whip all the Indians east of the mountains, and why attempt to put on “military airs?” They were destined to a rude awakening.  Some morning about daylight, twenty or thirty red blanketed men, with hideous yells would charge the horse herds, while a hundred or more with equally hideous yells would attack the sleeping men.  Then would result a stampede, those who had talked loudest and talked most about cowards, being first to lose their heads.  The few cool heads would make a stand, while the savages after getting away with the horses, would beat a retreat, leaving the gold hunters to straggle afoot back across the mountains to the settlements.

These expeditions served to work off the surplus energy of the adventurous and restless, until the news arrived in the spring of 1861 of the discovery of gold in the Nez Perce mountains.  The reports, as in most similar cases, were greatly exaggerated, but it served to create a genuine stampede, and while yet a boy of 14, I was drawn into that torrent rushing to the new El Dorado.  In justice to the good sound sense and mature judgment of my parents, I am compelled to say that it was not with their consent that I was drawn into this wild whirlpool, but, I argued, was I not a man?  Could I not ride and shoot with the best of them?  And, perforce, why should I not go to the mines and make my fortune?

I went.  But by way of parenthesis, will say to my young readers—­Don’t.

Chapter IV.

In Which Various Experiences are Discussed.

I have now arrived at a point where I shall speak more of myself, and the insignificant part I was to play in molding history and shaping the destinies of Oregon and the Northwest.

Joining a company of neighbors we crossed the Cascade Mountains by way of the Barlow route.  All had saddle horses with one pack horse, or mule, to two men.  At Grass Valley, between the Deschutes and John Day River we fell in with a large company returning from a search for the “Blue Bucket Diggins.”  They, had been successful (in saving their horses) and hearing of the Oro Fino strike were bound, like ourselves, for the new El Dorado.

At the crossing of the John Day River we found a ferry boat kept and owned by a couple of thrifty traders, who had set themselves down to make their fortunes quickly and without the aid of the pick and shovel.  But their covetousness was their ruin.  The sum of $6 was demanded for a horseman and $4 for a pack horse.  Our party argued with them, but to no purpose.  They would take nothing less.  After parleying for some time the traders were asked the price for ferrying over a foot-man and his luggage.  Wall Cushman, one of the traders, replied, “one dollar.”  Then saddles and packs began to come off the backs of horses and mules.  Cushman threatened, swore and plead, but all to no purpose.  He should receive one dollar for ferrying footmen and no more.