When Three Lines Converge: Old Joshua, Solomon Riggs, Dr. McKay and the 1871 Salem Council

Salem, Oregon, in the 1870s—the capital streets where leaders like
Old Joshua, Solomon Riggs, and Dr. McKay gathered for the historic 1871 council.

History has a way of keeping family close, sometimes revealing itself like a puzzle where pieces from entirely different projects suddenly snap into place. While pulling at the threads of a nineteenth-century paper trail through archival reports, a familiar name caught my eye in the coverage of the 1871 Salem Council: Dr. McKay.

That immediate spark of recognition led to the inevitable question every family historian knows by heart: Is this the same Dr. McKay tied to our recent brick wall? As it turns out, history has a way of keeping family close. This is the very same Dr. McKay connected to our ancestor Jennie McKay—who just so happens to be married to Solomon Riggs, one of the primary voices speaking for the delegation in Salem that year.

It leaves us with a haunting, fascinating question: Did Dr. McKay even know his daughter was married to him at the time? As we've recently uncovered in the book Living in the Great Circle, there came a point in his life when Dr. McKay actually journeyed to the Grand Ronde Reservation specifically looking for her—a poignant glimpse into a family fractured by time and policy, which we'll explore fully in an upcoming post.

Seeing their names intersecting across historical council floors transforms a dry government document into an intimate family reunion, reminding us that the leaders shaping Oregon's Indigenous policy were fathers, uncles, and relatives navigating an uncertain world together.

Excerpt from 1871 newspaper
 coverage documenting Dr. William
Cameron McKay in attendance
at the Salem Council.

From the columns of the Salem Statesman: The historic 1871 council convened in the capital with 300 tribal members in attendance. In powerful testimony, speakers like Joe Hutchins challenged the status quo, reminding authorities of their original homelands and laying bare the stark contrast between federal promises and the reality of survival.

The 1871 Salem council was convened under the direction of the Oregon Superintendency of Indian Affairs, drawing 300 Indigenous people from across the region to the capital. As the archival notes make clear, these gatherings did not just take place behind closed government doors—they brought people together in spaces that anchored the entire community. Beyond the initial official meetings, the momentum carried over to subsequent gatherings announced in the local press, drawing attention to the very heart of the capital city. 

Behind this historic gathering lay a profound sense of transition and pressure. Life on the reservations during the early 1870s was fraught with tightening federal oversight, shrinking resources, and constant battles over agency management—such as the fierce disputes over whether Protestant or Catholic administrations would control tribal schools and daily life. Yet, away from the watchful eyes of local agents, the atmosphere in Salem crackled with a different energy. It was a rare space for cross-reservation diplomacy, where leaders from the Warm Springs, Siletz, and Grand Ronde regions could speak directly to federal officials and the public, asserting their presence, sharing the hardships of their communities, and demanding a voice in shaping their people's future.

Oct 1871

As the local newspaper coverage captured in real time, these vital conversations extended right into the community—bringing leaders together at the Methodist Episcopal Church in Salem to address the attendees and shape the path forward.

Sessions were held not only in administrative spaces like the Holman Building but also notably at the Methodist Episcopal Church in Salem, where prominent local figures and politicians (such as George H. Williams) addressed the attendees.

The Purpose and Setting of the Salem Council

The 1871 Salem council was convened under the direction of the Oregon Superintendency of Indian Affairs, drawing 300 Indigenous people from across the region to the capital. As the archival notes make clear, these gatherings did not just take place behind closed government doors—they brought people together in spaces that anchored the entire community.

For the federal officials and superintendents, the council was framed as a progress report on assimilation—an opportunity to measure how well tribal members were adopting agricultural life and European customs. But for the leaders who stepped forward, such as Joe Hutchins Kalapuya or Alquema, Chief of the Santiam band of the Calapooya (Valley of the Williamette) and Solomon Riggs, the gathering served an entirely different, urgent purpose. It was a vital platform to confront the authorities directly, bringing the stark, unvarnished reality of reservation life into the capital. They used the public floor to bear witness to chronic shortages, inadequate food supplies, and the glaring gap between government promises and the daily struggles faced by their communities.

For the leaders who stepped forward, such as Joe Hutchins and Solomon Riggs, the gathering served an urgent, vital purpose. It was a rare public platform to confront the authorities directly, bringing the unvarnished reality of reservation life into the capital. They used the floor to bear witness to chronic shortages, inadequate food supplies, and the glaring gap between government promises and the daily struggles faced by their communities.

