Now the friends of both parties rushed in from all sides of the village, and in a few moments the great Indian house, some seventy feet long by thirty broad, was filled with a quarrelling multitude. Fortunately some torches were lighted, which enabled us to take in the scene, and for hours and hours Amos Cushan and I were rushing between quarrelling parties to stop their fighting. One would be struck with a club here, another with some sharp instrument there, and blood flowed freely. Amidst it all continued the awful din of rushing feet and the howls and screams of hellish rage. Suddenly Quin-num, the son of old Qual-la-kup, dashed in. He had just heard of the trouble, away at the other end of the village, and jumping out of bed and tucking his blanket around him, he seized the first weapon to hand, a claw-hammer, and hurried to the rescue of his father. I saw him rush in, trembling with anger, and I said, “Quin-num, be good! Don’t fight!” “Oh,” he said, and his voice was wild with rage, “I could listen to what you say, but look at the blood of my father!” And with that he let out an awful yell, and wheeling around, struck with the hammer the old chief who had clubbed his father, cutting his eye nearly out. Then the fighting commenced with renewed vigor and continued until four in the morning. We were nearly exhausted trying to get these savage men reconciled. It was evident that the old chief and his nephew had urged on the young men, and perhaps had given them whiskey to get them to undertake this dark deed. It was an old quarrel, and jealousy and pride were at the bottom of it. Qual-la-kup was a quiet old man and his people were generally respected. His son, Quin-num, had married into Squin-es-ton’s tribe and seemed likely to secure a ruling position, which moved the other chief and his people to jealousy. While we were in the midst of this excitement, and hardly knowing who would be the next to fall, there came a lull in the storm, and we lifted up our hearts to God for help and direction. Just then Tsil-ka-mut arrived on the scene from the other end of the village, all painted and with his blanket tucked around his waist. The great big fellow did not touch anything or anybody, but just danced about, up and down, crying out, “My children, my children, don’t be like little boys!” And you could feel the contempt in his tone. “Our fathers used to fight, but they would go and fight like men till they were wading in blood, and take many scalps. They would never go and take a man out of his bed unexpectedly in the night. Oh, you are like little boys! like little boys!” And on he danced up and down through the long house, repeating these simple words, “Like little boys, like little boys. Oh! you are like little boys!” until these savage men dropped their clubs, hid their knives behind their blankets, looking dreadfully ashamed, and one by one walked out.