Memoirs of Orange Jacobs

by Orange Jacobs

On the afternoon of the 17th of July, an oppressively hot and sultry day, our train descended from a high and volcanic table land to the narrow valley of Burnt River in Southeastern Oregon. The way down was through a long, narrow and treeless canyon into which the sun poured with focal power. This canyon, and, in fact, Burnt River valley, is the home of the festive rattlesnake. He is of the large yellow bellied species, fierce in his war moods, and deadly when, from his spiral coil battery, "He pours at once his venom and his length."

Impatient with the slow progress we were making, myself and three other young men that night, resolved that in the morning we would dissolve our connection with the train, and hasten, with longer marches and quickened pace, to our journey's end. Accordingly, early the next morning we packed our provisions, blankets and other personal effects on our horses, and, bidding adieu to our companions, shouldered our rifles and, with reliant faith in our ability to protect ourselves, started on. Our course was up the narrow, silent and gloomy valley of Burnt River. The banks of the river were fringed with a stunted growth of cottonwood and poplar. On either side were high and treeless hills of red earth and rocks, the still remaining evidence of the presence of tremendous igneous agencies in the far-distant past, and which, no doubt, gave the river its name. We camped at noon on a small brooklet which came rollicking down from its canyon home until it reached the valley, and then, embosomed in willows and tall rye grass, flowed silently on to the more noisy and pretentious river. A short distance from camp in a sunny glen we discovered an abundance of service berries and black currants, large, luscious and fully ripe. Having tasted no fruit of any kind for over three months, that noonday repast was not only greatly relished by us, but it awakened associations of home and home life. As we feasted we talked of sister, mother and the bright-eyed girl far away. All things enjoyable must have an end.

It was time to move on. On our return to camp we came across a monster rattlesnake, coiled up and defiant in his lonely home. Having heard it said that tobacco was a deadly poison to this species of snake, we concluded to stop long enough to verify or disprove this saying. We cut some long willow switches and split the smaller end, into which we fastened a quantity of strong, fine-cut chewing tobacco, moistened so that the juice would flow freely, and then presented it to his worthy snakeship with our compliments. He struck it three times viciously. We could not induce him to strike it any more. He had got a quantity of the juice and some of the tobacco in his mouth. It manifestly had taken all the viciousness out of him. He was evidently subjugated. He began slowly to uncoil, and as he lay at full length a tremor passed over him and he was seemingly dead; but for fear he might recover we bruised his head, not with our heels, but with stones.

In stating this little incident I have wandered somewhat from the thread of my narrative. I do this for two reasons: First, to show that I am a lover of experimental science; and, secondly, to show that the filthy weed may be put to a good purpose.

Late that afternoon we made our last camp in the dismal valley of Burnt River. The next morning we made an early start, and found ourselves on a high sage-brush plateau just as old Sol was lifting his fiery rim above the eastern horizon. To me an alkaline plain covered with unsightly sage-brush, burnt with fervent heat, destitute of water and animate with no carol of bird, or hum of insect, is the very symbol of desolation; a silent, monotonous and dreary waste, fit only for the habitation of lizards, horned toads, and other reptiles. Such, to a great extent was the prospect before us. We consulted our guide-book and learned that the only water for over forty miles was a well or spring near the road, some twenty miles distant.

We pushed on. The day was intensely hot. Two o'clock came, and three, and four, but no spring. We had, evidently in our headlong eagerness to make distance, overlooked it. The sun went down in a bank of clouds, whose storm-heads loomed above the Blue Mountains, to our left. Darkness came on. The gleam of lightning and the sullen roar of distant thunder warned us that a storm was coming. The fast-ascending clouds soon covered the sky, and the darkness became intense. We called a halt, and decided to stop for the night. We unpacked our horses and turned them loose with trail-ropes fastened to their necks. By the friendly aid of the lightning we were able to spread our blankets amid the sage-brush. I must confess that as I lay that night wrapped in my blankets, with a saddle for my pillow, startled ever and anon by the lightning's fearful glare, and listened to the rolling thunder as it reverberated with many voices through the canyons of the Blue Mountains, a spirit of absolute loneliness came over me. I was homesick. I thought of my father's home, where there was comfort and abundance. I was also troubled with the thought that our horses might hopelessly wander away in that night of storm. But balmy sleep—tired Nature's sweet restorer—soon put an end to these melancholy reflections. I slept soundly despite the storm, and did not awake until the gray streaks of morning streamed up the eastern sky. When fairly awake, I leaped from my blankets, uncovered and examined my rifle, and after buckling on my belt in which were a Colt's navy revolver and hunting knife, without disturbing my companions, I started on a hunt for our horses. I soon found their trail and followed it with quickened speed. I found them about three miles from camp in a beautiful little valley covered with grass, and through which flowed a small streamlet of pure cold water. After quenching my thirst and filling my canteen, I mounted my favorite animal, and rode back to camp, the others following. I arrived at camp before my companions had awakened. I aroused them with a wild whoop, and treated them all from the contents of my canteen. We speedily packed up and hastened onward in search of green fields, and especially running brooks. About eight o'clock we came to a tributary of Powder River. Here we cooked our breakfast, not having eaten anything but hard tack for over twenty-four hours.

