A few days after this battle Captain Jack sent a message to John Fairchild and Press Dorris, proposing a “talk,” telling them that they should not be molested, and agreeing to meet them at the foot of the bluff, near the Modoc camp. Messrs. Fairchild and Dorris, accompanied by one other white man and an Indian woman (Dixie), visited the Lava Beds.

The meeting, as described by Fairchild, was one of peculiar interest. Those who had been friends, and then enemies and at war, without any formal declaration of peace, coming together in the stronghold of the victorious party, presents a phase of Western life seldom witnessed. The white men, fully armed, ride to the Indian camp with the squaw guide. The Modocs had observed them with a field-glass while they were descending the bluff, two miles away.

On their arrival, the men who had so earnestly sought each others’ lives stood face to face. A painful silence followed, each party waiting for the other to speak first. The Modocs approach and offer to shake hands. “No, you don’t, until we understand each other,” said Fairchild; and continued, “We came here because we learned that you wanted to talk peace. We are not afraid to talk or to hear you talk. We were in the battle. We fought you, and we will fight again unless peace is made.”

Captain Jack replied, that “the Modocs knew all about who was in the big battle, but that should not make trouble now. We are glad you come. We want you to hear our side of the story. We do not want any war. Let us go back to our homes on Lost river. We are willing to pay you for the cattle we have killed. We don’t want to fight any more.”

Such was the substance of Captain Jack’s speech; to which Fairchild and Dorris replied, that they were not authorized to make any terms, but would do all they could to prevent further war.

These men visited the Modoc camp from humane and kindly motives; yet tongues of irresponsible parties dared to speak slanderous words against these men who ventured where their vilifiers would not have gone for any consideration. Their motives were questioned, and insinuations unworthy the men who made them, never would have been made had the characters of Fairchild and Dorris been better understood.

The results of the battle of Jan. 17th had startled the public mind, and especially the authorities at Washington City. On investigating the cause of the war, it was thought that some mistake had been made. The citizens of Oregon who were then in Washington, headed by Gen. E. L. Applegate, consulted with Attorney-General Williams on the subject of the Modoc troubles. Inasmuch as a vast amount of ink has since been wasted in expressing indignation against the Modoc Peace Commission, I herewith submit the subjoined letter from Gen. Applegate, of Oregon, to the “Oregon Bulletin,” which gives a fair, and, I believe, true statement of the circumstances attending its conception. I was not present at the conference referred to, neither was I consulted as to the propriety of the movement, either by the Honorable Secretary or the Oregon delegation. Secretary Delano is qualified to defend his own action, and I only suggest that, with the representations set forth, he acted wisely in the course he pursued.

Although I did not advise the appointment of a Peace Commission, I declare that it was right, and no blame can be justly attached to either the Commission or the appointing power, if it was not a success.

The principle of adjusting difficulties by such means is in harmony with justice and right. Let those who burned the Honorable Secretary in effigy remember the continued stream of denunciation that was poured out against the Commission by a portion of the secular press of the Pacific coast, and the reason why the peace measures failed may be better understood.

The day following the filing of the above set of “Becauses” and recommendations, I received a note inviting me to the Interior Department. When notified of my appointment as Chairman of the Commission, I then expressed doubts of its success, giving, as a reason, the intense feeling of the western people against the Modocs and any peace measures; also as to the safety of the commission in attempting to negotiate with a people who were desperate, and had been successful in every engagement with the Government forces.

It is well known at the department in Washington that I accepted the appointment with reluctance, and finally yielded my wishes on the urgent solicitation of the Hon. Secretary of the Interior. The fact that I knew the Modocs personally, and that I had been successful, while Superintendent of Indian Affairs for Oregon, in managing them peaceably in 1869, was given as one reason. Another was, the sympathy I had for them on account of the treatment of them by the Klamaths; and another still, humanity for the soldiers whose lives were imperilled by the effort to make peace through blood, and charity for a poor, deluded people, whose religious infatuation and hot blood had forfeited their right to life and liberty. My heart was in sympathy, too, with the poor, bereaved wives and mothers, made so by Modoc treachery; but I did not believe that doubling the number of widows and orphans would make the griefs of the mourners less, or lighter to be borne.

The sands of the sage-brush plains had drank up the blood of a score of manly hearts; immersing the lava rocks in blood could not make the dead forms to rise again.

