Tacoma
Sunday Ledger – Pages 9 to 10.
Tacoma Washington,
Sunday, August 21,1892
JAMES LONGMIRE, PIONEER
Interesting Story of His Experience in Hunting Buffalo Coming
Across the Plains.
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The Party More Annoyed Than Frightened by the Snake River Indians.
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Van Ogle’s First Sight of His Famous Puyallup Valley Hop
Ranch.
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Exciting Times on the Nisqually During the Dark Days of the
Indian War.
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The Surrender of Quiemuth, the Brother of Leschi and His Murder
at Midnight.
As I am one of the pioneers of Washington, in her territorial
days, I will fall in line with the many who have already written,
and attempt a description of our trip across the plains, and
subsequent events. It may not be out of place to remind the
newcomers of today that they have little cause for complaint
of hardships and suffering as compared with those who made that
long tiresome journey thirty-nine and more years ag
Through
unbroken forests, over swollen streams, unknown and dangerous,
over the dessert with its scorching sun and blistering sands,
exposed to warlike and hostile Indians, disease, and many other
perils which you will doubtless perceive before the close of
my narrative. I started from our home in Shuwme Prairie,
Fountain County, Indiana, on the 6th of March 1853, with my
wife and four children, Elcaine, David, John and Tibatha. John,
the youngest, was not able to walk when we started, but learned
his first steps with the help of the tongue of our ox wagon
while crossing the plains, holding to it for support, and walking
from end to end while in camp evenings.
John B.
Moyer, a very finished young man who had studied for the ministry,
but who was at that time teaching our district school, went
with us; also Joseph Day, a son of our neighbors. I got a neighbor
to drive us to Athicia, the nearest town, where we took passage
on the U.S. Aiel, a little streamer running on the Wabash River.
Evansville at that time was a flourishing town of 4,000 or 5,000
inhabitants.
A shocking incident of our first start was the bursting of the
boiler of the steamer Bee, twelve miles from Evansville, which
caused the death of every person aboard. The U.S. Aiel took
the poor mangled creatures aboard and carried them to Evansville,
where they were met by grief-stricken, who had sighted the signal
of morning displayed by our steamer.
From Evansville,
we tool the streamer Sparrow Hawk for St. Louis, thence by the
Polar Star up the Mississippi River to St. Joseph. We were now
upward of 2,000 miles on our westward journey. There I bought
eight yoke of oxen and a large quantity of supplies and proceeded
in wagons along the river to Cainsville, now Council Bluffs,
and camped. As it was yet too early to start on our long journey,
the grass not grown sufficient to feed our oxen along the routes
we decided to remain for several weeks and make some preparations
for another start. I bought a carriage and span of horses for
$250, which Mrs. Longmire and the children were to use as far
as the road would permit. I also got a sheet-iron stove, which
with utensils for cooking, only weighed twenty-five pounds,
but which proved a real luxury, as we were thus able to have
warm biscuits for breakfast whenever we chose, besides many
other delicacies which we could not have by camp fires. For
the stove, I paid $12, though to us it proved almost invaluable.
At Cainsville, I stood guard at night for the first time in
my life, in company with Van Ogle, who was also camped here,
preparatory to going to Puget Sound. It was dark one evening
when I finished the feeding of my cattle, so I could not see
the person who spoke in a fine, childish voice, saying, "Is
there a man here by the name of Longmire?” I thought it
must be a boy, judging by his voice, and told him that was my
name, whereupon he introduced himself as John Lane. A man of
whom I had often heard, but never had seen a tall man, well-built,
with a smooth, boyish face, and fine squeaking voice, much out
of keeping with his great body. He invited me to his camp nearby,
where I met his brother-in-law, Arthur Sargent, and his family.
After some conversation, we made arrangements to continue our
journey together. While here, we met a young man by the name
of Iven Watt, who was anxious to cross the plains. I engaged
him to drive one of my ox teams, and found him an excellent
help at various times when obstacles met us which seemed hard
to overcome. His friend, William Claflin, hired to Mr. Sargent
to assist his son and Van Ogle with Sargent's ox team.
The time
had now come when we decided that there was grass for the cattle
on the way and we moved twelve miles below Council Bluffs to
a ferry, where we crossed the Missouri river, making our final
start fir Puget Sound on the 10th of May, 1853. We camped for
the night about one mile from the ferry, where we were joined
by E. A. Light, now of Steilacoom, a friend of John Lane’s.
Nothing occurred worthy of note until two days afterward when
we reached the Elk Horn river, where we found a ferry with only
one boat, and so many emigrants ahead of us that we must wait
for two or three weeks to be ferried over. A party of emigrants
was lucky enough to get three canoes, and while they were crossing
we all went to work and made one more. By this time they were
across, so we bought their canoes, and with our own proceeded
to ferry our goods over the river. Here occurred an accident,
which proved disastrous, and spoiled, in a measure, the harmony
existing in our little company of emigrants.
John Lane had started with some fine stock, among which was
a thoroughbred mare of great beauty and very valuable, which
he would not allow to swim with the rest of our stock safely
across the stream. But with a rope around her neck, held by
Sargent and myself on one side the river and by himself and
E. A. Light on the other side, would tow her across, which we
did, but alas, dead. We landed the beautiful creature, after
following Lane's instructions, and tried to revive her, but
she was dead. Poor Sargent had to bear the blame, unjustly I
think, and only escaped blows from Lane, whose rage knew no
bounds, by my interference. But he left our party after begging
me to go with him, and in company with E. A. light, Samuel and
William Ray, and a man named Mitchell continued his journey.
We regretted the loss of his beautiful mare and the unpleasantness
between him and Sargent, which caused him to leave our party,
for friends were few and far from home, consequently much dearer.
But these friends we were to meet again, which we little expected
when we parted. Two hundred miles further on we came to
Rawhide creek, a pretty stream with its banks bordered by graceful
waving willows, cool and green.
This was
the last tree or shrub we were destined to see for 200 miles.
