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As Told by
Mary Dunn
Indians Unfriendly
About the first of August we noticed
that
the Indians were beginning to act strangely. One day a big fellow
came to the door when mother and we girls were alone in the
cabin.
Beside the door was a shelf on which father kept some tools; among them
was a whet stone. The Indian took out a long bladed knife and
began
sharpening it; then he carefully examined a pistol. Seemingly
satisfied
that his weapons were ready, he stepped inside, picked up a stool and
threw
it down. He walked across to one of our curtained beds, jerked
the
curtains apart, then suddenly spied father's gun and started for
that.
I sprang ahead of him, drew the gun on him and followed him as he
backed
toward the door. Mr. Gibbs, who had been following the Indian,
also
Mr. Dunn came in a few minutes. They told the Indian to leave,
and
he made a hasty retreat. Mr. Gibbs said he was sure the Indian
intended
to harm us.
A few days after that Mr. Gibbs came
for
father to go down the valley with him to see if the people thought
there
was any danger from the Indians. They came back a little after
noon.
Father went inside to tell mother and Mr. Gibbs came in the shed where
we were cooking. I was making pies (they must have been
elderberry
pies, for that was the only fruit we had) and he said I better go in
and
get ready, for there would be a wagon here in a few minutes to take us
all down to the Dunn and Alberding place, where a few women had already
been taken. After seeing that we were safely housed, the men
formed
a little company of which my father was made captain. There were
just twelve men, and father divided them into three groups, and they
started
out to try to make peace with Sambo, the Chief at the rancheree about
one
mile from us.
Mr. Dunn and three others got there
first,
and the Indians began firing on them at once. Mr. Dunn was shot
in
the shoulder and Andy Carter in the wrist, breaking both bones and
severing
the artery. The others heard the firing and came to their
assistance.
They killed several Indians and took the squaws prisoners and brought
them
to Mr. Dunn's place where we were. They brought Mr. Dunn and Mr.
Carter home and sent about twenty miles to Jacksonville for a
doctor.
Mother did the best she could in giving them first aid, but Mr.
Carter's
wound was very serious on account of the bleeding. Lou and a man
took turns about holding his wrist, as none of the rest of us could
hold
it tight enough to stop the bleeding. It was a hard night for
all.
We had no beds, just rolled up in blankets on the floor, and we could
hear
the squaws and their children and the men on guard walking back and
forth.
We were glad when daylight came, so we could at least see what was
going
on. Dr. Cleveland finally came and cut the bullet out of Mr.
Dunn's
shoulder and fixed up Mr. Carter's arm. It was a painful
operation
for each of them after waiting twenty-four hours and not having
anything
to deaden the pain.
Mr. Dunn's house consisted of a
living
room, a small bedroom and a "lean-to," and there was quite a
crowd of us; Mr. and Mrs. Grubb and their five children, Mr. and Mrs.
Heber
and probably half a dozen more besides ourselves. We had to feed
the squaws and the children and try to find something for ourselves to
eat, as we had not brought anything with us. Father and another
man
started for the hills to get us fresh meat. While they were gone,
Sambo came within calling distance and wanted to talk. Mr. Gibbs
and two men went to him and he wanted to make peace, promised to give
up
their arms and stay where they were if we would not send them to the
Fort.
Mr Gibbs agreed and let them come to the house where the squaws
were.
when father returned, he was very much put out and said it would only
be
a day or two until the Indians from down the valley would come and
attack
us and that he would not risk his family there unless they sent the
Indians
away. Mr. Gibbs said that if he had fifty lives he would
trust
them all in Sambo's hands.
A party of about twenty men under
the
leadership of Geo. Tyler came over from Yreka and took us from Mr.
Dunn's
place to the Fort at Wagner Creek. They made a wall of logs about
ten feet high in a large square around Mr. Wagner's house, with a gate
at each end and port holes at the corners. We had a row of beds
next
to the wall all around and a passage way between them and the
house.
Besides the crowd from Mr. Dunn's place who were there, I can remember
Mr. and Mrs. Sam Culver and two children, Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Culver,
the
Reames, McCalls, Rockfellows, Helmans and Emerys. Also Mr. and
Mrs
Samson and the Risleys stayed in the house with the Wagners.
