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enough, and wise enough too, to look at the heart of things. Perhaps it was because they were all so busy and intent on getting gold. I do remember distinctly, however, that there was a pretty general feeling against the Indians down on the river a general feeling of dislike and distrust.

What made matters worse, there was a set of men, low men, loafers, and of the lowest type, who would hang around those lodges at night, give the Indians whiskey of the vilest sort, debauch their women, and cheat the men out of their skins and bows and arrows. There was not a saloon, not a gambling den in camp that did not have a sheaf of feathered, flint-headed arrows in an otter quiver, and a yew bow hanging behind the bar.

Perhaps there was a grim sort of philosophy in the red man so disposing of his bow and arrows now that the game was gone and they were of no further use. Sold them for bread for his starving babes, maybe. How many tragedies are hidden here? How many tales of devotion, self-denial, and sacrifice, as true as the white man lived, as pure, and brave, and beau tiful as ever gave tongue to eloquence or pen to song, sleep here with the dust of these sad and silent people on the bank of the stormy river !

In this condition of things, about mid-winter, when the snow was deep and crusted stiff, and all nature seemed dead and buried in a ruffled shroud, there was a murder. The Indians had broken out ! The pro phesied massacre had begun ! Killed by the Indians !