, began to
dance the war-dance of his tribe and to chant the song of the battles
he had fought.

At first his utterance was broken and indistinct, his step feeble. But
as he went on his voice rang clearer and stronger; his step grew
quicker and firmer. Half reciting, half chanting, he continued the
wild tale of blood, dancing faster and faster, haranguing louder and
louder, until he became a flame of barbaric excitement, until he
leaped and whirled in the very madness of raging passion,--the Indian
war-frenzy.

But it could not last long. His breath came quick and short; his words
grew inarticulate; his eyes gleamed like coals of fire; his feet
faltered in the dance. With a final effort he brandished and flung his
tomahawk, uttering as he did so a last war-cry, which thrilled all who
heard it as of old when he led them in battle. The tomahawk sunk to
the head in a neighboring tree, the handle breaking off short with the
violence of the shock; and the chief fell back--dead.

Thus passed the soul of the fierce Mollalie. For years afterward, the
tomahawk remained where it had sunk in the tree, sole monument of
Mishlah. His bones lay unburied beneath, wasted by wind and rain, till
there was left only a narrow strip of red earth, with the grass
springing rankly around it, to show where the body had been. And the
few survivors of the tribe who lingered in the valley were wont to
point to the tomahawk imbedded in the tree, and tell the tale of the
warrior and how he died.

Why dwell longer on scenes so terrible? Besides, there is but little
more to tell. The faithless allies made a raid on the valley; but the
shrouding atmosphere of smoke and the frightful rumors they heard of
the great plague appalled them, and they retreated. The pestilence
protected the Willamettes. The Black Death that the medicine-men saw
sitting in Multnomah's place turned back the tide of invasion better
than the war-chief himself could have done.

Through the hot months of summer the mortality continued. The valley
was swept as with the besom of destruction, and the drama of a
people's death was enacted with a thousand variations of horror. When
spring came, the invaders entered the valley once more. They found it
deserted, with the exception of a few wretched bands, sole survivors
of a mighty race. They rode through villages where the decaying mats
hung in tatters from the half-bare skeleton-like wigwam poles, where
the ashes had been cold for