Leaving our soldier friends to dream of glory to be won in the coming battle, let us pick our way from their camp to the head-quarters of Captain Jack.

Our starting-point now is from a little grove of mountain mahogany trees on a high plateau, a few miles south of the California and Oregon boundary line, and within a short distance of the extreme southern end of lower Klamath lake. The trees are dwarfed, stunted, and bent before the stormy winds that have swept over them so continually.

As we leave this military camp, a long, high, sharp ridge extends northward and southward, falling away at either end to hills of lesser height. Climbing to the top, and looking eastward, we see Tule lake, named on the maps of this country Rhett lake. It is a beautiful sheet of water, of thirty miles from north to south, and fifteen from west to east. We see also, with a field-glass, across the lake, the lone cabins where the strong hands of Boddy, Brotherton, and others have laid the foundation of future homes. They stand like spirit sentinels on the plain.

Look again at the trail leading out of the sage-brush plains; follow with your glass down to where a high stone bluff crowds against the lake, and forces the wagon trail into the edge of the water, until it disappears in the high tule grass.

In September, 1852, a long train of wagons, drawn by worn-out oxen, driven by hardy, venturesome pioneers, came down that trail.

They never came out again, save the two or three persons, as related in a former chapter.

That place is Bloody Point.

Turn your glass northward, and see the trail emerge from the tule grass; follow it until it turns suddenly westward and reaches the natural bridge on Lost river. Turn your glass up the river one mile, and you see the favorite home of Captain Jack, where we found him in 1869, and where Major Jackson found him on the morning of “November 30th, 1872;” and, had you been looking at that spot at 4 P.M. of the 23d day of April, 1873, you would have descried a four-horse ambulance, with a mounted escort of six men on either side, and standing in the front end of that ambulance a woman, with a field-glass, eagerly scanning the surface of the lake. That woman shows anxiety in her blue eye and earnest face while she changes the direction of the glass, expecting each moment to catch sight of a boat crossing the lake. She is cool, calm, and self-possessed, although no other lady is nearer than twenty-four miles.

There is a reason for her presence there; and she will need all her self-command when the looked-for boat arrives. Why, that lone woman is there, on that 23d day of April, we will tell you in good time.

Turn your glass back now to Bloody Point, and follow down the shore of the lake. Ah! there stands a white-looking object near a bluff that is black with a low growth of trees. The white object is Miller’s house, just as he left it the morning before his friend, Hooker Jim, murdered him. The black-looking bluff near it is where Ben Wright met the Modocs, in a peace talk, in 1852. Swing your glass round to the right, following the shore of the lake, and, at the extreme southern end, you will see the cabins of Lou-e Land, and near them Col. Barnard’s head-quarters.

The white tents of the soldiers look like tiny playthings, even under a field-glass. Col. Barnard is there with one hundred “regulars,” and one company of “volunteers.” Look closely, and you will see that half the volunteers are red-skinned men. Their captain is a tall, fine-looking white man, who addresses them in the ancient jargon of the Klamaths,—this is Oliver Applegate.

See the Indian soldiers, with each a white badge on his head; it is not an army regulation cap, but is simply to prevent accident; that is, it is a mark to distinguish the white man’s ally from his enemy.

In this camp are men about as anxious to march on the Modocs as those on the north side; some of these red soldiers are the boys who made Jack’s stay on Klamath Reservation, in 1870, so uncomfortable. They are loyal, though, to the Government, and are willing to help the white men exterminate their cousins (the Modocs). Then the pro rata of annuity goods will be so much the larger. They don’t mean any harm to the Modocs, although since 1864 they have been receiving regularly the price the Government has paid for the home of the Modocs; except on one or two occasions, when the latter were present.

These red-skinned boys are anxious to capture the Modoc ponies; for, running with Jack’s band of horses, are several that once carried these Klamath boys flying over the plains; until, in an evil moment, they were weak enough to stake them, as many a poor, weak-minded, infatuated white man has done his home, all on the hazardous chance of certain cards turning up at the right time. Well, let these fellows take rest, for they will need all their nerve before another day passes.