Here we stopped to rest our now thoroughly tired, foot-sore
oxen, and do our washing, which was not done always on Monday,
much to the annoyance of our excellent housekeepers who, at
home, had been accustomed to thus honoring blue Monday. We had
killed a few antelope along the road, which furnished our camp
with what we thought the best steak we had ever eaten, and were
fired with a resolve to secure a still greater luxury, in which
we had not yet indulged. We had seen several small bands of
buffalo, but with no opportunity of capturing any of them. So
I selected Iven Watt, a crack shot, by the way, as my companion,
and with our rifles on our shoulders, mounted my carriage horses,
and with bright hopes and spirits high, started out to bring
in some buffalo meat and thus further prove our skill as hunters
from the Hoosier state. We left Mayer and Day to guard the camp,
assist the women with the washing, and kill jackrabbits, game
too small for us. We rode about fifteen miles to the north,
when we came upon two buffaloes quietly feeding upon a little
slope of ground. We dismounted, picketed our horses, and on
all fours crept toward them till barely within range of our
muzzle-loading rifles, when they saw us. We fired without hitting
either of them, and they started toward us. We ran for our horses,
which we luckily reached and lost no time in mounting, when
the buffalo turned and ran from us across the level plain. Going
on a little further we came to a ridge, or elevation, which
afforded protection for our horses, which we once more picketed,
and walking about a hundred yards came upon a herd of the coveted
game, from which we selected a large bull, and commenced firing
upon him. We fired nine shots apiece, but still our game did
not fall. He would snort loudly, and whirl round as if dazed,
not knowing from whence came the bullets, and not seeing us
from our hiding place in the ridge of ground. Seeing our shots
did not bring our game, I told Watts we were firing too high,
and reloading we took aim and fired at the same time, but lower
and with effect. To our great joy the huge creature fell. Rushing
back to our horses we mounted and hurried to secure our prize,
which lay on the ground only wounded. Upon seeing us, he staggered
to his feet and ran about a hundred yards, when he fell again.
The rest of the herd, frightened at our approach, ran wildly
across the plain with uplifted tails, and were soon out of sight.
Seeing our buffalo could not run, I sprang from my horse, and
taking fair aim at his head, fired and killed him, contrary
to a theory I had heard that a buffalo could not be killed by
a shot in the head. Again we secured our horses, and began to
strip our game of his smooth coat, taking the hindquarters for
our share, judging this to be the choicest cut, which we were
to put in a bag which we carried for the purpose.
Little
we know of life and customs on the plains. In about fifteen
minutes after we began our work we were surprised -- yes, perfectly
horror-stricken – to see about thirty big, hungry gray
wolves coming rapidly towards us, attracted by the scent of
blood from the dead buffalo. Nearer and nearer they came, till
hearing a noise we looked toward our horses, only to see them
running in the wildest affright, on, on to the north, in a directly
opposite course from camp. We left our game to the wolves willingly,
having no wish to contest their claim to it, and went in pursuit
of our horses. We had intended to be in camp with our buffalo
meat in time f or dinner, and had set out in the morning without
a morsel of food in our pockets. So nightfall found us hungry,
tired, afoot, and miles -- how many we knew not -- from camp
and friends, our horses gone and hardly knowing which way to
turn. However, it was a starlight night, and fixing my eye on
one bright star, I said to Watt that we must take that star
for our guide and go as far as we could that night. We went
on, Watt complaining of hunger very often, until the sky became
cloudy and we could no longer see our guide, when we sat down
and placed our guns on the ground pointing toward the star that
had been to us, so far, a welcome guide. The time we could not
tell, as neither of us carried a watch, but it must have been
far in the night.
\From the
time of leaving camp, the many mishaps of the day and our extreme
fatigue, it seemed an age. Soon all trouble was forgotten in
deep sleep, from which we awoke to find the sky clear and our
late guide ready to light us on our weary journey. We arose
and started once more, neither stopping for an instant or turning
aside for rock, hill or bramble, but kept as nearly as possible
in a straight line, never forgetting our star till it grew dim
before the coming daylight. Thus we went, still fasting, over
a beautiful rolling country, till about 9 or 10 o'clock in the
morning, when we climbed a steep bluff and below us saw the
Platte river valley through which slowly passed a few straggling
emigrant wagons. The very sight of them brought joy to our hearts,
and also relief to Watt's empty stomach, for the first thing
he did on reaching the wagon was to ask for food, which was
freely given. I inquired the way to Rawhide creek, which the
emigrants had left two miles behind them. Being so near our
own camp I did not ask for food, but Watt insisted on sharing
his portion with me, which I accepted, and must say relished
after my long fast. We hurried back to the camp, where I found
my wife almost frantic with grief at our long absence, thinking
of course, we had been killed by hostile Indians. Our friend
Sargent was intending to continue his journey the next day if
we did not return, but my wife was thinking of some plan by
which she could return to our old home on the banks of the Wabash.
However,
when we told them of our narrow escape, even with the loss of
our horses and game, grief turned to joy, and peace reigned
once more in our camp. After resting the remainder of the
day we prepared, the next morning, not for a buffalo hunt but
for a hunt for our lost horses. Mr. Sargent loaned us two of
his horses, which we rode, and in case we did not return that
evening he was to put two of his other horses to my carriage
and proceed with Mayer, Day, my family and goods the next morning.
We were to overtake them somewhere along the line. After making
this arrangement we went back to the scene of our late adventure,
where we found large herds of wild horses but never a track
of our own, which, being shod, were easily tracked. We hunted
till sundown when we came to a mound or hill, perhaps 100 or
150 feet above the level, with a circular depression or basin
on the top of it, which we selected for our camp. Taking our
horses into this basin we made them secure by hobbling them,
took our supper, consisting of a cold lunch minus drink of any
kind. We witnessed from our elevated position a grand buffalo
show - fully 5,000 scatted over that vast plain, many of them
quite near the mound on which we stood. It seemed almost as
far as we could see to be one vast herd of buffalo. We arose
next morning and continued our hunt till the middle of the afternoon,
when we gave up all hope of finding the lost horses, and taking
a westerly course set out to overtake the wagons, which had
stopped before night for our benefit. A buffalo hunt proved
a source of joy as well as sorrow to our party for soon after
camping for the night, Mayer saw two men, buffalo hunters, who,
like Watt and myself, had been lost, riding our lost horses
leisurely along the road. Going to them Mayer told them that
the horses belonged in our camp. They said they had seen the
horses on the plains, and knowing they had escaped from some
emigrant train, caught them and gladly rode them into camp.
They declined the $5 reward my wife and Mayer pressed upon them
for the great service rendered. The previous day my wife and
children had ridden in the ox wagon leaving our carriage to
Mrs. Sargent and family in part payment for the borrowed horses.
But the next day on resuming our journey she gladly gave up
the cushions and comforts of the ox wagon for those of the carriage,
which was once more drawn by the lost horses. Nothing further
happened except the occasional killing of an antelope or stray
buffalo, my desire for buffalo hunting not being fully satisfied,
although I had vowed after my late adventure never to hunt buffalo
again. Sargent and I killed one about this time, which weighed
fully 2,500 pounds, whose meat was so tough we could not use
it. He was evidently the patriarch of a large herd.
