He rode hither and thither on the autumn days and bright nights, engaged in his great work.
He went to Oregon City for supplies.
"Mr.McKinley," he said to a friend, "a Cayuse chief has told me that the Indians are about to kill all the medicine-men, and myself among them.

I think he was jesting." "Dr.Whitman," said McKinley, "a Cayuse chief never jests." He was right.

The fateful days wore on.

The splendid nights glimmered over Mount Hood, and glistened on the serrated mountain tents of eternal snow.
The Indians continued to sicken and die, and the universal suspicion of the tribes fell upon Whitman.
Suddenly there was a war-cry! The mission ran with blood.

Whitman and his wife were the first to fall.