“I know the army better than you do, Lieutenant, and have known it much longer, and I will not risk my life and the lives of my children with them,” said the plain spoken Scotch lady.  The next morning, bright and early, we started out.  The ladies were riding in an ambulance, driven by a soldier.  When near half way to Bear Valley and near Mountain Springs, we crossed the fresh trail of a strong party of Indians, but we arrived at our destination safely, and next morning returned to camp.  Here we rested a couple of days and, Chamberlain returning, we moved to our head camp at Grindstone.  We had accomplished nothing in the way of destroying hostiles, but had prevented them from scattering and committing all kinds of atrocities as they had done before reaching John Day Valley.

Arriving at our camp we found ourselves without any provisions.  Accordingly Gen. Brown and I started to Prineville with a four horse team to obtain supplies to send back to the men who were to follow.  We took along a teamster and the quartermaster.  Starting in the evening we arrived at the crossing of Beaver Creek, and I captured an old hen, all that was left at the ranch after its plunder by the Indians in June.  We drove until midnight and arriving at Watson Springs, stopped for the night.  We dressed the hen and had the driver to sit up the balance of the night and boil her.  When daylight came we tried to breakfast off the hen, but it was a rank failure, and we harnessed up and drove on, getting a meal at a ranch ten miles from Prineville, to which place we drove that night.

Thus ended my last Indian campaign, and one of which I never felt any great amount of pride.  In one respect it was a rank failure, due, I have always thought, to the rank cowardice of some one—­probably more than one.  We had, however accomplished some good, as before remarked, and probably saved some lives, and that was worth all the hardships we had endured.

I cannot close this narrative without a further reference to the boy, Eugene Jones.  During the first two weeks of the campaign my eyes became badly affected from the dust and glare of the sun, reflected from the white alkali plains on the head of Crooked River.  At times I could scarcely bear the light, which seemed fairly to burn my eyeballs.  From the first Eugene had attached himself to me.  He would insist on taking care of my horse in camp, and often would stop at a spring or stream and wetting a handkerchief would bind it over my eyes and lead my horse for miles at a time.  At Murderers Creek, too, he was the only man to follow me when I made the dash after the Indian horse herd.  Another thing I observed about the boy was that I never heard him use an oath or a vulgar, coarse expression.  What then was my surprise on arriving at Prineville to find a letter from Sheriff Hogan of Douglas County telling me that the boy, Eugene Jones, was none other than Eugene English, a notorious highwayman and stage robber.  He was a brother