Lyman's History of old Walla Walla County, Vol. 1 / Embracing Walla Walla, Columbia, Garfield and Asotin counties

by William Denison Lyman

After getting settled in camp, parts of two companies, myself one of the number, escorted Joe Meek and his party to the snow line of the Blue Mountains as he started on his famous trip across the continent at midwinter, as an agent from Oregon, to ask protection of the United States Government for the suffering settlers in the wilds of Oregon. He was accompanied by Squire Ebberts and Nat Bowman, both mountain men, and three others. So we left the little party to pursue their journey amid untold perils while we returned to Fort Waters, as the Mission was now called. This was in February. About the first of March about eighty-five or ninety men were called to go out on a raid to gather up what cattle we could and learn what we could of the whereabouts of the hostiles. My company went, as we were the best mounted men in the command. Not thinking to be gone long, we rode light and took no provisions.

We traveled what was long known as the Nez Perces trails, cross the country to Copeii, where we were met by two friendly Indians. They told as the Cayuses were camped at the mouth of Tucanon. Our interpreter, Mungo, said he could pilot us there. We concluded to hunt them up.

So at dark we started going down Copeii, then across the country to Tucanon to where Starbuck now is. There we crossed and followed down the creek, reaching the encampment just at break of day. Just as we crossed Tucanon we ran onto an Indian guard, but he got away and ran to camp—so when we got near camp two Indians came out with a white flag. I will state here that runners had been sent with word that if friendly Indians would raise a flag of truce they would not be molested, as we were only seeking to punish the Cayuses. So when they sent out the flag and asked for a talk, Col. Gilliam went forward. They claimed to be Palouses and friendly to the Whites. Said the Cayuses had gone across Snake River, but had left lots of stock behind which they would turn over to the volunteers, and that they would go out and gather them in for us. So they began running in horses and cattle, we helping—and all went merrily along. However, we soon noticed the lodges going down as by magic and the boys on the hill saw them busily ferrying their families over the river, and asked why they were moving. They said their women were afraid of the Whites and wished to go. So by their cunning manœuvres they had detained us half a day, and we, without any food since the early morning before, were beginning to feel pretty hungry.

When they had delivered up all the stock, Col. Gilliam said we would drive out to grass and camp and eat. So we started out, but soon discovered we had been duped the worst way. They were the Cayuses—even the real murderers were there, and they were after us. Now there was no thought of eating. Indians on every side, yelling like demons, calling us women—afraid to fight. It was a running fight all day long and we were still holding the stock at night—in McKay Hollow, where we strung along the little hollow seeking shelter from the Indians by hiding behind the banks. We did not dare kindle a fire. On examination it was found thirty volunteers were wounded, but not dangerously. Our ammunition was about exhausted and we were half famished.

The older men and officers evidently realized we were in a pretty serious predicament, but we young boys had no idea of the danger we were in, not as I see it now. During the night Gilliam ordered the stock turned loose—as we were now about out of ammunition he hoped by turning the stock loose to get rid of the Indians. The boys objected to that move, but instead of the Indians leaving us that only renewed their courage. They thought we were giving up, and attacked us more savagely than ever. We were pretty well hidden and in no immediate danger, so we saved our ammunition and only fired when sure of an Indian—they frequently came in range when circling around us. In the morning they still hung on our heels. As we started out they followed us on—calling to Mungo repeatedly, asking why we did not stop to fight, while he abused them in return.

The Indians would drop behind until a bunch of us were a distance from the command, then make a dash, trying to cut us off, and we surely were not cautious. Tom Cornelius, Pete Engart and myself were a little behind when an Indian shot Engart in the calf of the leg. He fell from his horse, saying he was killed. Tom and I jumped from our horses and shook him up and told him he was not hurt—he gave up. We finally threw him up astride his horse—we cursed him and told him to ride—and he rode. By this time the Indians were on us and the boys ahead had not missed us. I tell you we made a race for it, one of us on each side of the wounded man, but we made it.

Another time that day Mungo's horse was shot from under him. Tom Cornelius and I saw him fall and ran back to him. He had stopped to take his saddle—we were just in time, as the Indians were coming pell-mell, shouting, "We've got Mungo." I took Mungo behind me and Tom took his saddle and away we went. This was the way we were at it all the way, some one in close quarters all the time.

Mungo told the Cayuses we would fight when we reached the Touchet and got water. Then began the race for the first stand at the Touchet. The Indians beat us on the lower side, but we headed them off above the ford. Some Indians hid in the brush and shot at our men as they passed on the trail. We were trying to get our wounded men across, but the Indians were killing horses and men. I was in the company up the creek. When we came down, Col. Gilliam told Lieut. Engart to rout those ambushed Indians. Engart called for volunteers to go in after them. I was one with twenty others. We started for the hiding place, skirting along the brush, expecting any minute to run on them. When we did find them, not more than five or six of us were together in the lead, and the Indians were firing at another squad of men some distance away—we were within thirty feet of them. I fired and hit my Indian just as he turned to run, striking him in the back of the head. He fell and I stepped back behind a bush to reload, when another man ran in and stood in my place; as he did so the Indian rolled over and fired at him, killing him. Just then Nate Olney, an old Indian fighter, ran in with a tomahawk and made a good Indian of him. He scalped him and I carried the grewsome trophy at my saddle horn when I returned home. We killed about sixty Indians there. It was hard to make an estimate of how many, as they carried their dead away unless too hard pressed.

All during this battle the chief sat on his horse on the rocky point just above Bolles Junction [the present junction] and gave command and encouragement in a loud and stentorian voice. He could be heard for miles. Finally a bullet sped his way and he was killed—and he being the medicine man, the battle ceased and a council was called. We were now across the Touchet. We were carrying our wounded men on litters made by stretching blankets on willow poles—taking turns carrying—that was a hard job. As we began to climb the hill beyond the Touchet we heard the Indians let up their death-wail—they were gathered together on those low hills just north the Bolles Junction depot.

We traveled on to Dry Creek that day; there we went into camp and spying some Indian horses on the prairie, myself with some others ran in a bunch, near some brush where some of our men were hidden, and as they passed, shot two. That was the first horse meat I had tried to eat, but it made me sick—though they were young unbroken horses. I was sure they tasted of the saddle blanket—suggestion, I suppose. When we woke next morning there was four or five inches of snow on our blankets—we had no tents.