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Updated: June 9, 2025
A great quiet was upon him; he was anxious for nothing, he cared for nothing, he simply rested as on the living presence of the Father. Upon the sweet and lingering spell of his closing words came Multnomah's tones in stern contrast. "What is the word of the council? Shall the white man live or die?" Snoqualmie was on his feet in an instant. "Blood for blood.
There was a perceptible movement of expectation, a lighting up of faces as he arose, and a shadow of anxiety swept over Multnomah's impassive features. For this man's eloquence was wonderful, and his soft magnetic tones could sway the passions of his hearers to his will with a power that seemed more than human to the superstitious Indians.
Such things were not infrequent in Asiatic history; and even the history of Europe, in the middle ages, tells us of poisoned masks, of gloves and scarfs charged with disease. Certain it is that shortly after the cases were opened, a strange and fatal disease broke out among Multnomah's attendants.
"I have spoken, my words are done." He stood erect and motionless. The wrath and disdain passed from his features, and stoicism settled over them like a mask of stone. Multnomah's cold regard had not faltered a moment under the chief's invective. No denunciation could shake that iron self-control.
The chief stood up, and, opening his hands to them in the Indian gesture for giving, said, "There is all that was Multnomah's; it is yours; your hands are full now and mine are empty." The chiefs and warriors rose up gravely and went among the heaps of treasure; each selecting from furs and skins, arms and hiagua shells, that which he desired.
The Pestilence sits in Multnomah's place, and you will all wither in his hot and poisonous breath. Break up your council. Go to your lodges. The sun of the Willamettes is set, and the night is upon us. Our wars are done; our glory is ended. We are but a tale that old men tell around the camp-fire, a handful of red dust gathered from mimaluse island, dust that once was man.
There came to her a sense of getting closer to her father's heart, even while his eyes held her back and bade her be silent. At length the chief spoke, this time very gently. "Now I shall talk to you not as to a girl but as to a woman. You are Multnomah's only child. When he dies there will be no one but you to take his place.
Multnomah's countenance told nothing of the night before, but almost all the rest showed something yet of superstitious fear. Mishlah's face was haggard, his air startled and uneasy, like that of some forest animal that had been terribly frightened; and even Snoqualmie looked worn. But the greatest change of all was in Tohomish.
At length, when evening came and the shadow of the wood fell long and cool, the burials began. A shallow grave was scooped at Wallulah's feet for the bodies of the two canoe-men. Then chiefs for they only might bury Multnomah's daughter entombed her in a cairn; being Upper Columbia Indians, they buried her, after the manner of their people, under a heap of stone.
The finest mat was braided for her lodge, the choicest skins and furs spread for her bed, and the chieftainess's string of hiagua shells and grizzly bear's claws had been put around her white neck by Multnomah's own hand.
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