We crossed
the Rocky Mountains at South Pass, according to instructions
given in Horn's guidebook for emigrants, which we had carefully
observed during our trip. It gave minute instructions as to
proper camps, roads, the crossing of streams, where to find
good water and grass, and other information which we found of
great value, as our experience afterward proved. Some days after
crossing the mountains our party was increased by the families
of Tyrus Himes, father of George Himes of Portland, Oregon,
and Judson Himes of Elma, and Mr. Dodge, who settled, on their
arrival here, on Mima prairie. All went smoothly till we
crossed Bear River mountains, and, feeling some confidence in
our camp judgment, we had grown somewhat careless about consulting
our guide book, often selecting our camp without reference to
it. One of these camps we had good cause to remember. I had
gone ahead to find a camp for noon, which was on a pretty stream
with abundance of grass for our horses and cattle, which greatly
surprised us, as grass had been a scarce article in many of
our camps. Soon after dinner, we noticed some of our cattle
beginning to lag and seem tired and some of them began to vomit.
We realized with horror that our cattle were poisoned, so we
camped at the first stream we came to, which was Ham's fork
of Bear river, to cure if possible our poor sick cattle. Here
we were eighty or a hundred miles from Salt Lake, the nearest
settlement, in such a dilemma. We looked about for relief. Bacon
and grease were the only antidotes for poison, which our stores
contained. We cut bacon in slices and forced a few slices down
the throats of the sick oxen, but after once tasting it the
poor creatures ate it eagerly, thereby saving their lives, as
those that did not eat it (cows we could spare better than our
oxen) died next day. The horses were none of them sick. Had
we consulted our guide before, instead of after camping at the
pretty spot, we would have been spared all this trouble, as
it warned travelers of the poison existing there. This event
run our stock of bacon so low we were obliged to buy more, for
which we paid 75 cents per pound, and 50 cents per pound for
butter, which we bought of Mr. Melville, one of our party.
We were joined at Salmon falls by a Mr. Hutchinson and family.
Here we crossed Snake River the first time, a quarter of a mile
above the falls. Hutchinson had a fine lot of horses and cattle,
which caused him much anxiety, as he was afraid they would drown
while crossing the river. There were a great many Indians here
of the Snake tribe, and he tried to hire one of them to swim
his stock, offering him money, which he stubbornly refused to
do. Finally Hutchinson took off his overshirt, a calico garment,
and offered it to him. This was the coveted prize. He took it,
swam four horses safely, drowned one, then when he reached the
opposite side quietly mounted one of the best horses and rode
rapidly away over the hills, leaving us to the difficult task
of crossing, which we did without further accident. We paid
$4 for every wagon towed across the river. For 200 miles, we
wended our weary way, on to Fort Boise, a Hudson Bay trading
post, kept by an Englishman and his Indian wife, the former
being the only white person at the post. Here we had to cross
Snake River again, which at this point was a quarter of a mile
wide. The agent kept a ferry and would not take our wagons over
for less than $8 apiece, which was as much again as we had been
paying at other crossings. I tried to get an Indian to swim
our cattle over, but failing, Watt proposed to go with them
if I would, which seemed a fair proposition, and as they would
not go without someone to drive them, we started across. Watt
carried a long stick in one hand, holding by the other to the
tail of old Lube, a great rawboned ox who had done faithful
service on our long, toilsome journey. I threw my stick away
and went in a little below Watt, but found the current very
strong, which drifted me down stream. I thought I should be
drowned and shouted to Watt, "I'm gone.” With great
presence of mind he reached his stick toward me, which I grasped
with a last hope of saving my life, and by this means bore up
till I swam to Watt, who caught on the tail of the nearest ox.
Thus giving me a welcome hold on old Lube's tail, who carried
me safely to the shore. Only for Watt's coolness and bravery,
I should have lost my life at the same spot where one of Mr.
Melville's men was drowned on the previous evening.
At Grande Ronde, a happy surprise awaited us. Nelson Sargent,
whose father was in our party, met John Lane, who arrived in
advance of us, with the welcome news that a party of workmen
had started out from Olympia and Steilacoom to make a road for
us through the Natchez pass over the Cascade Mountains. Ours
being the first party of emigrant to attempt a crossing north
of The Dalles, on the Columbia River. Lane waited at Grande
Ronde while Nelson Sargent pushed ahead to meet his aged parents. Our
party was reunited at Grande Ronde. E. A. Light, John Lane and
others, who had left us at the Elkhorn River, met us and continued
the journey with us across the Cascade Mountains. We went fifty
miles further to the Umatilla River, where we rested two days
and made preparations for the rest of our trip. Lest our provisions
run short, I bought, at a trading post here, 100 pounds of flour,
for which I paid $40 in gold coin, unbolted flour too.
We left the emigrant trail at Umatilla and with thirty-one wagons
struck out for Fort Walla Walla now Wallula. Fifty miles further
on was a trading post kept by an agent of the Hudson Bay company.
Of him we bought lumber -- driftwood from the Columbia river
-- of which we made a flatboat on which to tow our goods across,
afterward selling it, or trading its to the agent in payment
for the lumber. On the 8th of September, at 2 o'clock in the
afternoon, our boat was finished, and the task of crossing commenced.
It was not a pleasant task, but by working all night, everything
was safely launched by sunrise next morning except our cattle
and horses. These we wanted the Indians to take across for us.
Sargent was the only man who could speak Chinook, but not well
enough to make a bargain with the Indians, so we got the agent
to hire them to swim our stock. Before they would commence the
work, they must be paid. We gave them $18, and they brought
up twenty-five canoes, formed in line below the crossing, and
we drove our cattle in the stream, and they swam to shore safely.
Next came the horses. When they were about the middle of the
river the treacherous Indians laid down their oars and made
signs, which I understood to mean more money. Meanwhile our
horses were drifting down stream, where high bluffs rose on
either side, and they could not possibly land. Taking out my
purse, I offered them more money and they at once took up the
oars and paddled across, landing our horses safely. The
chief of the Walla Wallas was Pupi Pupu Muxmux, or Yellow Serpent,
a very important person who rode, with the dignity of a king,
a large American horse, a beautiful bay, with holsters on his
saddle, and a pair of navy revolvers. He was a large, fine looking
Indian, fully aware of his power as a chief, which was well
demonstrated when we divided among our party some beef we had
bought of him. It was cut in pieces varying from ten to twenty
pounds, but it must be weighed. The chief 'Went to Mr. Melville,
the only man in our party who had scales for weighing, and taking
them in his hand examined them closely, although he could not
tell one figure from another. Then, looking carefully at the
many faces around him, seeming satisfied with the scrutiny,
he came to me, gave me the scales with a sign that I do the
weighing, at the same time seating himself flat on the ground
amongst us. I weighed, Lane standing by with book and pencil
to tally. Every time a piece was weighed Pupi Pupu Muxmux would
spring up, examined the scales closely, give a grunt which meant
yes, and sit down; and so on until the last piece was weighed,
Lane making settlement with him for our party. Pupi Pupu Muxmux
was killed at the battle of Walla Walla during a four-day engagement
in the spring of 1856 while trying to make his escape from the
volunteers. Who held him as a friendly Indian, to join his tribe,
which he had represented as friendly, but who were really waging
bitter warfare against the white settlers. A brother of this
chief was hired to guide us to the Natchez pass.
