He Kept a Dead Man's Skull as a Souvenir — and the Paper Printed the Story

NORTH YAKIMA, April 4. — In 1852 my father, James Wills, left Burlington, Iowa, and made the journey across the country to Yreka, Cal., with an ox team. In the year following, on notification to join him, I, together with my mother, two brothers and two sisters, started on the journey, going from Burlington to St. Louis and thence up the Missouri river to St. Joe. We organized what was called the "Shelton-Weddle train," consisting of about sixty wagons drawn by brawny oxen. On the 4th of May, 1853, we crossed the Missouri river and entered immediately upon the hardships of a trip that was destined to occupy more than four months. From the standpoint of the usual experiences of those having crossed the plains, our trip was uneventful, though it was sufficiently spiced with incidents, and had hardships enough to make it thoroughly interesting. I was then a mere boy of 16, and did not fully appreciate the dangers to which our train was subjected. We had no actual engagements with the Indians, our company being sufficiently large to keep a check upon them, where smaller trains going over the same route a few days previous had suffered a great loss of live stock and very frequently some members of their parties.

On September 10, 1853, we arrived at what was known as "Foster's," at the foot of the Cascades, in the Willamette valley, and finally located on "Dickey's Prairie," on the Molalla river, Clackamas county, near Oregon City, the then capital of Oregon territory, which embraced at that time the whole of what is now the state of Washington. My father then proceeded to make a home on a half section of land, taken up under the "donation act," a grant made specially for the benefit of early settlers.

I recall an incident that I think occurred in the spring of 1858. A missionary — I think his name was George Miller — settled in our neighborhood and began making a home. He had a wife, and one child about 3 years old. The wife told her husband that on several occasions when he was absent, a big dog came around the house, and she wanted him to kill it. So one day he was working near the house and took his rifle to watch for the dog. The woman was washing near the house, and the child started for the place where its father was at work, when all at once the woman cried: "George, there is that dog, shoot him." Just then the cougar, for such it was, sprang upon the child, catching it in the clothing at the back, and ran for the bushes, about fifty yards distant. The father was paralyzed momentarily, but suddenly grasped his gun and fired at the animal as it was making its last spring to get into the bushes with the child. Providence must have guided that bullet, for the animal fell dead in its tracks, and not a scratch was left upon the baby.

On one occasion, in the spring of 1855, William Bunton and myself went elk hunting on the Molalla river. We found no elk, but killed five or six deer and started to return to our houses. Resting by a big tree by the wayside, we found in it a large hollow and Bunton inserted his gun and poked around in the cavity, when we were both greatly startled to hear a savage roar, and next to see the head and shoulders of a tremendous bear which had been disturbed in its winter quarters. Bunton dropped his gun and made a spring that would have done credit to an athlete. The bear went back to bed, but we were determined to rout him out. We figured around considerably before securing the lost gun, but finally drew it away from the hole with a forked stick; then Bunton took his stand and I threw rocks into the hollow. When old bruin showed his head he got a chunk of lead that did the business for him. On finding out for a certainty that the bear was defunct, we tried to pull him from his lair, but our united strength could not budge him. Finally Bunton went and got his horse, and putting a rope around the neck and shoulders of his bearship, climbed upon his horse, and with a half hitch around the horn of his saddle he put spurs to the animal, and the bear came out — but the way that horse bucked and snorted when he saw what he had been pulling on would have tried the skill of the best Mexican vaqueros. The bear pulled down the scales at 500 pounds, net weight.

Early in the fall of 1855 the Indians in the northwest began a series of depredations upon the settlers in the sparsely settled regions of Oregon, which then embraced the new state of Washington. About the middle of October of that year, Governor George L. Curry determined to try and subdue the savage cohorts, and to that end issued a call for volunteers. A large number responded, and ninety-three of us from Clackamas county enrolled our names under Captain James J. Kelly, Company C, First regiment, Oregon militia volunteers. We started upon our campaign October 15, 1855, and after leaving The Dalles it was found necessary to elect a new captain, as James Kelly had been promoted to Colonel. Samuel E. Stafford was chosen and Charles Cutting flag bearer, the other officers being D. B. Hannah first lieutenant and James Powell second lieutenant.

The organization being completed, we took to the field, arriving at Klickitat valley November 6, 1855. We had seen no fresh meat since leaving Portland, and the killing of a fine fat cow by one of our party was hailed with delight. The Klickitat was then a veritable paradise for the little stock then running at large. The grass was over six feet tall and very dense. Striking camp the next day we crossed the Simcoe mountains and came to the beautiful Simcoe valley, now embraced in the Yakima reservation. On November 9th we made our way in the hills through which flows the Yakima river, then known as the "Two Buttes." Here the first active engagement of our campaign against the wily and wicked children of the forest occurred. Our advance guards, consisting of companies commanded by Captains Cornelius, Hembrie and Bennett, drove the Indians from their ambush in the brush along the river. The savages numbered about 300, and were disposed to be ugly.

