The Hood River Glacier, Hood River, OR., April 2, 1903, page 3
Includes several portraits and photographs (titles listed below)
HOOD RIVER 50 YEARS AGO
White Man's First Winter - Hardships Endured by Laughlin Party - Midnight
Flight From Indians -
Leaves From an Old Diary
By H.C. Coe
Hood River has just passed the half century mark of its
first settlement. The ranks of those hardy pioneers, who alone can tell the
story of its earliest settlement, are being so rapidly decimated by the Great
Destroyer that very soon the last of these forerunners up civilization shall
have crossed the dark river and passed into the great unknown beyond.
Those of you who now, with wondering friends, as you
pass from farm to farm, point with pride to the magnificent orchards that
are scattered everywhere; as you pass the steepled churches and overflowing
school houses, can little appreciate the vast wilderness - the utter loneliness
that surrounded the pioneer settlers of this lovely valley. For lovely it
was, but even in its solitude. Deer, dear and elk roamed at will through
the park-like forests; cougar, wolves and coyotes were in plentiful evidence;
grouse and pheasant were found in abundance, while the streams were filled
with trout and the river with salmon. Nature was indeed lavish in her animal
and plant life that could be used by the pioneer for himself and his herds.
But when winter came and its dreary snows and storms
and he was unable, work however hard he may, to provide sufficient sustenance
to properly care for his dumb beasts, then anxiety hovered over the pioneer's
home; he eagerly watched the sunset skies for the first signs of the coming
west wind that meant warmth and strength to his famished stock.
Summer, came at last; his herds became slick and round
as they fed upon the nutritious grasses, and all nature seem to smile upon
him. But anon distance rumors chilled his blood. They came nearer and nearer,
until an Indian war in all its horrors was upon him. The sickening, monotonous
beating of the war drum, the yells of the infuriated savages, the blazing
walls of his neighbor's home -- all these have been the experience of the
early pioneers of Hood River.
I am under many obligations to Mrs. Elizabeth Lord, daughter
of Judge William C. Laughlin, the pioneer settler of the Hood River, for
a very graphic and thrilling account of their awful winter's experience in
our valley. You who, these winter evenings, sit by your comfortable firesides,
the room flooded with electric light, let your thoughts wander back to the
horrors of that dreadful winter just half a century ago. Imagine if you can
the little log cabin almost buried in snow, and surrounded by hundreds of
starving cattle; the desperate fight for life itself, the sickness, hunger
and cold within, and then tell me if you can the quality and number of joys
that paradise should hold to requite the pioneer, even in part, for the
privations he has undergone.
First Winter Spent in Hood River
By Mrs. Elizabeth Lord
Hood River was first settled by William Catesby Laughlin
and his wife, Mary Laughlin. Both of them were born in Kentucky. They moved
to Illinois in 1832; were married and moved to Missouri in 1840. They crossed
the plains to Oregon in 1850, lived in The Dalles two years and moved to
Hood River in the fall of 1852.
Having accumulated quite a number of cattle and horses
by trading with the Indians and immigrants, Mr. Laughlin decided to locate
on a good range and make a home for himself and family. Dr. Farnsworth, an
old friend and family physician, having arrived from Missouri early in this
season, they concluded to settle at Hood River, then called Dog river. Mr.
Laughlin had looked the country over and thought it was the loveliest spot
on earth. However, they delayed moving down until the emigration was all
in, when they took all the stock they could get to winter for a stated price
per head. Mr. Laughlin had about 100 head of horses at the same number of
cattle of his own, and about 200 head of cattle to herd for others. Doctor
Farnsworth had about 100 altogether.
Some time in October they engaged a flat boat to take
the families and supplies down the river, the doctor going down with them.
Mr. Laughlin, with two hired men and the doctor's 16-year-old son, drove
the stock over the trail. The boats made the run down and landed where the
ferry landing now is, in one day, while the stock took two days to make the
trip. After driving the stock across Dog river, Mr. Laughlin and his men
joined the families in camp, and the next day crossed the river by fording
with ox teams.
Mr. Laughlin located on the Coe place and built a small
log cabin. Owing to the lateness of the season and the serious illness of
his eldest son, James, who had typhoid fever, he hastened to get a shelter
over his family. Dr. Farnsworth took more time and built a better and larger
cabin on the place afterwards known as the Jenkins place.
Everything now seemed propitious to the making of happy
and permanent homes. But a short time elapsed until a very heavy snow fell.
I have no date but I know it was in November, and much of the snow remained
on the ground until March. The cabin was on the edge of a beautiful grove
of medium sized fir trees, and all of the cattle from far and near made their
way to that grove. There were several men down near Mitchell's Point herding
over 500 head of cattle, and they all came up to the Laughlin cabin.
Starving Cattle Crush In Cabin Door
No one who has not witnessed such a condition can imagine
what it was like. They came in the night, and all crowded around our poor
little cabin, bellowing and horning each other, until it seemed as if pandemonium
had broken loose. On looking out, there appeared a sea of heads and horns
as far as the eye could reach. They broke in the door several times. The
family was terrified, as it seemed as if the walls would give way. Mr. Laughlin
fought them away until morning, when he tried to drive them off, but they
were all gentle animals and came to the grove for shelter. Our own cows came
to us for protection and of the rest followed. Mr. Laughlin felled trees
to make a large enclosure to keep them away. When the storm unabated he sent
an Indian with a message to those men to come and take their stock away.
But the man abandoned the stock and went to their homes at the Cascades.
The cattle stayed in that grove until every one died.
All of Dr. Farnsworth's and all of Mr. Laughlin's but 14 head also died.
At that time there was quite a deep ravine that running from just below the
spring down through the grove. By spring that ravine was full of dead cattle.
After Christmas, Dr. Farnsworth became discouraged, so
he and Mr. Laughlin felled a large fir tree, dug and burned and hewed out
a very large canoe, in which he loaded everything he had and drifted away
from Hood River forever.