Beyond the initial official meetings, the momentum carried over to subsequent gatherings announced in the local press, drawing attention to the very heart of the capital city—such as the historic brick storefronts lining the streets near the Holman Building...

While the permanent State Capitol wouldn't be erected until 1876, the gathering likely took place at the premier civic landmark of the city: The Holman Building at Commercial and Ferry streets. Serving as the interim seat of state government and a hub for the Legislature and Supreme Court, it offered the only adequate assembly space in town. As the city's central, high-profile location—even featuring Salem's first gaslight—it stood as the stage where these critical administrative proceedings unfolded.

Computer Generated Image

Though they came from different backgrounds and traditions—with Old Joshua's people tied to Siletz, Solomon Riggs's line to Grand Ronde, and figures like Dr. William McKay navigating the political and legal spheres—these leaders found themselves standing in the exact same room at the 1871 council in Salem, bringing intersecting paths of history into a single moment in time.

Chief Solomon Riggs of the Umpqua's

Solomon Riggs—chief of the Umpqua's—said:

“I am not a wild man. I have sense. I know some things. I have learned to work. I was born wild, but I am not wild now. I live in a house. I have a wagon and horses that I worked for. They are mine. The Government did not give them to me. That woman is my wife, and that is my baby. He will have some sense. I show you my heart. I want you to give me your heart. I don’t want to be a wild Injun.” 

Chief Solomon Riggs’s words offer an extraordinary, unvarnished look at the dignity and self-determination of a leader pushing back against a patronizing government. By stating plainly,

"The Government did not give them to me"

he draws a hard line between his family's independence, labor, and survival versus the narrative of federal dependency pushed by officials. And the paper trail backs up every word: archival records—including documentation of his payments to fully own his home—prove that his independence was a hard-won reality, secured through sheer grit despite a system stacked against him

Archival records, including Polk County mortgage index entries showing payments to fully own his home alongside his son, prove that his independence was a hard-won reality—secured through sheer grit despite a system stacked against him.

The Journeys to the Council

Old Joshua's Route from Siletz

Getting to Salem in 1871 was no casual trip. For Old Joshua, leaving the bounds of the Siletz Reservation meant embarking on a rugged, multi-day journey across the steep, densely forested passes of the Oregon Coast Range. Traveling either on foot or on horseback via traditional tribal footpaths and early settler trails, he had to cross watershed systems from the coast down into the Willamette Valley. It was a demanding passage just to reach the administrative hub where federal officials sat—a physical crossing of the mountains that mirrored the immense cultural and political challenges waiting for him in the council room.

"These people had been placed here by the Government, in 1856, numbering then, according to Superintendent Nesmith’s report for 1857, 2,049 souls, representing fourteen bands; and although, in 1869, they numbered little more than half as many, they kept up tribal relations, at least so far as chieftainship was concerned. In the council that day one or two of the chiefs represented tribes in bands of ten or twenty persons; and one poor follow, the last of his people, stood alone without constituency. He was a chief, nevertheless.

I cannot report here the reflection that such a circumstance suggests,—only that he, with the usual solemn face of an Indian in council, seemed the personification of loneliness.

The speeches made by these people evinced more sense than their appearance indicated. They were dependent on the Government, and felt their helplessness.86 When the usual speeches had been made preliminary to business talk, I said to them that I was gratified at the advancement they had made, considering the circumstances, and that I was willing for them to express their wishes in regard to the expenditure of money in their interest.

They were loth to speak on this matter, because they had never been consulted, and a recognition of their manhood was more than they had expected. After some deliberation, during which they, like bashful boys, asked one another, each nudging his neighbor to speak first, Old Joshua at last arose, half hesitatingly, and said,

“Maby, I don’t understand you. Do you mean that we may say what we want bought for us? Nobody ever said that before, and it seems strange to me.”

I had consulted the agent before making this experiment, and he had doubted the propriety; not because he was unwilling to recognize their manhood in the premises, but he feared they would betray weakness for useless articles, and thereby bring derision on his efforts to civilize them. Perhaps it might establish a precedent that would be troublesome sometimes.

