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the hills, wheeling eagles shrieked and screamed, the winter rain beat in their defenceless faces. Mothers wrapped their babies in their shawls, and fathers with lips set, as the Pilgrims of 1620, looked toward the blast.

Dr. McLoughlin had been up since daylight and was watching on the bank. There were Indians all around. The doctor noted the angry, excited glance that fell upon the approaching boats. As the first boat swung toward the shore a big Indian flourished his club and shouted to his comrades,

"It is good for us to kill these Bostons."

Dr. McLoughlin's quick ear caught their meaning. One word from the Hudson's Bay Company and those Indians would rise as one man to cut off the incoming Americans. The possible tragedy seemed about to open with all the horrors of tomahawk and scalpingknife. Rushing upon the savage, with uplifted cane, the doctor grabbed him by the throat,

"Who is the dog that says it is a good thing to kill those Bostons?"

That awful tone, that made the red men tremble, seemed doubly awful now. Fire blazed from his eye. The white locks flew like a bush around his head, giving him a fierce and terrible aspect. The craven slunk back in abject fear.

"I spoke without meaning harm, but the Dalles Indians say so."

The doctor gave him a shake as a terrier would a rat. "Well, sir, the Dalles Indians are dogs for saying so, and you also. If I hear another such word, I'll put an end to you." With that he flung him to the ground.

Crestfallen the Indian crept away.

Returning to the landing, Dr. McLoughlin anxious