Grants Pass High School - Toka Yearbook (Grants Pass, OR)

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Deciphering the inscription with difficulty, 1 at last made it out to be: JOHN HARRIS KILLED BY INDIANS 1855 My curiosity was by this time aroused to such an extent that 1 determined to hear the story which I knew the old lady had to tell. “Won’t you please tell me all about it? I asked eagerly. See, here is a fallen log with room for both of us, seeing that the old lady looked weary. Seeming very reluctant, she complied with my wish, and 1 sat beside her. Doubtless we were a queer couple. Oregon fifty or sixty years ago was verv different from what it is now she began in her shrill voice. “1 can remember the time when yonder city consisted of only a half dozen rudely constructed buildings. Those were the days when gold was measured in one side of the scales, and salt in the other, when only brave, hardy men and women dared venture into this country of Indians and great hardships. “Then the chief mode of travel was by stage over the road running from Sacramento to Portland. Near the Wheeler place the road forked, one branch following the right side of that sharp little hill which you see over there, the other taking the opposite side. When each road had passed around the mountain, they came together again near the log cabin of the Harris family. “It was a bright spring morning in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-five, that the Harris family rose early as usual, to perform their daily tasks. Under the spell of the morning sunlight and the invigorating air. Mr. Harris swung his milk-pail gaily on the way to the barn. In the one-story cabin his daughter Sophia and her mother were clearing up the breakfast dishes and tidying the two rooms. Little Henry, aged eight, was lying on the kitchen floor. “'Henry,' said Mrs. Harris suddenly, we are entirely out of salt. Could you run over to the Nelsons and buy a little? Run along now, like a little man, and and oblige mother.' “Little Henry rose obligingly and started on the run to the neighbors' place, which was about a mile away. Just as Henry’s flying coat tails disappeared around a bend in the road, a deep groan startled the woman. Sophia, very much frightened, opened the door again and beheld her father on the doorstep ashy white, his hands elapsed to his breast as blood streamed thru the fingers in spurts. ■ Mrs. Harris and her daughter did not scream; the pioneer habit of taking things as they come was too deeply imbued in them. Instead of screaming and fainting, they lifted the poor man into the cabin and helped him all they could, but he could only whisper again and again: Indians down by the barn bring me—the guns—’ his voice trailed off into a whisper. 1$

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A Tale of the Old Stage Road By LOIS DALE ' HE old grave-yard was a gruesome place. The eerie shadows of the pines flickered feebly over gray, moss-eaten, tottering vines of myrtle and poison-oak, but in some cases young pines and manzanita trees grew right in the middle of the mounds, as if to prove that mankind is merely a pinch of dust after all. A strange, vapory atmosphere clung to the grave-stones and the bushes, giving a faint stench as of dead bodies long buried in hidden graves. It was to this gloomy spot that 1 wandered one hot afternoon, for I had a sort of unnatural and curious awe about old cemeteries which had been long forgotten and deserted for the more fashionable burying-places. An uncontrollable shiver went over me as I first felt the damp, dark eeriness of it all, saw the old sunken graves, and heard no sound but the crackle of dead leaves beneath my feet. 1 had no superstitions about such places, but still— After my fear wore off a little, the place becoming more familiar to me, I began to take great interest in the inscriptions on the grave stones. It was interesting to wonder about the lives of these people, what great tragedies had befallen them in past years, what joys and sorrows, what times of stress and toil. Old men. young girls, tiny babies, all were sleeping peacefully under the August sky, come to their rest at last. It seemed that they must rise from their graves and cry out at me for presuming to disturb their peace. As if to verify my suspicions, from the grave near me came a long, moaning sob. It took a few moments to overcome a feeling of horrible fear; then a little, bent old woman rose up from the ground where she had been crouching. What are you doing here? , she demanded in the thin treble of old age, but with a strangely cultivated accent. Merely looking around, 1 stammered, What— No privacy, no privacy at all these days, she moaned. I go to the place where the old log cabin stood, and children chase me off with stones; men run the plow over the old stage road; and here you are, where 1 thought to be alone at last. With the brazen curiosity of youth I asked: Where is that log cabiif'you spoke of? Is it near here? Gone, gone,’’ she muttered, nothing but a few rotting boards left to tell the tale. ’ What became of it? Whose was it? She pointed to a mossy stone at her feet. There lies the man, she said, who met his untimely death years and years ago. ’ 14

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“The mother s face grew white. My little boy—' she half whispered, Henry went with a strange look in her eyes she reached for the two old muskets over the fire-place. Mr. Harris only lived long enough to show his wife and daughter how to load the guns, then died, gasping painfully the while. Just as his last breath died away a queer whir-whir! sounded in the air. Several long objects struck the door and splintered the wood. Arrows! cried Sophia. Instantly the mother and daughter put aside their grief and. each taking a gun, they fired through the chinks between the logs of which the cabin was built. The Indians drew back a little at this, but immediately advanced again. Occasionally an arrow just missed Sophia's hand. All thru the day these two brave women held the Indians at bay. The Rogue River Indians were more ignorant than most of their race, so, after the firing continued all day. they conceived the idea that the cabin must be full of soldiers. Towards evening they retreated a little. As soon as Mrs. Harris and Sophia saw that the coast was clear, they crept out of the house behind some rose bushes. There they fired again. The Indians grew more frightened. The woods must be full of white men! I hat long night spent under the bushes, which were dripping with dew, seemed almost unendurable, but luckily the savages did not advance beyond the clearing. It seemed a long time before the first flush of dawn appeared in the east. It was just as the golden rim of the sun peeped over the mountains that Sophia, who had been lying with her head flat on the ground, started up in surprise. ‘I think I hear the sound of horses’ feet, mother,’ she cried softly. ‘Just you put your head down and hear for yourself.' Mrs. Harris soon recognized the steady vibrations made by a number of horses coming on the gallop. Hide closer, Sophy,’she whispered, trembling. ‘It is probably more Indians on horseback. Nearer and nearer came the sound. It was easily preceptible now. Tramp! tramp! tramp!—coming nearer still. The two under the bushes crouched down closer, expecting death at any moment, for all their ammunition was gone. ‘Hallo-o-o!’ called a voice. Sophia peered furtively out of the bushes. ‘Mother, its not Indians—see, the soldiers—and they’re all coming into the yard!’ and she fainted in her mother's arms. They were saved. The old woman paused, and gazed sorrowfully on the snow-capped peaks in the west, just tinged with the crimson of the approaching sunset. “And now, on many a bright summer evening, the old mother sits on her doorstep, thinking of her long lost boy. They never found little Henry; not even .1 lb