I must not forget to tell you that at Walla Walla we saw the
home of the noble Marcus Whitman. A log house covered with straw
held on by poles laid across the roof. A little garden and orchard
were enclosed near the house, and a little further on we saw
the graves of Whitman, his wife, and heroic little band who
were massacred by the Indians some time before our arrival.
Our guide made a horse trade with Mr. Melville, in which he
considered himself cheated, grew indignant and deserted us,
and we were left in that strange country without a landmark,
a compass, or guide nothing to help us. We traveled on, however,
to the Yakima River, which we crossed, and here lost by death
one of our party, Mrs. McCullough, a relative of Mrs. Woolery,
now one of Puyallup’s esteemed citizens. Until this sad
event, she was the life, the sunshine of our party. Everyone
loved "Aunt Pop," as she was familiarly called, but
the death of her friend cast a shadow over her bright face,
and made the remainder of our journey gloomy when we thought
of the lonely grave by the Yakima. Our next obstacle was
a canyon at Well Springs, which seemed impossible to cross.
From the Yakima River we had been followed by a band of Indians,
who had kept our wives and children in perfect terror, but laughed
and chatted gaily as they rode along. The tyees or big men were
dressed in buckskin leggings, handsomely beaded, and breech-clouts,
made of cedar bark. The squaws were dressed very similarly.
Men and squaws all had painted faces. The squaws always carried
the papooses done up in proper Indian fashion and hung to the
horn of the saddle, which bobbed up and down in no very easy
manner when the ponies were in full gallop. At Well Springs,
we sent out men to find a better road, as we thought we were
lost. The Indians, knowing from this move that we were lost
got off their ponies, cleared a small piece of ground and marked
two roads, one heading northeast, the other northwest, making
dots at intervals along each road, the former having fewer dots
than the latter. One of them, motioning his head in an upward
and curving line, pointed with the other hand to the dots, saying
at each one, "sleeps, sleeps," and at the end of the
road, "soldiers," the only words we could understand,
and really all the English they could speak. Lane said to me:
"What shall we do?” I replied, "Let us take the
road which has the fewest 'sleeps,"' which we did, going
northeast one or two days, when we knew we had taken the wrong
road. We had no compass, and would have known but little more
if we had had one. We saw before us almost a perpendicular bluff,
seemingly 1,000 feet high, extending far away to the mountains.
This we learned later was White Bluffs, on the Columbia River.
Here we camped for the night, ordering the Indians to camp at
a respectful distance from us, which they did. We placed a double
guard out, as we suspected they had led us to this trap in order
to massacre our whole party. I really believe now that their
intentions were good, if they could have told us, so we could
have understood them. The next day we retraced our way to Well
Springs, where we had left our proper course. In due time we
learned that our Indian escort meant to conduct us to Fort Colville,
an English trading post, for the winter, thinking the snow on
the Cascades would prevent our reaching Fort Steilacoom, where
United States soldiers were stationed. Upon reaching Well Springs,
our followers left us, much to our relief. We were further encouraged
the same night by the return of Nelson Sargent, who with others
had gone in advance to look out a good road, with the glad news
that after crossing the canyon a good road lay before us. Further,
that they had struck the trail which the Steilacoom and Olympia
Company had blazed for the coming emigrants.
On the 18th of September, as well as I remember, we crossed
the canyon, or rather traversed its length about a mile, which
was the roughest traveling I ever saw, and came out on a beautiful
plain. We traveled along Coal creek for two days when we came
to Selah Valley on the upper Yakima, which we crossed. Taking
our course along Wenas creek, about ten miles, when we came
to a garden, now the farm owned by David Longmire, which was
kept by Indians of whom we bought thirteen bushels of potatoes.
The first vegetables we had had since leaving the Rocky mountains
a real feast, though, boiled in their jackets, a bucketful making
one meal for us.
Following Wenas creek to its source, we crossed over to the
Natchez River, which we followed for four days, crossing and
recrossing fifty-two times. Then left it and started for the
summit of the Cascade Mountains, north of Mount Tacoma, which
we reached in three days, finding fine grass and good water.
