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Updated: May 15, 2025
"Shall we choose another war-chief to sit in Multnomah's place? We may; but will he be Multnomah? The glory of the Willamettes is dead! Talk no more of war, when our war-strength is gone from us. The Bridge is fallen, the Great Spirit is against us. Let those who are to live talk of war. It is time for us to learn how to die." He sunk flushed and exhausted upon the ground.
"You have chosen the tomahawk instead of the peace-pipe. Shall Multnomah choose the tomahawk also? Know you not that Multnomah holds your lives in his hand, and that he can crush you like an eggshell if he chooses?" The war-chief lifted his arm as he spoke, and slowly closed his fingers till his hand was clinched.
Sullenly, reluctantly, they seemed to accept the situation, and no further indications of revolt were seen that day. Popular young men, the bravest of their several tribes, were appointed by Multnomah to fill the vacant chieftainships; and that did much toward allaying the discontent.
Her father's hand still rested on her head, but there was an expression on his face that showed he would not hesitate to sacrifice her happiness to his ambition. "You have chosen, then? Is he a chief? No, I will not ask that; the daughter of Multnomah could love no one but a chief. I have already selected a husband for you. Tear this other love from your heart and cast it aside."
The current of the Multnomah river is as gentle as that of the Columbia, glides smoothly with an even surface, and appears to possess sufficient debth for the largest ship. Capt. C. attempted to sound it with a cord of 5 fathoms which was the longest in his possession but could not find bottom at this debth for at least one third of the width of the river. Capt.
He spoke, not in the royal language, as did the others, but in the common dialect, the only one of which he was master. "My heart is as the heart of Multnomah. Mishlah is hungry for war. If the tribes that are our younger brothers are faithful, they will come to the council and smoke the pipe of peace with us; if they are not, let us know it. Mishlah knows not what it is to wait.
Surrounded by the maidens, as if they were a guard of honor, came Wallulah, all unconscious of the tragedy that had just been enacted. Among the chiefs they passed, and stopped before Multnomah. As they paused, Wallulah looked around for Cecil in one quick glance; then, not seeing him, she cast down her eyes despondingly. Multnomah rose and beckoned Snoqualmie to him.
Was not the best food hers, and the warm place by the lodge fire, and the softest bearskin to rest on; and was she not the wife of Multnomah, the big chief's woman? Why then should she droop and die like a winged bird that one tries to tame by tying it to the wigwam stake and tossing it food? Often the old chief brooded over these questions, but it was unknown to all, even to Wallulah.
Perhaps no custom of the northwestern Indians was more sombre than this, the covering of the culprit's eyes from the time of his sentence till his death. Never again were those eyes to behold the sun. Then, and not till then, did Multnomah turn his gaze on the malcontents, who stood, desperate but hesitating, hemmed in by the Willamettes and the Cayuses.
In that moment it would desert him, taking from him all strength and power, leaving him a shattered wreck, an outcast from camp and war-party. "Multnomah says well that it is a black secret, but it is my totem and may not be told.
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