the Missouri; and at the Giant Spring had seen the Piegans
cast in their gifts, in the belief that the manitou of the place would
deliver them in the hereafter to the sun-god, whom they worshipped.
One day Benjamin fell ill, and the schoolmaster saw that he, too, was to
die of the plague. Old Umatilla received the news with Indian stoicism,
but he went into the forest to be alone for a time.
When he returned day was breaking and a flock of wild-geese
trumpeted overhead. The boy heard them, and said, "Boston tilicum"
(white man), "does the Great Father tell the geese where to go?"
"Yes."
"Then he will tell me, too?"
"Yes."
"We shall never go back to the Missouri together. My father--"
"We will watch over him."
"That is well." And, in a few hours, he had intrusted the guidance of his
soul through the world of shadows to the white man's unseen father.
Umatilla sat beside the body through the night, and in the morning he
called his people together. He told them that he was prepared to follow
his boy out of the world, but that first he wanted to have their promise
that they would no longer war on the whites, but look to them for
friendship and guidance. There was some murmuring at this, for the
ruder fellows were already plotting a descent on the settlers, but
Umatilla had given them great store of goods at the last potlatch, and
they reluctantly consented. The venerable chief ordered them to make a
grave for Benjamin like the white man's, and, when it had been dug,
four warriors laid the body of his son within it. Then, standing at the
brink, the chief said, "My heart is growing cold, for it is in the grave
there with my son. When I take three steps to the side of him, I, too,
shall die. Be good to the white men, as you have said, and bury us both
together. Great Spirit, I come." And, sinking to the ground, the old
man's life ebbed in a breath. They buried him and his son in a single
grave, and next day they went to the teacher and asked him to lead and
instruct them. And with that year ended all trouble between red and
white men along the Columbia.

HUNGER VALLEY
East of San Francisco is a narrow valley opening to the bay of San
Pablo. In spite of its pleasant situation and fruitful possibilities, it had
no inhabitants until 1820, when Miguel Zamacona and his wife Emilia
strayed into it, while on a journey, and, being delighted with its scenery,
determined to make it their home. In playful mockery of its abundance
they gave to it the name El Hambre [Hunger] valley.
After some weeks of such hardship as comes to a Mexican from work,
Miguel had built an adobe cabin and got a garden started, while he
caught a fish or shot a deer now and then, and they got on pretty well.
At last it became necessary that he should go to Yerba Buena, as San
Francisco was then called, for goods. His burros were fat and strong,
and there should be no danger. Emilia cried at being left behind, but the
garden had to be tended, and he was to be back in exactly three weeks.
She waited for twenty-two days; then,