"You are a bad boy." Then he shoved him a short distance from my side and an Indian shot him in the breast; he fell and did not struggle and I think he died instantly as he made no movement. The Indians all went away then and the women and children that belonged in the immigrant house were gone and Eliza and I were alone. We seemed to be paralyzed and the horrors we had passed through so numbed our thoughts that we did not seem to think that we could go to the other house, as we had been taught not to go where we had not had permission. It was getting quite dark by this time, in the short November day, and we stood close together, when a friendly Indian came; he was the one that had pleaded for Frank's life and he took us by the hands and led us over to Mrs. Sander's door. She took us in and gave us some supper and one of the other families took Eliza in to give her a place to sleep.

When I had eaten my supper, Miss Bewley asked me if I would go over to the Whitman house to take food to her brother who was lying terribly ill in the little room just off the kitchen. He had seen and heard some of the awful things that had taken place during the day, but had not been molested, probably because the Indians thought him dying anyway. I told her I was afraid to go, as I would have to step over the dead bodies. Mrs. Sanders took me into a bedroom and spread a quilt on the floor and I laid down, but not to sleep until far into the night. Mr. Gillam, the tailor, had been wounded while sitting on his table sewing and had run into this room; he was suffering terribly and begging to be put out of his misery; along towards morning he was given his release from suffering.

We got up very early and ate a scant breakfast, as we knew not what daylight would bring. The Indians would surely ask to be fed as they were then sitting in the early glimmerings of light on Monument hill, chanting the Death song. The wind had blown and whistled so mournfully in the night that it had added to my fear and I never hear the sound of the wind blowing in the winter, but my mind goes back to that terrible night; and it has been 72 years since I heard it wail its requium around desolated Waiilatpu.

My four sisters and the two half-breed girls, with the wounded Mr. Kimball, were alone in the chamber of the Mission house all night, for they had made no attempt to leave when the others had gone in the afternoon. The children were all ill with measles and two were very ill—sister Louise and Helen Meek. They begged constantly for water, but there was none upstairs; the pitchers of water that were there on Monday morning had had cloths dipped in them to put on Mrs. Whitman's wounds. Mr. Kimball's broken arm pained him excessively and he sat on the floor with his head against a bed until toward morning, when he told Catherine to tear up a sheet and bandage his arm and he would go to the river for water.

Catherine said, "Mother wouldn't want the sheets torn up." "Child, your mother will never need sheets. She is dead," was his answer. He went out in the dim morning light and succeeded in reaching the river, wrapped in the blanket Catherine had put around him, Indian fashion. Meanwhile the Indians had come to the immigrant house and had told us to prepare their breakfast. While they were waiting for their meal, an outcry was made that drew us all to the north door in the Hall's room. I stepped out on the lower step and an Indian with a gun in his hand was on the upper step; we saw the figure of a man with a white blanket around him, walking near the Doctor's house; he was near the corn-crib about half way to the house, when the Indian on the step above me shot, and the man fell. It was Mr. Kimball returning with water for the fevered children. I realize that my statement is different from all the others of the survivors in regard to the killing of Mr. Kimball, but I have a clear remembrance of this tragedy, which time has not dimmed or effaced from my mind. According to some, he hid in the brush till the next day and in working his way to his family was killed as he was crossing the fence by the house. I remember the same day, about noon or later, Joe Stanfield came in and said that a "Boston man" was hiding in the brush. Some of the women wanted to investigate, but Joe said "No, don't." We thought it might be Mr. Hall, as he had gone, as I remember, early in the morning of the massacre to see if he could shoot some ducks on the river. He was never heard from or his body found, so no one knows his fate.

The Osborn family hid under the floor in the Indian room and remained hidden until in the darkness of the night they came out, put a little food together, wrapped a coverlid about Mrs. Osborn and went out into the cold. There were Mr. Osborn and three children in the party. Mrs. Osborn had been confined to the bed and this was the first time she had been out of doors in some days, though that day she had been able to go into Mrs. Whitman's part of the house. They climbed the fence and took the irrigation ditch, as it offered more protection for them, being quite deep with the wild rye grass and buck brush growing thick and tall on the banks; then they got into the main road and went on for some distance, finally hiding for the day; besides Mrs. Osborn was unable to travel further. Their sufferings were terrible, all being thinly clad. At last Mr. Osborn concluded to take the oldest boy and go to the Fort, if possible, leaving his wife and the other children hidden in the bushes. He made his way to Fort Walla Walla, carrying his boy on his back; the boy had nothing with which to cover his head. When Mr. Osborn arrived at the Fort he asked Commander McBaine to take him in and to furnish him horses and food to use in the rescue of his wife and the other children. McBaine refused, saying he "Could not do it."

"I will die at the Fort gates, but I must have help," was Osborn's reply.

In the happy days before these tragic happenings, an artist by the name of Stanley came to the Mission. He had been sent out by the Government for the Smithsonian Institute to take pictures. At the time of the Massacre he was again on his way to visit the Mission. He and his Indian guide intended to go down into the Willamette valley, near Oregon City, to winter. Meeting an Indian woman, she told him everyone was killed at the Mission; he was asked if he was a "Boston man" or a Frenchman and replying that he was a Frenchman, was allowed to proceed unmolested. He reached the Fort in safety and when McBaine refused to let Mr. Osborn have horses, said to the latter, "You can have my horse and what provisions I have," and he also gave him a silk handkerchief to tie on the child's head. Stitkus, an Indian, took his own French chapeau and put it on Mr. Osborn's head. McBaine at last gave an Indian a blanket if he would go with Mr. Osborn and rescue the family; but he instructed him not to bring them to the Fort, but to take them to an Indian village. The mother and children were found with some difficulty, and as they came to the fork in the road on the return, one leading to the Umatilla Indian village where their lives would not have been safe, and the other to the Fort and security, the Indian, disregarding McBaine's explicit directions, refused to take the one to the village and insisted that they proceed to the Fort. The little party did so, and were finally admitted. Their hardships were many, even there; but they remained until such time as we were all ransomed. This is as I remember hearing from sister Catherine as she, later, lived close to the Osborn family in the Willamette valley and she and Mrs. Osborn were together frequently; also from the account sworn to by Mr. Osborn in Gray's History.

Tuesday morning, Miss Bewley made some gruel, hoping to be able to send it over to her sick brother. Chief Tilokaikt came in and she told him of her brother and he was very