Several days thus passed.  The Smiths and Driskols seriously discussing the situation.  They had ventured their all in the cattle speculation, and to abandon them to the mercy of the red devils was an alternative hard to contemplate.  But what could four men and a boy do opposed by hundreds of blood thirsty savages?  Under all the circumstances, it was finally determined to embrace the first opportunity of getting out of the country.  Our lives, they argued—­I had no say—­were worth more than cattle.  Besides, we could not save the cattle cooped up in a stone fort as we were.  We knew that the news would be carried to Walla Walla and that returning miners would travel in strong parties.

A few days later a company of forty or fifty men came along, and as they were well armed, we determined to join them.  The two men at the ferry also abandoned the place and went with us.

I omitted to say that Wall Cushman, one of the owners of the ferry, had gone below some time before my arrival there, and I had no opportunity of renewing my acquaintance of the spring before.

We arrived at the Dalles without incident worthy of mention.  There I sold my horse, saddle and bridle, rifle and revolver to a man who said he was going on a prospecting expedition, and took a Columbia River steamer to Portland.  As horses and arms were in demand, not much trouble was experienced in selling, and most of the company with which I was traveling made similar disposition of their “outfits.”

Going down the river, Zim Smith, who was quite a talker, told the story of the goose in my presence and in the presence of a crowd.  I was terribly mortified, and informed his brother that “Zim was making fun of me.”  He laughed and mollified my feelings so far as to say, “Zim is only talking and means nothing by it.”  “In fact, he thinks you are a great boy.”  But I had made up my mind that I had seen enough of the wild life of the mines, mountains and plains; I would go home and attend school.  No more Indians, miners, and rough men for me.  I had seen and experienced enough, and was heartily sick of it all.  I had experienced a “Call of the Wild” and was satisfied.  And I want to say to my young readers again, whenever you experience a similar call—­don’t.

The trip home was made mostly on foot, the great flood of the early winter of 1861-2 having washed out bridges and roads, seriously interfering with stage travel.  An occasional boat made trips as far as Albany and Corvallis, but we failed to make proper connections.  Hence from Oregon City to Albany we traveled on foot, but it was a weary journey in the mud.