Commissioner Brunot, in 1871, stated that the estimated number of Indians coming under the provisions of the treaty at the time it was made in 1855 was 3,500, and “by the census taken in 1870 the number was 1,622”—a decrease of nearly one-half in fifteen years. Of these only about half were on the reservation, the rest being on Columbia river, “never having partaken of the benefits of the treaty.” On the next page he tells us what some of these benefits are: “Maladministration of agents, and the misapplication of funds, the failure of the government to perform the promises of the treaty, and the fact that the Indians have been constantly agitated by assertions that the government intended their removal, and that their removal was urged for several years in succession in the reports of a former agent, thus taking away from them all incentives to improve their lands.” (_Comr., 12._) In 1871 a commission was sent to Umatilla and other reservations, which gave the Indians a chance to speak for themselves. The Cayuse chief, described as a Catholic Indian, in dress, personal appearance, and bearing superior to the average American farmer, said: This reservation is marked out for us. We see it with our eyes and our hearts. We all hold it with our bodies and our souls. Right out here are my father and mother, and brothers and sisters and children, all buried. I am guarding their graves. My friend, this reservation, this small piece of land, we look upon it as our mother, as if she were raising us. You come to ask me for my land. It is like as if we who are Indians were to be sent away and get lost.... What is the reason you white men who live near the reservation like my land and want to get it? You must not think so. My friends, you must not talk too strong about getting my land. I like my land and will not let it go. The Wallawalla chief said: I have tied all the reservation in my heart and it can not be loosened. It is dear as our bodies to us. The Umatilla chief said: Our red people were brought up here.... When my father and mother died, I was left here. They gave me rules and gave me their land to live upon. They left me to take care of them after they were buried. I was to watch over their graves. I do not wish to part with my land. I have felt tired working on my land, so tired that the sweat dropped off me on the ground. Where is all that Governor Stevens or General Palmer said [i. e., that it was to be a reservation for the Indians forever]? I am very fond of this land that is marked out for me.... Should I take only a small piece of ground and a white man sit down beside me, I fear there would be trouble all the time. An old man said: