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 cried father, his voice hoarse with indignation. The chief, standing with his back against the giant oak, had defied the United States. We returned home leaving the brave old man in peace. Father and my uncles protected the old chieftainand his family and they were allowed to remain in their old home. I have read histories of Oregon, volumes of memoirs and many tales of the early days, but have never found anything relating to Chief Halo. He was a character worthy to be remembered. Should coming generations learn to know him as he was, they will see a noble figure standing with face uplifted and eyes wide with wonder and delight to behold the coming of civilization. This noblest and last sachem of the natives of the Umpqua Valley has slept with his fathers "Lo these many years." And his people; where are they? Their war songs, and their songs of exultation and lamentation these hills and valleys will hear no more.

In the summer of 1853 the Rogue River Indians swept down upon the straggling settlements in Southern Oregon, murdering the inhabitants, burning homes and carrying away captives. There was a call for volunteers and father organized a company or detachment known as "Captain Lindsay Applegate's company of mounted volunteers." Brother Elisha was then twenty-one years of age, I was seventeen, and we both enlisted for the war. The tribe inhabiting the Rogue River Valley was small and has been estimated at eight hundred people; less than half were warriors. This tribe was divided into small bands or tribes under sub-chiefs. Chief John, as he was called by the whites, was head chief of all these tribes, their great war chief. A treaty was made with these Indians in September, 1853, at our encampment, which was between the upper Table Rock and Rogue River. After the treaty had been made Chief John and his son visited our camp. The son was about my age, only a boy. We had many interesting talks together, and I liked and admired the young chief.

But here my little story must end. Of those courageous men and women who made that half year's journey to Oregon in 1843, only a little handful are left, like the last leaves on a tree. But those who have gone on their last long journey lived to see the wilderness bloom—lived to know that the