While these two parties are wending their way to the council tent, let us see what is going on around it. On the side opposite from the camp a small sage-brush fire is burning. It is not at the same spot where the fire was built when Meacham and Roseborough had the long talk with Captain Jack a few days since. Why this change? Think a moment. The council that day was in full view of the signal station. This fire is behind the council tent, and cannot be seen from the station. Around the fire loose stones are placed. This looks suspicious. But who are those fellows dressed like white men, sitting around that fire? Ah! they are Modocs waiting for the commissioners. That man with a slouched hat and well-worn gray coat,—nearest the tent, is Captain Jack. He looks sad and half melancholy, and does not seem at ease in his mind.

Near him sits old Schonchin, the image of the real savage. His hair is mixed with gray. His face indicates that he is a villain.

That fellow who appears restless, and walks back and forth, is Hooker Jim. He is not more than twenty-two; his face tells you, at a glance, that he is a cut-throat. He is tall, stout-built, very muscular, and would be an ugly customer in a fight. He is accredited with being the best “trailer,” and the closest marksman in the Modoc tribe.

That other young fellow, with feminine face, and hair parted in the middle, is a brave and desperate man. That is Shacknasty Jim.

That dark-looking man, who reminds you, at the first view, of a snake, is Black Jim. He is of royal blood, and half-brother of Captain Jack. His hair is cut square below the ears, and, take him altogether, he is a bad-looking man.

The light-colored, round-faced, smooth-built man, who stands behind the chief; is “Ellen’s Man.” He is young, and is really a fine-looking fellow. He does not appear to be a bad man, but he is; and you will think him the worst of the company before we lose sight of him.

The talk around that council fire would freeze your blood could you hear it. They are making arrangements for the carnival of death that they propose holding.

The chief is nervous, and speaks of his regret that this thing is to be. “Ellen’s Man” proposes to take his place if he lacks courage. “I do not lack courage, but I do not feel right to kill those men. If it is the Modoc heart, it shall be done,” replies the chief.

Walk out towards the Modoc camp forty steps, and lying behind a low ledge of rocks are two boys, Barncho and Slolux. They are very quiet, but under each one we see several rifles. They are both young, and have volunteered to play this part in the tragedy soon to be enacted.

Near them is another man, crouching low, and in his hand he holds a gun, with its muzzle pointing towards the tent. His face indicates a much older man than he really is. He is not there to take a part in the proceedings of the coming meeting, except in a certain contingency. There is a something about him that declares him to be a man of more than ordinary stamp. This is Scar-face Charley, and if, in the slaughter that is to ensue, Riddle or his wife should fall, the rifle that that man grasps will talk in vengeful tone, with deadly effect, upon the murderer.

Look behind you at the council fire. Eight Indians are there now, and the new-comers have familiar faces. They are Bogus and Boston, just arrived from head-quarters. They are telling the others who are coming, that they are all unarmed.

Boston intimates something like regret or faltering in the purpose. Bogus declares that he will “Do it alone, if all the others back out. Kill these men, and the war will stop. It will scare all the soldiers away.”

Hist! here comes Gen. Canby, with the brass buttons on his coat glittering in the sunlight; and Dr. Thomas, also, who is so well worthy to walk by the side of the general. The Indians arise and greet them cordially. Gen. Canby takes from his pocket a handful of cigars, offering one to each. They accept them from his hand, while in their hearts they have determined on his death. The general and all the Indians are smoking now. The thoughts of the general will never be known; not even whether he had any suspicion of their intentions.

Meacham and his party are approaching. They ride up very near the council fire,—Meacham to the right, Dyer and Mrs. Riddle to the left. Riddle passes to the left of the tent, looking in as he comes to the council.

Meacham is taking off his overcoat before dismounting. Why is this? The weather is not warm. There is a reason for this strange action.

Before reaching the tent the matter had been discussed by the four persons of that party. Riddle declared that if attacked he would save himself by running, Mr. Dyer saying there was no hope of escape in any other way. Meacham considered running impracticable and hopeless, and suggested that, “if we stand together, we can, with the aid of the Derringer, get a revolver for Riddle, and then we can all be armed in quick time.” Dyer and Riddle adhered to the plan of escape they had proposed, Meacham still saying that it was hopeless, and adding, “I cannot run; but I will sell my life as dearly as possible.” The Derringer is in his under coat.

As they ride up, they see clearly that the council fire is behind the tent, out of sight of the signal station, and that the Modocs are all armed with revolvers secreted under their clothing.