With these feelings, and fully realizing the danger attending, and anticipating the opposition that would be raised against the commission, I left Washington on the 5th of February, 1873, with the determination to do my whole duty, despite these untoward circumstances. The other members of the commission were Hon. Jesse Applegate, a man of long experience on the frontier, possessed of eminent qualities for such a mission, aside from his personal knowledge of existing hostilities, and personal acquaintance with the Modocs, and Samuel Case, who was then acting Indian Agent at Alsea, Oregon. Mr. Case has had long experience and success in the management of Indians; these qualities were requisite in treating with a hostile people. Both these appointments were made on my own recommendation, based on a personal acquaintance with these gentlemen, believing them fitted for the difficult task assigned the commission. I accepted the chairmanship more cheerfully, when informed that Gen. Canby would act as counsellor to the commission, knowing, as I did, his great experience among Indians, and the ability and character which he would bring to bear upon the whole subject of the Modoc trouble. I knew him to be humane and wise, and I had not the slightest doubt of his integrity.

The following letter of instructions was furnished for the guidance of the commission.

With these, and the appointment of Messrs. Applegate and Case, I went to the head-quarters of Gen. Canby, then at Fairchild’s Ranch, twenty-five miles from the Modoc camp in the Lava Beds.

I arrived at Fairchild’s Ranch on the 19th of February, where I found General Canby, Hon. Jesse Applegate, and Agent Samuel Case.

The Commission was duly organized, and immediately began operations looking towards the objects sought to be accomplished.

Communication with the rebel camp had been suspended after the visit of Fairchild and Dorris. To reopen and establish it was the first work. This was not easy to do under the circumstances. There were several Modoc Indian women encamped near head-quarters; but it was necessary to have some messenger more reliable. Living but a few miles distant, was a man whose wife was a Klamath, and who was on friendly terms with the Modocs. This man, “Bob Whittle,” was sent for, with a request to bring his wife with him. On his arrival, we found him to be a man of sound judgment, and his wife to be a well-appearing woman; understanding the English language tolerably well.

A consultation was had, and we decided to send this Indian woman and her husband, Bob Whittle, and “One-eyed Dixie,” a Modoc woman, with a message to the Modocs in the Lava Beds. The substance of this message was, that a commission was then at Fairchild’s ready to talk over matters with them. This expedition was very hazardous.

These messengers left head-quarters early on the morning of the 21st of February, all of them expressing doubt about ever returning. Fairchild’s Ranch (our head-quarters) is situated at the foot of a mountain overlooking the route to the Lava Beds, for several miles. We watched the mounted messengers until we lost sight of them in the distance, wondering whether we should ever see them again.

Talk of heroism being confined to race, color, or sex! nonsense; here were two women and a man, venturing where few men would have dared go.

They returned late on the same day, unharmed, and reported having been in the Modoc camp; and bringing with them, in response to our message, the reply, that the Modocs were willing to meet John Fairchild and Bob Whittle, at the foot of the bluff, for the purpose of arranging for a council talk with the commission.

Messrs. Fairchild and Whittle were despatched on the following morning, accompanied by Matilda Whittle and “One-eyed Dixie.” Mr. Fairchild was instructed to announce the object of the commission, and, also, who were its members, and to arrange to meet the representative men of the Modocs, on some midway ground, with such precautionary measures as he might consider necessary.

He was also instructed to explain to them the meaning of an armistice,—that no act of war would be committed by us, or permitted by them, while negotiations for peace were going on. The meeting with Captain Jack was had by Fairchild and party; the object stated, and the personnel of the commission made known. Captain Jack’s reply was that he was ready to make peace; that he did not wish to fight, but he was not willing to come out of the Lava Beds to meet us. “I understand you about not fighting, or killing cattle, or stealing horses. Tell your people they need not be afraid to go over the country while we are making peace. My boys will stay in the rocks while it is being settled; we will not fire the first shot. You can go and hunt your cattle; no one will shoot you. We will not begin again first. I want to see Esquire Steele. I am willing to meet the commissioners at the foot of the bluff, but I don’t want them to come with soldiers to make peace. The soldiers frighten my boys.”

The messengers returned, accompanied by two Modoc warriors, who were to carry back our answer. These Modocs were Boston Charley and Bogus Charley. We refused to go to the foot of the bluff unless accompanied by an escort of soldiers, but proposed to meet them on open ground, “all armed” or “all unarmed.” It was agreed that Esquire Steele should be sent for. Bogus and Boston returned to the Modoc camp with the results of the interview. Steele was invited to head-quarters. Gen. Canby requested by telegraph the appointment of Judge A. M. Roseborough as a commissioner; the request was granted, and, on the morning of the 23d, Steele and Roseborough arrived.

