I crawled up with the balance, in case the boys got in close quarters, thinking that a shot might help them, but George Jones assured me that by taking one of my revolvers they would get three the first shot and then they would have three more shots for the other two, so that before any of them got to their feet we would have them all. It being an unusually bright, moonlight night, we were able when near them, by the aid also of the little fire which was yet burning, to get their exact position, which was a great help in making an attack. When within ten feet of the Indians, Jones and Riley both rose to their feet and fired three shots, Jones firing both pistols at once, and they killed two Indians as they lay and killed the third one as he raised to his feet. The other two ran, not offering to fight at all, but Jones and Riley got them before they had gone further than a few steps. This fight occurred about sixteen miles east of Yreka, near Little Shasta. We rebuilt the fire by throwing some sagebrush on, and in their outfit we found two scalps taken from white men, and which looked to have been taken in the last twenty-four hours; two rifles, but no ammunition, and I don't think they would have known how to use them if they had had ammunition. They were armed with bows and arrows, and some had knives. I stayed and looked after the captured horses while the other boys went back after our own horses. On their return I laid down and slept awhile, but the other boys did not lie down at all that night, for there was not much night left by the time they got in with our horses. The following morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, we counted the horses and found there were fifty-five of them. After getting our breakfast we started back on the trail the Indians had come, that being the course we wished to go. We traveled hard all day, and just at night we came to a little stream running across the valley, that we had looked at through the glasses the evening before. Here we went into camp for the night, and on looking across the valley on the opposite side of the river we could see through the field glasses a number of little wreaths of smoke curling up into the air, and they were scattered along the foothills here and there for several miles. I knew at once they were not from Indian fires, for I could not see a lodge, and they were too badly scattered to be an Indian village. Just what it was we could not make out, but we stopped on the little stream that night, which is now called Shasta river. I slept but very little, as my broken shoulder was commencing to bother me again from riding. I was up and down all night long, and was around among the horses many times.