There
was also an emigrant camp just outside of this enclosure.
Among the company of men from Yreka
was
my cousin Isham Keith. They all stayed at the Fort the first
night
and then went on down the valley to join Lt. Elliott. They went
over
to Evan's Creek to try to located the main body of the Indians.
They
soon found traces of them and Lt. Elliott sent back four men for
help.
The rest sat down to eat, and the Indians began firing on them.
They
ran for their horses and one man was shot in the leg. Isham put
him
on his mule and helped him back to the timber. Lt. Elliott then
ordered
Isham and some others to go farther up on the mountain and try to keep
the Indians from surrounding them. Geo. Tyler tried to keep Isham
from going, saying he would be killed sure, but Isham said he was there
to obey orders, and had just gained the top when he was shot. Mr.
Tyler ran to him and asked if he were hurt. Isham said,"Yes,
I am a dead man." He turned over, laid his head on his arms
and was soon gone. He was born in September, 1834, and was killed
August 17, 1853, not quite eighteen years old. He was Aunt
Kelly's
only child. They buried him on the mountain side where he fell,
and
about four days later father, La Grande and Cicero went after the body
and brought it to our home and buried him on the hillside just across
from
our cabin.
Hill Cemetary
My father
gave ten
acres on the hill for a cemetary for Indian war victims. It was
part
of Sister Lou's portion of the claim, and she gave a deed to the
district.
Our own cousin Isham was the first one laid to rest, and Mr. Gibbs was
the next to be buried there, having been shot by Sambo, the Indian
chief
whom Mr. Gibbs had said he would trust with fifty lives. Sambo
first
shot Mr. Gibbs in the arm. Mr. Gibbs said, "Why Sambo, I did
not think that of you." Sambo grinned at him and shot him in
the bowels. Mr. Gibbs was brought to the Fort at Wagner Creek and
died the next day. My mother prepared seventeen of these Indian
war
heros for buriel in the cemetary, and she and my father are laid to
rest
there as well as a number of other relatives. It is called the
Hill
Cemetary, and the American Legion furnishes flags for the soldiers'
graves
each Decoration Day. It is right on the Pacific Highway six miles
south of Ashland, and my son George Dunn and the son of another
pioneer,
George Barron, have erected stone pillars at the gateway. My
sister,
Mrs. A.H. Russell (Has) has done much to perpetuate this place and has
carved a history of it on a slab there seven feet long. Mr. Goff
came to our place to board in the fall of '53 and made a vault over
Isham
Keith's grave.
A number of Indians came to Mr.
Dunn's
place and killed two men and wounded a number of others. They killed
all
of the stock, two oxen, a span of mules and three cows, burned all of
the
first crop and got away without being fired upon. I have no knowledge
of
how many were killed down the valley, but many good men lost their
lives,
stock was killed and crops burned all over the valley. About all we had
left for the summer's work was a few potatoes. After the Indians had
quieted
down, father took us home, and the next morning a train of emigrants
came
in. They had turned off the regular route at Fort Hall in the eastern
part
of Idaho and had come through the Klamath country and across the Green
Spring Mountain. The Walkers, Wells, Myers and many others were in the
party. Father killed a beef and gave them anything we had to eat, and
the
logs which father had for our house they took and built a high fence so
they were protected.
September 10, 1853. Gen. Joseph Lane
made
a treaty with the Indians near Table Rock. They agreed to take
$60,000.00
to be paid in annual payments. Many of the Indians died that winter;
some
thought it was on account of their eating too many potatoes. Although
they
promised to live in peace, they continued to kill and rob whenever they
had a chance.
A party of twenty-five went out
reconoitering
over the hills and found three Indians killed by the Indians and named
that the Dead Indian Country.Another party of five or six men went
hunting
over the mountainside. Henry Chapman shot a grizzly bear. He only
wounded
it, and it attacked him and tore his shoulder terribly. Chapman got
hold
of the bear's tongue and held on till the others got there and killed
it.
