The Modoc town was composed of thirteen lodges, built after the model of Klamath’s Indian houses. A circular, oblong excavation, twenty or thirty feet in length and twelve wide, is first made. Then posts, two feet apart, are set in the centre and at each end. On these posts are placed timbers running lengthwise of the structure. Poles, or split logs, fifteen feet in length, are placed, with the lower end resting on the ground, while the upper end is fastened to the tops of the posts. Matting, made of “tule grass,” is spread over the slanting timbers, and then the earth thrown out, in making the excavation, is piled upon the matting to a depth of twelve inches. No windows are made, and there is but one entrance which opens between the timbers mentioned as resting on posts at the top of the lodge. This long, narrow opening is approached from the outside by steps made in the earthen covering. From the inside hangs a ladder made of rawhide ropes. The windows, door, and chimneys are one and the same. The first glance at these houses suggests war, and a second confirms the idea that these people are always ready for an attack.

On our arrival at the town it appeared to be deserted, excepting the few Indians who returned with us. They having dismounted, one of them rushed up the rude stairway outside the largest lodge, and disappeared. This was the home of the “Chief.” Our party dismounted and prepared to follow our guide. A watchman on the house-top said, “One man come! no more!” I had partly ascended the steps when the peremptory order came. It sounded ominous, and recalled “Bloody Point,” and “Ben Wright.” It was too late to turn back in the presence of savages.

When I reached the door, at the top of the lodge, and through the opening met the eyes of fifty painted warriors, I felt as if I was in the wrong place; but I dare not then show any signs of fear, or retrace my steps. I may not find words to express my thoughts and feelings as I descended the rawhide ladder, half expecting a shower of arrows, or bullets; half-wondering how they would feel. I did not know then,—I have learned since. On descending, I was met with a cold reception, that froze my blood; a feeling I cannot describe. Captain Jack looked in my face with a sullen glitter in his eye, that no white man could imitate. He refused to shake hands, to speak, or smoke, and in fact it was evident that I was not only an unwelcome visitor, but was looked upon as an enemy.

Coolly lighting my pipe, I began trying to make the best of a bad job; meanwhile enduring the stare from all eyes,—and a stare of that kind that none can understand who has never felt the same; an expression cold and scornful, but burning with hatred, was on every countenance. I have beheld but one other scene that was more indescribable, and that was the “Lava Bed” tragedy on April 11th, 1873. A terrible kind of loneliness came over me, and for a while I thought the chances about even whether I would get out again or not.

Finally “Scarfaced Charley” broke the stillness by asking, “What you want? What for you come? Jack he not send for you! He got no business with you! He no don’t want to talk! He in his country! What for you come here? You not him ty-ee! He don’t know you! Hal-lu-i-me-til-li-cum,—(you stranger)! Captain Jack want to see you, him come your home! He no want you come here! You go away! Let him ’lone! He no want talk you! You go away!”

This is substantially the first Modoc speech I ever heard. The result, however, was to break the ice, to open the way for conversation. I stated then that I was a new chief, sent by the President, to care for all the Indians, Modocs included, and that I was their ty-ee. I had some new things to talk about. Whether they were my friends or not, I was their friend. I had come to see my boys, and I wanted a hearing. I was not afraid to talk, not afraid to hear Captain Jack talk; I was a big chief, and did not ask my own boys when to talk. When I had ended my first speech to the Modocs, Captain Jack replied:—

“I have nothing to say that you would like to hear. All your people are liars and swindlers. I do not believe half that is told me. I am not afraid to hear you talk.” I then proposed to have my friends, who were waiting outside, come in. This was agreed to, and Captain Jack produced a parcel of papers, that had been given to him by various persons, including letters from “Steele,” also from Esq. Potter, and John Fairchild. These were submitted to me, and treated with consideration, thereby securing a certain kind of respectful hearing, on the part of Captain Jack, to the proposition for him to provide a camp for our company.

