"'Casto at that time had several of the Snohomish Indians working for him, but the thought of fear never entered his mind. He had great influence over his workmen and was looked up to by them as a sort of white 'tyee' or chief. Any one that knew Casto could not but like him, he was so free-hearted, kind and considerate of every person he met, whether as a friend and equal or as his servant. He had one fault, however, which goes hand in hand the world over with a free heart--he loved liquor and now and then drank too much. He also got in the habit of giving it to the Indians in his employ. On several occasions the true Indian nature, under the influence of stimulants, came out, and it required all his authority to avoid bloodshed. His neighbors, who could be numbered on the fingers of both hands, with some to spare, cautioned him not to give 'a redskin whisky and arouse the devil,' but he laughed at them, and when they warned him of treachery, thought they spoke nonsense. He would not believe that the men whom he treated so kindly and befriended in every conceivable manner would do him harm under any conditions. He reasoned that his neighbors did not judge the character of the native correctly and underestimated his influence. There was no reason why he should not give his Indians liquor if he so desired. "'He acted on this decision on the afternoon of November 7, 1864, and then went to his home for supper. The Indians got gloriously drunk and then commenced to thirst for blood. In the crowd were two of the Snohomish tribe, bloodthirsty brutes, and still seeking revenge for the death of their tribesmen and chief on the Snohomish river the summer previous. Their resolve was made. Casto's life would atone for that of the chief, his wife and friend, John Holstead, for the other two. They secretly took their guns and went to Casto's house. The curtain of the room wherein all three were seated at the supper table was up, and the breast of Casto was in plain view of the assassins. There was no hesitation on the part of the Indians. The first shot crashed through the window and pierced Casto in a vital spot. He arose to his feet, staggered and fell upon a lounge. His wife sprang to his assistance, but the rifle spoke again and she fell to the floor. The third shot hit Holstead, but not fatally, and the Indians, determined to complete their bloody work, ran to the front door. They were met by Holstead, who fought like a demon, but at length fell, his body stabbed in more than twenty places. Not content with the slaughter already done, the bloodthirsty wretches drove their knives into the body of Casto's beautiful wife in a manner most inhuman. Having finished their bloody work