Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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The boys were educated at home as there were no schools. Mr, Sutter began prospecting for gold and he struck a rich vein. This devel- oped into the Sutter mine, the richest mine ever found in those days. Quite a large village grew up around the mine. After a few years Ralph and John married two of the prettiest girls in the village. They made their homes in the little valley where their father and mother had first settled in the wonderful West. NETTIE LAWSON. A Pony Express Rider T WAS my great-grandfather that had this thrilling experience in the ’60’s while riding in what is now Nevada but what was then a bare waste of desert land. The wind was beating against Jack Hart’s face and his legs were aching from holding them around the pony’s thin flanks. But this was not all that was troubling him. He was being chased by Indians, who were slowly but surely gaining on him. What if they caught him? He dared not think about that. Jack was a pony express rider and he was riding twice his distance that day, as the man at the end of his route had been killed by Indians. And now Jack was being chased by these same merciless warriors. As Jack made a turn he was confronted by a wide river with all of the bridge gone except a little piece at this end. There was only one thing to do and that was to hide. To turn back would mean to be captured and to try to swim the river meant certain death. So he looked around for a hiding place. Suddenly he had an idea. He went out into the water, pulling his horse after him. He then tied his horse’s mouth with a piece of deer skin so he would not make any noise. This being done, he went under the piece of bridge and lay down on the wet sand. Soon he heard the hoofbeats of the Indian ponies coming nearer and nearer, and finally the Indians talking right above him. They could not understand what had become of Jack. There were no footprints on the other side, so they concluded that he was drowned and turned back to face the anger of their chief. Jack lay still until the Indians were out of hearing. Then he got up, stretched his cramped legs, and started on again with his message. MARGARET MOLONEY.

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The Thundering Herd two sons, Ralph, aged 9, and John, aged 1 4. They were headed west toward California, the land of great promise. They had been with a group of other travelers but they had an accident with their wagon and they were obliged to drop behind. They became lost on the plains and they were almost out of both food and water. The situation was becoming very serious, indeed. They could get water only at the water holes. It was in the early morning that they heard a great rumbling like a million hoofs. The ground fairly trembled. Mr. Sutter stopped the oxen and went to a nearby knoll from which he could look over the sur- rounding plains. And to his great dismay he could see nothing but buf- faloes. He hurried back to the wagon and the boys helped him unyoke the oxen and put the back end of the wagon towards the oncoming avalanche of buffaloes. They tied the oxen to the wagon so they would not be swallowed up by the buffaloes. When that thundering herd came upon them, Mr. Sutton and the boys began shooting. One buffalo was tossed up in the wagon bed and there he was killed by one of John’s well-aimed shots. In the meantime, the majority of the herd was swerving away from the wagon, because the dead buffaloes served as a bulwark in front of the wagon. After the avalanche of buffaloes had passed, Mr. Sutter and the boys dressed the one they had shot. They now had enough meat to eat so they started on their journey again. They came to a water hole at last after a long time of traveling without water. They filled their water kegs and let the oxen quench their thirst. They took enough water to last them until they came to the next hole. They camped by the hole that night. The next morning they saw several scattering herds of buffaloes but they did’t kill any. That afternoon they found the trail of their friends and followed it. That night they found them all dead. They had been murdered by a wandering war party of Apache Indians. The fortunate Sutters had thus been saved from both murder and starvation. They again started out, and after three weeks of steady traveling reached California. Mr. Sutter found a beautiful little valley where he built a cosy little home for his family. m ANY years ago a prairie schooner was slowly wending its way across the dry plains. It was drawn by two mottled oxen. The occupants of the schooner were Mr. and Mrs. Sutter and their

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Nearly Going Up — or Down H, PLEASE, please tell me a story,” begged Barbara, ‘‘a nice long one, about when you were a little girl.” Barbara and Miss Marjorie were seated under a drooping willow near a chuckling ittle stream, and with a plate of Belinda’s best cookies, they were whiling away a pleasant afternoon. “Well, let me think; what shall I tell you?” Miss Marjorie asked thoughtfully. “Anything, just anything, only make it nice and long,” Barbara answered. “All right.” So w ith a final cookie Miss Marjorie began: “A long, long time ago when I was a little girl, about four years old, my father, because of poor health, left Boston and moved to Texas. There, in order to make a living for his family, he kept a ‘general store’. About ten miles from us was a large Indian reservation. From there the Indians came to our store frequently for supplies. Tobacco and fire- water were greatly in demand; but my father knew better than to keep liquor, for if an Indian drank only a little, it always excited and crazed him until he was ready for the war path. Then, of course, he would destroy anything and everything without mercy. “One morning, my father having seated me upon the counter, I took great delight in watching my two little red shoes, which, only the day before had come from the East. Then suddenly, loud wa r whoops were heard. My father, standing behind the counter, saw through the win- dow a band of Indians in their war paint galloping toward the store. Louder and louder beat their horses’ hoofs. Nearer and nearer they drew. Jumping from their mounts they rushed into the store. Paint — feathers — Indians — confusion was everywhere. “Tobaccy, tobaccy, fire-water, fire-water,” they yelled. My father realized that any false move would be fatal, and scalping would be our fate. Two little red shoes tapping on wood reminded him of an open barrel of gunpowder which stood before the counter. A sud- den thought struck him. Being blown up would be kinder than death with slow torture. Desperately he hunted in his pockets for a match — first in his vest-pocket, then in his hip-pocket — but both were empty. Louder and louder clamored the excited, drunken Indians. Then father remembered he had left his matchbox on a shelf in another corner.