Being driven from their valley, they intrenched themselves in their rude fortifications upon the buttes. A howitzer was used in our first attempt to dislodge them, but the shots fell short, and a charge was made upon the enemy by the commands under Major Heller and Captain Augur, assisted by a corps of volunteers, who charged up the rugged face of the mountain, forcing the Indians from their position and compelling them to flee down the opposite side of the butte in hot haste.

That night we camped at the base of the buttes, near the river, and the first dawn of the next day disclosed the unwelcome sight of numerous Indians lurking about from place to place upon the butte, and to emphasize their presence they occasionally sent a stray bullet into our camp. An order was at once given to drive them from their vantage ground, and our command separated, one company going up the face of the hill and the remainder coming through the canyon between the two buttes. Just as we reached the north side an Indian on horseback came at a breakneck speed around the bluff within fifty yards of us, and as he passed, Lieutenant D. B. Hannah jumped from his horse, and, taking good aim with his rifle, made an angel of that noble red man in less time than it takes to tell it. It was near the same place, on the side of the mountain, that I made the first notch in my "trusty rifle."

A party of us went out, contrary to orders, to see if we could not have a little fun and reduce the number of our foes at the same time. Going to the top of the mountain, we were greatly annoyed by an Indian who, from the shelter of a large rock in the gulch below us, was trying to play a hand at our game. He would step out in full view and fire at us, and before we could bring to bear on him he was safely ensconced behind his natural breastworks. Watching my opportunity, I slipped away from the crowd and rapidly made my way around the hill, out of sight of the pesky redskin. Unsuspicious of danger, he stepped out to try another shot at my comrades, but before he could get his gun in position I let him have one in the ribs, and, throwing his arms above his head, with a wild yell he gently passed into the spirit land. Years afterwards his skull was found by H. H. Adkins, who died recently at Yakima City, and it is now in my possession.

Having run the Indians from the hills, we started on the 10th of November to follow them up the Ahtanum valley, and, in company with Joseph Buff and an Indian guide known as "Cut-Mouth-John," I separated from the main body of our command and started around the mountains. We had not proceeded a great distance when our Umatilla guide called our attention to an Indian who was coming full tilt in our direction. The siwash rode rapidly toward us, and as I pulled the trigger of my gun, the horse I rode gave a sudden spring, throwing the muzzle of my gun in the air, where it was discharged. Mr. Indian came up within a few feet of me, snapping an old Hudson Bay company's pistol, about two feet long, right at me, but it failed to go off, and our dusky foe went whizzing by, followed by my saddle animal and Cut-Mouth-John close behind. Our guide was riding a good horse, and soon overtook the fleeing savage. Placing the muzzle of his gun directly between the shoulders of the Indian, our John pulled the trigger and blowed a hole in that redskin that a cat could crawl through. Twenty-seven years after the event recorded I met Cut-Mouth-John in Pendleton, Or., and we had a great "wah-wah" about our campaign in the Yakima valley. Catching my own and the Indian's horse, and allowing Cut-Mouth to relieve the Indian of his scalp, we returned to the command.

Our next stop was within two miles of the Catholic mission, in the Ahtanum valley. Several of our men, myself among the number, went up to the old mission, and arriving there, we found that some one had preceded us. A lot of devilment had been done, by whom it was never ascertained, and the place was deserted. Candles, crucifixes, beads and other Roman emblems were scattered in ruthless chaos all around, and vandal hands had worked irreparable injury to beautiful paintings and other decorations. A serious effort was made by our officers to discover the author of these impious outrages, and it would have fared badly with the offenders had they been discovered. We found about a ton of flour and a lot of dried camas and berries cached away, and, as we were then on half rations, these came in very gratefully to the Webfoot boys, who had learned to eat that sort of grub before leaving home.

On November 12th, while still camped on the Ahtanum, sixteen inches of snow fell, and on the following day quite a band of Indian horses were rounded up. The officers ordered the animals killed, and the mandates were obeyed.

Some of the most extraordinary exhibitions of bravery that have ever come under my observation occurred on that same day. A scouting party composed of eighteen or twenty men, under Lieutenant Andrew Shephard of Silverton, Marion county, Or., and D. B. Hannah, were out reconnoitering at the head of the valley, when from 600 to 1000 Indians came down upon them. They were all on horses and had thrown themselves on the side of their animals, opposite our boys. They seemed thicker than any flock of blackbirds I have ever seen. The savages made a charge and our men retreated to higher ground. The balance of our command, further down the valley, saw the dust and smoke and were ordered to the rescue. As the scouting party retreated, one Steve Waymire of Polk county was shot through the fleshy part of the hips, and the way he did "squall" was a caution. George Holmes of Clackamas was shot through the left arm, breaking both bones to splinters. At this time the Indians were coming full tilt, yelling and firing their guns, and Holmes' arm was falling about from side to side, he having no control whatever over its motion. He dropped his gun, and being determined not to lose it, jerked his horse up, jumped down and got it, and remounting the animal, soon overtook the rest of the boys. Having informed them of the accident, a hollow square was formed around him and the wounded member lashed to his body so it would not fall around. He sat on his horse in a running fight for fifteen miles, and was not heard to give vent to even a groan. Holmes afterward went to San Francisco and had the bullet removed from its lodgment under his breast bone.

