The speaker was a very red-faced, sandy-haired man, with blood-shot blue eyes, whom I met on his return to the Humboldt country after a visit to San Francisco.

“Did you ever shoot an Indian?” I asked.

“I first went up into the Eel River country in ’46,” he answered.  “They give us a lot of trouble in them days.  They would steal cattle, and our boys would shoot.  But we’ve never had much difficulty with them since the big fight we had with them in 1849.  A good deal of devilment had been goin’ on all roun’, and some had been killed on both sides.  The Injuns killed two women on a ranch in the valley, and then we set in just to wipe ’em out.  Their camp was in a bend of the river, near the head of the valley, with a deep slough on the right flank.  There was about sixty of us, and Dave was our captain.  He was a hard rider, a dead shot, and not very tender-hearted.  The boys sorter liked him, but kep’ a sharp eye on him, knowin’ he was so quick and handy with a pistol.  Our plan was to git to their camp and fall on em at daybreak, but the sun was risin’ just as we come in sight of it.  A dog barked, and Dave sung out: 

“’Out with your pistols! pitch in, and give ’em the hot lead!’

“In we galloped at full speed, and as the Injuns come out to see what was up, we let ’em have it.  We shot forty bucks—­about a dozen got away by swimmin’ the river.”

“Were any of the women killed?”

“A few were knocked over.  You can’t be particular when you are in a hurry; and a squaw, when her blood is up, will fight equal to a buck.”

The fellow spoke with evident pride, feeling that he was detailing a heroic affair, having no idea that he had done any thing wrong in merely killing “bucks.”  I noticed that this sane man was very kind to an old lady who took the stage for Bloomfield—­helping her into the vehicle, and looking after her baggage.  When we parted, I did not care to take the hand that had held a pistol that morning when the Digger camp was “wiped out.”

The scattered remnants of the Digger tribes were gathered into a reservation in Round Valley, Mendocino county, north of the Bay of San Francisco, and were there taught a mild form of agricultural life, and put under the care of Government agents, contractors, and soldiers, with about the usual results.  One agent, who was also a preacher, took several hundred of them into the Christian Church.  They seemed to have mastered the leading facts of the gospel, and attained considerable proficiency in the singing of hymns.  Altogether, the result of this effort at their conversion showed that they were human beings, and as such could be made recipients of the truth and grace of God, who is the Father of all the families of the earth.  Their spiritual guide told me he had to make one compromise with them—­they would dance.  Extremes meet—­the fashionable white Christians of our gay capitals and the tawny Digger exhibit the same weakness for the fascinating exercise that cost John the Baptist his head.