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chief. "The Bostons are as many as the sands of the beach. If something is not done they will overwhelm the whole country."

Past the open prairies of Illinois, past Iowa in her primeval verdure, past the American desert that since has blossomed like the rose, five thousand people came in the autumn of 1847. Happily the granaries of Oregon were packed with wheat, thousands of bushels without a market. The lands of the Cayuses lay directly in the path of immigration. They realized as others could not the impending danger of annihilation.

Mrs. Whitman wrote to her mother: "The poor Indians are amazed at the overwhelming numbers of Americans coming into the country. They seem not to know what to make of it. Husband is wearing out fast; his heart and hands are so full all the time that his brethren feel solicitous about him. His benevolence is unbounded, and he often goes to the extent of his ability and beyond in doing good to Indians and white men."

Over in the valley the Willamette Indians shrank back and back as the settlers staked their ancestral pastures into farms. Their faces assumed an habitual look of grief and sorrow. There were some collisions.

"Pay me for my land," cried a Willamette chieftain.

The settlers went on and built their cabins, giving slight heed to "those rascally Injuns."

"Pay me for my land," demanded the chieftain.

He kept up such a disturbance that the people sent for Governor Abernethy.

"Just wait a little," said the governor, soothingly. " A chief will come out from Washington to pay you for your land."

"When?" demanded the Indian chief.