Having thus started negotiations, Jack proffered the use of his lodge, saying that he had no muck-a-muck (meaning provision) that we could eat; that his stores afforded only roots and dried fish, that he had no flour, no coffee, no sugar, no whiskey, and did not think a white chief could get along without these things, etc. He, however, ordered a camp prepared for us, which was done by making small holes in the ground, two or three feet apart, with “camas sticks,”—a sharp-pointed instrument, of either iron, bone, or hard wood, and about three feet long, with a handle at the upper end, generally in the shape of a cross, and is used very much as a gardener does a spade, by Indian women in digging roots. Into these holes were inserted willows, eight feet in length, forming a circle twenty feet in diameter, lapping past at one point,—thus making an entrance, very much like the opening of a circus pavilion,—the whole surrounded with mattings, the upper part drawn in, thus contracting the yielding tops of the willow poles until the camp was made to resemble a huge bowl, with bottom out, in an inverted position. This kind of work is usually done by Indian women; but, to the credit of the young men of the Modoc tribe be it said, that they, in this instance at least, assisted them, and did not allow their women to be mere help-meets, but principals in mechanical enterprises of the kind named, including also “getting wood.” Sage brush is the principal fuel in this region of country; and since so much of the Great Basin lying between the Rocky mountains on the east, and Sierra Nevada, and Cascade mountains on the west, is covered with this kind of growth, and since comparatively few of my readers may have ever seen it for themselves, I may remark here, by way of explanation, that this “sage brush” is a soft, flexible shrub, the woody part being porous, and filled with a gummy substance; the bark is of a grayish color, soft and ragged, and easily stripped off; the leaf is small, of such a color, shape and taste as very much resembles the domestic plant, from which it takes its name; the body is short, crooked and forked, seldom exceeds four inches in diameter or four feet in height; burns readily, either green or dry, making a very hot fire, though of short life, yielding abundant ashes and beds of coals.

A plentiful supply of this fuel was piled up around our camp. A fresh fish was taken from the river by the Indians, which, when roasted in the sage-brush embers, made a not unpalatable meal. We spread our saddle-blankets down for bedding, placed one of the party “on guard,” while the remainder slept, or went through the motion of sleeping; for we would not have cared for the Indians to know that we could not and dare not sleep. The morrow came, and the wagons having brought our supplies, we were prepared to offer a feast of coffee and sugar, hard-bread, beef, and bacon.

No Modoc would eat until our party had partaken. Some folks may think their good-breeding had taught them to defer to their superiors; but such was not the case. The reason was expressed in these few words: “Remember Ben Wright;” which was said in the Modoc language, thus explaining why they did not partake. When, however, they had witnessed that the provisions prepared for the feast were eaten by our party, they were reassured, and another point was gained.

Nothing so quickly dissolves the ice in an Indian breast as a feast. The council was opened with Frank Riddle and his Modoc woman, Tobey, as interpreter. I mention this fact, because they have become prominent characters in the history of the late Modoc war. They had been sent for by Captain Jack; in fact, he was not willing to proceed without them.

Frank Riddle is a white man, about thirty years of age, a native of Kentucky. He anticipated Greeley, going West when a very young man, and engaged in mining at Y-re-ka, Cal. Twelve years ago, on a bright morning in March, an old Indian rode up to Frank’s cabin, and stopped before the door. On a small pony behind the old man sat a young Indian girl, of Modoc blood, twelve years of age.

The man was of royal lineage, being a descendant of Mo-a-doc-us, founder of the tribe, and was uncle of the now famous Captain Jack. After sitting in silence, Indian fashion, staring in the cabin door for a few minutes, he made a motion by a toss of his head, and pouted out his lips toward the young squaw behind him. This pantomime said to Frank, “Do you want to buy a squaw?”

Frank was a fine-looking, dark-eyed young fellow, and withal a clever man, of genial disposition, with native pride of ancestry, still holding to the memory of his home, and the image of a fair-haired girl who had “swung school-baskets” with him in the beach woods of Shelby county, Kentucky. He shook his head. The old man’s face indicated his disappointment. The girl on the pony slowly turned away, followed by her father.

Four days passed, and this Indian girl and her father again appeared at Frank’s cabin. In sign language she made known her wish to be his slave, and that he would buy her from her father. The young Kentuckian, chivalrous as his people always are, treated her kindly; but, remembering his fair-haired girl, refused to instal this Indian maiden as mistress of his home. Ten days passed; the dark-eyed girl came again, alone, bringing with her a wardrobe, consisting of such articles as Indian women manufacture,—sashes and baskets, shells, beads, and little trinkets.

She was attired with woman’s taste, conforming to the fashions of her people. Her dark eyes, with long lashes, smooth, round, soft face, of more than usual pretensions to beauty, lithe figure, and dainty feet in moccasins, all combined to give a romantic air to the jaunty young maiden; and, when animated with the promptings of love for the young Kentuckian, made her an eloquent advocate in her own behalf. The chivalrous fellow hesitated. He pitied. He trembled on the brink. The dark eyes before him pleaded. The blue eyes, far away, dissolved reproachingly from view. The hopes of youth, and the air-castles that two loving hearts had built in years agone, began to vanish. They disappeared, and—and in their stead a rude cabin in romantic wilds, with a warm-hearted, loving, dusky-faced companion, became a living, actual reality.

The day following, the father of this Indian woman was richer by two horses. The cabin of Frank Riddle put on a brighter air. The mistress assumed charge of the camp-kettle and the frying-pan. The tin plates were cast aside, and dishes of finer mould mounted the tables at the command of a pair of brown hands.