The men carried Chapman down to Well's place, and he went later to San
Francisco to have his shoulder fixed, but he never fully recovered from
his experience. That mountain is named Grizzly Peak and is across Bear
Creek from Ashland. They named Keene Creek for Mr. Keene, who was
killed
there.
During the winter Cupid was busy, and
the
spring found many new homes being started. I was married to Patrick
Dunn,
February 23, 1854; sister Has married James H. Russell May 9, 1854; and
sister Lou married Alvin Gillette, April 25, 1855. Brother LaGrande had
boarded at the Owen's while running the mill at Clatsop, and he married
Bethena Owen May 4, 1854. Brother Cicero married Sarah Powell, April
25,
1865. My wedding was the first in Jackson County, which at that time
included
Jackson, Josephine, Klamath and Lake counties as they are now divided.
Mother had a cook down from the Mountain House for three days preparing
for the feast. Father killed a beef. The fruits and flour were from
South
America, packed over from Crescent City. Mr. Burns of Yreka baked a
large
fruit cake for the occasion, and Aunt Kelly carried it in a bucket in
her
lap as she rode over the Siskiyous horseback. There was a big dinner
for
everybody. Dr. Cleveland and three other men came from Jacksonville;
and
Mr. Broner, a storekeeper whose brick store is now a curio shop in
Jacksonville
sent me a box of cut glass, four glasses, pitcher and a dish. The men
also
brought a carving set, chopping knife, potato masher and anumber of
kitchen
things. Father and mother gave me three cows. Uncle Eb. Kelly and his
wife
and Joe Kelly rode over from Yreka. Other neighbors there that I
remember
were John McCall, Albert Rockfellow, Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Grubb, Mr. and
Mrs. Samuel Grubb, Mr. and Mrs. Giles Wells, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings and
baby Cecelia Wells, Hugh Barron and Mr. Russell. My dress was of thin
white
material much like the fine swiss of today, and we used the same
material
for Cecelia's dress as she was my bridesmaid. John McCall was the best
man. We had a rather large house then with a big fireplace, and we had
a nice wedding. Rev. Myram Stearnes, a Baptist preacher, married us at
noon. We stayed that night at father's and went down to the Dunn house
the next day. Mrs. Grubb kept house for Mr. Dunn, and she had prepared
a big dinner to welcome me to my new home. My father, mother, Has, Lou,
Cicero and LaGrande and McCall were all there that day with us.
My new home was about two miles from father's, a log
cabin with beds built on to the wall, rough unplaned floors without
rugs
or carpet, a few chairs, a home-made table, and an immense fireplace
built
across the end of the room which served as heater and cook stove. Not a
very pleasing picture to the girl of today, but to us who had trained
our
minds and hearts to the thought of the future home, it was just the
beginning
of a hard fight to make the valley a garden spot where church bells and
the school bells would soon be ringing, where the wild flowers so
profuse
would be replaced by the waving grain; and the apple, the peach and the
pear would take the place of the mighty oak and fir.
Mr. Alberding, who had sold his farm to Mr. Tolman
and
gone back to Iowa to be married, came back the later part of August,
1855.
He said he was hungry for some venison; so on the second of September
he
and two others started out hunting. They went about ten miles beyond
the
Soda Springs and camped. Next morning they missed a pony they had taken
along to load with venison. They were sure the Indians had stolen it,
so
they decided to go back for help and try to talk the Indians into
giving
the pony back. About a dozen men went with them; and as soon as the
Indians
saw them, they began firing. The men had left their horses about a mile
away, and they soon saw that the Indians outnumbered them. Mr. Keene
was
killed; Mr. Tabor was wounded and fell beside Cicero, who helped him to
his horse. Several of the Indians were killed. Mr. Alberding had a
piece
of bone at the corner of his eye and the end of his nose shot off. The
men finally reached our house,, and I fixed Mr. Alberding up the best I
could before his wife saw him, and then she nearly fainted, he looked
so
terrible. We sent to Jacksonville for the doctor, but he could not get
to us until the next day, and they had to take Mr. Tabor's arm off at
the
shoulder.
On the 25th of September
Harrison
B. Oatman, Dan Briton, and Calvin Fields each driving an ox team with
wagons
loaded with flour, which had been ground at Waite's Mill near Father
William's
place down by Medford, were on their way over the Siskiyous going to
Yreka.