Here we stopped for two days, giving our tired oxen a good rest
and plenty of food, which they badly needed, for the rest of
our journey. Three miles further on we came to Summit Hill,
where we spliced ropes and prepared for the steep descent, which
we saw before us. One end of the rope was fastened to the axles
of the wagon, the other thrown around a large tree and held
by several men and thus, one at a time, the wagons were lowered
gradually a distance of 300 yards. When the ropes were loosened,
and the wagons drawn a quarter of a mile further with locked
wheels, when we reached Greenwater. All the wagons were lowered
safely but the one belonging to Mr. Lane, now a resident of
Puyallup, which was crushed to pieces by the breaking of one
of our ropes, causing him and his family to finish the trip
on horseback. At Summit Hill my wife and Mrs. E. A. Light
went ahead of the wagon with their children, taking a circuitous
trail which brought them around to the train of wagons, for
which we made a road as we went. As they walked along the narrow
trail, my wife before, they were surprised to meet a white man,
the first they had seen aside from those in our party, since
leaving Walla Walla. It proved to be Andy Burge, who had been
sent out from Fort Steilacoom with supplies for the roadmakers,
who had already given up the job for want of food, which arrived
too late for them, but in time for us, whose stores had grown
alarmingly low. No less surprised was Burge at meeting two lone
women in the wilderness, who greeted them with: “My God,
women, where in the world did you come from?" A greeting
rough, but friendly in its roughness to the two women who shrank
against the trees and shrubbery to allow him and his pack animal
to pass them in the trail, which was barely wide enough for
one person. From them he learned of our whereabouts, and came
to us, trying to persuade us to return to where there was grass
and water for our stock, telling us we could not possibly make
the trip over the country before us. Failing in this, he set
to work and distributed his supplies amongst us, and returned
to Fort Steilacoom, blazing trees as he went, and leaving notes
tacked to them, giving us what encouragement he could, and preparing
us, in a measure, for what was before us. For instance, "The
road is a shade better;" a little further on "a shade
worse," then again, ”a shade better, and so on, until
we were over the bad roads. We crossed Greenwater River sixteen
times, and followed that stream until we came to White River,
which we crossed six times. Then left it for a dreary pull over
Wind Mountain, which was covered with heavy fir and cedar trees,
but destitute of grass, with a few vine maples, on whose leaves
our poor oxen and horses lived for seven days, not having a
blade of grass during that time. I must not forget to mention
the fact that in these dark days – seven of them –
we and our half-starved cattle worked the road every day. We
bridged large logs which lay before us, by cutting others and
laying alongside, making a bridge wide enough for the oxen to
draw our wagons across. Then all, except John Lane, E. A. Light
and myself, left their wagons on account of their failing oxen,
which they drove before them to Boise Creek prairie, where there
was good grass. Lane, Light, and I arrived first; the rest soon
followed with their cattle and horses. Four miles further we
reached Porter’s prairie, where Allan Porter, now of Hillburst,
had taken a claim, but who was at that time in Olympia. We again
crossed White River, making the seventh time, and pushed on
to Connell’s prairie, thence to the Puyallup River, to
the present site of Van Ogle’s hop farm. Little did Van
think then that he would ever raise, bale, and sell hops on
that piece of ground. We found the river low and filled with
humpback salmon. We armed ourselves with various weapons, clubs,
axes and whatever we could get and went fishing. Every man who
could strike a blow got a fish, and such a feast we had not
enjoyed since we had potatoes boiled in the jackets, but fish
was far ahead of potatoes. John Mayer declared they were the
best fish he had ever eaten. We had a royal feast. Some of our
party was up all night cooking and eating fish. All relished
them but Mrs. Longmire, who was feeling indisposed, but she
fortunately got a delicacy – rare to her – a pheasant,
which she bought from an Indian – her first purchase on
Puget Sound.
The next day we moved on to Nisqually plains and camped at Clover
creek, some 300 yards from the home of Mrs. Mahan, who, I believe,
still lives there, and whose kindness the ladies of our party
will never forget. On the 9th of October, the day after we camped
at Clover creek, the men all went out to Fort Steilacoom to
see Puget Sound, and during our absence Mrs. Mahan made a raid
on our camp and took my wife, Mrs. E. A. Light, Mrs. Woolery
and other ladies whose names I do not remember, to her home,
where she had prepared a dinner which to these tired sisters,
after their toilsome journey, was like a royal banquet. After
months of camp life, to sit once more at a table presided over
by a friend in this far-away land, where we thought to meet
only strangers, was truly an event never to be forgotten, and
one to which my wife often refers as a bright spot on memory's
page.
Before proceeding with my narrative I must mention the fact
that I arrived in this country with torn and ragged pants and
coat, my cap battered, with only one boot, my other foot covered
with an improvised moccasin made of a portion of a cow's hide
which we had killed a few days before. In this garb I was to
meet a party of well dressed gentlemen from Olympia, who had
heard of us from Andy Burge, led by Mr. Hurd, who had come out
to welcome the first party of emigrants direct from the East
over the Cascade mountains north of The Dalles. My garb was
a sample of those of the other men, and when we were together
felt pretty well, all being in the same fashion; but when brought
face to face with well dressed men we felt somewhat embarrassed.
But our new friends were equal to the emergency and our embarrassment
was soon dispelled by copious draughts of "good old bourbon,"
to which we did full justice, while answering questions amidst
introductions and hearty handshaking. This was on the 8th day
of October.
On the 10th of October Dr. Tolmie, chief factor of Hudson Bay
Company, stationed at Fort Nisqually, paid us a visit, asked
us numerous questions about our long journey and arrival treated
us in a very friendly manner, but soon left, bidding us a polite
farewell. In about three hours he returned with a man driving
an ox cart, which was loaded with beef just killed and dressed
which he presented to us, saying, "Distribute this to suit
yourselves.” Not understanding it to be a present we offered
to pay him, which he firmly but politely refused, saying, "it
is a present to you,” and it was a present most welcome
to us at that time, and for which we expressed heartfelt thank
to the generous giver. Leaving our families in camp, E.
A. Light, John Lane and I started out to look for homes. Having
received due notice from the Hudson Bay company not to settle
on any lands north of the Nisqually River we crossed the river
and went to Yelm prairie, a beautiful spot. I thought as it
lay before us covered with tall waving grass, a pretty stream
bordered with shrubs and tall trees, flowing through it, and
the majestic mountain standing guard over all, in its snowy
coat, it was a scene fit for an artist. Herds of deer wandered
at leisure through the tall grass. It was good enough for me
and I bought a house from Martin Shelton, but bought no land,
as it was unsurveyed as yet and returned for my family. Hill
Harmon was in camp waiting for my return. He had a logging camp
on the Sound and wanted to hire my boys, John Mooyer, Iven Watt
and Will Claffin, (the last name had joined us at Fort Hall)
who declined his terms, $85 per month, until they knew I could
get along without them. Knowing the boys were needy, I told
them to go, which they did, soon, getting an advance in salary
to $100 per month. We started for our new home, my wife
and children in one wagon drawn by three yoke of oxen, which
she drove. I went ahead with another wagon and four yoke of
oxen. Our carriage had long ago been left on Burnt river, also
the harness which we saw afterward on a pair of mules driven
past us on the emigrant trail. Arrived "at home" we
found a large number of Indians camped near by. About thirty
of them came in to see us the first night to examine things
new to them, which they did, expressing their surprise by grunts
and guttural sounds which were Greek to us. We found but three
white families for neighbors, Mr. Braile, a bachelor, Mr. and
Mrs. Levi Shelton and Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, the latter now a
citizen of Steilacoom. The following winter I took a donation
claim, a portion of the farm on which I have since resided.
