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"That is the Indian of it; they fight and flee," exclaimed the impetuous American, Colonel Gilliam. " They did it in the Black Hawk War, they did it in the Seminole."

Where hundreds had lately stood, now a barren and apparently unoccupied country stretched out in silence. But every rock and ravine and hillock and sand-hollow along the old immigrant road sheltered a foe. All day until sunset they sprang from their ambuscades in the masterly attacks and retreats of Indian warfare. All day the Indian fusees picked off the volunteers in their march to the upper country. At night for miles ahead the Cayuse signal-fires burned like sleepless red eyes on the hilltops. Without water, almost without food, without tents, and half clad, in the dead of winter, the little army hurried on toward Waiilatpu. Exhausted, famished, chilled, the Americans reached the camp of Pio-pio-mox-mox. The old chief came out to meet them. At his belt hung Siskadee's shot-pouch.

"We are not one with the Cayuses," he said. "We have no part in the war."

"We are glad to hear it," answered Colonel Gilliam. " We hear that you fought with Lieutenant Fremont in California and that you acted bravely. Your conduct convinces us that you are an honorable Indian. Have you beef to sell?"

Pio-pio-mox-mox drove up his herds. In an hour the savory odor of kouse and bouillon filled the camp. The old chief remained to watch proceedings, and smoked his pipe in a long and friendly talk. Over toward Waiilatpu a few thin lodge-fires rose against the sky.

"That is the spot," said the old chief, pointing. "My people were not there."