find some one to camp with and talk to
other than the pony.

The greeting given me by those tired and almost discouraged travelers
could not have been more cordial had they been my relatives. They had
been toiling for nearly five months on the road across the Plains, and
now there loomed up before them this great mountain range to cross.
Could they do it? If they could not get over with their wagons, could
they get the women and children through safely? I was able to lift a
load of doubt and fear from their jaded minds.

Before I knew what was happening, I caught the fragrance of boiling
coffee and fresh meat cooking. The good matrons knew without telling
that I was hungry and had set to work to prepare me a meal, a sumptuous
meal at that, taking into account the whetted appetite incident to a
diet of hard bread straight, and not much of that either, for two days.

We had met on the Yakima River, at the place where the old trail crosses
that river near the site of the present flourishing city of North
Yakima.

[Illustration: Mountain wolves.]

In this party were some of the people who next year lost their lives in
the White River massacre. They were Harvey H. Jones, his wife, and three
children, and George E. King, his wife, and one child. One of the little
boys of the camp, John I. King, lived to write a graphic account of the
tragedy in which his mother and stepfather and their neighbors lost
their lives. Another boy, a five-year-old child, was taken off, and
after being held captive for nearly four months was then safely
delivered over by the Indians to the military authorities at Fort
Steilacoom.

I never think of those people but with sadness. Their struggle,
doubtless the supreme effort of their lives, was only to go to their
death. I had pointed out to them where to go to get good claims, and
they had lost no time, but had gone straight to the locality recommended
and had set immediately to work preparing shelter for the winter.

"Are you going out on those plains alone?" Mrs. Jones asked me
anxiously.

When I told her that I would have the pony with me, she insisted, "Well,
I don't think it is safe."

Mr. Jones explained that his wife was thinking of the danger from the
ravenous wolves that infested the open country. The party had lost
weakened stock from their forages right close to the camp. He advised me
not to camp near the watering places, but to go up on the high ridge. I
followed his advice w