Move your glass round to the right, what a sight do we see! A great flat-looking valley stretches out south and west from the ragged shore line of the lake. On the further boundary see the four low buttes standing in a line; while behind Mount Shasta raises his white head, overlooking the country around on all sides for hundreds of miles.

This valley, lying so cold and cheerless, seems to have been once a part of the lake. It is devoid of timber, save one lone tree, that stands out on what appears to be a plain, of almost smooth prairie; but we forget we are one thousand feet above this valley.

Let us follow now the zigzag trail that leads to the gap just where the valley and the lake unite.

Better dismount, for wagons never have been, nor ever will go down that bluff. Horses, indeed, need a rough-lock to get down in safety. Oh! but this is steep; we are now half-way down,—let us rest, and meanwhile take your field-glass and “see what we can see.” Why! it don’t look as it did from the top of the bluff. Oh! I see now why you call this place the “Lava Beds.” From this stand-point it presents the appearance of a broken sea, that had, when in wild commotion, suddenly frozen or crystallized; except that the surface is a grayish color. Sage brush grows out from the crevices of the rock, and, occasionally, “bunch grass” may be seen.

Near the foot of the bluff is a small flat of a few acres that is free from rocks. A bay from the lake makes up into the rocky field; then a long point of stony land runs out into the lake.

Follow the shore-line, and another bay, or arm of the lake, runs out into the lava rocks. Look carefully, and, on the next point of lava rocks, running into the lake, you will discover a gray smoke rising. There, if you will steady your glass, you will see dark forms moving round about the fire.

They are not more than two miles from our point of observation, and this is the 16th day of June, 1873.

See that man standing above the others. He is talking. Wonder who he is, and what he is saying. Since we are talking of Indians, suppose we adopt Indian spiritualism, and in that invisible capacity we will hear and see what is going on.

We will pick our way over the dim, crooked trail, first in real person, and take items as we pass along. The trail is very dim, it is true—only seen by the rocks misplaced to make footing for the Indian ponies. Now we wind around some low stony point, and pick our way down into a rocky chasm.

Slowly rising, we climb up twenty feet of bluff, and out on a plateau. Looking carefully for the road, we follow a half-round circle of two hundred feet on the left; and, sloping from every direction, the broken lava rocks tend toward a common centre, forty feet below the level of the plateau. As we pursue our way another great basin is in sight, of similar character and proportion; and thus this plateau, that appeared almost smooth from the mountain-top, is made up of a succession of basins, all lined with broken rock, from the size of a dry-goods box to that of a meeting-house.

Just ahead, we see rising above the rocky plain a craggy ledge, standing like an immense comb, the spikes of lava forming great teeth. On the right and left it looks as if the teeth-like crags are broken midway, and our trail is pointing to one of these breaks.

Before reaching it, we see on either hand where the breaks are filled with stones, piled in such a way that port-holes are left, through which the Modocs propose to fire on the advancing foes when they come to the attack.

Passing between upright spires of lava, we come out on a smooth plain of fractured stones; and, passing near the end of the second little bay, we find rough, sharp ledges rising to intercept our way.

Picking our steps, we stand on the summit of the ledge. Shut your eyes now while we pass over a chasm of thirty feet in depth, and with walls almost perpendicular. Our bridge has been made by a gorge of loose rocks that fill the chasm to its lips. Some of these have been rolled in by Indian hands, and some by old Vulcan himself, when he spilled the lava there.

Come, follow the trail,—now we stand a moment and, looking right and left, we see great fissures and caverns that look dark and forbidding; suggesting ambush. No danger here now,—we left the Modoc sentinel behind us, at the huge comb-like ledge. He is not afraid of us, and all the other Modocs are in council. Climbing a cliff that overlooks a deep, wide chasm, we catch sight of the sage-brush fire, and suddenly half a hundred warriors, in half dress of “Boston,” half of savage costume,—some of them are bare-armed, and have curious-looking figures on them made of paint.

