“In those early days, in all my experience with Indians, I have always found them peaceable enough as long as they left whisky alone. Of course we had trouble with them, but it was always due to the introduction of the white man’s firewater, which has been more than a curse to the red man.
“When we reached here, the Indians were more advanced than one would have naturally supposed. We were able to buy berries, fish and game of them, and potatoes also. Great fine tubers they were too, much better than any we had ever been able to raise back in Illinois. In fact I don’t know what we would have done during the first two winters had it not been for the Indians.
“But talk about game,” he continued, a glow coming to his face as the old scenes were brought up to him, “why, I have seen the waters of Elliott Bay fairly black with ducks. Deer and bear were plentiful then and this was a perfect paradise for the man with a rod or gun. Never, I am sure, was there a country in which it was so easy to live as it was in the Puget Sound district fifty years ago.”
“In coming across the plains, Mr. Denny, were you attacked by Indians, or have any adventures out of the ordinary?” was asked.
“Well,” said he meditatively, “we did have one little brush that might have ended with the loss of all our lives. It was just after leaving Fort Hall, in Montana. We had come up to what I think was called the American Falls. While quite a distance away we noticed the water just below the falls was black, with what we supposed were ducks, but as we drew nearer we saw they were Indians swimming across with one hand and holding their guns high in the air with the other. We turned off slightly and started down the trail at a rattling rate. We had not gone far when a big chief stepped up on the bank. He was dressed mainly in a tall plug hat and a gun, and he shouted, ‘How do, how do, stop, stop!’ Well, we didn’t, and after repeating his question he dropped behind the sage brush and opened fire.
“My brother lay in my wagon sick with mountain fever, and that, of course, materially reduced our fighting force. Had they succeeded in shooting down one of our horses, it would, of course, have been the end of us, but fortunately they did not and we at last escaped them. No, no one was wounded, but it was the worst scrape I ever had with the Indians, and I hope I will never have to go through a similar experience again. It isn’t pleasant to be shot at, even by an Indian.”
RECOGNIZED THE SPOT.
“In 1892,” said Mr. Denny, “I went East over the Great Northern. I was thinking of my first experience in Montana when I reached that state, when all of a sudden we rounded a curve and passed below the falls. I knew them in a minute, and instantly those old scenes and trying times came back to me in a way that was altogether too realistic for comfort. No, I have not been back since.
“Mr. Prosch, Mr. Ward and myself,” continued this old pioneer, “had intended to take our families over to Alki today and hold a sort of a picnic in honor of what happened fifty years ago, but of course my sickness has prevented us from doing so. I don’t suppose we will be here to celebrate the event at the end of another fifty years, and I should have liked to have gone today. Instead, I suppose I shall sit here and think of what I saw and heard at Alki Point just fifty years ago. I can live it over again, in memories at least.
“Now, young man,” concluded Mr. Denny, not unkindly, “please get the names of those early pioneers and the dates right. A Seattle paper published a bit of this history a few days ago, and they got everything all mixed up. This is the story, and should be written right, because if it isn’t, the story becomes valueless. I dislike very much to have the stories and events of those early days misstated and misrepresented.”
In 1899, Mr. Denny had the arduous task of personally superintending the improvement of the old Snoqualmie road around the shore of Lake Kichelas and on for miles through the mountains, building and repairing bridges, making corduroy, blasting out rocks, changing the route at times; after much patient effort and endurance of discomfort and hardship, he left it much improved, for which many a weary way-farer would be grateful did they but know. In value the work was far beyond the remuneration he received.
During the time he was so occupied he had a narrow escape from death by an accident, the glancing of a double-bitted ax in the hands of a too energetic workman; it struck him between the eyes, inflicting a wound which bled alarmingly, but finally was successfully closed.
The next year he camped at Lake Kichelas in the interests of a mining company, and incidentally enjoyed some fishing and prospecting. It was the last time he visited the mountains.
Gradually some maladies which had haunted him for years increased. As long as he could he exerted himself in helping his family, especially in preparing the site for a new home. He soon after became a great sufferer for several years, struggling against his infirmities, in all exhibiting great fortitude and patience.
His mind was clear to the last and he was able to converse, to read and to give sound and admirable advice and opinions.
Almost to the last day of his life he took interest in the progress of the nation and of the world, following the great movements with absorbing interest.
He expressed a desire to see his friends earnest Christians, his own willingness to leave earthly scenes and his faith in Jesus.