Riddle, having broken his vows, and forsaken his boyhood idol, set to work now to make the untamed girl worthy to fill the place in his heart from which she had driven another. She was apt at learning, and soon only the semblance of a squaw remained in the dusky cheeks and brown hands. Seven years pass, and Frank Riddle and his woman Tobey appear in the Modoc council on Lost river, December, 1869.

We made the opening speech in that council, setting forth the reasons for our visit and producing the treaty of 1864. Here Captain Jack began to manifest the same kind of disposition that has been so prominent in his subsequent intercourse with government officials,—a careful, cautious kind of diplomacy, that does not come to a point, but continually seeks to shirk responsibility.

He denied that he was a party to the treaty of October, 1864, or that he signed the paper. Doctor McKay, old Chief Schonchin, and sub-Chief Blo of Klamath were brought forward, and his allegations disproved completely; we fully and clearly establishing the fact that he was present at that treaty council, and that he put his hand to the pen, when his mark was made; that he accepted and shared with the other Indians the goods issued by Superintendent Huntington in confirmation of the treaty. The amount of goods issued I cannot state; but I find that Huntington had an appropriation of $20,000, to meet the expenses of said treaty council, and, I doubt not, issued $5,000 or $10,000 worth of goods. All agree that it was a liberal supply of goods, and I believe it to be true.

Captain Jack, seeing that “he was cornered,” began to quibble about what part of the Reservation he was to go on to. This was met with the proposition that he could have any unoccupied land. Finding his objections all fairly met, he finally said, that, if he could live near his friend, Link-river Jack, he would go. We began to “breathe easy,” feeling that the victory was ours, when the Modoc medicine-man arose, and simply said, “Me-ki-gam-bla-ke-tu,” (We won’t go there); when, presto! from exultation every countenance was changed to an expression of anxiety, and every hand grasped a revolver.

The moment was fraught with peril. The least wavering then, on our part, would have precipitated a fight, the result of which would have been doubtful as to how many, and who, of our party would have come out alive. It is quite certain that, had a fight ensued, what has since startled our people would have been anticipated, and that the name of Captain Jack would have passed away with but little notice from among the savage heroes.

It was there I first heard those terrible words, a part of which have since become famous, uttered but a moment before the attack on the Peace Commission, on April 11, 1873—“Ot-we-kau-tux-e,”—meaning, in this instance, “I am done talking;” or, when used in other connections, “All ready!” or, “The time has come!” or, “Quit talking.” The vocabularies of all Indian languages are very small; hence, a word depends, to a great extent, on its connection, for its meaning and power. It was just at this point that the woman, Tobey Riddle, who has since proved her sagacity and her loyalty, arose to her feet, and said in Modoc tongue to her people: “Mo-lok-a ditch-e ham-konk lok-e sti-nas mo-na gam-bla ot-we,”—(“The white chief talks right. His heart is good or strong. Go with him now!”) Frank Riddle joined the woman Tobey in exhorting the Modocs to be quiet, to be careful, using such words as tend to avert, what we all saw was liable to happen any instant, a terrible scene of blood.

Dr. McKay, whose long experience had given him much sagacity, arose quickly to his feet, saying in English, “Be on your guard! Don’t let them get the drop on us.” Captain Jack started to retire when I intercepted him, saying, “Don’t leave me now; I am your friend, but I am not afraid of you. Be careful what you do! We mean peace, but are ready for war. We will not begin; but if you do, it shall be the end of your people. You agreed to go with us, and you shall do it. We are ready. Our wagons are here to carry your old people and children. We came for you, and we are not going back without you. You must go!”

He asked “what I would do, if he did not.” I told him plainly that we would whip him until he was willing. He then wanted to know where my men were that was to whip him. I pointed to my small squad of men. I shall never forget his reply. “I would be ashamed to fight so few men with all my boys.” I replied, that it was force enough to kill some Modocs, before we were all dead; that when we were killed more white men would come.

Not having very strong faith in his pride about fighting so few men, I informed him that I had soldiers coming to help us, but that we came on to try talking first, and then when that failed we would send for them to come; finally stating to him that he could make up his mind to go with us on the morrow, or fight, and that in the meanwhile we would be ready at any time for him to begin, if he wished to. He said then what he repeated many times to Peace Commissioners on last spring,—that “he would not fire the first shot,” but if we did, “he was not afraid to die.” It was finally agreed that he should have until the next morning to make answer what he would do, and that at that time he should report his conclusion.

