There were two families living about twenty miles away at a sawmill which belonged to Dr. Whitman. Mr. Young had three grown boys and Mr. Smith also had a family, one of whom, Mary Smith, was attending the Mission school. The morning after the massacre the oldest son of the Young family, in entire ignorance of what had occurred, started for the Mission with a load of lumber and to get provisions for the return trip. The Indians killed him two miles from the Mission. His family could not understand why he did not return and became alarmed. They finally sent another son by another road and he arrived without being attacked, but was informed by Joe Stansfield that his brother had been killed by Indians and had been buried where he fell. This young fellow, finding that we were getting out of flour, remained at Waiilatpu as there was no man to run the grist mill. Mr. Bewley and Mr. Sales became better and were able to sit up and get about a bit. One day Mr. Sales was sitting by the stove and an Indian began talking to him, telling him he was getting stronger and would soon be able to work for the Indians; that they were soon to put out all the women and children and they would all have to work all the time. Mr. Sales replied that he was a good worker and would labor constantly for them if they would only spare his life. It was only a day or two after this that the two men were attacked while on their bed, beaten with clubs and whips and finally killed and their bodies thrown out of doors. Most of the women and children started to run out of doors, but an Indian caught and held me until they had finished the terrible deed. Miss Bewley was sent for by the chief of the Umatillas and in spite of heartrending protests was obliged to accompany the messenger sent for her. One morning Joe Stansfield saw wolves at the grave and went up there to find that they were digging into it. He heaped more earth over it, but later, after we had left the place and had been redeemed, soldiers going there found that the wolves had succeeded in desecrating the last resting place of our loved ones. Bones were scattered about and on some of the bare bushes were strands of Mrs. Whitman's beautiful, long, golden hair. They collected the bones and again buried them, heaping the earth high and turning a wagon-box over the grave. For fifty years nothing more was done to it.