On the head of Simcoe creek we found the body of an Indian who had met his death in a peculiar manner. The bullet that laid him cold never touched his body, but had entered the mouth of his powder horn, exploding the powder and blowing an aperture into his side that you could have thrown a cat through, and blacking him from the shoulder down.

Having run the Indians to their mountain fastnesses, beyond our reach, we were ordered to return to The Dalles, and on the 16th of November started across the Simcoe mountains. My horse gave out, and I sent word along the line to Adjutant W. H. Farrer, who rode back to me and ordered the men to kill my horse and put my saddle and blankets on the pack horses, at the same time telling me to get on his horse and ride to the top of the mountain, where I was to tie the animal to a tree and go on foot, and saying that he would see that my things got through all right. I think such men as General Farrer should never die. I followed his instructions, and tying his horse at the top of the mountain, set out on foot. On the night of the 17th I set my boots close to the camp fire and went to sleep, and on the following morning I found them burnt to a crisp. The snow was about four feet deep on the summit, and I think it was the coldest weather I ever experienced. Nothing was left for me to do but wrap my feet in pieces of blankets, and I had to trudge along through the snow in that biting cold until 12 o'clock that night, alone, for the command out-traveled me considerably.

On the 18th of November, 1855, we started for the remainder of the old Fort Klickitat, en route to The Dalles, and on the evening of the 19th Colonel Nesmith and all the officers left us and went into The Dalles, leaving me commander-in-chief or corporal until orders were returned. These were received on November 21st, instructing us to come to The Dalles, and in a few days some of the boys, myself among the number, were granted a discharge. The discharge was granted to me November 26, 1855, as the following copy of a receipt I now have in my possession, from my captain, Samuel E. Stafford, will show:

DALLES, November 25, 1855. Received of Milburn G. Wills, one (1) saddle, one (1) gun, one (1) powder flask. SAMUEL E. STAFFORD, Captain Company C, First Regiment, O. M. V.

On receipt of this I started for home on board a steamer running between The Dalles and Portland, arriving there in a few days and going to work on a farm, not expecting to ever be called back to the field of war again. But in this I was fooled.

General George L. Curry made the second call for volunteers February 22, 1856. I started out again under Captain William A. Cason, Company E, Clackamas county, with W. G. Moore first lieutenant, William Mitchell second lieutenant, George Reynolds first sergeant and A. Holcomb second sergeant. Leaving Portland March 3, 1856, we reached the Cascades on the 6th, and on the 8th we were ordered to The Dalles, arriving there late in the afternoon. On the morning previous to our arrival quite a number of freight teams started for Fort Walla Walla laden with provisions for the troops, and seventeen of our company, including myself, under Sergeant Reynolds were detailed to overtake them and guard them to Fort Henrietta. We did not reach them that evening, and as we had started with nothing to eat but flour and coffee, I killed a steer to stay our appetites. The yearling belonged to Nathan Olney, and he should have been paid for it, but it is doubtful if it was ever reported.

Next day our company caught up, and we camped about half way between John Day river and Willow creek. Early next morning some Indians made a rush on the guards and cut off about eighteen head of our horses, stampeding them. About twenty of us gave chase, following the Indians almost to the mouth of Willow creek, and came onto them in camp. The boys fired on them at long range and Mr. Depew shot and crippled a squaw, who fell, and jumped up, picked up her baby playing near the fire and ran into the willows along the creek. Part of our crowd went down the creek and some to the Indian camp, while others waited on the hill to pick off the Indians as they ran. I was looking after the horses, and a comrade named Goshon asked me to look after the animals in his charge, as he saw a siwash in the bush. He then crawled up and hid behind some greasewood within twenty paces of the willows, and had not settled in his position before an Indian, about thirty yards away, fired point blank at my head. The ball, or slug of iron, shaved off a lock of hair just above my right ear, and that member has been, though perhaps ornamental, a useless appendage ever since. Just as the Indian let drive at me, Goshen fired at him, and his aim was good, for the blood spurted all over the bush. We looked for him, but the Indian jumped into a pool of water, dyeing it with his blood, and disappeared.

