As we were lying down in the shade of the tent yesterday, we were visited by an old trapper called Joe White.  He had recognized Bradley and Don Luis, whom he had met on the coast, and we invited him to take coffee with us.  Joe White had come into this part of the country with Captain Sutter, whom he spoke very highly of, and of whose early efforts to form a settlement he gave us an account.  Their party was the very first of the white settlers in the wilderness.  They live some time in a camp formed of the tented wagons they had brought with them, until they could run up a few rough shanties, and some protecting outworks.  During the time they were constructing these, and indeed for some months afterwards, they were dreadfully harassed by the Indians, who made onslaughts on their cattle, carried away, killed, and eat both horses and oxen.  The Indians are by no means particular.  One night, after the party had been lulled into a sense of security by the apparent friendly disposition of the Indians, who occasionally came into their camp, and no watch was being kept, upwards of a score of horses and mules were driven off; the loss of which Sutter’s people knew nothing of until they woke up in the morning, and found the ropes all cut.  They started off at once on the trail, and soon found that it led to an Indian rancheria, about eight miles up the Sacramento.  This rancheria was, they believed, the refuge of the “Ingin varmints,” as Joe While styled them, from whose depredations they were constantly suffering.  Captain Sutter determined to take signal revenge.  They returned to the Fort that day, but next morning started off in a strong party, each man armed with his never-failing rifle and big bowie-knife, and taking with them a howitzer which the Captain had brought with him over the Rocky Mountains.  The Indians must, however, have had information by their scouts of the expedition; for, when the party reached the rancheria, they found it deserted—­not even a solitary squaw left among the huddled-up collection of huts.  Determined not to be foiled, the party set to work to demolish the village.  The construction of the Indian houses rendered this an easy task, but, to complete it, fire was requisite.  No sooner had the smoke risen from the kindling wood, than their ears were saluted with a dismal yell from a little densely-wooded island a couple of hundred yards up the stream.  Starting out in all directions from the high grass and underwood, appeared a crowd of squaws with their children, who gave whoop after whoop, and, brandishing boughs of trees, imprecated curses upon the destroyers of their rancheria.

Captain Sutter and his party of trappers were somewhat startled at this proceeding, and the question immediately occurred to them as to where the men could be.  The party pushed their way homewards as fast, as possible; leaving the rancheria burning and the squaws and children still yelling and whooping on the island.  It was as they expected.  On coming within two miles of the Fort, they heard the crack upon crack of distant rifles.  Putting their horses to the gallop, they arrived just in time to see the Indians totally routed, and scampering away as fast as their horses would carry them into the woods.