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Tom McKay and his Canadians were driving cattle up the river to Fort Colvile when the measles overtook him at Fort Walla Walla. He sent for Dr. Whitman.

"I am worried about you, Doctor," said Tom. "The Indians think you are the cause of their sickness. And now since the Catholic priests are come the Indians want you to move away and let the Black Gowns open a mission."

"I know it," answered Dr. Whitman, groaning in spirit. "My poor Cayuses are distracted by their troubles. And the large number of whites stopping at the mission increases their suspicion. But what can I do? I cannot turn the poor immigrants sick and impoverished away. Can you not come and spend the winter with me, Tom?"

"I cannot, Doctor," answered the sick man. "But you must leave the Cayuses."

Pio-pio-mox-mox came up from California in October with heart still sore. Elijah was still unavenged. But what is this? His warriors fall sick around him. Death, plague, contagion lurks on every passing breeze. In every lodge the wail is heard, and yet the immigrants are pouring over the mountains.

The immigrants had warning. Far out on the foothills there came a letter from Dr. Whitman, "Make haste, the Indians are rising. Keep close together and under arms." So into the Oregon country came the worn-out immigrants of 1847.

"Be careful," said Dr. Whitman. "I fear there will be trouble. Do not provoke the savages." So with bated breath they endured every insult and pushed on into the valley.

"Shall we arm?" asked Mrs. Whitman.

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