This ended my first official council with the Modocs. Captain Jack withdrew to his lodge to have a grand “pow-wow,” leaving our party to determine what was the next thing for us to do. We realized that we were “in great danger.” No one dissented from the opinion that peril was menacing our party. Our only hope was to put on a brave front. Retreat at that hour was impossible, with even chances for escape. We despatched a messenger, under pretence of hunting our horses,—we dared not send him boldly on the mission without excuses,—with orders for our military squad at Linkville, twenty-five miles from Modoc camp, to rendezvous at a point within hearing of our guns, and that, in the event of alarm, to “charge the camp,” but in no other event to come until the next morning.

Having despatched the courier, we carefully inspected our arms, consisting of Henry rifles and navy revolvers. Captain Knapp’s experience as an officer of the rebellion and McKay’s longer experience as an Indian fighter, together with the frontier life of the remainder, made our little party somewhat formidable, though inadequate to what might at any moment become a fearful trial of strength.

In this connection it should be understood that at that time the Modocs were very poorly armed with old muskets, and a few rifles and old-fashioned pistols.

The Indians have great reverence and unlimited faith in their “medicine-men.” This is peculiar to all Indians, but to none more so than the Modocs. While our party were invoking Almighty aid and preparing for the worst that might come, the Modoc medicine-man was invoking the spirits of departed warriors for aid. While the medicine-man was making medicine, Captain Jack was holding a council with his braves, discussing the situation, depending somewhat on the impression to be made from the medicine camp, and fully trusting therein. I have since learned that the same man, who subsequently proposed the assassination of the Peace Commission in the “Lava Bed,” in 1873, made the proposition to kill our party in 1869, which, to the credit of Captain Jack, he promptly opposed at that time as he did the other.

Now, if there had been a trial of strength between the good and the bad, we should not have been worthy to represent Elijah; but the Modocs filled the position of Ahab, and they made medicine and called loudly on their gods, but failed therein, as Baal did Ahab. As men will do, our soldier squad disregarded or overlooked the instruction to await the signal to “charge camp,” for the charge was made in a style that would have done great credit at any subsequent period in the late Modoc war. There was spirit at the bottom of this unexpected movement of the soldiers; not such spirits as the Modoc medicine-man invoked, but regular “forty-rod whiskey.”

On leaving Link river, they had secured the “company of a bottle,” and, the night being cold, they had resorted to its warming influences. The consequence was that, when they arrived at the appointed place to await orders, they forgot to stop, and came into the camp on full gallop. The horses’ feet on the frozen ground, the breaking of sage brush, rattling of sabres, all combined, made a noise well calculated to produce sudden fear in the minds of all parties. Our men were all under arms and discussing the situation.

The medicine-man was going through his incantations, accompanied by the songs of the old women, whose sounds still linger on my ear, as they came to our camp, wafted by the breeze from the lake. It was past midnight, and still the great council was in session, debating the treachery proposed; it had not been voted on at that time. Subsequent reports declare that Schonchin’s John had spoken in favor of the measure. Captain Jack was making a speech against it at the time the soldiers appeared.

For a few moments the scene was one of indescribable confusion; the medicine-man cut short his prayers; the war council was broken up; and Indian braves came out of the lodge without waiting for the ceremonies of even savage courtesy, but “pell-mell” they went into the sage brush, each one taking with him his arms. A guard was immediately placed, surrounding the whole camp; Capt. Knapp giving orders to allow no one to pass the picket lines.

Few eyes closed in sleep that night; daylight disclosed a complete circle of bayonets, and inside about two hundred men, women, and children; but the brave Captain Jack was not there; nor was “Schonchin’s John,” or “Ellen’s Man,” or “Curly Head Doctor;” they had retired to the “Lava Bed.” We issued an order for all Indians to form in a line; they were reassured that no one should be harmed; that they should be protected, clothed, and cared for, but that all the arms must be delivered up. This request brought out professions and promises of friendship; but the order had been made and must be obeyed.

The Indians refused compliance, and a file of soldiers was ordered to seize the arms; for a few moments the excitement was intense; every man of our party stood ready for “business,” while the arms of the Modocs were seized, and a guard placed over them. The aspect presented by the Modoc camp was one that will not soon be forgotten by our party; the old, the young, the middle-aged, the crippled, and ragged, nearly all making professions of loyalty, and rejoicing at the turn events had taken.

Provisions were issued for them, and order made for them to gather up the ponies and prepare for removal. This morning was the first time I heard “Queen Mary’s” voice; she is a sister of Ki-en-te-poos,—Captain Jack,—and this fact gave her great power over him. She has been pronounced “Queen of the Modocs,” on account of her beauty and power; she was, probably, the most sagacious individual belonging to the band. This Indian queen has had many opportunities for improvement, having been sold to five or six white men in the last ten years.

While she has induced so many different men to buy her of her brother, she has made each one, in turn, anxious to return her to her people; but not until she had squandered all the money she could command. It has been denied that Captain Jack was ever a party to these several matrimonial speculations; but more strongly asserted, by those who ought to know, that “Queen Mary” has been a great source of wealth to him. I am of that opinion myself, after weighing all the facts in the case.