Late in
the fall of 1853 Isaac Stevens, the first governor of Washington
territory, arrived from across the plains in such sorry garb
that Frank R. Jackson, a pioneer, was loath to believe he was
the newly appointed governor. A doubt which he openly expressed,
and which the governor alluded to in later years laughingly,
taking it as a better joke on himself than on Mr. Jackson. Governor
Stevens also held the office of superintendent of Indian affairs,
with instructions to make treaties with the Indians. I will
write more particularly of the Nisqually tribes, whose chiefs
were Leschi and Quiemuth, this being the tribe I was associated
with more than the others. Matters went smoothly till the treaty
in the fall of 1854. A council was held at Medicine creek, at
the mouth of the Nisqually River, the terms of which are well
known to every pioneer of the State of Washington. From day
to day, they met till the treaty was made by which the Indians
were to retain lands of their own choice, reserved from the
public domain for them and their children as long as the tribe
should exist. This seemed satisfactory for awhile, but emigrants
coming in larger numbers the Indians grew jealous, incited,
too, by persons unfriendly to the settlers, and began to appear
less friendly toward us, frequently telling the Klickitats were
getting ready for war upon the whites, but assuring us the Nisquallys
would never join them, would always be friends to the whites. In
July following the completion of the treaty, Quiemuth and Slugyi
came to me complaining that the settlers did not give them enough
for their work, saying in Chinook that the "Bostons"
were bad people, but the King George men were good; that the
latter had been here a long time and never stole land. Now the
"Bostons" come and were fencing and stealing the land
from the Indians. Slugyi, who could speak English, interpreted
what I could not understand, which was nearly all of Quiemuth’s
Chinook. They finished by giving me the worst bemeaning I ever
got. I tried to reason with them, saying the common people were
not to blame, that "tyees" had bought their land,
the officials had made the treaty and they had agreed to it.
Finding them unreasonable, I quietly took their abuse. When
they had finished they got on their ponies and rode off. I saw
Quiemuth once after this, when he was still growling about the
“Bostons," but still called himself the “Boston’s
Tillicum.” Notwithstanding these friendly assurances, we
were greatly alarmed, but at a loss what move to make, as we
did not want to leave our home unprotected, neither risk our
own and children's lives by staying at home.
On the 10th of October, while my boys, Elcaine and David, myself
and John Mollhigh, an Indian who often helped me with my work,
were putting in rye about a half-a-mile from my house, where
Mrs. Longmire and the two younger children were alone. At least
thirty Indians rode up in company with old Stub, an Indian who
had supplied our table with wild game since we first came on
the prairie, a first-rate hunter, and an Indian who was friendly
and honest, got off their horses, walked in the house with their
guns and arranged themselves around the fireplace, crowding
my wife and children to the back part of the room, the latter
crying with fright, while their mother sat in deadly fear, not
knowing what moment they would strike the fatal blow. Stub sat
in the corner taking little part in conversation, which lasted
about an hour. They made a demand for food in a rude impudent
way, which was denied. They then got on their horses, after
telling my wife in Chinook they were going to the Bald Hills
on a hunt, and rode away, leaving Stub in his corner by the
fire. After they were gone, my wife gave him some food in a
tin plate, the best we had, which he ate in silence. Having
finished his meal, he arose, went to my wife, laid his hand
on her head and began to talk in a sad, mournful way. Not one
word could she understand. Then he laid his hand on his own
breast, then on the heads of the two frightened children, all
the time taking and, as my wife thought, warning her of the
fate of the white settlers and the horrible intentions of the
Indians. He left silently, and this was the last time he ever
came to our house. He went to the hostile Indians, was captured
with Utsalawah, or Chuck-Nose, as the settlers called him about
two months after the opening of the Indian War, taken to Olympia,
put in prison in chains, where he killed himself by tying a
strip of his blanket tightly around his throat. His companion
was released later on, and lived till the summer of 1886 when
he was laid to rest with his “tillicums” in a little
burying ground about 300 yards from where my house now stands.
The spot he had begged of me from year to year for his last
resting-place - almost since I had known him.
On the 1lth of October 1855, the day after the Indians came
to my house, I started with my family to Olympia, as we now
knew there was no safety for us in our own home, which had already
been under guard for two weeks. Our bachelor neighbors McLean
Chambers, Frank Goodwin and Mr. Perkins, the two former now
living near Roy, in Pierce County, the latter at rest long since,
came to our house for mutual protection, and kindly stood guard,
taking turns, whose kindness we shall never forget. Arrived
at Olympia I rented a house for my wife and children, put the
two boys in school, and returned to my farm, intending, with
the help of John Mollhigh, to finish my fall work.
On the 20th of October Quiemuth paid a visit to Secretary Mason,
who was acting governor in the absence of Governor Stevens.
Who had gone east of the Cascades to make treaties with those
tribes, which seemed to be leaders in the rebellious movements,
which we began to fear would end in a general massacre of the
white settlers. Quiemuth assured Mason again and again of the
friendship of his tribe, whereupon Mason told him to get his
half brother, Leschi, and with their families, come to Olympia,
where he would give them food and shelter. This Quiemuth agreed
to do and returned to Yelm prairie for that purpose, but he
had forgotten both his promise and his friendship long before
his arrival, for no sooner did he meet Leschi than they took
their families and moved as fast as they could to Puyallup.
As the chief did not come the following day, Mason feeling somewhat
alarmed for the safety of the white settlers appointed Charles
Eaton and twelve men. Among them, Connell McAllister and George
McAllister, son of the latter, and a man named Wallace, to go
to Puyallup and invite the chiefs to come to Olympia. I was
to have gone but as I was four miles from the main road, they
hurried on without me. Crossing the Puyallup River, they went
to where Van Ogle’s farm now is, and sent a friendly Indian
who had come with them from Olympia, to learn the whereabouts
of the Indians. Upon his return he reported about 200 Indians
having collected further on, with the two chiefs, Quiemuth and
Leschi; also the Puyallup tribe. Hearing this, Eaton said it
would never do to go further, for that meant war. McAllister
and Connell ridiculed the idea, saying they knew those Indians
well, and would go and have a friendly talk with them. Eaton
replied that if they did go it was contrary to orders. Confident
of success, they laid down their guns and, after buckling on
their revolvers, started on what they meant as a friendly errand,
with the two friendly Indians, but which proved their death,
for in about twenty minutes Eaton and his little band heard
the firing of guns, when Eaton said the men were killed and
they must get ready for defense at once. They took refuge in
a cabin, which stood near, and fastened their saddle blankets
over the open spaces between the logs, and filled a barrel full
of water, in case the hostile Indians should fire the building.
They then hid their horses close as possible to the cabin and
declared themselves ready for battle, which began just before
dark, a large band of Indians opening fire on Eaton and his
ten men; one, a friendly Indian who had returned with news of
the sad fate of McAllister and Connell, the other Indian having
gone with the hostile tribes who were now fighting, sending
bullet after bullet into the little cabin. One bullet struck
Wallace, who, with the exception of being stunned, received
no permanent injury except losing the upper part of one ear.
