Page:McLoughlin and Old Oregon.djvu/352



3

indeed, I am confused! The more we know our Indians the less we know them."

Half crazed, worn and torn, on foot up the river Touchet (Toosha), in six days Mr. Spalding reached Chief Timothy's camp. He listened. His Nez Perces were calling his name in prayer. It gave him hope. He entered. His Indians leaped with joy, and bore him to his wife, safe in the care of Jacob and Eagle. But his daughter?

There were dead people lying all around at Waiilatpu. Narcissa Whitman's fair hair floated in blood. A few escaped; the women and children were captives; the rest, thirteen or more, were dead. There was a smell of blood and powder in the air, the windows were broken, the mission plundered.

"Mamma! mamma! "cried the parched lips of little Helen Mar Meek, sick with the measles. But mamma could come no more, and the sweet child died of neglect.

Narcissa, the snowy Joan, led all the host of women to the conquest of the West, an innumerable train that is following yet to this day. The snowy Joan led her hosts; and, at last, like Joan of old, she ascended to God with the crown of a martyr.

Pio-pio-mox-mox sat in his lodge. Again the Cayuse lifted the door-curtain. "Docf Whit'n is killed."

Pio-pio-mox-mox sat very quiet while the voluble young man ran over that day of horrors.

"What part had you in it?" inquired the chief, fixing his Egyptian eye upon the herald. Proud of his exploits, intent only on making them great as possible, the runner said, "Me? I wounded one, I struck one, and I killed one."