The road was very steep, and they would put all the oxen on one wagon
and
take it to the top, then another one until they would get all the loads
up. When near the summit, Oatman and Fields were with one wagon, and
Briton
stayed behind with the other wagons. He heard a shot fired, so he ran
up
the mountain until he could see the wagons, and the Indians were
scalping
a man. He turned and ran down the mountain, with the bullets whizzing
past
him, to the Mountain House where he got help, and they went back with
him.
They found Field's body by the roadside; the twelve oxen had been
killed,
the flour sacks cut open and the flour emptied on the ground. Oatman
had
escaped and ran to Coles, now Colestein, on the other side of the
mountain.
The long run almost killed him; in fact, he never did recover from it.
Oatman had suffered much from the Indians. A company coming west were
all
massacred except two nieces of his, and one of them died later. The
other
one was found some twelve years later down in Arizona. She had been
tatooed
by them and had been their captive all those years.
On the 25th of September a
young
man named Cunningham was returning from Yreka with his team. His body
was
found behind a tree where he had tried to hide. Samuel Warner and
several
others were killed at the same place, and we supposed by the same
Indians.
They had been all cut to pieces. Their bodies were brought to father's,
and he and mother tried to fix them up for buriel.
On October 9, 1855, the most
eventful
day in the history of Southern Oregon, there were about twenty persons
killed and a number of women and children taken prisoners. Many of the
woman were later killed, and some died from exposure. A Mr. Harris had
a log cabin on a knoll a way north of Jacksonville. This day he was
working
about the place about nine o'clock when he saw a band of fifteen or
twenty
Indians. He returned to the house, and as he turned to close the door a
volley of at least a dozen shots struck him in the breast. His
daughter,
Sophia, only seven, was shot also; but she ran up stairs without making
any outcry. Mrs. Harris took the gun from here dying husband and kept
firing
from a chink in the wall for five hours. The Indians retreated about
two
o'clock, evidently thinking there were a number of men inside. She then
noticed a trickle of blood from the upstairs. Rushing up she found that
little Sophia had been wounded. Carefully bandaging the wound and
applying
restoratives, her next thought was for her little boy David, about ten.
He had gone to spend the day with a bachelor friend, Samuel Bowden, who
lived a quarter of a mile away. She straightened her husband's body and
finally slipped out into the dark, carrying Sophia, and hid in the
brush
until morning. She heard horses coming and was terribly frightened, as
she thought it was the Indians, but it proved to be a detachment of
soldiers
under command of Major Fitzgerald. After burying the dead and taking
Mrs.
Harris and the little girl to Jacksonville, they searched everywhere
for
David, but not even the child's wagon which he had with him could be
found.
Sophia married John S. Love of Jacksonville, but died in the smallpox
scourge
of 1869. She left two children, Mary and George, who have often heard
their
grandmother tell of their heroic and intrepid mother.
It would be difficult to tell the state of alarm
which
swept over the valley when the details of the massacre became known.
All
business was stopped, and most of the families near Jacksonville went
there
for the winter. Others built club houses near their homes where a
number
of families could stay. We covered the windows of our house with slabs
and filled sacks with grain and lined the kitchen with them as high as
our heads. We had port holes through them so we could fire if we were
attacked
and kept two big barrels of water on hand in case we should be
surrounded.
Father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Alberding, her sister and a friend from
Iowa, and a man who was working for us stayed with us. We lived this
way
all winter. The worst of the fighting was down the valley, and many
were
killed near where Grants Pass is now. Mr Wagner was telling Mr. Dunn
and
I just before his death how his company had found a large band of
Indians
near Table Rock and how they got behind some trees and would stick
their
hats out; the Indians riddled their hats but used all their ammunition
in doing so. Some of the men fighting lost their toes or their feet and
some died from standing up to their knees in snow. The next spring the
Indians were subdued, and the Government placed them on a reservation
at
Siletz, north of Newport. We were then free from further trouble with
them.
Last updated by William P. Russell onSaturday, 08-Sep-2018 09:40:23 MDT