The Indians tried to fire the cabin, but Eaton's band kept up
such a constant fire they dared not approach near enough for
the purpose, so set fire to a pen filled with wheat, which stood
near, greatly helping Eaton by the bright light to see the Indians
and take fair aim. Toward daylight, the Indians drew off, taking
their dead and wounded, also every horse belonging to Eaton's
band. Assuring himself that quiet reigned once more, Eaton ventured
forth with his men, crossed the Puyallup, left the main road,
climbed a high bluff and made their way through the woods to
the Nisqually plains, ten miles distant, thence to Olympia,
leaving the bodies of McAllister and Connell where they fell.
On the same day the 28th of October, before sunrise, two Indians
came to my house on horses dripping with sweat, and told Mollhigh
of the terrible massacre on White river and the fate of McAllister
and Connell, which Mollhigh afterward told me when I visited
him. Mollhigh's wife and mother were camped near my house, but
came at once on hearing of the massacre, and began to weep and
wring their hands, and told me in Chinook to go at once or the
Indians would kill me, which I did not understand. Mollhigh’s
wife told Mrs. Longmire afterward that I was the biggest fool
she ever saw. During this excitement, Mollhigh continued this
work, talking to the Indians, who were trying to persuade him
to go and fight the whites. I noticed their excitement, which
was greatly increased, when the thirty braves who had gone to
the Bald Hills a few days before, arrived with their squaws,
who were crying bitterly, which convinced me the news of the
massacre had been sent them, and that I must get ready to leave,
as the Indians were already grinding their knives and tomahawks
on my grindstone, while they talked wildly and the squaws continued
to cry. I fastened on my revolver but left my gun in the house
while I went after my horse. While looking for my horse from
a high point which commanded a view of the prairie, I heard
the sound of horses’ feet, and stepping behind a tree I
saw passing the two Indians who had brought news of the massacre,
as I supposed, returning to Puyallup. Not finding my horse,
I started home, but stopped at McLean Chambers’ who lived
where my house now stands, and who had already heard of the
massacre. He begged me not to go back to my home, but I had
left my gun and felt that I must have it. Find I would go, he
said I must take his horse, which I did, but while we were talking
the same Indians I had seen while looking for my horse rode
up, talked a few minutes and passed on. I believed I was the
man they were hunting. Shortly I took McLean’s horse and
rode quietly home, to find it broken into, everything of value
gone, every stitch of my clothing only what I wore, also my
gun, which I looked for fist on going into the house.
Things
of no value to the Indians were scattered over the yard, but
not and Indian in sight – not even my trusted Mollhigh,
who afterwards told me he went only to save my life. He told
the Indians Longmire was a “cultus tillicum,” and
had always been good to the Indians, and not to kill him, but
kill the "Tyees," the big men. They answered his pleading
by saying if he did not come with them and help to fight they
would kill him and "Longmire too," but if he would
help them they would not kill Longmire. After long persuasion,
poor Mollhigh yielded, thinking this the only means to save
either one of us, and went with the hostiles. He was true to
me though, for after the war he came back and lived with me
for years, always claiming that he saved my life. Coming out
of my house, I looked carefully on all sides, with my revolver
drawn and ready to fire at a minute's notice. I looked carefully
around on all sides, then mounted my horse, which I put to a
lively run, till I reached McLean Chambers, who at once took
him and started for Olympia. The Indians had stolen my last
horse, and I must now make my way to Olympia, twenty-five miles,
on foot, which was not a pleasant trip alone. I walked over
to Brail's, where T. M. Chambers now lives; to find his house
deserted. He had left on first hearing of the massacre. I now
concluded to go to Hughes, and get him to go with me, but dark
came on, and hearing horses coming I dropped behind a pile of
rails, which hid me from view. Soon I heard the peculiar hissing
sound like "shee, shee," with which Indians always
drive stock, and I knew they were stealing the last horses from
the white settlers on the prairies. Arrived at Hughes' he and
his family had taken flight. I hardly knew which way to turn,
but finally decided to go to George Edward’s, a former
employee of the Hudson Bay company, an Englishman who still
lives at Yelm station. I thought if he was gone I must take
to the woods. Fortunately for me he and his wife, one of the
Nisqually tribe, were at home, but thought it unsafe to remain
in the house, so we went to the barn and spent the night. In
the morning we started for Olympia, Edwards and I. I rode a
horse belonging to the Hudson Bay company, known as old Roosh.
Half an hour before our arrival word had reached Olympia from
Dr. Tolmie, through Mollhigh's wife, that I was killed by the
Indians the evening before. Much to my relief, my family had
not heard the news when I arrived at home. I met Charley Eaton,
who was organizing a company of volunteers to go in pursuit
of the Indians; bent on killing them all, else bring them to
subjection. About sixty-seven men joined him, but on being sworn
refused to take the oath, and deserted our ranks till only eighteen
or twenty men remained in the company, which was called the
Puget Sound Rangers. Charles Eaton was captain, James Tullis
first lieutenant. The other officers' names I have forgotten.
I enlisted and we started at once to scour the northeastern
part of Thurston County and all of Pierce for hostile Indians
and learn where they were collected. For several days not an
Indian could be found, most of them having gone to White river
to make a grand stand at Connell's prairie, where Qualchin met
them with about 300 Klickitats from east of the Cascade mountains.
Qualchin was the son of Auhi, chief of the Klickitats, whom
he led to battle. Quiemuth led the Nisquallies, assisted by
Leachi, and Kitsap the Puyallups. They were met here by companies
commanded by Captains Henness, Gilmore, Hayes, White and Swindle;
also one by Isaac Hayes. These were all volunteer companies.
The Indians fought all the morning in ambush, the volunteers
failing to draw them out into open battle. In the afternoon,
the volunteers, finding they could gain nothing by this method
of warfare, resorted to strategy. One company was ordered to
lie down on the ground, the rest to flee in confusion. The Indians,
looking only at the fleeing volunteers and thinking the day
was theirs, rushed madly forward with beating drums and wild
war whoops till they came within fifty yards of the prostrate
volunteers, who suddenly rose and opened fire, the fleeing volunteers
returning, firing as they came. A panic seized the Indians,
who flung their drums and ran wildly not forgetting their dead
and, wounded, pell mell into the Puyallup river, swam to the
other side, the volunteers following to the river bank, killing
many as they tried to escape by swimming. Qualchin not accustomed
to fighting in the woods on foot, left for Yakima in disgust.
The rest, left without a leader, and much reduced in numbers,
scattered in small bands all over the country, stealing, burning
houses and barns, killing the settlers and spreading terror
everywhere.