On the morning in question Mary appeared to plead for her absent brother, that he might be forgiven, saying that he was no coward, but that he was scared; that he was not to blame for running, and that she could induce him to return. It was finally arranged that she should go to the “Lava Bed” in company with our guide, Gus Horn, and assure her brother that no harm had befallen the camp, and none would fall on them.

One day was spent in collecting the Indian ponies, taking Indian provisions from the “caches,” and negotiating with the runaways for their return, which was not accomplished. The following morning the camp was broken up, and all the Indians, big and little, old and young,—as we supposed at the time,—were started to the Reservation. Some were on ponies, many of them on our wagons, and perhaps a few on foot.

We reached Link river, where fires had been made, beef and flour prepared, and by nine, P.M., everybody seemed contented, except the personal friends of the runaways.

Messengers were kept on the road between our camp and the “Lava Beds” almost constantly for the three days we remained at Link river. Finally the great chief surrendered, and “came in,” on assurances that “the Klamaths should not be permitted to make sport of him, and call him a coward for running from our small force.” This, then, was the ultimatum, and was accepted, and, as far as possible, kept faithfully on our part.

The sight presented by Captain Jack and his men, when they arrived at Link river, if it could have been witnessed by those who have taken so great an interest in him, would have dispelled all ideas of a “Fennimore Cooper hero.”

I cannot forbear mentioning an incident characteristic of the Modocs. While waiting for Jack and his remaining braves, I accidentally learned that an old woman had been left in camp on Lost river, and, asking for the reason, was told that she was too old to dig roots, or to work, and they had left her some wood and water, and a “little grub,” enough for her to die easy on. A pair of new blankets, bread, sugar and meat, were prepared to send her; also a horse to ride, and volunteers asked for, to bring the old woman in. Not a volunteer came forward, save a “young buck,” who was willing, provided he could have the blankets and pony, should he find her dead, or if she should die on the road. It needed no reflection to understand that that meant murder.

After much difficulty, the family to whom the old squaw belonged was found, and a man and woman sent after her, with the warning, that if they failed to bring her they must suffer the consequences. They insisted on being paid in advance for their labor. They were not paid, but they brought her in alive, but so weak that she had to be held on the horse, the squaw sitting behind her. It is said the Indian has no gratitude, but this old woman refuted that assertion.

On the arrival of Captain Jack’s party, arrangements were made to proceed at once to Klamath Reservation. On the morning of Dec. 27th we started on our way. At the request of Captain Jack and his representative men, the squad of soldiers were sent forward to the fort; the Indians claiming that their presence made the women and children afraid; and that, having surrendered their arms, they were powerless to do harm, and had no desire to turn back. It may be thought a strange concession to make; but with their arms in our possession, we made it; thus proving our confidence in Indian integrity, by relieving them of the presence of the soldiers. We were safe, and had no fear of the result.

The morning was intensely cold, and the road led over a high mountain covered with snow to the depth of twenty inches. On the 28th we arrived at Modoc Point, Klamath Reservation. We were met by a large delegation of agency Indians. The meeting and peace-making of these people, who had been enemies so long, was one of peculiar interest and full of incident, worthy of being recorded. I pass over the first day, by saying that the Klamaths were much chagrined when we issued an order, at the request of Jack, against gambling.

Had we not done so, much confusion of property and domestic relation would have ensued. These people are inveterate gamblers, and in fits of madness have been known to stake their wives and daughters on the throw of a stick, sometimes a card. The second day we set apart for a meeting of reconciliation. A line was established between the Modoc and Klamath camp, and a place designated for the forthcoming meeting, at the foot of a mountain and beneath a wide-spreading pine tree.

The Klamaths formed on one side of the line, and awaited the arrival of the Modocs, who came reluctantly, apparently half afraid; Captain Jack taking a position fronting Allen David,—the Klamath chief,—and only a few feet distant. There stood these warrior chieftains, unarmed, gazing with Indian stoicism into each other’s faces. No words were spoken for a few moments. The thoughts that passed through each mind may never be known, but, perhaps, were of bloody battles past, or of the possible future.

The silence was broken on our part, saying, “You meet to-day in peace, to bury all the bad past, to make friends. You are of the same blood, of the same heart. You are to live as neighbors. This country belongs to you, all alike. Your interests are one. You can shake hands and be friends.”

