While these events were transpiring all eastern Oregon was wild with excitement.  There were no telegraphs through the country in those days, if we except a line running up the Columbia from The Dalles to Pendleton and Walla Walla.  The wildest stories were set afloat, which of course lost nothing by repetition.

When the first news of the outbreak reached me I was doing jury duty in Judge L. L. McArthur’s Court at The Dalles.  I was engaged in the cattle business in what is now Crook County, and my ranch was 95 miles to the south of The Dalles.  My family had been left on the ranch which was being cared for by a couple of young men in my employ.  My brother, Senator S. G. Thompson also lived a couple of miles from my ranch.

On coming down stairs at the Umatilla House one morning I met Judge McArthur who expressed surprise at finding me yet in town, saying he supposed I and my friends were well on our way home.  I replied that I was waiting the good pleasure of the Court.

“Why, man, have you not heard the news?” replied the Judge.

“I have heard no news,” I replied, but seeing that the Judge was in earnest asked to what news he referred.

Judge McArthur then told me in a few excited words of the outbreak of the Bannocks, declaring that in all probability the Indians would reach my section before I could get there.

I waited to hear no more, and running across the street to the livery stable ordered my team harnessed.  While I was waiting three young men, one of them being a lawyer named G. W. Barnes, and with whom I had come to The Dalles in a two-seated rig, came up.  While the team was being harnessed we secured from a store several hundred rounds of Winchester ammunition, besides a couple of needle guns and some ammunition which we borrowed.  One of my friends ran across to the hotel and returned with some provisions for breakfast.  We had no time to wait.  Other thoughts occupied our minds.  We then began the home run, ninety-six miles away.  I insisted on driving and nursed the team as best I could, giving them plenty of time on the uphill grade, but sending them along at a furious pate on level ground and down hill.  From The Dalles to Shear’s bridge on the Deschutes we made a record run.  There we changed horses, the generous owner returning not a word when our urgent errand was told.  Mrs. Shear also kindly gave us some food to eat on the road.  By 1 o’clock we were at Bakeoven, 45 miles from The Dalles.  Here we again changed horses, and secured some food, which we literally ate on the run.

Our next lap was a long one and it was necessary to save our horses as much as possible.  But we had a good team and made good progress, and when night closed in we were more than 25 miles from home.  We finally reached the ranch of old man Crisp, whose son was most savagely butchered a few days later by the Indians at Fox Valley.

My ranch was reached about midnight, possibly a little later, and I found, to my inexpressible relief, that all was well.  My wife hastily prepared a cup of coffee for my companions and set them a lunch.  While they were eating the young men harnessed up another team, with which Mr. Barnes and companions reached Prineville some time after daylight.