The commission now numbered four. The Modocs had refused to accept all propositions for a meeting that had been made them, so far. Communication was now had, almost daily, between the commissioners and Captain Jack, Frank Riddle and his wife Tobey acting as messengers and interpreters. The Modocs came to our camp in small numbers,—there they came in constant communication with “squaw men” (white men who associate with Indian women), whose sympathy was with them.

From these they learned of the almost universal thirst for vengeance,—of the indictments by the Jackson county courts against the “Lost-river” murderers; the feelings of the newspaper press; the protest of the Governor of Oregon; all of which was carried into the Modoc camp by such men as Bogus and Boston Charley. I stop here to say that these two men were well fitted for the part they played in the tragic event of which I am writing. Bogus Charley was a full-blooded Modoc, whose father was lost in some Indian battle. This boy was born on a small creek, called by the miners Bogus creek; hence his name. He was not more than twenty-one years old at this time. He had lived with white men at various times,—knew something of civilized life,—was naturally shrewd and cunning; the Indians called him a “double-hearted man;” and my readers will honor them for their intelligence by the time we reach the gibbet, where Captain Jack answered for this man’s crimes.

His counterpart may be found in civil life in finely dressed and smooth-talking white men,—who are the scourges of good society,—persons who are all things to all men, and true to none. Boston Charley was still younger,—not over nineteen at the time justice caught him by the neck and suspended him over a coffin at Fort Klamath, November 3d, 1873. He was so named on account of his light complexion and his cunning; and as the Indian said, “Because he had two tongues; one Indian and one white.” His father, a Modoc, died a natural death. He had no personal cause for his treachery, and perhaps charity should have been extended to him, and his life spared, because he was “a natural-born traitor,” according to Modoc theology, and not to blame for his acts.

However, such were the two principal messengers from the Modoc camp to ours,—plausible fellows, who could lie without the slightest scruples. They came, and were fed and clothed; they went, with their hearts full of falsehoods that had been told them by whiskey-drinking white villains. They, too, were plausible fellows; talked with the old-fashioned “D——n-nigger-any-how” sort of a way.

Under such circumstances it was a somewhat difficult thing to arrange a council with the Modocs on reasonable terms. True, the Modocs did say that they had been told by white men that if Gen. Canby and the commissioners ever got them in their power they would all be hung. But who would believe a Modoc? This was simply an excuse; and, then, no one in all that country would have done such a thing. That was a Modoc lie. Nobody but Modocs ever tell lies. On the contrary, every white man was honest. They all wanted to stop the war. Of course they did. Intimate anything else, and you would get a hundred invitations to “target practice” in twenty-four hours; or else you would fall in a fit, and never get up again, caused by remorse of conscience for injuring some unnamed individual.

On the arrival of Judge Roseborough and Esquire Steele the commission was convened; a canvass of the situation was had. The proposition was made for Mr. Steele to visit the Modoc camp. He consented to go, believing that he could accomplish the object we had in view. He was unwisely instructed to offer terms of peace. This should not have been done. No terms ever should have been offered through a third party,—Messrs. Roseborough, Case, and Applegate voting for this measure. No one questioned Mr. Steele’s integrity or his sagacity, but many did question the propriety of sending propositions of peace to the Modocs through a third party. This gave them the advantage of refusal, and of the advantage of discussion in offering alternatives. Mr. Steele was authorized to say that an amnesty for all offenders would be granted on the condition of removal to a new home on some distant Reservation, to be selected by the Modocs; they, meanwhile, to be quartered on “Angel Island,” in San Francisco harbor, as prisoners of war, and fed and clothed at Government expense. Mr. Steele was accompanied on this mission by Fairchild and “Bill Dad” (correspondent of the “Sacramento Record”), and also one or two other newspaper correspondents,—Riddle and wife as interpreters.

They went prepared to remain over night, taking blankets and provisions. The Modocs received them with evident pleasure.

After the usual preliminaries were over, the peace talk began. Captain Jack made a long speech, repeating the history of the past, throwing all the responsibility on to the messengers sent by Superintendent Odeneal, denying that either he or his people had ever committed crime until attacked by the soldiers; that he was anxious for peace. Mr. Steele made the proposition to come out of the Lava Beds and go to a new home.