A hatchet was laid in the open space, a twig of pine was handed each chieftain,—Allen David and Captain Jack,—as they advanced, each stooping and covering the axe with the pine boughs; planting their feet upon it, they looked into each other’s eyes a moment, and shook hands with a long-continued grasp, but spoke no word. As each retired to his position outside of the line, the sub-chiefs and head men came forward, two at a time, and followed the example of the chieftains, until all had exchanged the pledge of friendship, and then resumed their respective places. Allen David broke the silence in a speech of great power,—and such a speech as none but an Indian orator can make. I have listened to some of the most popular speakers in America, but I do not remember ever having heard a speech more replete with meaning, or one much more logical, and certainly none exhibiting more of nature’s oratory. It was not of that kind taught inside brick walls, but that which God gives to few, and gives but sparingly. I repeat it as reported by Dr. McKay.

Fixing his eye intently on Captain Jack, and raising himself to his full proportion of six feet in height, he began in measured sentences full of pathos: “I see you. I see your eyes. Your skin is red like my own. I will show you my heart. We have long been enemies. Many of our brave muck-a-lux (people) are dead. The ground is black with their blood. Their bones have been carried by the ‘Cayotes,’ to the mountains, and scattered among the rocks. Our people are melting away like snow. We see the white chief is strong. The law is strong. We cannot be Indians longer. We must take the white man’s law. The law our fathers had is dead. The white chief brought you here. We have made friends. We have washed each other’s hands; they are not bloody now. We are friends. We have buried all the bad blood. We will not dig it up again. The white man sees us. Soch-e-la Ty-ee.—God is looking at our hearts. The sun is a witness between us; the mountains are looking on us.” Turning to the great tree, with a sublime gesture: “This pine-tree is a witness, O my people! When you see this tree, remember it is a witness that here we made friends with the Mo-a-doc-as. Never cut down that tree. Let the arm be broke that would hurt it; let the hand die that would break a twig from it. So long as snow shall fall on Yai-nax mountain, let it stand. Long as the waters run in the river, let it stand. Long as the white rabbit shall live in the man-si-ne-ta (groves), let it stand. Let our children play round it; let the young people dance under its leaves, and let the old men smoke together in its shade. Let this tree stand there forever, as a witness. I have done.”

Captain Jack, on assuming an attitude peculiar to himself, with his eye fixed intently on the Klamath chief, began in a low, musical voice, half-suppressed, half hesitatingly: “The white chief brought me here. I feel ashamed of my people, because they are poor. I feel like a man in a strange country without a father. My heart was afraid. I have heard your words; they warm my heart. I am not strange now. The blood is all washed from our hands. We are enemies no longer. We have buried the past. We have forgotten that we were enemies. We will not throw away the white chief’s words. We will not hide them in the grass. I have planted a strong stake in the ground. I have tied myself with a strong rope. I will not dig up the stake. I will not break the rope. My heart is the heart of my people. I am their words. I am not speaking for myself. I speak their hearts. My heart comes up to my mouth. I cannot keep it down with a sharp stick. I am done.”

No doubt that, at the time of making this speech, Captain Jack really meant all he said; and if he failed to make good his promises, there were reasons that may not entitle him or his people to censure for the failure. Certainly no peace-making could have been more sincere, or promised more for the settlement of the Modoc troubles. The remainder of the day was passed in exchanging friendships (ma-mak-sti-nas). Preparations were completed for issuing annuity goods to the Modocs.

Other Indians had been previously served, but this was but the second time that the Modocs had ever received goods from the Government, in conformity with the treaty stipulations of 1864. For five years the goods had been regularly furnished and distributed to the Klamaths and the few Modocs who remained faithful to the compact. If Captain Jack’s band had not received goods, it was not the fault of the Government or its agents, but because they wilfully refused to obey the orders of Government officers, by remaining away from the home they had accepted.

The goods provided were of the best quality, delivered on contract, and with packages unbroken, and in presence of Capt. Goodale, U. S. Army, then in command of Fort Klamath; and they were distributed among his people. Captain Jack and his head men were seated in the midst of a semi-circle, with the other men on each side, the women in front, in half-circular rows; the children still in front of these, on either hand. When all were seated, the packages were broken, and the goods prepared for issue. Captain Jack and his sub-chiefs received two pairs of blankets each, one pair to each of his head men, and one blanket to every other man, woman, and child, except six very small children, who were given one-half a blanket each. They were all-wool, “eight-pound” Oregon blankets, and overweighed, by actual test, nearly one-half pound per pair. In addition, each man received a woollen shirt and cloth for one pair of pants; each woman and child, one flannel dress pattern, with liberal supply of thread, needles, and buttons. I have been thus particular about the facts concerning this issue, because much sympathy has been manifested for the Modocs on account of the wrongs said to have been practised against them. After the distribution, the Modocs, proud of their new goods, retired to their camps, on the shores of the lake.