The Indians welcome the party with a cordiality that is very suspicious. They are good-humored, too; another confirmation of the worst fears. Even before the party dismount, they are saluted by the Modocs with hand-shaking and other demonstrations.

Dyer is the first to alight from his horse. He looks a little pale. Tobey quietly dismounts, securing her horse to a small sage brush near the council. Meacham still sits upon his horse, apparently listless, as if in doubt. He is fighting a battle with his pride. His family are in his thoughts, and also another family of little orphans of a much-loved brother. He glances at the face of Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas. His mind is made up. He dismounts, dropping the halter of the horse upon the ground. He intends that “Joe Lane” (the horse) shall have a chance for escape. But “Joe Lane” is well known among the Modocs. They have seen him before, and they fix their eyes on him now, impatient to feel him flying over the plains. Perhaps they are making a calculation of his value as an offset to several of the ponies captured from them by Maj. Biddle a few days previous.

See the manoeuvring going on by both parties. The Modocs are seeking to separate themselves from the white men, while Dyer, Meacham and Riddle are seeking to prevent the formation of a tableau of white men. Canby stands erect and firm, not seeming to notice the game that is playing before his eyes. His pride will not permit him to notice or to shun what is evidently the intention of the Modocs. Dr. Thomas does not see what is going on, or, if he does, so strong is his faith in God that he does not fear. Dyer and Riddle are outside on either hand, not wishing to join the group.

Meacham, now satisfied that the party are entrapped, is walking carelessly a few steps towards the camp. Perhaps he is going to make a signal to those at the lookout. If that was his intention, he abandons it; for just beside him are a pair of small, bullet eyes that watch his every movement.

The party feel that not the motion of even an eye is lost by the Modocs. They see everything, and, while all are apparently on the best of terms, all are on the lookout for any sign or intimation of danger. Not a motion is made unobserved. Still, no unkindly words are spoken; indeed, all parties appear to be in cheerful humor.

Appearances are deceitful sometimes, and especially in this instance. One party is intending to commit an unparalleled crime; the other, suspicious of their intention, awaits the issue, not quite without hope, but almost in despair.

The white men do not seem anxious to begin the council. The Modocs are trying to appear careless.

What does that mean? Bogus is going out towards a low cliff, carrying his rifle with him. Watch him a moment. While standing on a prominent rock, he is scanning the ledge that runs towards the soldiers’ camp. Ah, yes! he is looking for sage brush with which to feed the fire. Now he has laid down his gun and breaks off the brush and returns to the council. That, then, was the pretended object of his trip. Curious that in all former councils the Modoc women have performed this work, but that none of them are here now!

Hooker Jim is on the alert, and if you will watch his eye you will see that it glances often in the direction of the soldiers’ camp. Something excites his suspicion, and the other Indians, except Captain Jack, follow his gaze; and the white men, too, discover some one’s head above the rocks. All arise to their feet. Is the terrible affair to begin now? Wait a moment and keep your eyes divided, watching the intruder and the Modocs. The former is looking around him, as if hunting for some lost article. The latter are nervous, and a hateful fire is burning in their eyes. The moment is one of intense peril. The least motion of distrust now on the part of the white men will precipitate the bloody scene, awaiting only for a signal to begin.

Mr. Riddle recognizes the intruder as Mr. Clark, who is hunting lost horses.

“Why for he come here? We no want him,” says Boston Charley.

“Mr. Dyer, will you go out to Mr. Clark and send him back?” requests Mr. Meacham.

Mr. Dyer rides out to the man, and, after explaining to him the desire of the commissioners, returns to the council fire. Oh, how near we were to witnessing a horrible murder! But it is averted for the moment, and we breathe again.

Meacham is in charge of the council talk, and finally sits down near the fire, and Captain Jack takes a seat directly opposite him, and so close that their knees almost touch. The council talk begins.

Meacham says, “We have come to-day to hear what you have to propose. You sent for us, and we are here to conclude the terms of peace, as your messengers of yesterday requested.”

To this Captain Jack replies, “We want no more war. We are tired, and our women and children are afraid of the soldiers. We want them taken away, and then we can make peace.”

Meacham says, “Gen. Canby is in charge of the soldiers. He is your friend. He came here, because the President sent him to look out for everybody and to see that everything goes on all right.”

Captain Jack replies, “We do not want the soldiers here. They make our hearts afraid. Send them away, and we can make everything all right.”