This left Mr. Laughlin's family very forlorn. They had
a winter of struggles and hardships. With the help of Indians whom he hired
he felled trees to make corrals to separate the weaker cattle and try to
save some if possible, hoping from day to day for a Chinook wind. Finally
flour gave out. Then he hired Indians to go to the Cascades to buy some.
They were gone for a long time and returned with shorts, and demanded half
of that, of which they brought but little. Very soon this, too, was gone.
Then Mr. Laughlin dug out a small canoe for himself and went up to The Dalles
for supplies. While there he made arrangements with Major Alvord to lease
land for a farm on the government reservation (the same land which he afterwards
held as a donation claim). As soon as the snow had gone off he gathered what
horses were left and hired the Indians from White Salmon, who had five canoes,
to take the family up the Columbia to The Dalles, while he and his son James
drove the pitiful handful of stock back over those hills where so few months
before they had driven such a large herd.
From Portland to Fort Dalles in 1854
Early in the spring of 1854, a family excursion party
consisting of N. Coe and wife and the writer, then a boy of 9 years, left
Portland, Or., for a trip to Fort Dalles, at that time head of navigation
on the Columbia river. Our first day's ride was on the little side wheel
steamer Fashion, VanBergen, master. The James P. Flint was the pioneer boat
on the middle Columbia, but trade seemed better on the lower river, so she
was taken over the Cascades the year before and renamed the Fashion.
An all day's trip brought us to the lower Cascades, where
we were very hospitably entertained at the home of B.B. Bishop, brother-in-law
to the Bradfords, then in the transportation business at the Cascades.
Old Mule Portage Road At Cascades
The portage of six miles was a rather complicated process.
Freight for transportation was first loaded in schooners, which, when the
wind blew sufficiently strong, were driven to the landing then known as the
middle blockhouse, but now called Sheridan's Point, where they were unloaded
onto a tram car that came around Sheridan's Point, and was hauled up by a
windlass run by a very patient and intelligent mule. When the car reached
the summit of the incline the mule was unhitched from the windlass, attached
to the car and started for the upper Cascades alone over a wooden tramway,
with a couple of boards in the middle of the track for the "engine" to walk
on. Arriving at his destination, the mule was unhitched, turned around and
coupled onto an empty flat car and started on his return trip. A pole was
lashed to his side and then to the car. This acted as a kind of automatic
brake to keep the car from running over the "engine." This arrangement worked
well for a while, and saved the services of a conductor, but the mule got
onto his job, and when well out of sight would stop to get up more steam
and incidentally to take good long maps, thereby seriously interfering with
the transportation business. Eventually a fireman had to be added to the
list of train hands.
At the upper Cascades the Bradford's had just completed
a small schooner of about 40 tons burden, which was making trips to Fort
Dalles when the winds were favorable. At this point stood Bradford's store,
where two years afterward a handful of brave, fearless men for three days
held at bay the savage hordes of Indians, in what is known as the Cascade
massacre.
We boarded the schooner and with a fine breeze blowing
we made good progress and about noon reached Hood River, then known as Dog
river. We were all very much pleased with the general aspect of the country
and my father determined to return at his earliest convenience and examine
the land with a view of locating if satisfactory. We reached our destination
that evening at Fort Dalles, which then consisted of a government post located
about half a mile south of the few scattering houses on the river, where
now stands the city of The Dalles. We remained over a day at this place,
which had at that time but few attractions.
Early Steamboat On Middle Columbia
The only stream vessel then on the middle Columbia was
the little propeller Allen, Captain Tom Gladwell, that was capable of carrying
a few passengers and a little freight. She only made a few trips, however,
when she was wrecked or cast away, and her old iron hull may still be seen
at any low water a short distance above Mitchell's Point on the Edgar Locke
farm. As the schooner that we came up on would not be ready to return for
some days, and a down river trip was likely to be a tedious one, we determined
to take a passage on the Allen, which was to start the next morning.
The trip down the river was a rough one, and after an
all-day battle with the winds and waves we reached White Salmon, then the
only settlement between Fort Dalles and Cascades. The sole white resident
here was E.S. Joslyn, who with his wife had located there, if my memory serves
me right, the year previous. It was determined to remain here overnight,
and as there was no accommodations on the boat - not even a cold handout
- Mr. Joslyn, who was at the landing, very cordially invited all hands to
his home, which invitation it is needless to say it was gladly accepted.
It is remarkable how a man's personality is reflected
in everything that surrounds him, and the welcome extended to the hungry
and tired passengers and crew of the Allen by Mr. Joslyn and his estimable
wife seemed to extend down to even the old watchdog, whose business it was
during the night to post the moon on the events of the preceding day. The
morning proved pleasant and the rest of the trip was uneventful.
N. Coe Builds First Permanent Home
In the following article on the early history of Hood
river I have to depend largely on my memory from our of arrival here until
1858, when our family record begins, to which I shall refer freely. Of that
little band of pioneers who came to Hood River in 1854, James M. Benson of
The Dalles and myself are the only ones living. Mrs. Phila Burt (nee Jenkins)
died in Los Angeles, about eight months ago, at a ripe old age.
William Jenkins, with his son Walter, was drowned at
the mouth of Hood River in 1864. Nathaniel Coe died at the homestead in 1864.
Mary W. Coe died at Hood River in 1893. N.S. Benson died in Auburn, New York,
in 1869; Charles C. Coe at Hood River in 1872; Eugene F. Coe in Portland
in 1893; and L.W. Coe in San Francisco in 1898.
The only landmark left of these early days is the old
Coe homestead, on State street in this city, a picture of which is here given.
Of our Indian friends, nearly all of those who were old enough to take an
active part in those days have passed over to the happy hunting grounds.
A notable exception is old John Slibinder, whose picture is here given. He
must now be close to his centennial years and is still a hale and hearty
old man. After an intimate acquaintance, lasting nearly half a century, I
can truthfully say that I never knew a more honest, truthful or upright man,
black or white, than old Slibinder - never wavering in his friendship to
the whites, ever risking the anger of the hostiles during the troublous times
of the Indian war of 1856. Charlie Copliax, another Indian friend, still
lives on his farm in the Yakima Indian reservation, and old George Kinney,
the self-inflicted pensioner of our little city, still lives, moves and has
his being. Pat Williams and Jim Cluhoc were mere boys of about 10 or 12 years.
