About all that was known of Pembina was that it was inhabited by a savage looking race of Chippewa half-breeds, and that Joe Rolette lived there, and Norman W. Kittson went there occasionally. It carried on an immense trade in furs with St. Paul, by means of brigades of Red River carts each summer and by dog trains in the winter, and the more you saw of these people the more you were impressed with their savage appearance and bearing. The first state election, curious as it may appear, was held in 1857, before the state was admitted into the Union, which latter event was postponed until May 11, 1858, and when the votes from all the counties except Pembina had been returned to the proper officer the result, as far as could be ascertained before the official count was made, was somewhat in doubt, which circumstance naturally excited great interest in the Pembina election, as it was well known that all the votes from that district would be Democratic, so the great question was, "How many?" While the country was holding its breath in suspense and expectancy, a man in the Indian trade, named Madison Sweetzer, came to me about two o'clock one night, or rather morning, and told me that Nat. Tyson, who was a merchant in St. Paul and an enthusiastic Republican, had just started for the north with a fast team and an outfit that looked as if he contemplated a long journey, and his belief was that he intended to capture Joe Rolette and the Pembina returns. I thought such might be the case, and we immediately began to devise ways and means to circumvent him. We hastened to the house of Henry M. Rice, who knew every trader and half-breed between here and Pembina, and laid our suspicions before him. He diagnosed the case in an instant, and sent us to Norman W. Kittson, who lived in a stone house well up on Jackson street, with instructions to him to send a mounted courier after Tyson, who was to pass him on the road, and either find Rolette or Major Clitheral, who was an Alabama man and one of the United States land officers in the neighborhood of Crow Wing (and, of course, a reliable Democrat), and to deliver a letter to the one first found, putting him on guard against the supposed enemy. I prepared the letter, and Kittson in a few moments had summoned a reliable Chippewa half-breed, mounted him on a fine horse, fully explained his mission, and impressed upon him that he was to reach Clitheral or Rolette ahead of Tyson, if he had to kill a dozen horses in so doing. There is nothing a fine, active young half-breed enjoys so much as an adventure of this kind; a ride of four hundred miles had no terrors for him, and to serve his employer, no matter what the duty or the danger, was his delight. When he was ready to start, Kittson gave him a send-off in about the following words: "_Va, va, vite, et ne t'arrette pas, meme pour sauver la vie_" ("Go; go quick; and don't stop even to save your life"), and giving his horse a vigorous