The “Peace Tree,” under which the issue was made, was on a sloping hill-side, overlooking the valley, and commanding a view of the camp of Captain Jack. Let us see them, as they trudge homeward, with their rich prizes. They do not go like the Indians with their blankets around them, and feathers streaming in the wind. Since their retreat from the Reservation they have associated with and learned many of the manners and customs of civilized white people. Nevertheless they presented a picturesque appearance,—old and young, loaded down with goods, flour and beef, apparently happy; and I doubt not they were happy.

Their camps, scattered promiscuously along the edge of the water, were constructed of various materials. A few were ordinary tents, others made over a frame of willow poles, covered with matting, blankets, wagon sheets, and such other material as could be pressed into service. The ponies are scattered over the plain, cropping the winter grass, or tied up waiting for the owner’s return.

The inside of the camps are always “cluttered,”—a Yankee word, which means in confusion and disorder. The women proceed to stow away the new dresses in baskets and sacks, or spread them for bedding; the men to smoke and wait until the feast is made ready from the supplies of flour and beef provided. They have been cheated out of what some eastern people would consider the best part of the beef,—the “head and pluck.” That delectable part of the animal had been captured by the waiting Klamath squaws at the time of the slaughtering. Squaws have the smelling qualities of a war horse, “that scents the battle from afar.” At every slaughter they were sure to arrive in time to secure the aforesaid “head and pluck,” which, with them, means everything except dressed meat. Even the feet are eaten. First throwing them on the fire and burning them awhile, they then cut off the scorched parts to eat. The foot is again conveyed to the fire, until fairly charred; again stripped, and so on, until but little is left, and that little does not resemble an ox’s foot very much.

The head is cooked in better shape. A hole is dug in the ground, in which a fire is made, and, when burned down, the embers are removed, and the head of the old Government ox is dropped in just as it left the butcher’s hands. Hair, horns, and all are covered up with ashes and coals, a fire made over it and left to cook. After a few hours it is removed, and is then ready to serve up; or rather it (the head) is placed upon the ground, and the hungry Indians, each armed with a knife, surround it and proceed to carve and eat. Portions that may be too raw are then thrown on the coals and charred; even the bones are eaten. Among the old and poor people, they carefully preserve their respective ox’s feet, and, when in want, throw them on the coals, and the meal is prepared in short order.

Uncivilized Indians have no regular hour for meals, but generally each one consults convenience, seldom eating together except on feast occasions. Neither have they regular hours for sleeping or rising, each member of a family or tribe consulting their own pleasure.

While we watch the novel scenes of Indians “getting wood,” water, cooking, and eating, we see the enterprising young Klamaths—now released from the order forbidding their hurrying down to the Modoc camps—hasten there, some to renew old acquaintance, others to tell in soft tones to the listening ears of Modoc maidens the tale that burdened their hearts, and to negotiate for new wives; or it may be, through the mediation of a “deck” of greasy cards, to persuade the Modocs to divide goods with them.

These Klamath boys had received their new clothes a few days previous, and had soiled them enough to make them comport well with Indian toilets. While we are engaged making observations, cast the eye westward over the valley of the Klamath, and see the huge shadows approach like great moving clouds, until suddenly they start up the sloping hill-side towards us. Look closely now at the sun resting a moment on the summit of Mount McGlaughlin. See it settle slowly, as though splitting the crown of the mountain in twain, until, while you gaze, he drops quickly out of sight. Little children say he has burned a hole in the mountain, and buried himself there. But, oh, the shadows have crept over us, and we feel the chill which ensues. Look above and behind us, and see them climb the rocky crags until we are all “in the shadow.”

We now see our teamster boys piling high the pitch-pine logs, and soon the crackling flames begin to paint fresh shadows round us. The dark forms of long-haired men gather in circles round the fire; for we are to have a “cultus wa-wa,” (a big free talk). White men and Indians change their base as smoke or flame compels, and all, in half gloomy silence, wait the signal to begin. A white man speaks first of his people, their laws, religion, and habits; tells how law is made; how the white man found his religion; the history of the Bible; extols his own faith, and labors to reconcile in untutored minds the difference betwixt good and bad, right and wrong, and by simple lessons to instil the great precepts of Christianity.

The red man listens with sober face and thoughtful brow. When opportunity is made, he puts queries about many things they do not know. This is not an official council, so all feel free to speak. An old Indian, with his superstitious habits and ideas clinging to him, like a worn-out blanket in tatters, clutching the old with one hand, and with the other reaching out for the new, rises, and with great dignity tells of the religious faith of his fathers, and makes apology for their ignorance and his own; says, “I have long heard of this religion of the white man. I have heard about the ‘Holy Spirit’ coming to him. I wonder if it would ever come to my people. I am old, I cannot live long. May be it has come now. I feel like a new kind of fire was in my heart. May be you have brought this ‘Holy Spirit.’