All the rest have gone, faded before the breath of the white man, as the
mist before the morning sun, and in the dream land of their happy hunting
grounds chase the red deer from his lair as in days of old.
Origin Of The Name "Dog River"
In the early part of June, 1854, N. Coe, with his son,
E.F. Coe, accompanied by William Jenkins and his brother-in-law, Nathan S.
Benson, acquaintances of ours from Auburn, New York, left Portland for Hood
River. Hood River was originally known as Dog river, and obtained its name
in the following manner. I cannot give the date of the occurrence, although
I conversed with a man only a few years ago who was one of the party. A band
of cattle was being brought down from The Dalles and reached the river at
dusk. The cattle were driven across the river, while the party camped on
the east side. In the night a heavy rain storm came up, and in the morning
the river was too high to cross. The rains continued for a number of days,
and the party ran out of food and was compelled to kill old Towser, the dog.
My mother, Mrs. Mary W. Coe, objected to the name, and as the stream had
its head in Mount Hood, she proposed to call it Hood River. This name was
thought very appropriate and was adopted by everyone.
I have no written data to set the exact date of the departure
of the party from Portland, only I remember a little circumstance that occurred
the day before they left, when Mr. Jenkins brought to our house a little
brown cornucopia, containing 12 nice ripe cherries, for which he had just
paid 25 cents. So I concluded that it must have been in early in June.
The party was more than pleased with the country and
decided to make their homes here. They returned to Portland for an outfit,
and Mr. Jenkins sent for his family and another brother-in-law, James Benson,
and then all hands returned to Hood River to prepare homes for their families.
On what has of late been known as the Coe homestead they found a small log
cabin, erected by Judge Laughlin, in 1852, and on the land selected by Jenkins,
a house had been built by Dr. Farnsworth at the same date as the one built
by Judge Laughlin.
Previously to our selection of Hood River as our future
home, our folks had decided to start in the mercantile business at The Dalles
and had had a bill of lumber sawed at the Cascades for a store building.
This lumber was sent to Hood River, the old homestead was built of it, and
in September my mother and I came up from Portland. We were all domiciled
in the old Laughlin house, as the new house was not complete but was finished
so that we moved in before the rainy season set in. The house was no palace,
though much better than out of doors. There was no ceiling nor cloth or paper;
no partitions; only one large room 20x40. The winter, however, proved to
be a remarkably mild one, so we managed to live quite comfortably.
Other Settlers Arrive From The East
In November, Mrs. Jenkins and her brother James M. Benson
arrived from New York, making a very acceptable addition to our little colony.
We had brought with us a sufficient supply of flour, pork and beans, but
vegetables were scarce and high, we having to depend upon our kind neighbors
across the Columbia for them. These we had to bring from the landing on
horseback, as we had no team. Our supply of candles gave out early, as we
had been able to obtain but a few. We then resorted to tallow dips, but this
supply also gave out, and our last resort was pitch pine torches. This soon
became an unbearable nuisance, as it covered everything with soot, which
got in our food and bed clothes; in fact we could have successfully posed
as a band of Kentucky negro minstrels. So we gave up the idea of light and
sat out the long winter evenings in the dark.
In the latter part of November, a few inches of snow
fell and a slight skum of ice covered the river, but this soon passed away
and our winter was done. New Year's day we accepted an invitation to eat
a chicken at Mr. Joslyn's. Such a glorious day and such a glorious dinner!
The mountains were covered with grass and the ground blooming with bluebells
and buttercups.
The month was spent in clearing up land, and one-half
an acre of land was spaded up early for garden. The first of February seeds
were planted, which came up, and there was no frost to damage anything that
spring.
A trip was made to Portland, and work cattle, cows, farming
implements, etc., procured. Those were busy days for us. Early and late were
the watch words, and well where we repaid for our labors. The earth yielded
bountifully, and fall found both the barn and cellar full to overflowing
with the results of our toil. So our first year passed.
An orchard of peaches, plums, cherries and a few apple
trees had been started and grew nicely. Nature seemed to smile on us as if
to atone for its severity to our predecessors. But with the fall came
uncomfortable rumors of trouble with the Indians in various distant portions
of the country, causing anxious thoughts. Our dusky neighbors, though professedly
friendly, were as yet untried, and in numbers were fully able, had they so
desired, to have exterminated our little colony without very much exertion
or trouble. So the winter passed, and as the early spring came the rumors
came to be facts, and we found ourselves face to face with the horrors of
an Indian war.
My pen can but faintly portray the incidents of that
the dreadful year. It seems as if but yesterday that I stood with little
Woodburn Hawks on the brow of the hill that now overlooks the town and watched
with bated breath the little steamer Wasco, as with a handful of soldiers
and a few settlers it crawled, snail like, up the river to do battle with
the hordes of yelling savages that lined the opposite shore. I will here
send a copy of a letter written to the Glacier of November 7, 1897, describing
many incidents that occurred during those trying times:
Midnight Flight From The Indians
The year 1856 was one of anxiety to the few and scattered
inhabitants of eastern Oregon and Washington. Rumors of an impending Indian
outbreak filled the air -- came with the winter's snows, but did not
go with them. For a year the columns of the Weekly Oregonian had been filled
with accounts of the barbarous tortures inflicted upon helpless immigrants
who fell into the hands of the hostile hordes in the eastern part of the
territory. The question then with the wretched prisoners was not how long
before a ransom or exchange would set them free, but how long before death
would release them from the infernal tortures inflicted by their captors.
Once in their clutches few escaped to tell the awful tale.
The powerful Yakima nation, led by the noted Chief Kamiken,
were practically on the warpath, and their emissaries were everywhere urging
the Columbia river tribes to join in a war of extermination against the whites.
