University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
DOWN IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH.

I SPOKE to the chief about the affair; I told
him it meant a bloody war; that the Indians
of the valleys, wherever the Americans could
reach, would be overthrown, and asked him what he
would do.

He thought over the matter a day or two, then
said he should keep his men together and out of the
way as far as he could, and then, if attacked, would
defend himself; that the Pit River Indians were not
his Indians, that they had a chief of their own, and
lived quite another life from his, and he could not be
held responsible for their acts.

He urged, however, that they were right, said
they had his sympathy, and that to assist them in
the coming war would be the best and speediest way
to establish the union of the three tribes, and get a
recognition of rights from the Government of the
United States.

I knew very well, however, that it would not do

to go to war in a bad cause or what would be called
a bad cause; that that would ruin all concerned, and
establish nothing.

From the first I had tried to get Klamat to go
with me to the scene of the massacre. He refused,
and the Indians put up their hands in horror at the
recklessness of the proposition.

Somehow, the picture of these two men struggling
through the snow, pursued, wretched, lost, half-famished,
kept constantly before me. If they were
making way to Yreka, I could cut across the spurs
of Mount Shasta and intercept them. My camp was
not thirty miles from the road leading to that city
from Pit River. I resolved to go at least that far
and see what could be discovered, and what I could
do to assist them.

With this view I got two young strong Indians,
and set out early on the hard snow, carrying snow-shoes
and a little bag of ground elk meat and grass
seed.

Before night, I came upon and followed the road
by the high blaze on the pines for some distance,
and toward the valley, but found no trace of the
fugitives. I camped under a broad, low-boughed fir
tree that stood almost a perfect pyramid of snow,
over a dry grassy plat down about the trunk and
roots of the tree.

Early in the morning we went on a few paces to

the summit overlooking the valley. The sun was
rising in our faces. The air was so rich and pure
we seemed to feed upon it. The valley seemed to
lay almost at our feet. This mountain air, in fact,
all the atmosphere of the Far West, is delusive to a
stranger, but this of the Sierras, and at that particular
time, was peculiarly so. A tall, slanting, swaying
column seemed to rise before us not five miles away.
It was the smoke of an Indian camp, at least twenty-five
miles distant.

We were full of fire, youth, and strength. We
had been resting long in camp, and now wanted to
throw off our lethargy.

“Let us go down,” I said in a spirit of banter, yet
really wishing to descend.

“Go!” cried the Indians in chorus. “To-ka-do;
we will follow.” And I slid down the mountain
on my snow-shoes, laughing like a school-boy at play.

This was a turning-point in my life, taken without
the least reflection or one moment's thought. Energy
makes leaders, but it takes more than energy to make
a successful leader.

Before night we sat down on a little hill overlooking
the camp not a mile away.

I had no plan. It was while sitting here waiting
for darkness before venturing further, that one of
the Indians asked me what I proposed to do. I did
not know myself, but told him we would take a look

at the camp so soon as it got dark and then go
home.

We looked at the camp, more than a thousand
strong. Indians keep no guard at night. They
surrender themselves to the great, sad mother,
night, with a superstitious trust, and refuse to take
precaution till dawn.

I knew every foot of the ground. It was five
miles to the Ferry, where had been the strongest house
of the whites; and where they had taken shelter
when the Indians had rose against them. I wished
to go there and see first how things stood, now that I
was so near. We pushed down the valley and left
the Indians singing and dancing over their achievements.
They did not dream that there was a white
man within a hundred miles.

The houses were all burned. The ferry-boat was
still chained to the bank, and in the boat lay a naked
corpse with the head severed from the body.

We sat down in the boat, ate the last of our scant
provisions and prepared to return. The excitement
now being over, with the seventy-five miles of
wilderness before us, I began to feel uneasy. We
were in the “Valley of Death.” Desolation was
around us. Half-burnt houses were passed here and
there, and now and then in the grey dawn we could
see the smoke of Indian camps in the edge of the
wood and along the river-banks.

We made a detour to avoid the large camp at the

entrance of the valley and toiled up the mountain in
silence.

Before noon we struck the route by which we
entered, and on the edge of Beer Valley came suddenly
upon two squaws who were on their way there
to dig klara. This is the root of the mountain lily.
It is a large white substance like a potato, with
grains growing on the outside like Indian corn. The
squaws dropped their baskets and hid their faces in
their hands in sign of submission. They had not
discovered us until too close to attempt escape. We
greedily devoured their few roots, took them with us,
and hastened on.

In the afternoon, when nearing the summit, one of
the squaws dashed down the hillside through the
thicket. We called to her to stop but she only ran
the faster. We then told the other she could go
also, and she bounded away like a deer. Our only
object in keeping them with us was to prevent them
giving the alarm, but since one could do this as well
as two we had no occasion to keep the other.

We knew that under the excitement of fear they
would soon reach camp, and, perhaps, induce pursuit,
and therefore we redoubled our pace.

We travelled all night, but about dawn I broke
down utterly and could stagger on not a step
further.

The Indians tore off a dead cedar bark, formed it
into a sort of canoe, and fastening withes to one

end, placed me in it and drew me over the snow.

I ought to have recovered some strength but did
not. I could not stand alone. After dark they
built up a big fire in a close thicket, left me alone,
and pushed on to camp.

Early in the morning other Indians came with
provisions, and now being able to walk after a breakfast
on elk and deer meat, we soon reached camp.

After but one day and two nights' rest I proceeded
over the mountain on snow shoes to Soda Springs, and
gave the details, so far as I knew, of the destruction
of the settlement in Pit River valley.

Mountain Joe advised that I should go at once to
Yreka with the news. I mounted a strong nimble
mule and set out.

On my way I met Sam Lockhart. This Lockhart
was a leading man of the country and largely interested
in Pit River valley, where he had a great
deal of stock, which was in charge of his brother,
who fell in the massacre. My sad news was not
news to Lockhart. The two men before spoken of
had made their way through the mountain to Yreka,
and the whole country was already in arms.

Lockhart was on his way to Red Bluffs, two
hundred miles distant, for the purpose of raising a
company there, to attack the Indians from that side,
while the company already started from Yreka should
descend upon them from the other. There was but
little military force in the country, but the miners

and men generally in those days were prompt and
ready to become soldiers at almost a minute's notice.
But in desperate cases, as in this, men not directly
interested were prepared to arm and equip a substitute
such as they could pick up about the camp. Lockhart
returned to Yreka with me.

We arrived in town late in the evening and I was
taken at once to the law-office of Judge Roseborough.
Some other lawyers were called in; I was ordered,
not asked, to take a seat, and then began a series of
questions and cross-questions from scowling and
savage men that quite alarmed me. But I was unsuspicious,
and answered naturally and promptly all
that was asked.

I was very weary. I could hardly keep awake,
and asked to be allowed to retire.

“You must not leave this room,” said Lockhart
savagely. The truth came upon me like a revelation.
I was a prisoner. Lockhart, who was half
drunk, now began to talk very loud, swore furiously,
and wanted to murder me on the spot. I hid
my face in my hands.

This, then, was the reward for my dangerous
descent into the Valley of Death! This, then, was
to be my compensation for all I had dared and
endured!

I could not answer another question. All this is
painful to remember and difficult to write.