Steele’s speech was apparently well received, and an arrangement was made whereby several Modocs were to return with him to the head-quarters of the commission. Nothing of an alarming character occurred. The party returned in the afternoon of the second day, accompanied by “Queen Mary” (sister of Captain Jack), “Bogus Charley,” “Hooker Jim,” “Long Jim,” “Boston Charley,” “Shacknasty Jim,” “Duffy,” “William,” “Curly-haired Jack.”

We were on the lookout, and when the now enlarged party came in sight they made an imposing appearance. Steele was in advance, and, raising his hat, saluted our ears with the thrilling words, “They accept peace.” Couriers to ride to Y-re-ka were ordered, despatches prepared for the departments, and the various newspapers. A general feeling of relief was manifest everywhere around camp. We felt that a great victory over blood and carnage had been won, and that our hazardous labors were nearly over. Letters of congratulation were being prepared to send to friends, and all was happiness and joy, when our gray-eyed friend, who was with the party, put a sudden check on the exuberant feelings, by saying, “I don’t think the Modocs agreed to accept the terms offered. True, they responded to Steele’s speech, but not in that way. I tell you they do not understand that they have agreed to surrender yet, on any terms.”

Mr. Steele repeated his declaration, and the speeches, as reported by “Bill Dad,” were read, from which it appeared they had greeted Steele’s peace-talk with applause. The Modocs, who came in with Steele and his party, were called up and questioned as to the understanding. They were reticent, saying they came out to hear what was said, and not to talk.

No expression could be obtained from them. Of the success of his mission, Steele was so confident that he proposed to return the next day to Captain Jack’s camp, and reassure himself and the commission. He accordingly started early the next morning, accompanied by the Modocs who came out with him, and “Bill Dad” (the scribe). Mr. Fairchild was invited, but he declined with a peculiarly slow swinging of his head from side to side, that said a great deal; especially when he shut his eyes closely, while so doing. Riddle, also, objected to going, but consented to let his wife Tobey go.

The party left behind them some minds full of anxiety, especially when reflecting on Fairchild’s pantomime.

The Modocs, who were returning with Steele, reached the stronghold some time before he did. On his arrival, the greeting made his “hair stand on end,”—he saw fearful possibilities. It required no words to convince him that he had been mistaken. He realized, in a moment, the great peril of the hour. The slightest exhibition of fear on his part would have closed up his career, and the scribe’s, also. Steele’s long experience with the Indians had not fully qualified him to understand them in council; but it had taught him that real courage commands respect even from infuriated savages.

He sought to appear indifferent to the changed manner, and extended his hand to the chief, who exchanged the greetings with great caution, though giving Steele to understand that he was still his friend.

The council was opened, the chief remarking that they had not yet shown their hearts; that his friend Steele had missed some of his words.

Steele replied that he was their friend, and that he would not, knowingly, misrepresent them.

Schonchin accused him of being a traitor to the Modocs, and of telling falsehoods about them; and, more by manner than by word, intimated that he was done talking peace, showing a bad heart in his action, sufficiently to enlighten Steele on the most important thing in the world to him, namely, that Schonchin did not intend to give Steele another opportunity to misrepresent the Modocs.

Steele’s courage and coolness saved him. He said to Schonchin, “I do not want to talk to a man when his heart is bad. We will talk again to-morrow.”

The council was dissolved, the Modocs scattering about the camp, or gathering in little squads, and talking in low tones.

The indications were, that the time for saying prayers had come, at least for Steele and Bill Dad.

Captain Jack and Scar-faced Charley demonstrated that manhood and fidelity may be found even in Indian camps. They, without saying in words that Steele and Bill Dad were in danger, told them to sleep in Jack’s camp, and proceeded to prepare the night-bed. Our messengers trustingly lay down to rest, if not to sleep, while Scar-faced Charley, Jack and Queen Mary, stood guard over their friends. Several times in the night, Steele looked from under the blankets, to see each time his self-appointed guards standing sentinel in silence.

All night long they remained at their posts, and it was well for Steele and Bill Dad that they did; otherwise they would have been sent off, that very night, to the other side of the “dark river.”

The morning came and the council reassembled; the signs of murder were not wanting. Angry words and dark hints told the feeling.