The Klickitats, an important branch of the Yakimas, withstood for a time
the importunities of their inland brothers and gave up their arms to the
authorities without a word; but the maggot of unrest was industriously working
in the "military brain," and the arrest of three of the principal chiefs
of the tribe was decided upon. Mr. Joslyn, the pioneer settler of White Salmon,
a warm-hearted Christian gentleman and an earnest friend of the Indians,
protested in vain against the outrage. The unsuspecting chiefs were easily
trapped, loaded with chains, sent to Vancouver and placed in charge of the
regular army. They soon found means to evade the vigilance of their guards
and returned to the tribe, who, with a few notable exceptions, at once joined
the hostilities.
This occurred during the latter part of February, 1856.
Mr. Joslyn, satisfied that trouble would follow the arrest of the chiefs,
had removed with his family to Portland, leaving a hired man named Galentine
and a boy named Hawks to look out for the place. An attack was at once planned
by the angry chiefs, but the friendly Indians notified them of the plot and
they left the place and crossed to Hood River, after being chased all night
by the hostiles. For this act of friendship to the whites the friendly Indians
were compelled to leave their homes and with their wives and little ones
also came to Hood River. There were at that time but two families living
here - William Jenkins and wife and two brothers-in-law, making with our
family and the man named Galentine seven men, two women and two boys, composing
the entire white population between the Cascades and The Dalles.
Our farm work thus far have been done very much as the
Jews had rebuilded Jerusalem, with implements of war in one hand and a trowel
in another. Many a day have I urged on the tardy oxen with a goad in one
hand and a rifle in the other. These were troublous times. The hostile Klickitat
made themselves very conspicuous along the bluffs on the Washington shore
above White Salmon. For days the war drums had beat continuously, filling
our hearts with forebodings of trouble.
Howling Indians On The Bluffs
The Hood River Indians had been, so far, very pronounced in their friendship toward us, and in conjunction with the friendly Klickitats, had captured and brought to the Oregon side every canoe or boat that could be found which was in reach of the hostiles. So far so good; but the Polala Illahe (sand land) Indians under old Chief Wallachin, living on what was afterward the Haynes ranch, about two miles west of Hood River, were known to have a very decided leaning toward the hostiles. We at once appealed to the military authorities at The Dalles for protection, and Lieutenant Davidson was sent down with a company of cavalry. How well I remember them coming! The hostiles had been unusually active that morning, and the boy Woodburn Hawks and myself, had been sent out to gather up the cattle and drive them home. We did not much like the job, but could not help it; but before we found the cattle we saw the smoke from Joslyn's house and barn and hurried home as fast as our feet could carry us. We found the cavalry had arrived, and their coming was the signal for the burning. The valorous lieutenant marshaled his forces on the sand bar, and hailing the steamer Wasco on her way to The Dalles, started for the seat of war. My two brothers and the two Bensons had gone with the troops, also Amos Underwood, who was on his way to the Cascades, was one of the party. How the Indians did yell! The cliffs were alive with them, and their war whoops echoed and re-echoed across the river. The valiant lieutenant, ere he reached the landing, suddenly remembered that he had orders not to molest the Indians in Washington, but merely to protect the settlers and their property at Hood River, and ordered the boat to land him again on the Oregon side. Discretion in this case was certainly the better part of valor, for it undoubtedly saved him his scalp and that of every member of his party that was to have landed on the hostile shore.
Hostiles Attack Friendlies Camp
That night, by some means a band of hostiles crossed
the river and attacked the camp of friendly Klickitats near where the section
house now stands, and after a sharp exchange of shots, in which one of the
invaders was seriously wounded, the friendlies left their camp and came tromping
up to the house. Soon after the hostiles came across some of the cavalry
picket guard and opened fire on them, which sent them scurrying to camp.
These men were posted on the brow of the hill near where my house now stands,
so that evidently the Indians were reconnoitering and unexpectedly ran across
the guards. Everybody was of course up and under arms, but nothing else occurred
during the night.
The next day all was quiet across the river. The Indians
had gone; not a squaw, papoose nor puppy was left. They had disappeared as
completely as if the earth had swallowed them up. Even the friendly Klickitats
were at a loss to account for their absence. Ah, but the Cascade massacre
was the dreadful sequel of their vanishing.
A few days later the cavalry returned to The Dalles,
and the daily routine of farm work was resumed, undisturbed, until the awful
horror of the 26th day of March. What a bright beautiful day it was! The
broad bosom of the Columbia was like mirrored glass. My two yoke of oxen
were yoked to the wagon, and brother Charles was deputized as special guard
for the day's trip to Rail gulch for a load of rails. Just as we were ready
to start a faint helloa was heard from over the river, near the mouth of
White Salmon. Again and again it came. Finally, two figures were made out,
waving their blankets. The Indians collected at the house, hesitating, fearing
a trap, but finally, fully armed, a party started over to investigate. Before
their return we had gone for our day's work. About two o'clock, when on our
way home, my brother Eugene came riding up on horseback with the news that
the Cascades had been attacked and that the battle was then raging, and told
us to hurry home as fast as possible. The battle going on, or possibly over,
and an elder brother there, perhaps dead.
On reaching home we found everything in commotion. The
Indians had gathered in for council and were evidently much excited. The
parties who were signaling across the river in the morning proved to be a
buck and his squaw who had been held as prisoners by Showouwai, a brother
of Kamiaken, because he had refused to let the chief have a rifle to which
he had taken a fancy. They had been seven days coming from the Simcoe reservation
and had experienced fearful hardships on the way over from hunger and fatigue;
having come nearly all the way through snow, in some places many feet deep.
They brought news that the hostiles were to start so as to reach the Cascades
the very day that they had reached the river. They had strained every nerve
in order to reach as sooner and give the alarm, but were too late.
