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206 McLOUGHLIN AND OLD OREGON

"Te-he-he-he," tittered the Indians. "Squaw-doctor! squaw-doctor! squaw-doctor! Te-he-he-he! "

Year after year Dr. Whitman went quietly on in his work of mercy, but his Christ-like forbearance seemed lost upon the savage.

"Ha knock-down with a club would hinduce more respect," said Ermatinger.

"It takes time, time," said Dr. Whitman. "Civilization is not the work of a day."

Above his squaw, above his pony, the Cayuse prized his gun. He ornamented the rough flint from a London smithy with streaks of red ochre and studded it with brass nails. He slid it into a mink-skin case and slept with it over his heart. To him that old gun brought food and furs and security from the hated Blackfeet. And the greatest hero in Indian eyes was the finest shot. That youth that could bring down the eagle on the wing was in the line of chieftainship.

Tom McKay had an old-fashioned rifle heavily ornamented with silver. Ermatinger called it "ha gingerbread gun."

When McKay came up the Walla Walla with his favorite gun, the clans followed him like sheep. The Indians believed he bore a magic life. They trusted and admired his coolness and bravery. None but he would have dared to trounce the impudent chieftain at the Dalles, none but Tom could have killed a boastful Walla Walla and escaped the Avenger of Blood. At one hundred paces he could drive a dozen balls through a Spanish dollar or knock off a duck's head at one hundred and twenty yards. "I always shoot a bear in the mouth to save the skin," he said.

Dr. Whitman seldom touched a gun, only now and