Steele, relying on the friendship of Captain Jack and Scarface Charley, proposed that he would return to the head-quarters of the commission, and bring with them all the commissioners the next day.

This strategy was successful. He was permitted to depart on his promise to lead the commission to the Modoc slaughter-pen. On his arrival at our camp he looked some older than when he left the morning previous.

He admitted that he had been mistaken, detailing, without attempt at concealment, that he had escaped only by promising that the commission should visit the Lava Beds unarmed; but with candor declared that if they went they would be murdered; that the Modocs were desperate, and were disposed to recall the Ben Wright affair, and dwell upon it in a way that indicated their thirst for revenge.

The department at Washington was informed by telegraph, and also by letter, of the progress of negotiations from time to time, and always, without exception, by the advice and approbation of Gen. Canby.

On Steele’s return, as Chairman of the Peace Commission, I telegraphed the facts above referred to, and that it was the opinion of the commission, concurred in by Gen. Canby, that treachery was intended, and that the mission could not succeed, and that we were awaiting orders; to which we received the following reply:—

The camp wore a gloomy aspect. The soldiers who had been with Maj. Jackson on Lost river, and with Gen. Wheaton in the Lava Beds, were anxious for peace on any terms.

Another fight was not desirable. They were real friends to the Peace Commission. The field-glasses were often turned toward the trail leading to the Lava Beds.

Late one evening, a small squad of Modocs were seen coming. Hope began to dawn again on the camp. When they arrived, “Queen Mary,” speaking for her brother, proposed, that if Gen. Canby would send wagons and teams to meet them half way, the Modocs would all come out and surrender.

The proposition was accepted, the commission decided three to one, to turn the whole matter over to Gen. Canby; meanwhile awaiting the confirmation of the Secretary of the Interior of the above action.

Gen. Canby, accepting the charge conferred by this unwarranted action of our board, assumed the management of affairs; and the chairman could only look on, giving opinions when requested by Gen. Canby, though confident that it was not the intention of the Department of the Interior to transfer this matter to the Department of War at that time. The telegraph station was at Y-re-ka, sixty-miles from head-quarters; hence two to three days were required to receive replies to telegrams.

Gen. Canby, anxious for peace,—as, indeed, he always was, from humane motives toward his soldiers and the Indians also, because he believed in the principle,—attempted to settle the difficulties, and, knowing it to be the policy of the President, accepted the terms offered. Mary and the men who came out with her returned to the Lava Beds, with the distinct understanding that the teams would be sent without a squad of soldiers to a point designated, and that on the following Monday all the Modocs would be there.

When Gen. Canby assumed the control of this affair, he conducted his councils without Riddle and his wife as interpreters, although they were present, and were in Government employ by the commission.

For some reason he became prejudiced against them, and did not recognize them as interpreters. This fact was observed by the Modocs, and they were anxious to know why this was so.

Before leaving, “Boston,” who was with Mary, signified to Tobey (Mrs. Riddle), that she would not see him again, saying: “If you ever see me, I will pay you for the saddle I borrowed.”

Tobey, feeling incensed at the treatment received, was reticent, and, Indian-like, kept quiet, saying nothing of her suspicions.

The day before the time for surrender another messenger came from the Modocs, saying that they could not get ready, that they were burning their dead, but promising that two days hence they would surely come.

Gen. Canby accepted the apology, and assured the messenger that the teams would be sent.

Meanwhile, the report went out that the war was over, much to the disquiet of those who were anxious to secure U. S. greenbacks.

The day previous to the proposed surrender, Riddle and his wife expressed to me their opinion, that if the teams were sent they would be captured, or that no Modocs would meet them, to surrender.

I sought an interview with Gen. Canby, giving him the opinions I had formed from Riddle’s talk.

The general called Riddle and his wife to his quarters. They repeated to him what they had previously said to me. He consulted Gen. Gilliam, and concluded that Mrs. Riddle either did not know, or was working into the hands of the Modocs, or, perhaps, was influenced in some way by those who were opposed to peace.

At all events, on the morning fixed upon, the teams were sent out, under charge of Mr. Steele. Many an anxious eye followed them until they passed out of sight.

The hours dragged slowly by for their return; but so sanguine were Gen. Canby and Gen. Gilliam that tents were prepared for their accommodation, one was designated as “Captain Jack’s Marquee,” another “Schonchin’s,” and so on, through the row of white canvas tents.