My brother Eugene immediately started for the landing
to intercept the little steamer Mary, which was then coming in sight, and
communicate the news to them. Their reply sent a thrill of terror through
every heart. They themselves had been in the fight and had by the greatest
chance, barely escaped with their lives, and some had been seriously if not
mortally wounded, and were then on board. Their advice was for us to fly
with our lives, as in all probability every soul at the Cascades would be
killed, as the woods were full of Indians. About sundown a courier arrived,
bringing the news that Bradford's store, where all the whites at the Upper
Cascades were congregated, had been captured, as the Indians could be seen
carrying flour and other things out of it. (This was a mistake as it was
the Bush house which had been abandoned and was afterward looted by the
Indians.)
A council was at once called, Indians included. They
on their part promised to station guards all along the river and send couriers
to the Cascades, and this promise was faithfully executed. After they had
gone it was unanimously decided that we should at all hazards attempt to
reach The Dalles. We had all confidence in the Klickitats; they had been
proven, but were satisfied the others could not be trusted. Our only route
was by the river, and the craft, a large Chinook canoe which had been hid
in the brush near where the present wagon bridge crosses Hood River, and
was owned by an old Indian named Waucusha. This canoe was an exceptionally
fine one, capable of carrying 30 or 40 passengers.
At about midnight the entire white population of Hood
River left their homes and marched in single file to the river, where we
met the canoe and started our lonely journey. As we quietly paddled our canoe
through the silent water, we heard the Indian guards signaling along the
shore from one to another until far up and down the river came the answering
calls. We had been discovered, and in less time than it takes to read it,
every camp had been appraised of our flight.
About noon the next day, when near Klickitat river, we
met both little steamers, Mary and Wasco, fairly blue with soldiers, and
loaded to the guards with cavalry and munitions of war, on their way to the
relief of the Cascades. They stopped as they came to us, inquiring for news.
We gave them what we had heard from the courier the night before, and they
hurried along. How their polished rifles and bayonets gleamed and shimmered
in that noon day sun! And their clanking sabers made sweet music to our care-worn
ears. How fierce and brave and good they looked! Oh! would they be in time?
About 3 o'clock we reached The Dalles, where almost the entire population
turned out to meet us, inquiring for the news. And there our journey ended.
I cannot close to this article without a tribute of praise
to those true and loyal Klickitats, who so bravely stood by the whites in
that trying year. Truer-hearted man never lived. Tried by the test of battle,
they proved themselves men even though their hearts beat under a dusky skin.
They have nearly all passed over to their happy hunting grounds and scarcely
a remnant of their race remains. Among the most prominent of them were Johnson,
Queumps, Yallup, Snataps and Johnnie. There were others that I cannot call
to memory. Among the Hood River Indians only two or three remain -- Old John
Slibender and Charlie Copiax, and both were unwavering in fealty to the whites.
There is still another, whose character as a friend to the pale face is open
to serious doubts. His own admission places him in the fight against Major
Haller on Simcoe mountains. By the evidence of all others, his hand applied
the torch that fired the Joslyn houses, and by implication that same right
hand was crimsoned with the blood of innocents at the Cascade massacre. I
refer to Old White Salmon Dave, a notorious beggar and would-be pensioner
of Bro. John Cradlebaugh.
There is also a scrap of unwritten history concerning
the plans of that wily old chief, Kamiaken. He had decided upon war, and
his plan was first to capture the Cascades, then leaving sufficient force
to hold that place, come up the river and attack The Dalles, compelling all
the Indians to join him. And there is no doubt in my mind that, with few
exceptions, all the tribes will have joined his standard. From The Dalles
the movement was to continue eastward until the entire country east of the
Cascades was clear of whites. The campaign was well planned but poorly executed.
All that saved the Cascades, however, was a very unfortunate accident, one
of those happenings which seems to be the direct work of Providence. A large
body of United States troops was on its way to the eastern part of the territory,
and Kamiaken was fully informed as to the intentions of the troops. Couriers
on fleet horses waited the movement of the troops, and on their departure
from The Dalles the horses of the couriers were urged to their utmost speed
to Kamiaken's camp, who at once started his warriors for the Cascades. But
the troops only made a three-mile march and went into camp to await the arrival
of arms and ammunition which had been detained at the Cascade portage, and
were to have been shipped by the steamer the very day of the attack. So the
detention not only furnished those in Bradford's store with an abundance
of arms and ammunition, but detained the troops within easy reach of the
boats, This information regarding Kamiaken all came through the Indians that
had escaped from Chief Showaway's clutches.
But my story must close. You who are now scattered throughout the length and breadth of this beautiful valley can but little realize the situation then or the constant fear that for over a year was in every breast. It seems to me now more like a dream than a reality.
Leaves From An Old Diary
Our meteorological record commences February, 1, 1857,
but no family record was kept until June, 1858. I read from the record:
"Sunday, October 15, 1857. -- Thermometer broke by the
first frost that touched it.
This was a serious loss, as we were unable to obtain
another one until the following June.
Almost the first entry I find is on June 3 -- "Took 19
bushels potatoes to Dalles; sold for $2.5O per bushel."
Farm hands came high those days. From an old account
book I read:
"William Paige, by work commencing May 1, 1857, to October
22 - 5 mos., 22 days - $238.00" (or $40 per month and board). This man Paige
was an old English sailor whom my father picked up in Portland and hired
for a year at $40 per month and board. He afterwards obtained unenviable
notoriety by his connection with the noted Magruder murders near Lewiston,
Idaho, about 1884 or 1865. Paige, with three others, named Magruder and his
entire party of five or six for their money, and escaped to California. They
were captured in San Francisco and taken back to Lewiston. Paige turned state's
evidence, and saved his neck; his three companions were hanged; he was afterwards
shot dead in a saloon brawl.
August 10, 1858, a young man by the name of Arthur Gordon,
who, with his cousin Henry, had been at work on the river, took up the claim
afterwards known as the Peter Neal place, and my brother Eugene took up a
claim he afterwards sold to Jesse Neal, a son of old Peter.
August 15, 1 read, "Peaches' and plums begin to ripen."
And on the 20th, "Took two bushels peaches to Dalles; these brought 25 cents
a pound."
