Reminiscences of a Pioneer | Page 8

danger age was no bar, the boy of 14 marched
side by side with the gray haired volunteer, or remained at home to
protect "mother and the children." I well remember once when the
neighborhood was thrown into a turmoil of excitement. A large grizzly
bear had left his mountain lair and was playing havoc with the cattle
and other stock in the valley. News reached the school house and my
father at once dismissed school, hurrying to join those in pursuit of the
robber. Arriving at home he mounted his horse, and taking his rifle and
revolver galloped away to join the neighbors. Now, I wanted to go and
see the fight, but was curtly told to stay at home. No sooner, however,
than my father had got fairly started than I mounted a pony and
followed. I was warned that punishment would follow. But what cared
I for punishment at such a time? Go I would, though promised a dozen
whippings.
The bear had taken shelter on a small mountain stream that coursed
through the valley, and was bordered on either side by a narrow strip of
ash, thorn, and rose bushes, while beyond this was the level prairie. In
spite of scores of men and dogs the huge beast made progress towards
the mountains. Baying dogs and the quick snarl of the rifles marked the
rapid progress of the beast which at length reached a wooded ravine
near the home of "Squire" Miller, that led up the mountain, where a
mile above an old Indian was camped. The bear evidently came upon
him unawares, but whether he was asleep or was getting water from the
small stream, was never known, for, with one sweep of his mighty paw,
the grizzly completely disemboweled the Indian, strewing his entrails
fifteen feet on the ground. Half a mile above the body of the Indian the
fatal shot, among many, was delivered and the chase was over.
As the neighbors gathered triumphantly around the dead body of the
monarch of the Oregon forest I saw for the first time sitting on a horse,
a boy destined to make a name in the world of letters, C. H. or
"Joaquin" Miller. I remember him as a slender, light haired boy, several
years my senior. During subsequent years it was given me to see much

of this boy, at school, in the mines and later as an apprentice in the
Eugene City Herald, a newspaper of which he was the editor.


Chapter III
.
The Indian Outbreak of 1855.
The years of 1853-4 were years of comparative peace, free from actual
Indian wars, and afforded the pioneers an opportunity of improving
their farms, building up more comfortable homes and surrounding their
families with some comforts and conveniences of civilization. Yet even
these years were not free from alarms and stampedes. Time and again
swift riders spread the news that the redskins had dug up the tomahawk
and had gone on the war path. These scares arose from isolated murders
by the Indians, whose cupidity could not withstand the temptations of
the white man's property. It was not, therefore, until midsummer of
1855 that hostilities began in earnest. A federation had been formed
among all the tribes of Northern California, Southern and Eastern
Oregon and Washington. The great leaders of this insurrection were
Tyee John and his brother "Limpy," Rogue River Indians, and John was
one of the greatest, bravest and most resourceful warriors this continent
has produced. Another was Pe-mox-mox, who ruled over the Cayouses
and the Columbias, and was killed early in the war while attempting to
lead the white troops into ambush.
The outbreak was sudden and fierce, lighting up the frontier with the
burning cabins of the settlers. Travelers were waylaid, prospectors
murdered and in many instances entire families wiped out, their homes
becoming their funeral pyres. Neither age nor sex was spared. Little
children were seized by the heels and their brains dashed out against
the corner of the cabin. One entire family perished amid the flames of
their burning home. Women were butchered under circumstances of
peculiar and diabolical atrocity. A man named Harris, attacked by
Indians on the Rogue River, defended himself until killed. His wife
then took up the defense of her home and little daughter, and with a
heroism that has rendered her name immortal in the annals of Oregon,

held the savages at bay until relief came twenty-four hours later.
Mock sentimentalists and fake humanitarians have walled their eyes to
heaven in holy horror at the "barbarities" practiced by white men upon
the "poor persecuted red man." Yet had they witnessed scenes like
those I have so faintly portrayed, they too, would have preached a war
of extermination. You and I, reader, have an