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I have written this that she shall be remembered, and properly this narrative should here have an end.
The u Tale of the Tall Alcalde," which men assert on their own authority to be a true story of my life here and her death, was written for her. I could not then make it literally true, because the events were too new in my mind. It had been like opening wounds not yet half healed. I was then a judge in the northern part of Oregon. I had, with one law book and two six-shooters, administered justice suc cessfully for four years, and was then an aspirant for a seat on the Supreme Bench of the State. Men who had some vague knowledge of my life with the In dians were seeking to get at the secrets of it and accomplish my destruction. I wrote that poem, and took upon myself all the contumely, real or fancied, that could follow such an admission.
At sunrise I began to make my way slowly up the river, towards the Indian camp, which I knew was not more than a day s journey away. I ate berries and roots as I could find them in my way, and at night I entered the village and sat down by the door of a lodge.
An old woman brought me water, but she could not restrain her eagerness to know of my companions, and at once broke the accustomed silence.
" Uti Paquita? Uti Olale?"
I pointed my thumbs to the earth.
She threw up her arms and turned away. The camp was a camp of mourning, for nothing but defeat