Some time during the summer, S.B. Ives and family and
A.C. Phelps moved up from the Cascades. Ives located on what we called Round
Prai-rie, west and north of the Belmont church, and Phelps directly west,
on the creek, later known as Phelps creek, Patton creek and Fall brook. Later
an old sailor named Cowperthwaite took up the place south of the Ives place,
afterward owned by Ward, Whitcomb, Pratt and others. Amos Underwood and John
M. Marden also located on what is now known as the Haynes--Morton farm, and
a wan named Wilson on the Barnett place.
N.S. Benson, who went East in the early fall to get him
a wife, returned in November, bringing, also, Miss Maggie Williams, J.M.
Benson's fiancee. These now arrivals made a welcome addition to our little
neighborhood. J.M. Benson had taken op a farm on Indian creek, so called
from the Indian village of some ten or twelve houses built of split cedar
boards and used during the winters.
January 22, 1859, from our record I read: "Killed two
hogs; weight 280 pounds; sold at 14 cents, or $39.20" There was money in
raising hogs then.
"February 14 - Sold one yoke oxen to John Day; price
$160." This was the man from whom the John Day river was named.
Our record does not tell of the first post office and
postmaster, but it must have been opened in 1859, with Mrs. Martha Benson
P. M., and was kept at the N.S. Benson place, just east of the Lost Lake
Lumber company's saw mill. This was a great convenience, as before that time
the mail came through the pursers of the boats, and was frequently delayed
and lost.
"Tuesday, February 22 - Steamer Mary sunk at Horn's landing;
ran on submerged stump." This landing is on the Edgar Locke farm. Broke
thermometer again, and it could not be re-placed until June 1.
In March, Mr. and Mrs. Butler and Mr. and Mrs. Whiting
came. Mr. Butler took up the place afterwards known as the Odell ranch, and
Whiting took a place adjoining on the west.
"Monday, June 6, 1859 - Commenced papering the rooms;
won't they look nice with such pretty paper?" this is in mother's
handwriting..
"Tuesday, June 7 - Walker and Max-well, road makers,
came to supper." This was the party that opened what was known as the Walker
trail to the Willamette valley via the west fork of Hood river and Chitwood
lake.
"Monday, June 27 - Election returns, precinct of Hood
River; Congressman, D. Logan, rep., S. Lansing Stout, dem., 4."
Some time in the spring of this year a man named Stadden
took up the place now known as the Turner farm and built a log cabin on it.
This cabin was used by Butler and Whiting as a store room while they were
building their houses; Stadden assisting them. On returning to the Stadden
house, one evening, they wore surprised to find that some person or persons
had broken into the cabin and stolen the bulk of their provisions. Inquiry
at the cabin of the Gordon boys elicited the fact that a band of Indians
had passed in the valley that day by way of Stadden's. Of course it was the
Indians that were guilty, and on the return of the band they were accused
of the theft. This they indignantly denied, and opened their packs for
inspection. They then demanded that the cabin of the Gordons be searched,
and declared they would do so if the whites did not. So the only thing to
be done was to go and prove that a white man was incapable of violating one
of the Ten Commandments. The Gordons declared they would not have the cabin
searched, but seeing it was useless to resist, they stood by and witnessed
the indignant searchers haul out the missing provisions from under the floor
and out of the bunks. The two young men could well have thanked their lucky
stars that they did not grace the limb of an adjoining tree; but more moderate
counsel prevailed. They were shown the trail and advised to hit it" without
undue loss of time. And, needless to say, they took the gentle hint without
unnecessary delay and made themselves scarce.
An incident or two that occurred about this time will
illustrate the peculiar Ideas of Indian justice and the dangerous character
of a medicine man's job. The head man or chief of the Hood River Indians
was a tall, dignified man named Ba-al, who was the proud possessor of two
wives. One of them having offended her liege lord and master, was very promptly
and vigorously disciplined; the result being a broken arm and serious internal
injuries and her ejection from the regal mansion into an adjoining unused
shack, where she was left with little or no care. A brother of the woman,
hearing of her pitiable condition, came and at once ordered a notable
medicine-man, named Te-al-lup, to attend the injured woman. His skill, however,
was of no avail, and the ox-queen died. The camp was located on the ground
now covered by the Mount Hood, hotel. Next evening after the squaw's death,
as I was driving my cows home past the camp, I heard the report of a rifle.
Going to see what had happened I found the old doctor face downwards in the
fire, with a bullet hole in the back of his head. He had been sitting with
his back towards the entrance, when the brother, Jack Wal-lu-pi-ke, concluding
that the doctor alone was to blame for his sister's death, stole up be-hind
him and blew out his brains. As I felt a little lonesome, not knowing just
how far Jack's idea of vengeance might go, I took my departure with as much
dignity as I could muster, and flatter myself that I did well consider-ing
the creepy feelings up and down my spinal column. The incident was closed,
however; the wrong man killed, and honor and vengeance satisfied.
Another, case was that of one of Chief Mark's tribe,
of The Dalles, who was killed in a drunken brawl by one of Chief Wal-la-chin's
men. Wal-la-chin ruled half a dozen camps located about three miles west
of Hood River. Chief Mark at once demanded satisfaction either by delivery
of the guilty party or a satisfactory number of ponies. Both demands were
refused on the ground of contributory negligence. Mark, without further delay,
marshalled his warriors and started for Wal-la-chin's camp on a strictly
business proposition. About 10 o'clock one bright spring morning the beating
of tom-toms notified us of their arrival1. They had crossed Hood river near
its mouth and marched single file down the entire length of the sandbar.
There were 50 or 60 of them on horseback, armed with flint-lock muskets,
bows and arrows, etc., and made a procession one-half a mile long. It is
needless to say that old Wal-la-chin capitulated at once, and in the afternoon
they returned with the blood-money horses, lead-ing them away in triumph.
In the fall of 1860 Peter Neal visited Hood, River valley
and decided to locate on the abandoned Gordon place, and in the spring of
1861 moved down with his family, including his son-in-law, Jerome Winchell.