We made a late camp in the afternoon of that day on Grand Rounde River. The evening of the next day found us on the west bank of the Umatilla River. These long and forced marches had begun to tell unfavorably on our horses. I was reminded of the declaration that man had better bottom and finer staying qualities than any animal, except the wolf. Enured as we were to hardship and in perfect health, with no surplus flesh, and with muscles hardened by over three thousand miles of travel, mostly on foot, the wolf even, could ill afford to give us percentage in a race that involved staying qualities. Our camp being an excellent one, and grass, wood and water, as well as fish and game, being abundant, we decided to remain for three days to recruit our jaded horses.

While out hunting the next day, I came upon the camp of a white man, about a mile up the valley from our camp. I made bold to appear at the door of his tent, and found a middle-aged and jolly-looking man who received me with open-handed cordiality. With a smile he told me that his name was Kane, that he was the Indian Agent for that portion of Oregon. In answer to his inquiries I told him all I remembered about myself, and he, as a compensation, gave me a brief synopsis of his personal history. The conversation soon turned on Indian habits and customs; the numerical strength of the tribes in the great Columbia basin, their war tendencies and their desire of, and capability for a higher civilization, at least so far as the tribes under his supervision were concerned. He argued that they had already passed from the purely savage state to the pastorial; that they were owners of large bands of horses, had made a commendable start in the acquisition of horned cattle, and were very desirious of increasing their stock. He said that quite a number of individual Indians owned from one hundred to five thousand head of horses, "and to convince you," he said, "that these Indians desire to advance in the line of higher civilization, I may mention the fact that a Cayuse chief, the fortunate owner of over 2,000 head of horses, and has an only and lovely daughter, offers to give 600 head of valuable horses to any respectable white American who will marry his daughter, settle down among them, and teach them agriculture." He gave a glowing description of this maidenly flower, born to blush unseen, and waste her sweetness on the bunch-grass plain. Touched by the inspiration of his eloquence, I inadvertently expressed my desire to see this incomparable princess. The agent responded that he had business with the chief and that he would accompany me on the morrow to his camp, situated about six miles up the valley. Nine o'clock in the morning was fixed for starting. I returned to our camp, rehearsed to my companions the incidents of the day, and took an inventory of my rather limited wardrobe. Be not alarmed, gentle reader; I am not about to tell you what my attire was on that interesting occasion; suffice it to say that it was becoming to an American sovereign.

At the appointed time I was at the agent's camp. Two horses saddled, with ropes around their lower jaw for bridles, were in readiness. I approached the one allotted to me, but as I neared it, it snorted and shied. I inquired if it was gentle. "Perfectly so," was the emphatic answer. An Indian held him, however, as I volted into the saddle. He let go, and we bounded away at a furious speed. At the distance of two miles or more I found him willing to yield to the pressure on his jaw and to slacken his headlong pace. We arrived at the Indian village about 10 a. m. It was stationed on the margin of the river in a beautiful grove of timber. It consisted of a dozen or more conical shaped tents. We rode up to the front of the principal one, dismounted, and hitched our horses by dropping the trail rope to the ground. The chief came to meet us, and his reception of the agent seemed to be very cordial. I was introduced as his friend, and we shook hands and said "Klahowa" to each other. We entered the tent. There was no furniture, so we were seated on a roll of bed-clothing next to the wall. An animated conversation was kept up between the chief and the agent. I did not understand the Indian dialect, nor could I then speak the classic jargon; hence I had plenty of time and opportunity for observation. My eyes rolled around the somewhat contracted royal mansion. I saw there a dumpy female of middle age, with a heavy but knotted and uncombed head of hair silently engaged in ornamenting a new pair of moccasins with steel and glass beads. This could not be the princess?

The agent told me that the chief desired to talk with me about the incoming emigration; I assented, the agent acting as interpreter. This conversation ending, I went out to take a more accurate survey of the village. While standing in front of the chieftain's tent, a young Indian woman, riding astride of a very fine horse, approached the tent. She reined up her steed a few feet in front of me, showed a little astonishment at my presence, and lightly dismounted without any assistance from me. She tarried for a moment to pet her horse, thus giving me an excellent chance for observation. While I can not say that her form was sylph-like and elegant, yet her features were not irregular, nor was her form misshapen. She was of medium height and stood erect. Her head was covered with a luxuriant growth of dark coarse hair, flowing over her shoulders and extending down to her waist. Her hair was neatly combed; around her neck she had several strings of different-colored beads, large and of bogus pearls; she had on a short gown closely fitting her neck and body, and extending to her knees; it was made out of soft buckskin and was tastefully ornamented with beads, and fringed around the bottom; her lower limbs were wrapped in buckskin leggings with fringed stripes at the sides; her feet were covered with a neat pair of moccasins, ornamented with beads. Such was the chieftain's daughter as I then saw her. She dashed by me and entered the tent. I soon after followed. I judged from the long and inquiring stare of the mother, and the quick and abashed look of the daughter, that the agent and chief were talking about me; and I subsequently learned that such was the fact. By invitation of the chief we stayed for dinner. I will not detain you by a description of that repast. After dinner we smoked the pipe of peace and friendship, then bade adieu to the chieftain and rode back to our camp. The next day I went up to the agent's camp and wrote for the "Detroit Free Press" a description of the Umatilla Valley and the surrounding country, stated the number of Indians residing there, their mode of life, their habits and customs, together with their desire for civilization. I stated the generous offer of the Cayuse chief, and closed with a glowing description of the dusky princess. I mailed the letter at The Dalles.