This is not safe now, for sharp eyes scan the surroundings, and while this council is going on, the Modoc women are doing duty. Some of them are piling on the sage brush to keep the fire going. Others are standing, apparently pillars of stone; sphinx like, they gaze outward, for although this council is being held in a place secure from gaze of pale-faced man, the Modocs, Indian like, are ever on the alert, and do not intend to be taken by surprise. Since this is not safe for us, we had better play Indian spirit, if we would see and hear what is going on. What we lack in catching the words in the spirit correctly, we will obtain from some friendly Indian hereafter. See that fellow there; his face looks familiar; yet he is not a Modoc. Oh! yes; we recognize him now; we saw him at the peace meeting, taking the Modocs by the hand then, and afterwards taunting them with their poverty and cowardice while they were on Klamath Reservation in 1870. That fellow is Link-river Jack. He is a natural traitor.

He has crept cautiously into the Modoc camp to give them warning of the soldiers coming. He is the Modocs’ friend now; he tells them that a large army is coming; that they are on the bluff almost within sight.

This was not news; for the Modocs had counted the soldiers, man by man, and knew exactly how many was in either camp. They knew, too, that half the soldiers were citizens with whom they had dealt for years. Link-river Jack tells them of the feeling outside against them; that peace may be had on the surrender of the Modocs who killed the settlers. We did not hear him tell them that if they would hold out a few days, the Klamaths and Snakes would join them; but our friendly Indian asserts that he did.

All eyes turn now to the chief, Captain Jack. He rises with stately mien and says, “We have made a mistake. We cannot stand against the white men. Suppose we kill all these soldiers; more will come, and still more, and finally all the Modocs will be killed; when we kill the soldiers others will take their places; but when a Modoc gets killed no man will come to take his place; we must make the best terms we can. I do not want to fight the white man. I want no war; I want peace. Some of the white men are our friends. Steele and Roseborough are our friends; they told us not to fight the white men; we want no war; soon all the young men will be killed. We do not want to fight.”

Old Schonchin John arose; his face was full of war; he was in for a fight. He recalled the “Ben Wright” massacre; he said, “We have nothing to expect from the white men. We can die, but we will not die first. I won’t give it up; I want to fight. I can’t live long. I am an old man.” Schonchin sat down. He had no hope for his life; his crimes were all arrayed against him, and he knew it.

Scar-face Charley rose to talk. He said, “I was mad on Lost river; my blood was bad. I was insulted. I have many friends among the white men. I do not want to kill them. We cannot stand against the white men. True, I am a Modoc. What their hearts are, my heart is. May be we can stop this war. I want to live in peace.”

Curly-haired Doctor, who was with the murdering gang in Lost river, arose and said, “I am a Modoc. My hands are red with white man’s blood. I was mad when I saw the dead women and children on Lost river. I want war. I am not tired. The white men cannot fight; they shoot in the air. I will make a medicine that will turn the white man’s bullets away from the Modocs. We will not give up. We can kill all that come.”

The discussion is ended, and now comes the vote. They divide off,—those who were for war walked out on one side, and those who favor peace on the other. These people are democratic; the majority rules.

The vote is of vast importance to others than the Modocs. One hundred and fifty soldiers and many citizens are interested in that vote. Gen. Canby, Dr. Thomas, and your writer, are to be very much affected by that vote. Millions of dollars hang on the decision.

Hold your breath while each man elects for himself. The chief, Captain Jack, walks boldly out on the side of peace, but, O my God, few dare follow him. The majority vote for blood, and gather around Schonchin John, and the Curly-haired Doctor. The die is cast, war is inevitable; let us see who is with Captain Jack. There goes “Scar-face Charley,” “William” (the wild gal’s man), “Miller’s Charley,” “Duffey,” “Te-he Jack,” “Little Poney,” “Big Poney,” “Duffey’s Boy,” “Chuckle-head,” “Big Steve,” “Big Dave,” “Julia’s man,”—fourteen men, no more.

