tARLY DAYS ON THE YAKIMA. 
J. E. NEWTON. 
We had finished our work, and sitting 
in the dim light of the smoky lamp, we 
drifted into talk of early days. I was 
comparatively a tenderfoot, while Pard had 
come over the plains when a mere boy. 
We both owed our living to the Pacific 
railroad. He handled a big Klondike en- 
gine. I was known as the “cow coroner.” 
To find how he had happened to hit a 
bunch of 3-year-olds on a straight track 
was what brought us together. 
“Things have changed mightily since I 
came out here in ’72,” he said. “I don’t 
recall much of the trip overland, though 
I have a vivid recollection of reaching our 
promised land, a beautiful spot on the 
Yakima, where it winds down Kittitas 
valley on its way to the Columbia. We 
worked hard putting up the log home, 
barn, hay skids and corral. There was 
timber without end, but it had all to be 
worked by hand.. We had plenty of horses 
but of people there was only father, moth- 
er, 2 girls and I. However, we were all 
under cover, with plenty of hay for the 
stock, before snow covered the range. 
“There was much discussion as to what 
we should plant on the bottom land. It 
was finally decided to plant hops. That 
meant considerable preparatory work, 
principally splitting poles for the vines 
to run on. 
“When the hops were nearly ready to be 
gathered, the problem of who was to pick 
them presented itself. It seemed a stickler 
until it occurred to father that Indians 
might be utilized. There were many 
near, and with little effort a dozen or 
more were secured. They did the work 
well, living in their tepees a short distance 
from the hop field. I never tired of watch- 
ing them at work or lounging about their 
camp. I came to know them by name and 
as they came year after year I gradually 
mastered their tongue, until at 17 I spoke 
Yakima as well as the best of them. 
“About that time 2 Indians died; one a 
small boy, the other an old man. That 
broke up the camp, as this tribe will not 
live where one of their number has died. 
“The mother and father of the boy asked 
my father for permission to bury the body 
on our land. It was given. The burial 
to me seemed pathetic. Father read the 
burial service while we and a few Indians 
stood with bowed heads about the grave. 
After the interment the parents of the 
dead boy moved away, and I learned they 
had gone to the Big Water (Pacific). A 
year Jater they returned, tired and travel 
191 
stained, and before eating or resting, they 
repaired to the little grave among the wil- 
lows. Lying on the ground they gave vent 
to their grief in tears and sobs. Two days 
and 2 nights they kept that up, ceasing at 
noon each day to break their fast on dried 
elk meat, washed down by river water. 
“Three years they returned to mourn 
beside the grave of their son; the fourth 
year they did not come, nor did I ever see 
them again. 
“I saw many strange ceremonies during 
my years on the ranch; the potlatch at the 
termination of the fall hunt, the salmon 
dance, the rain dance and many others. 
The actions of the Indians when one of 
their number fell sick were amusing. 
They used the sweat bath in the skin house, 
then the sudden douche in cold water, ac- 
companied by the beating of drums and 
boards and the howling of the family. 
“It was during one of these treatments 
that a tall, giant Indian, who claimed to be 
a Umatilla from Oregon, said to me: 
“*These Irrdians are foolish. We have 
good doctor, he cure pretty near every 
time; use grass, rocks, roots. He cure 
me consumption, I have him 2 year. You 
don’t believe, do you? Look!’ 
“He drew off over his head his cheap 
cotton shirt, disclosing his brawny, muscu- 
lar breast marked with 3 hideous circular 
scars. They were evenly placed, one on 
each side and one in the center. They 
were, perhaps, 34 of an inch across, whitish 
in the middle, the edges red and angry 
looking. The adjacent flesh lay in creases 
and folds, a sight to make one shudder. 
““You see,’ said the Indian, ‘he cure 
him that way. He get um 3 cottonwood 
root, dry, straight. He light um and 
smoke like cigar. When him good fire he 
push one here. He smoke hard and push 
him hard; pretty soon him go clear in. 
Then he make him squaw blow him hard. 
The doctor light him other one; pretty 
soon he go in, too, and squaw blow him, 
too. Pretty soon 3 squaw all blow him 
hard and smoke come out my mouth fast. 
Then I choke and go sleep; wake up in 
little while, pretty soon. Next day doctor 
do him again. Then he say pretty soon 
I get well. Dat 5 year ago. Umatilla, him 
never die consumption; doctor fix ’em all.’ 
“Truly he was then a picture of health, 
and from appearance as far removed from 
disease as is possible to imagine. Hop 
picking over, he went the way he came. 
I have never seen him since, nor have I 
ever heard of a similar cure.” 