He exhibited great anxiety when Old Joshua rose, lest he would disgrace his people by asking for beads, paint, and powder, and lead, and scarlet cloth. I can see that agent yet, with his deep-set eyes fixed on the speaker, while he rested his chin on his cane. Old Joshua spoke again, and, though he was considered a “terrible brave on the warpath,” and had passed the better portion of his life in that way, now when, for the first time in his life, he was called upon to give87 opinions on a serious matter, concerning the investment of money for his people, he appeared to be transformed into a man. He was a man. Hear him talk:—

“I am old; I can’t live long. I want my people to put away the old law (meaning the old order of things). I want them to learn how to work like white men. They cannot be Indians any longer. We have had some things bought for us that did us no good,—some blankets that I could poke my finger through; some hoes that broke like a stick. We don’t want these things. We want ploughs, harness, chick-chick (wagons), axes, good hoes, a few blankets for the old people. These we want. We have been promised these things. They have not come.”

Old Joshua’s words cut straight through the polite euphemisms of federal bureaucracy. When he rejected the useless blankets that "poke my finger through" and the hoes that "broke like a stick," he wasn't just talking about farming supplies—he was calling out the hollow promises of a government that expected his people to assimilate while starving them of the means to survive. Stripped of the dismissive labels written by outsiders, his voice rings out clear and uncompromising: a leader demanding accountability, dignity, and the actual tools required for his people to rebuild.

The Path from Grand Ronde

Grand Ronde Agency engraving from Alfred B. Meacham's Wigwam and War-path (1875)

For Solomon Riggs, the journey to the 1871 proceedings carried its own distinct weight. Traveling from the Grand Ronde Agency eastward toward Salem meant navigating the foothills of the Coast Range and the western edge of the Willamette Valley. As an Umpqua leader accustomed to advocating for his community, making this trek meant stepping directly into the administrative and political stronghold of federal officials. Like Old Joshua’s journey, Solomon's physical route across the landscape brought him to a pivotal crossroads—one where two different tribal leaders from separate reservations found their paths intersecting in the exact same room.

Looking back, it is hard not to feel a profound sense of awe standing at this intersection. In that room in Salem, Oregon—right in the city where I was born and raised—my 4x great-grandfather Old Joshua, my 3x great-grandfather Solomon Riggs, and my 4th great-grandfather Dr. William Cameron McKay weren’t just names on a federal roster or figures in an old book. They were real men carrying the weight of their people through impossible times. Hailing from entirely different nations and lineages—stretching from the Lower Rogue River and the Umpqua River up to the Columbia River—their paths converged in that single space, stepping out of the mountains and valleys to speak up for the tools, the land, and the future their families deserved.

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A Note on the Family Story

My name is Amber Wegmuller, and this project began with a desire to uncover the voices and stories of my ancestors. My grandmother instilled in me the importance of being our family's history keeper, teaching me that our stories deserve to be remembered. As I digitize records, work on our family tree, and piece together the branches of our history, my goal is to honor the people who came before us—the ones whose resilience and stories have shaped who we are today.

My Ancestral Lineage: This history is rooted in the deep, enduring ties of our people:

• Tututni & Kwatami (Siletz): Mikonotunne (Mackanontin), Chemetunne (Joshua), Yukichetunne (Euchre), and Sik-ses-tenne (Sixes).

• Grand Ronde: Umpqua, Shasta, Klickitat, and Lower Chinook.

Feedback & Corrections: I strive to ensure the historical information shared here is as accurate as possible. If you spot an error, have additional documentation, or would like to share related family history, please let me know. I welcome any corrections or insights that help deepen our understanding of this shared past.

Sources: 

Alfred B. Meacham's Wigwam and War-path, or the Royal Chief in Chains (1875): Which features direct transcriptions and commentary on the Salem councils, Old Joshua's speeches, and the dialogues with Indigenous leaders.

National Archives and Records Administration (NARA): Specifically referencing Microcopy Series M2, Letters Received by the Oregon Superintendency of Indian Affairs (1848–1873), which holds the official correspondence documenting these councils and agency reports.

The Salem directory for 1871

by

Brown, J. Henry (Joseph Henry), 1837-1898

https://archive.org/details/GR_424/page/n103/mode/2up

Albany Democrat, Albany, Oregon, October 20, 1871, Page 2.

Superintendent Alfred B. Meacham, 1871 Oregon Superintendency Correspondence, National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) Series M2, Microcopy of Records of the Oregon Superintendency of Indian Affairs 1848–1873.

https://www.familysearch.org/ark:/61903/3:1:S3HY-62PZ-KH?view=index&keywords=Riggs%20Riggs%2CRiggs%2CSolomon%2COregon%2COREGON%2CPOLK&lang=en