The bloodthirsty villains who held the balance of power are, “Schonchin,” “Curly-head Doctor,” “Bogus Charley,” “Boston Charley,” “Hooker Jim,” “Shacknasty Jim,” “Steamboat Frank,” “Rock-Dave,” “Big Joe,” “Curly Jack,” and the remainder of the band, numbering thirty-seven, all told. There are two strange Indians there, also; they are Pitt river thieves, they do not vote. The doctor’s speech has done the work. These infuriated thirty-six men believe in him, and his promise to make medicine that will turn the bullets of the white men. This has more power than the clear, logical reasoning of Captain Jack. Having turned the current of so many lives, the doctor, exulting in his success, repaired to his cave to fulfil his promise.

Suppose we follow him and see how this thing is done. He calls the singing women of the band together, and, having prepared roots and religious meats, he builds a fire, and, with a great deal of ceremony, he places the sacrifice thereon; then inhaling the smoke and odor of the burning mess, he begins his religious incantations; calling down the good spirit, calling up the bad spirit, and calling loudly for the spirits of the dead Indians to come; while the women, having pitched a tune to his words, begin to sing, and with their shoulders touching each other, they start off in a rough, hobbly kind of a dance, singing meanwhile; and a drummer, too, joins in with a hideous noise, made on a drain of peculiar shape, with but one head of dried rawhide, or untanned buckskin, drawn tightly over a rough-made hoop.

Round go the singing dancers, and louder grow the voices of the doctor and the women; both increasing in fury until exhausted nature gives proof of the presence of the various spirits.

The braves stand looking on to see what the prospects are; satisfied that the medicine is getting strong enough, they saunter back to the cave of the chief, where he sits with thoughtful brow, planning in a low voice the defence of the morrow; repeating again, “This is the last of my people; I must do what their hearts say; I am a Modoc, and I am not afraid to die.” Then giving orders for the fight,—designating where each man should be stationed, and appointing women to carry water and ammunition to the various stations, while they fight,—he inspects the arms, and estimates how long the powder and lead will last, tells the women to mould bullets for the old-fashioned rifles; he then turns sadly away to his sister, Queen Mary, and declares that he is now going to do what he thought he never would do,—“fight the white man.”

We leave the howling doctor and the sad chief and return to the soldier camp on the top of the bluff. The sentinels are walking the rounds; all is quiet, and the boys are taking their rest,—some of them their last rest save one. Ah! Jerry Crook, you jumped down from a stage-driver’s box to help whip the Modocs. Your heart is beating steadily now; it will beat wildly for a few minutes to-morrow afternoon, and then its pulsations will cease forever. George Roberts, too, has left a good position to come on this mission, promising, as he fondly hopes, a dream of glory, which he will share with his comrades when hereafter he cracks his whip over the teams of the Northwest Stage Company. Enjoy it now, my dear fellow, for the vote in yonder camp has sealed your fate. Others may tell how bravely you died, but you will not live to tell of the shout of victory that the M-o-d-o-c-s will send over your dead body to-morrow night. Sleep soundly, my soldier boys; thirty of you will not answer the roll-call after the battle of the morrow.

Brave Gen. Frank Wheaton, why do you still walk back and forth, arm-in-arm with Col. John Green and Maj. Jackson? You do not feel so sanguine about to-morrow. Jackson has said something that has driven sleep from your eyes. You might find comfort in consulting Gens. Miller and Ross, and Col. Thompson, of the “Salem Press,” and Capt. Kelley, of the “Jacksonville Times.” They are State militia officers, it is true, but they are old Indian fighters, and can tell you how quickly you can whip Captain Jack in the morning. They are leading men, who may be hard to restrain, but they will take the advance. Don’t say a word to Capt. John Fairchild; he knows the Modocs, as does Press Dorris. They know the Lava Beds, too; they have hunted cattle over this country, and understand the lay of it better than any white men in the camp.

They are not so very confident. They said, to-day, to some impatient boys, “Don’t fret; you will get enough to do you before you see your mother again. The Modocs are on it sure!”