in part from him.

Joe Lewis was the principal speaker. Addressing the Cayuses, he said:

"The moon brightens; your tents fill with furs. But Death, the robber, is
among you. Who sends Death among you? The White Chief (Whitman). And why
does the White Chief send among you Death, the robber, with his poison?
That he may possess your furs."

"Then why do the white people themselves have the disease?" asked a
Cayuse.

None could answer. The question had turned Joe Lewis's word against him,
when a tall Indian arose and spread his blanket open like a wing. He stood
for a time silent, statuesque, and thoughtful. The men waited seriously
to hear what he would say.

It was the same Indian who had appeared at the mission after the joke of
the plugged melons.

"Brothers, listen. The missionaries are conjurers. They conjured the
melons at Wauelaptu. They made the melons sick. I went to missionary chief.
He say, 'I make the melons well.' I leave the braves sick, with their
faces turned white, when I go to the chief. I return, and they are well
again. The missionaries conjure the melons, to save their gardens. They
conjure you now, to get your furs."

The evidence was conclusive to the Cayuse mind. The missionaries were
conjurers. The council resolved that all the medicine-men in the country
should be put to death, and among the first to perish should be Whitman,
the conjurer.

Such in effect was the result of the secret council or councils held
around Wauelaptu.

Whitman felt the change that had come over the disposition of the tribes,
but he did not know what was hidden behind the dark curtain. His great
soul was full of patriotic fire, of love to all men, and zeal for the
gospel.

He was nothing to himself--the cause was everything. He rode hither and
thither on the autumn days and bright nights, engaged in his great work.

He went to Oregon City for supplies.

"Mr. McKinley," he said to a friend, "a Cayuse chief has told me that the
Indians are about to kill all the medicine-men, and myself among them. I
think he was jesting."

"Dr. Whitman," said McKinley, "a Cayuse chief never jests."

He was right. The fateful days wore on. The splendid nights glimmered over
Mount Hood, and glistened on the serrated mountain tents of eternal snow.
The Indians continued to sicken and die, and the universal suspicion of
the tribes fell upon Whitman.

Suddenly there was a war-cry! The mission ran with blood. Whitman and his