If I remember rightly, Hardin Corum came to Hood River the same spring and
built the saw mill for Neal. The East Side then abounded in magnificent pine
timber, and the Neal's made use of it, cutting it wherever found, regardless
of location. Uncle Sam then made no kick at those who despoiled his forests.
Neal's lumber business was run very much on Uncle Sam's protective tariff
plan. We paid $10 and $l2 per 1000 for his lumber here, though he would ship
better lumber to The Dalles and sell at $6 and $8 per 1000 there. That is
we could buy identically the same lumber at The Dalles, and pay freight back
to Hood River as cheap as we could get it at home; but that was one of Uncles
Pete's little ways, and we could buy it or let it alone, just as we chose.
Jesse Neal, son of Peter. Neal, took up a place adjoining the Butler place,
which was afterwards purchased by John Hinrichs, and a year or so Corum took
a farm west of Jesse Neal's and built a saw mill on a branch of what is now
known as Odell creek.
HOOD RIVER'S NOTED LIAR
I must not forget to mention a well-known character,
of these early days, known as George P. Roberts, later known as Hog Roberts,
the squaw man. I think it must have been in the fall of 1857 or the spring
of 1858 that Roberts located on the land where the town of Frankton was
afterwards laid out, and built a shack on the little hill where the Smith
cemetery now is, and some years later took up the place on which now is the
little town of Viento. Roberts was then the most notorious liar east of the
Cascades, and he had no equals and no superior west of them. It was simply
impossible for the man to tell the truth; and no one expected it of him.
A sample yarn which after-wards became famous in the country, was told me
first by Roberts. Up to the fall of '61 he had collected quite a band of
cayuse ponies. These, as the winter came on, were driven onto the mountains
east of Hood river where the grass was abundant and high. The ensuing winter
was noted for its se-verity, bitter cold weather and deep snow covered with
a heavy crust which at one time was strong enough to bear up a small pony.
Roberts never saw hide nor hair of his band of horses after January 1 until
near the first of March, when he found them on the banks of Hood river in
fairly good condition, and not one missing, although the snow must have been
fully five feet deep. According to his story he had spent many days looking
in vain for them. He bad given up in despair, -concluding they were all dead,
and he was returning home, when all of a sudden the crust on the snow on
which he had been walking gave way, letting him fall through, and to his
intense astonishment he found himself astride of one of his long lost ponies.
The sur-prised cayuse promptly bucked him off, and on regaining his feet
he found that all his horses were there, fat and saucy. They had been at
the bottom of the hill when the snows came, and after the crust froze, the
horses had worked up the mountain side, pawing away the snow under the crust,
which rolled down the hill. This left the crust, hard and intact, which protected
them from the cold and storms; in fact, so mild and pleasant was the climate
in these dug-out places, which were acres in extent, that the new grass had
grown so luxuriantly that the horses had been living on it entirely for over
a month.
Roberts was a great weather prophet and firmly believed
in the Zodiacal signs, as well as the moon, stating as a positive rule that
a chinook wind al-ways came with the full of the moon. Some one called to
mind the fact that in the winter of '62 there was not a breath of west wind
during the full month of January. Roberts scratched his head and to a purpose.
"Why," he said, "that was the result of a very peculiar phenomenon which
occurs once in every 1,000 years when there is no full moon for a mouth January,
1862, was the anniversary of that event."
July 4 of this year, 1861, Hood River held its first
celebration. The spot chosen was in the large oak grove in front of Professor
Thompson's residence, east of the school building. Hood River was then, as
it always has been, intensely patriotic and loyal to the Union, and in those
days political feeling ran high. It was deemed necessary that we should have
an emblem of the Union to fly to the breeze. My father was commissioned to
see about getting a flag. So a trip to The Dalles was made and material
purchased, costing $20, and sewed together on a very wonderful piece of mechanism
-- a sewing machine, one of the first on the coast. The work of sewing the
stripes together and binding the same, cost $10 more without putting on the
stars, which was done by the ladies of our neighborhood. The flag was a beauty
then, and is still so. The colors are as bright as the day they floated out
on the breeze nearly 42 years ago. Thirty-two persons all told participated
in the celebration.
The day came near ending in a tragedy. A certain young
man, whom I will not name, was unwise enough to drink a cold-water toast
to the Southern Confederacy. A stone thrown into a hornet's nest would aptly
illustrate the situation in that little gathering. In an instant, it is needless
to say, that young man realized what he had done and none too soon, and was
only too glad to take off his hat before Old Glory and swear allegiance to
the Union. The trees still bear the marks of where the bower was built, and
where our flag pole was raised. The flag is now in the hands of the Oregon
Historical Society in Portland.
In August of this year, 1861, D.A. Turner and William
Odell came to the valley. Mr. Turner bought out the Stadden place of William
Moss, who bought it of Stadden, and Odell the Butler farm. Also, the same
fall, Laborn Stetwell took up what was afterwards known its the Lilly place,
south of Joe Purser's, and a man named Joe Wilkins took the place now known
as the Crapper ranch.
SEVERE WINTER OF 1861
This brings our record down to the fall of '61, and the
beginning of the hardest winter since the settlement of Hood River, and in
fact the Indians said it was the worst they had ever seen. But the old men
had a tradition that told of a winter in which so much snow fell that it
did not melt off during the ensuing summer, making it a contin-uous winter
for over a year, and that all the stock died off, and most of the Indians.
On November 19 snow began to fall, and at no time after that date was the
ground entirely clear until after April 12, 1862. On that date, I read from
the record, "snow chiefly gone, except in spots." Up to that date we had
experienced no severe weather, though one winter a large quantity of snow
fell but it did not last long. We were well prepared both ourselves and our
stock for any ordinary winter, but a winter lasting from November 19 to April
13, left all former records so far behind that they were not worthy of mention.
The mercury went down on January 16 to 24 degrees below zero, and the average
mean temperature for the month was only 10.45 ,degrees above zero. The greatest
depth of snow was 4 feet 1 inch on the level. The river closed January 1,
and the first boat came up March 4. On February 19, our provisions having
given out, I took an Indian and hand sled and went to The Dalles to replenish
our stock of food. The trip was a dan-gerous one, as the ice was breaking
up. I broke in once, but saved the load on the sled.
