The White Goat and his Country 
Another accurate observer had seen three 
hundred on a hill just above Early Winter as 
he was passing by. The cabined dwellers on 
the Methow tied their horses to the fence and 
talked to me—so I had come from the East 
after goats, had 1?—and in the store of the 
Man at the Forks I became something of a 
curiosity. Day by day I sat on the kegs of 
nails, or lay along the counter devoted to his 
dry-goods, and heard what passed.  Citi- 
zens and denizens—for the Siwash with his 
squaws and horses was having his autumn 
hunt in the valley—knocked at the door to 
get their mail, or buy tobacco, or sell horns 
and fur, or stare for an hour and depart with a 
grunt; and the grave Man at the Forks stood 
behind one counter while I lay on the other, 
acquiring a miscellaneous knowledge. One 
old medical gentleman had slain all wild ani- 
mals without weapons, and had been the 
personal friend of so many distinguished his- 
torical characters that we computed he was 
nineteen about the time of Bunker Hill. They 
were hospitable with their information, and I 
followed my rule of believing everything that 
IT hear. And they were also hospitable with 
3 33 
