Suddenly Fox of the New York Herald called at the door of Gen. Davis’ tent and said, “the women are going to kill the Indians.”  Both of us sprang from the tent door and rushed to the tent where the women were domiciled.  Davis was ahead of me.  I saw Mrs. Schira with a double edged knife poised.  Hooker Jim was standing fronting the women, as stolid as a bronze.  Mrs. Schira’s mother was attempting to cock a revolver.  Gen. Davis made a grab for the knife, catching the blade in his right hand and in the struggle his hand was badly lacerated.  A surgeon was called who dressed the wounded hand, and then we all went to dinner at “Boyles’ mess.”  At the dinner table were seated about forty officers, men grown gray in the service of their country and young Lieutenants just out from West Point.  The latter, as is always the case, were in full uniform, while the old fellows wore little or nothing that would indicate their calling or rank.  During dinner one of the young men made some slighting remark about the conduct of the women in attempting to kill the Indians, characterizing their act as unwarranted and a breach of respect to the General.

Instantly Gen. Davis pushed back from the table and rose to feet, fire flashing from his eyes, and if ever a young upstart received a lecture that young officer received one.  I was sitting to the left of Gen. Davis while Jesse Applegate, one of the “Makers of Oregon,” sat at his right.  The General spoke of the women as the wife and daughter of a frontiersman, and before whom stood the bloody handed butcher of husbands and sons.  It was one of the most eloquent, at the same time one of the most withering addresses that it has ever been my fortune to hear.  Resuming his seat the General continued his conversation with those about him, but there were no more remarks, you may be assured, upon this incident.

The next morning at daylight the orderly to Gen. Davis came to my tent and awaking me said that the General wanted to see me at once.  Hastily dressing I walked over to the General’s tent.  He was sitting on the side of his camp bed, partly undressed.  Jas. Fairchilds was sitting in the tent talking as I entered.  The General asked him to repeat to me what he had been saying.  Mr. Fairchilds then proceeded to relate that a bunch of Indians, four bucks and a lot of women and children, had come in to the ranch and surrendered.  He had loaded them into a wagon and started to the Peninsula to turn them over to the military authorities.  When within about six miles of his destination he was headed off by two men who were disguised past identification.  They ordered him to stop and unhitch his team and after doing so was told to drive the horses up the road.  When about thirty yards away he was ordered to stop.  The men then began killing the Indians while he stood looking on and holding to his team.  After firing a dozen shots into the wagon, the men rode away, telling him to remain there and not to leave.  He remained until dark and then mounting one of his horses rode to camp.