Mr. Applegate was so certain that they would come that he left the head-quarters for home, and reported en route: “The war is over. The Modocs have surrendered.”

The soldiers were ready and anxious to welcome the heroes of the Lava Beds. The sentiment was not universal that the wagons would return loaded with Indians.

Our keen-sighted, gray-eyed man shook his head. “I don’t think they will come. They are not going to Angel Island, as prisoners of war, just yet.”

Riddle and wife were in distress; their warning had been disregarded, their opinions dishonored, their integrity doubted.

Every field-glass was turned on the road over which the wagons were to come. Four o’clock P.M., no teams in sight. Five,—no Indian yet; and, finally, as the shadow of the mountain fell over the valley, the glasses discovered, first, Mr. Steele alone, and soon the empty wagons came slowly down the road.

Darkness covered the valley, and also the hearts of those who really desired peace. But a new hope was now revived in the hearts of those who, from near and afar, were clamoring for the blood of the Modocs.

Another delegation arrived from the Modoc camp, saying, “The Modocs could not agree; they wanted more time to think about it.”

The truth is, that they failed to agree about capturing the teams. Jack and Scar-face were opposed to it. The authorities at Washington were informed of this failure, also; and they replied to the commission, “Continue negotiations.” Mr. Case resigned; Judge Roseborough returned to his duties on the bench.

Gen. Canby notified the Modocs that no more trifling would be tolerated. Recruits were coming daily,—one company, passing near the Lava Beds, captured about thirty Modoc ponies. Gen. Canby moved his head-quarters to Van Bremen’s, a few miles nearer the Lava Beds.

I suggested to General Canby, that the capture of horses was in violation of the armistice, and that they should be returned. The general objected, saying, that they should be well cared for and turned over when peace was made.

Dr. Eleazer Thomas, of California, at the request of Senator Sargent, was added to the commission, as was, also, Mr. Dyer, agent of the Klamath Indians.

Dr. Thomas brought with him a long and successful experience as a minister of the Methodist Church. He had lived on the Pacific coast for eighteen years; but he had little experience or knowledge of Indians. Being a man of great purity of character and untiring energy, coupled with a humane heart and active hand, he threw himself into this new mission with earnestness, and was impatient to begin to do something towards the accomplishment of peace.

Gen. Canby was sending out exploring parties of armed mounted men occasionally,—the ostensible object of which was to obtain a better knowledge of the country around the Lava Beds, with a view to moving the army nearer the Modocs. The commission was not informed of these expeditions, or their objects, by Gen. Canby, but through other parties.

On one occasion, Dr. Thomas went out with a company, and while surveying the Lava Beds at a distance, they met several Modocs, with whom he talked, and succeeded in reopening communication.

A delegation of Indians visited the new camp at Van Bremens. Every effort made through them to secure a meeting with the Board of Commissioners and Modocs failed.

Gen. Canby notified the Modoc chief of his intention to change the position of the army, so that the communications might be more easily made; and, also, that he would not commence hostilities against them unless they provoked an attack.

Captain Jack’s reply was, that he would not “fire the first shot;” but, through his messengers, he asked a return of his horses.

Indians have great love for their horses. When a small company of the Modoc women came in asking for their ponies, they were denied them, but were permitted to go under guard to the corral and see them. It was a touching scene,—those Indian women caressing their ponies. They turned sadly away, when compelled, by orders, to leave the corral.

The fact is, several of these ponies had already been appropriated for the use of young soldiers, at home, when the war should be over.

On the last day of March, 1873, the camp at Van Bremens was broken up, and the army was put in motion for the Lava Beds.

I was never shown any order from either department, at Washington city, that authorized this movement, though I do not doubt Gen. Canby felt justified in so doing.

The commission was notified—not consulted. We were under instructions “in no wise to interfere with the army movement, but always, as far as possible, to confer and co-operate with Gen. Canby.”

Four days were occupied in moving. We arrived at the top of the bluff overlooking this now historic spot of rocks, about noon of the second day.

How little we knew then of the near future, when Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas would be carried, in rough-made coffins, up the zigzag road that we went down on that day!

Our new camp was pitched near the foot of this high bluff, and immediately on the shore of the lake. From it, with a field-glass, we could see Capt. Jack’s people moving around their rocky home, not more than one mile and a half, air-line, though two miles around by land.

