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"With the immigrants some time this fall," answered the governor.

"So you said before," retorted the chief, crushing the grass with his haughty stride. "Wait, wait, wait. This fall, this fall, and this fall. We are dying. We shall soon be gone. Our game is gone, our camas gone. You take our land, but we get no pay, no food, no blankets."

There was friction from the Willamette to the Walla Walla. In fact, from St. Joe to the Pacific the Indians began to look upon the immigrant as lawful prey.

"Why don't government protect us?" cried the immigrants.

"Why don't they build that line of posts to guard these citizens of our country?" groaned Whitman.

"Oh, they are fiddling still at the nigger strings," sang a careless happy-go-lucky. "Only slave States are favored now."

So one great national question eclipsed another.

There was a fracas when the first wagons reached the Dalles. One immigrant was killed and two wounded. A chief and several followers fell. Governor Abernethy hurried up there.

"The Indians steal our horses," said the immigrants. " They insult and annoy us in every way."

"The white men destroy our pastures," answered the Indians. "They have driven all the game from this part of the country."

The governor settled the matter. He had scarcely reached home when news of a second outrage reached his ears.

"Why don't the government come to our aid? " cried all the distressed people. "An Indian war may break upon us."

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