uncertainty as to the fate of my father and our own fate was almost
worse than death. The day wore on. Would father never return--had he
been killed? were the questions whispered one with another. My mother
alone was confident, relying on father's discretion and the further fact
that he was riding the swiftest horse in the Territory. At last near
sunset we descried him galloping leisurely toward home. When within a
short distance he settled into a walk, and we then knew that the danger,
at least for the present, was not imminent. The only emotion manifested
by my mother was a stray tear that coursed down her pale and
trouble-worn cheek. My father reported a false alarm, originating in the
overwrought imagination of settlers on the exposed margin of the valley.

At other times the alarm came from the west side of the river. Fears
were entertained that the savages from the south would cross over the
Calapooya mountains and attack the settlements in Lane county. One
settler had a large bass drum, and the beating of this, which could be
heard for miles, was the signal of danger. More than once the deep roll
of the drum roused the country, only to discover that it was a false
alarm. But these constant alarms were trying indeed, especially on the
timid and nervous, and women became almost hysterical on the most
trivial occasions.

Time wore on, and at length the news came of the defeat of Col. Ross'
volunteers and Capt. Smith's dragoons. Many were killed with no
compensating advantage to the whites. Among the number killed was one of
our neighbor boys, John Gillispie, son of a minister, and my father and
mother went over to their home to convey the sad news and to render such
poor consolation to the parents as was possible. Every family in the
land had one or more of its members with the troops, and any day might
bring tidings of death or even worse. Hence there was a close bond of