Rebel once against your masters, and millions would be expended to punish you. A few thousands would make you rich, and would redeem the honor of the other “high contracting power.” But you will not be made glad now in your old age, because you are but “Injuns,” and the good ones of your people “are all under ground.” So say your white brethren, who now own what was once your country. Be patient still. The God, of whom you learned from the lips of the honored dead, will yet compel a nation of conquerors to drink the bitter dregs of repentance, and though you may never handle one dollar of the money due you, your children may. And somewhere in the future your race may come upon the plane where manhood is honored without the question of ancestry being raised.
Climbing a steep bluff, going south from Tygh valley, we look out on an extensive plain, bordered by mountain ranges, facing us from the further side. Forty miles brings us, by slow and ever-increasing easy grades, to the summit of the plain, where the road
leads down a mountain so steep, that two common-sized horses cannot even manage a light carriage without rough-locking the wheels. From the starting-point into the chasm below, a small stream, looking like a bright ribbon that was crumpled and ruffled, may be seen. Down, down we go. Down, still down, until, standing on the bank of Warm Springs river, we behold the ribbon transformed into a rapid rushing current of snow-water, whose very clearness deceives us in respect to its depth. We drive into it at a rocky ford, and we are soon startled with the quick breathing of our team, while the water seems to rise over their backs, and we, standing on the seat, knee deep, encourage our horses to reach the other shore.
For nineteen years has the business of this agency been transacted through this current. We are on the other side, vowing that “Uncle Sam” must and shall have this stream bridged. So vowed our predecessors, and so our successors, too, would have vowed had they ever passed that way. A few miles from the crossing and near our road we see steam ascending, as if some subterranean monster was cooking his supper and had upset his kettle on the fires where it is supposed wicked people go. The nearer we came to the caldron the more we were convinced that our conjectures were correct, and stronger was our resolve to keep away from such places. Brimstone in moderate quantities scattered along the banks of this stream adds to our anxiety to reach a meeting-house, where we may feel safe.
This spring gives name to the Reservation, though twelve miles from the agency; to reach which, we climb up, up, up once more to another high sterile
plain, devoid of everything like vegetation save sage bush. Mile after mile we travel, until suddenly the team halts on a brink, and we, to ascertain the cause, alight. Looking down, away down below glimmer a dozen lights. Tying all the wheels of our vehicle together and walking behind our team for safety, we go down into this fearful opening in the surface of the earth, and find “Warm Springs Agency” at the bottom of the chasm.
The country comprising this Indian Reservation is desolate in the extreme; the only available farming lands being found in the narrow cañons hemmed in by high bluffs. The soil is alkaline and subject to extreme drought.
The Indian farms are small patches, irregular in shape and size. They were originally enclosed by the Government at great expense.
Remnants of the old fences may be seen, bearing witness of the way in which Government fulfilled its promises: round blocks of wood, on some of which the decaying poles still lie, the blocks being from ten to twenty feet apart; above them other poles were staked, and thus the fences were made.
Calculation on the cost of this fencing would probably exhibit about five dollars per rod. In later years the Indians have rebuilt and improved fences and houses.