My story would be incomplete with-out a special reference
to that hardy old pioneer, Daves Divers. Either in the fall of '61 or '62,
he located up Hood river on the place now known as the Divers farm. His family
consisted of his wife and three sons. One by one the boys left him and a
few years ago the faithful wife and mother passed through the valley of shadows.
Unable longer to care for his many acres, he disposed of his farm, and buying
a small place, he is awaiting alone the final summons.
On Saturday, the 14th of May, 1864, a most deplorable
accident happened that cast a gloom over our little neighbor-hood, and resulted
in the drowning of William Jenkins and his 10 year-old son, Walter, and James
Laughlin, son of Judge Laughlin of The Dalles. James, who was a schoolmate
and warm personal friend of mine; was returning to The Dalles after having
made me a visit. It was high water and the landing at Benson's, near the
Lost Lake Lumber company's saw mill, was reached by a small boat. A.C. Phelps,
Mr. Jenkins, and his boy were also of the party. The boat, which was a large
one and loaded with empty kegs was using a sail, which jibbed unexpectedly
and struck the boy Walter on the head, knocking him over-board. Mr. Jenkins
at once jumped in after him, and James, thinking he could be of assistance
grasped an empty keg and jumped in also, but the wind was too strong and
the keg carried him away from those he was trying to reach, so he let it
go and tried to reach shore, which was only a short distance away. But when
within a few feet of the land he sank to rise no more. This left Phelps alone
in the unwieldy boat, but doing the best he could, he made a tack out in
the river and back towards Jenkins, who was still holding the boy and work-ing
towards shore. But just as the boat was within a few rods of him he also
sank with the boy. James Laughlin was a most estimable young man, upright,
honest, honorable and had a host of friends who sincerely mourned his untimely
taking off. After Jenkins' death, his widow married a steamboat engineer,
named Burt and soon after they sold the farm to Mr. B.W. Mitchell and his
father-in-law M.C. Nye.
BALDWIN AND TIEMAN ARRIVE
In the fall of 1864 S.M. Baldwin and Harry Tieman located
on a place near the Sears' farm, whore they remained three years, when they
moved to the upper Hood River valley, where the found, superior advantages,
for stock raising, having unlimited range and an abundance of wild hay. By
dint of hard work and frugality they soon had the wilderness turned into
blooming orchards and billowy meadows, sur-rounded by all the comforts that
the ground could produce. These jolly old bachelors lived care free of the
world and its troubles. Full many a merry party from the lower valley found
a hearty welcome to the hospitable homes of these kind-hearted men. Henry
Tieman for many years sailed under the pennant of Commodore Brazee of the
United States navy, and his tales of the sea were as interesting as they
were varied. A few years ago he made his last voyage, furled his sails and
dropped anchor on the other shore. Mr. Bald-win still lives, not on, but
near the old home, not now an old bachelor with his sour dough and bacon.
But the latch string is out just the same and the welcome just as hearty
as of old.
I have now brought my record down to modern times, so
to speak. The advent of the Parkhurst colony from Pennsylvania in November,
1875, was a long step in the development of the valley. The building of the
railroad, the open-ing of the locks at the Cascades, the development of the
fruit industry have in the half century passed turned this little valley,
once lovely in its wildness, into a valley of gardens now lovely in its
cultivation.
H.C. COE.
The photographs, and any accompanying titles:
FIRST SETTLER IN HOOD RIVER
William C. Laughlin - He was born in Bourbon county, Kentucky, December 27,
1814; married in Quincy, Ill., to Mary Yeargain, April 4, 1840; died in The
Dalles, Oregon, September 17, 1864.
WIFE OF FIRST SETTLER IN HOOD RIVER
Mrs. Mary Yeargain Laughlin - Was born in Shelby county, Kentucky, January
28, 1818. Died January 17, 1898, at The Dalles, Oregon. Mr. and Mrs. Laughlin
had three children - Elizabeth, James and B.F. Laughlin - all born in Scotland,
Missouri. James was drowned at Hood River in 1864; Elizabeth Lord and B.F.
Laughlin reside in The Dalles.
FIRST HOUSE IN HOOD RIVER
Built by Nathaniel Coe, in 1854, near the site of the Laughlin cabin. Now
the oldest house in Hood River. Mount Adams, the Columbia river and the
Washington cliffs in the distance.
CAME TO HOOD RIVER IN 1854
Nathaniel Coe - Was born in Morristown, New Jersey, September 6, 178. Removed
to Rochester, N.Y., when a boy, traveling by ox team all the way. Was married
to Miss Mary White in 1826, and removed to Hunda, N.Y., where he remained
until he came to Oregon. He was twice elected to the state legislature. In
1851 President Fillmore appointed him special postal agent for the territory
of Oregon, which then included all the territory lying north of California
to the British line and west of the Rocky Mountains. Removed to Hood River
in 1854, where he died October 17, 1868.
WOMAN, WHO NAMED HOOD RIVER
Mary White Coe - Was born in New York City in 1803, where she lived until
her marriage. Came to Oregon in 1854 and to Hood River that same year, where
she died in 1893. She had five children -- Lawrence W., Cornelia, Charles
C., Eugene F. and Henry C.
FIRST SETTLER AT WHITE SALMON
E.S. Joslin
WIFE OF FIRST SETTLER AT WHITE SALMON
Mary L. Joslyn
A TRUE FRIEND OF THE WHITES
John Slibinder - He must now be close to his centennial year and is still
a hale and hearty old man. After an intimate acquaintance, lasting nearly
half a century, I can truthfully say that I never knew a more honest, truthful
or upright man, black or white, then Old Slibinder -- never wavering in his
friendship to the whites, ever risking the anger of the hostiles during the
troublous times of the Indian war of 1856. - H.C.C.
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© Jeffrey L. Elmer