orses. A century later they owned
thousands. Indian women never accompanied war-parties; and Cecil
noticed that some of the bands were composed entirely of men, which
gave them the appearance of going to war. It had an ominous and
doubtful look.

At the Wau-coma (place of cottonwoods), the modern Hood River, they
found the tribe that inhabited that beautiful valley already on the
march, and the two bands mingled and went on together. The Wau-comas
seemed to be peaceably inclined, for their women were with them.

A short distance below the Wau-coma, the young Willamette's horse,
urged till it could go no farther, fell beneath him. The blood gushed
from its nostrils; in a few moments it was dead. The Willamette
extricated himself from it. "A bad horse, _cultus_ [no good]!" he
said, beating it with his whip. After venting his anger on it in that
way, he strode forward on foot.

And now Cecil was all expectation, on the alert for the first sight of
the bridge.

"Shall we see it soon?" he asked the young Willamette.

"When the sun is there, we shall see it," replied the Indian, pointing
to the zenith. The sun still lacked several hours of noon, and Cecil
had to restrain his impatience as best he could.

Just then an incident occurred that for the time effectually
obliterated all thought of the bridge, and made him a powerful enemy
where he least desired one.

At a narrow place in the trail, the loose horses that were being
driven at the head of the column became frightened and ran back upon
their drivers. In a moment, squaws, pack-horses, and ponies were all
mingled together. The squaws tried in vain to restore order; it seemed
as if there was going to be a general stampede. The men dashed up from
the rear, Snoqualmie and Cecil among them. Cecil's old nurse happened
to be in Snoqualmie's way. The horse she rode was slow and obstinate;
and when she attempted to turn aside to let Snoqualmie pass he would
not obey the rein, and the chief's way was blocked. To Snoqualmie an
old Indian woman was little more than a dog, and he raised his whip
and struck her across the face.

Like a flash, Cecil caught the chief's rein and lifted his own whip.
An instant more, and the lash would have fallen across the Indian's
face; but he remembered that he was a missionary, that he was
violating his own precepts of forgiveness in the presence of those
whom he hoped to convert.

The blow did not fall; he grappled with his anger and hel