The Puget Sound rangers in the meantime were attempting to hunt
down fugitive Indians, all to no purpose, however, for not an
Indian could be found. We became convinced they were getting
information and assistance from friends, and so reported to
Governor Stevens, who ordered the arrest of all persons suspected
of rendering them assistance. Arrests were made of all men whom
we suspected of harboring Indians. They were taken to Fort Steilacoom
and tried, but nothing could be proven against them, so they
were released. After this, the volunteers began to find Indians
in small bands all over the country, whom they killed or captured,
whenever found. However, depredations continued, and several
more arrests were made, when Governor Stevens proclaimed martial
law, to prevent persons suspected of aiding the Indians from
returning to their homes, holding them as prisoners at Fort
Steilacoom. Shortly after this move on the part of our worthy
governor, some of the Indians surrendered and were placed in
charge of the Indian Agent on the reservation. The Puget Sound
rangers were now discharged, and I made preparations to move
back to Yelm prairie with my family, taking with me a friendly
Indian named Peallo and his family, who camped, near our house.
We did not feel safe in our home and Peallo and I took turns
standing guard at nights; working with our guns beside us during
the day.
The war had been going on now for nearly a year, and the settlers
were tired and discouraged, and many of them living in blockhouses.
One night when Peallo was standing guard he came to the door
saying: "Mesatchee tillicums choco" (the bad Indians
are coming). I got up, took my gun and went outside, when Peallo
came to me, saying in Chinook, "If they do come I die with
you." He lay down putting his ear close to the ground,
and listened a few minutes, but got up, saying he was mistaken.
"It was the spirits, not Indians." But he was not
mistaken, as examination next morning showed that horses had
been fastened about a half mile from my house, on the edge of
a swamp, apparently all night, the riders probably prowling
near my house. When Peallo saw this, he begged me to go to the
blockhouse, saying we were not safe in our house. I told him
I was not afraid. He then went to my wife and begged her to
talk to me and get me to go to the blockhouse and not let her
and the children be killed. On the second day after this, we
moved to the blockhouse, where we found Levi Shelton and family
and Thomas Chambers, Sr., and family besides five men to guard
the commissary store, which was kept there. About this time,
Governor Curry of Oregon sent a company of troops to our assistance
under Captain Miller. Indians were still stealing horses and
killing cattle. A band of these robbers were followed by Captain
Maxon to the Mashel River where the last one was killed.
Quiemuth and Leschi now separated, for what cause I never knew.
The former grew tired of fighting and come to Ozha, a Frenchmen,
who lived on the Nisqually near the crossing of the Northern
Pacific railroad bridge, and asked him to see me and learn if
I could take him to Governor Stevens, as he wanted to surrender,
and would risk his life with the governor, I told Ozha to bring
Quiemuth to me after dark for if he were seen some one would
surely kill him. I was glad he had surrendered as he was the
only chief left on our side of the river whom we feared, but
I hardly know why he came to me unless he thought as I was a
friend of Governor Stevens it would make his sentence lighter.
It was early in the summer of 1856 when he came one night with
Ozha into my house unarmed, shaking hands with me and my wife
as friendly as if he had not been fighting us and our friends
for months and months. I got my horse and taking Van Ogle, George
Brail Ozha and Betsey Edgar, a squaw and friend of Ozha’s,
we started for Olympia, Quiemuth riding close to me, talking
freely all the way, telling me if the governor did not kill
him he would show me where there was lots of gold, as he knew
where it was. It was a gloomy ride that night through the rain,
and when we reached Olympia between 2 and 3 o’clock in
the morning, we were wet, muddy and tired. I awoke Governor
Stevens and told him I had Quiemuth, who wanted to see him.
He got up, invited us in, and ordered lunch, of which we partook
heartily, being hungry as well as tired. Ozha, Van Ogle and
George Brail went to put our horses in the stable, while I remained
with Quiemuth. The governor handed our prisoner a pipe of tobacco,
which he smoked a few minutes telling me between whiffs he through
the governor was a good man and would not hurt him; and that
he was a good “tillicum.” Governor Stevens offered
me a bed, which I declined, as I was wet and muddy, and told
him if he would give me a blanket I would lay down by the fire
in the office. Blankets were brought for me and Quiemuth, and
we lay down, one on either side of the fireplace, I being nearest
the door. In the meantime, news of the chief’s surrender
must have been circulated, although I had intended it should
be kept secret. Governor Stevens left lights burning in
the office, bade us good-night, and once more retired, and I
was soon in a deep sleep, from which I was aroused by a great
noise, I hardly knew what. I sprang up to hear the sound as
of persons running out of the house, and to find the lights
blown out. I saw by the dim firelight a man fall and heard a
deep groan. I ran to the falling man and found it was Quiemuth,
speechless and dying. At this moment the governor rushed in,
saying as he saw the dead chief: "Who in ----- has done
this?” I replied did not know. "In my office, too,"
he added, "this is a club for General Wool.” General
Wool had opposed the policy of Stevens, and Governor Curry of
Oregon, in the prosecution of the Indian war. Before the Governor
reached the office I ran to the door, and by the dim morning
light saw eighteen or twenty men outside the door. Never in
my long and intimate acquaintance with Governor Stevens did
I ever see him so enraged as he was that night, and justly,
too, it seems to me, for even after all these years it kindles
my wrath when I think of the cowardly deed. It was almost daylight,
and the body of Quiemuth was left on the carpeted floor of the
office till the coroner's inquest was held, which brought out
the fact that Quiemuth had been shot with a pistol, the ball
taking effect in the right arm and right side, which Dr. Willard,
Sr., declared never could have killed any man. On closer examination
he found the chief had been stabbed with a very fine blade,
which had penetrated the heart, causing instant death. One,
Joe Bustin, had been arrested during the inquest on suspicion.
Elwood Evans, now of Tacoma, then a young lawyer of Olympia,
conducted the prosecution, B. F. Kindall the defense, which
resulted in the acquittal of Bustin, though many persons believed
him to be the guilty party.
Quiemuth now being dead, Leschi was soon captured and sentenced
to hang, but the execution was stayed, and Leschi returned to
prison. Court again convened when he was sentenced and executed
near Fort Steilacoom. This ended the Indian War.
I must here mention that many prominent men condemned Governor
Stevens strongly for proclaiming martial law, but his course
was ably defended in the legislature, where the debates were
long and stormy. I represented my county at that time, and approved
our governor's action. Peace once more restored; the settlers
returned to their homes to begin life anew, having been robbed
of everything. My last horse was gone, but a few cattle were
left. But with willing hands and bright hopes, the blessings
of health and peace in our home, my wife and I took up our burden,
and prosperity met us. So that when old age comes on we may
rest in peace, waiting for the summons which calls us all to
the better land. James Longmire,
Eatonville, Washington