“I think you have. When you came here first we were all in bad blood. Now I see Klamaths, Modocs, Snakes, and Ya-hoo-skins, all around me like brothers. No common man could do this. May be you are a holy spirit. When I was a young man I saw a white man on his knee telling the ‘Holy Spirit’ to come. May be the Great Spirit sent you with it.”

This old man, whose name was Link-river Joe, had attended a meeting held by Rev. A. F. Waller, at the Dallas Methodist Mission, twenty years before, and had still retained some of the impressions made at that time.

Old man Chi-lo-quin said he had often heard that the white man could tell when the sun would turn black a long time before it happened,—referring to the eclipse,—and inquired how the white man knew so much. This was explained until the old fellow said he thought he knew how it was; but I doubt it. Thus the last night of 1869 wore away with questions and answers. Finally we mentioned that “to-morrow will be the New Year.” The question was asked, how we knew it was so. Never have I seen an audience of five or six hundred persons so eager for information. We proposed to explain, and, holding up a watch, said to them, that when all the “little sticks” on its face were in a row together, the old year would die in the west, and another would be born in the east. The watch was passed around while the explanation was being made. Allen David requested that, since all could not see the watch, we should fire a pistol at the exact moment. After assurance that it would cause no alarm, we held the pistol upward above our heads, and announced,—“five minutes more and 1869 will be dead,—four minutes now,—now but three.” The stillness was almost painful,—“Two minutes more, now but one,”—and five or six hundred red men were holding breath to catch the signal,—all eyes watching the finger that was to announce, by a motion, the event; the three hands on the face of the watch were in range,—the finger crooked,—a blaze of light flashed over the dusky faces, and a report went reverberating up the rocky caÑons, and before it died away, six hundred voices joined in an almost unearthly farewell to “1869,” and, quickly facing to the east, another wild shout of welcome to “1870.”

The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving one white man and an interpreter sitting by the smouldering fire, talking over the wonders of the white man’s knowledge and power, accompanied by old Chief Schon-chin, Captain Jack, Allen David, and O-che-o. Thus was begun the year 1870. I was surrounded then with elements of power for mischief that were only waiting for the time when accident or mismanagement would impel one of these chieftains—Captain Jack—to open a chapter with his finger dipped in the heart’s blood of one of the noblest of the American army, the lamented Christian soldier, General Canby, who was then quietly enjoying a respite from the labors of the rebellion, with the honors of a well-spent life gathering in a clustering wreath around the great warrior’s brow, settling down so lightly that he scarcely seemed aware that he wore a coronet made of heroic deeds and manly actions. He was looking hopefully to a future of rest in the bosom of his family, and consoling himself that life’s hardest battles were over, and that when, in a good old age, the roll-call should be sounded for him, his friends would answer in salutes of honor over his grave.

While we were shedding little rays of light on the darkened minds of our hearers, a beardless Indian boy, with face almost white, was sporting with his fellows, or quietly sleeping in his father’s lodge, soothed to rest by the rippling waters of Klamath lake. This boy—Boston Charley—was to send the messenger of death through the heart of the eminent divine—Dr. Thomas. That night Dr. Thomas was with his friends, watching on bended knees before a sacred altar, waiting for the death of 1869 and the birth of a new year, little dreaming that the crimson current of his life was so soon to mingle with the blood of the other hero in recording the tragic event of the year 1873.

He, too, had fought the good fight of the cross for thirty long years, and now felt the honors of his church gathering around his gray locks, and was looking steadily forward to the hour when his Great Commander should call him to his reward; hoping quietly and peacefully to gather up his feet in God’s own appointed time, and, bearing with him his sheaves, present them as his credentials to a mansion of eternal rest. While old Chief Schon-chin, with his long gray hair floating in the winds of the new-born year, was opening his heart to the influx of light, sitting quietly by the dying council fire, his brother John was brooding over his broken hopes of careless life or high ambition, sitting moody and gloomy over his own camp-fire, or dreaming of a coming hour when he might avenge the insults offered his race. It may be he was living over the scenes of his stormy life, while the hand that had that day received from my hands pledges of friendship and Government faith was in three short years to fire eleven shots at the heart that beat then in kindliest sympathy with his race.

The last hours of the dying year and the first of the new one had I given from my life for the advancement of a race, whose very helplessness enhanced the zeal with which I labored for them. I could not draw aside the veil that hid the future, and see the gleaming eyes of Schon-chin John, nor his left hand clutching a dagger while his right discharged repeated shots at my breast. I did not then see my own body prostrate and bleeding in the rocks of the Lava Bed, or my own beloved family surrounded with sympathizing friends, eagerly watching the electric sparks speaking words of hope and despair alternately; but I did see, somewhere in the future, my hand running over whited page, telling the world of the way I passed the watch-night of 1869.