We captured some of the horses and next morning visited the Indians' camp, burning all their outfit, but no savages were visible to the naked eye. We next went to Fort Henrietta on the Umatilla river, near where now stands the town of Echo, and thence to old Fort Walla Walla.

I think it was April 15, 1856, our company was camped on the Walla Walla river, when some seventeen of our boys went to the neighborhood of Wild Horse creek and found thirteen head of cattle, two of which were very unruly bulls. We killed the two bulls that evening, and the same night a messenger came into camp and startled us by the announcement that the commands under Colonel Cornelius and Colonel James J. Kelly, then camped in the forks of Snake and Columbia rivers, were in a starving condition — that if we could send beef cattle to them to do so at once. Captain Cason ordered us to cast lots and seven men were selected to drive the eleven head of cattle to the starving commands.

The only way to reach them was to swim the Snake river and drive the cattle through an Indian country. On the morning of April 16th a number of us went down to the river, which was about half a mile across and almost mush ice, where the Northern Pacific Railroad company's iron bridge now crosses at Ainsworth. We started the cattle and seven men after them, and our brave captain and I followed them. The captain and I got across safely with the cattle, but the other men landed on the same side on which they had started. We got on our horses and started for the suffering commands. Just imagine how cold the snow water of Snake river is in April, and after swimming through half a mile of it to drive a bunch of cattle six miles, with no clothing but an undershirt and a pair of drawers, running our horses to keep up with the cattle, the wind blowing chill enough to freeze the shirts on our backs till they rattled like pasteboard, then the next morning to ride back and take the same dose in a spitting snow storm. But we did it, as Colonel James Kelly and T. R. Cornelius, who still live, can testify.

Returning to my command, I was detailed with twelve or fourteen of my companions to convey Samuel Price (now a brother-in-law of Senator Mitchell of Oregon) to The Dalles for medical treatment, as he was suffering from the mountain fever. Reaching the John Day river, we found that stream very much swollen, and having no means of crossing, we camped for the night. The rain descended in torrents, and we bent willows and spread our blankets over them for protection from the storm. The ensuing morning we began to construct a raft on which to convey the sick man to the opposite side of the river, which was deep, wide and swift as a mill race. On coming out of our impromptu tent a man named Greer caught his gun-lock on one of the willow poles and the weapon was discharged, the ball striking him in the left groin and coming out at the hip.

We thus had two invalids on our hands, and one raft would not hold them. Seeing that immediate action was necessary, Jeff Miller and myself agreed to risk our chances with the river and go to The Dalles for assistance. Plunging into the stream with our horses, after some difficulty we were fortunate enough to make the other side, and started rapidly for The Dalles, some sixty miles distant. We had gone but a short distance when, looking at a hill near us, I observed something resembling a cougar or other wild animal, apparently sitting on its haunches watching us. With a boyish spirit I told Miller I was going to scare the animal and see it run. We had no guns, being unable to swim the river with them, so I rode towards the animal unarmed. Getting within about forty yards of the supposed cougar, I noticed it dodge down behind the rocks, and, "smelling a mice," as it were, I turned my horse's head in the opposite direction and put cruel spurs into his flanks, just in time to hear wild yells issuing from half a score of dusky throats. (Jeff Miller is now a resident of Klickitat county.) Sure enough it was "Injuns," and the "animal" on top of the rock had been fixed up as a decoy, which came very near doing what it was intended to do. When I overtook my companion our steeds were in a dead run, and then began a race for life. Having no weapons, we depended entirely upon the speed of our excellent horses, and the Indians, recognizing the superiority of our animals, sought to cut us off, but by dint of dodging in the canyons and over precipitous hills, we finally got out of their reach. (Paddy Miln, late clerk of the Umatilla Indian reservation, knows also of this ride.) Arriving at The Dalles without further incident, we endeavored to persuade several different doctors to go to the relief of our disabled comrades, but the gentlemen refused to endanger their lives by making the trip. Fortunately for the sick men, a wagon train, guarded by troops, passed in the vicinity of the camp and they were brought to The Dalles, where, I am happy to state, they both finally recovered.

In a few days our command was mustered out of service, thus ending my experience as an active campaigner against the wily red men. These incidents can be recalled by many of my old comrades, among whom are Peter Leonard, who was shot in the leg in one of the skirmishes of the Indian wars above referred to, and Charles Stewart, who both now reside in the city of North Yakima, and are members of Multnomah camp No. 2, Indian War Veterans.

Little did I think in those days of the great future in store for the fertile Yakima valley, or that I would one day settle down right upon the ground over which I had trailed the aborigines, in a prosperous and growing city. But in 1879 fate or fortune directed my steps to Goldendale, in Klickitat county, Wash., where I resided about four years, filling the office of sheriff in that county, and finally drifting, after a residence of eight years in Pendleton, Or., to the great Yakima valley, where, with propitious fortune, I expect to end my days.

MILBURN G. WILLS.