While my memory is still green with the scenes that followed, and I have not justified and will not justify or seek to palliate the crimes of the Modocs, still I cannot forget some of the meditations of the half hour I sat with Dr. Thomas, when half-way down the bluff, up which I was not to go at all, and the doctor only as a corpse.

I have recollections yet of a part, at least, of the conversation between us. We were representing one of the most powerful governments in the world, and bearing peace and human kindness in our hearts, while passing us, as we sat, were the sinews of war,—armed soldiers by the hundred. Cannon were being dragged down the hill, tents were being erected, and all the circumstance of military power and display was at our feet or above us, hastening to compel an infuriated, misguided people to acknowledge the authority of our Government.

Over yonder, within range of our glasses, were a half-hundred men, unlettered, uncivilized, and infuriated by a superstitious religious faith, that urged them to reject the “olive-branch” which we came to offer them.

We could see beyond them another army of ten times their number, camping nearer to them.

The doctor was moved by deep feeling of compassion for them, and spoke very earnestly of their helpless condition,—benighted in mind, without enough of the great principles of Christian justice and power to recognize and respect the individual rights of others. Doomed as a race, hopeless and in despair, they sat on their stony cliffs, around their caves, and counted the men, and horses, and guns, that came down the hill to make peace with them, turning their eyes only to see the sight repeated.

Look nearer at the boys with blue dress, as they pass us, bearing camp equipage. Many of the men are going down this hill to stay, unless we can make peace with the Modocs. Our hearts grow sick at the thoughts suggested by our surroundings.

Mutually pledging anew to stand together for peace as long as there was a hope, we slowly followed down to the camp.

I cannot forbear mentioning an accident of the evening.

Gen. Canby’s tent was partly up when I passed near him. He said, “Well, Mr. Meacham, where is your tent?”—“It has not come,” I replied.

The general ordered the men to pull up the pins and move his tent to the site we had selected for ours. It was only by the most earnest entreaty on our part that he countermanded the order, and then only on our promise to share his tent with him, if ours was not put up in time for us to occupy for the night.

On the day following our arrival a meeting was had with the Modocs. On our part, Gen. Canby, Gen. Gilliam, Dr. Thomas, Mr. Dyer and myself, Frank Riddle and Tobey as interpreters. Some of our party were armed; others were not. Riddle and his wife Tobey were suspicious of treachery, and said, as we went, “Be sure to mix up with the Modocs; don’t let them get you in a bunch.”

“Boston,” who had come to our camp to arrange for the meeting, led the way. We saw arising, apparently out of the rocks, a smoke. When we arrived we found Captain Jack, and the principal men of his band, and about half-a-dozen women standing by a fire built in a low, rocky basin.

Dr. Thomas was the first to descend. He did not seem to observe, indeed he did not observe, that we were going entirely out of sight of the field-glasses at our camp.

The place suggested treachery, especially after Riddle’s warning. I scanned the rocks around the rim of the basin, but did not see ambushed men; nevertheless, I had some misgiving; but it was too late to retreat then, and to have refused to join the council would have invited an attack. The greetings were cordial; nothing that indicated danger except the place, and the fact that there were three times as many Indians as “Boston” had said would be there. One reassuring circumstance was the presence of their women. But this may have been only a blind. After smoking the pipe of peace the talk opened, each one of our party making short speeches in favor of peace, and showing good intentions. The chief replied in a short preliminary talk; Schonchin also. We stated our object, and explained why the soldiers were brought so closely,—that we wanted to feel safe.

Thus passed nearly an hour, when an incident occurred that caused some of our party to change position very quietly.

Hooker Jim said to Mr. Riddle, “Stand aside,—get out of the way!” in Modoc. Some of us understood what it meant. Tobey moved close to our party and reprimanded Hooker. Captain Jack said to him, “Stop that.”

This lava bed country being at an altitude of four thousand five hundred feet, and immediately under the lee of high mountains on the west, is subject to heavy storms.

While we were talking, a black cloud overspread the rocks and a rain-storm came on.

Gen. Canby remarked that “We could not talk in the rain.” Captain Jack seemed to treat the remark with ridicule, though the interpreters omitted to mention the fact. He said “The rain was a small matter;” that “Gen. Canby was better clothed than he was,” but “he (Jack) would not melt like snow.”

Gen. Canby proposed to erect a council tent on half-way ground, where subsequent meetings could be held.

This proposition was agreed to, and just as the storm was at its height.

No agreement was made for another meeting, although it was understood that negotiations would be continued.