Meacham continues, “Gen. Canby has charge of the soldiers. He cannot take them away without a letter from the President. You need not be afraid. We are all your friends. We can find you a better home than this, where you can live in peace. If you will come out of the rocks and go with us, we will leave the women and children in camp over on Cottonwood or Hot Creek, and then we shall need the soldiers to make other folks stay away, while we hunt up a new home for you.”

Riddle and his wife are both essential to a careful rendering of the speeches. Riddle is interpreting the Modocs’ speeches into “Boston talk,” and Tobey is translating the white men’s speeches into the “Mo-a-doc-us-ham-konk”—(Modoc language). Hence they are both giving closest attention. Riddle stands now just behind the chairman of the commissioners. Tobey is sitting a little to the left. Gen. Canby seats himself upon a rock on Meacham’s right, about three feet distant. Old Schonchin sits down in front of him. Dr. Thomas bends a sage bush, and, laying his overcoat upon it, also sits on the left and in the rear of Meacham.

Hooker Jim is restless and very watchful; sometimes standing immediately behind Captain Jack, and occasionally walking off a few steps, he scans the rocks in the direction of the soldiers’ camp, and saunters back again, always, however, in front of the white men. Keep an eye on him; he is making now a declaration by his acts that will stop your heart’s blood.

“Joe Lane,” the horse, is just behind Captain Jack, standing a mute and unsuspecting witness of the act now being played.

Watch that demon, Hooker Jim! See him stoop down, and while his eye is fixed on Meacham, he is securing “Joe Lane” to a sage bush, pushing the knot of the halter close to the ground. He slowly rises, and, while patting the horse on the neck, calling him by name, and telling him he is a “fine horse,” still keeping his eye on Meacham, with his left hand he takes the overcoat from the saddle, and with a stealthy, half-hesitating motion, slowly inserts his arm in the sleeve, and then without changing his position or his eyes, quickly thrusts his right arm in the other sleeve, and with a heavy shrug jerks the coat squarely on his shoulders; and, having buttoned it up from top to bottom, smiting his breast with his hand, he says, “Me old man Meacham, now. Bogus, you think me look like old man Meacham?” My dear reader, he does not fasten that horse for Meacham. He does not put on the coat because he is cold, nor merely as a joke. No, he does not mean anything of that kind. He intends to make sure of the horse and coat, and, at the same time, provoke a quarrel, and make the way easy for the bloody attack.

Meacham fully understands the import and intention of this side-play, but, with assumed indifference, remarks, “Hooker Jim, you had better take my hat also,” at the same time lifting it from his head. Watch the play on that scoundrel’s face as lie replies, “No. Sno-ker gam-bla sit-ka caitch-con-a bos-ti-na chock-i-la”—(“I will, by-and-by. Don’t hurry, old man.”)

This speech completes the declaration of what they intended to do. There can be no longer any doubt as to the purpose of these bloodthirsty desperadoes. O God! is there no help now? Can nothing be done to save our friends? They read their fate in Hooker’s action. They realize how fearfully near the impending doom must be. Every face is blanched; but no words of fear are uttered. Dyer, with a face of marble, walks slowly to his horse, now on the right of the group, and, going to the farthest side of him, pretends to be arranging the trappings of his saddle with his face towards the council fire. Riddle, pale and aghast, makes excuse to change the fastenings of the saddle on his wife’s horse, which stands behind Dr. Thomas. Tobey, who has been sitting in front of the doctor, with a half child-like yawn throws herself carelessly at full length on the ground, resting on her elbows. Every act tells, too plainly to be mistaken, how each one feels and what they are expecting.

Both Dyer and Riddle intend to be covered by their horses when they start on a run for life. Tobey evidently does not intend to be in the way of the bullets that are now lying quietly on their beds of powder in the little iron chambers of the pistols under the coats of the red devils. She sees clearly that the storm, which is evidently coming up with a great black hurrying cloud from the west, will precipitate the effusion of blood that is now leaping and halting in the veins of the doomed men who sit almost motionless, waiting, watching, listening for the signal of death to be given, wondering how it will come. Will it be from ambushed men, a volley, a sting, and a war-whoop; and then, while the soul is making its exit, will the eye, growing dim, behold the infuriated monsters, with gleaming knives uplifted, spring on the helpless body? Will the ear, as life ebbs away, be lulled by streams of blood trickling on the rocks? Are angels hovering near to convey their souls away? Is God omnipresent? Is He omniscient? Is He omnipotent? Does he hear prayer? Will not God interpose now when human aid is beyond reach?

Oh, how the mind recalls the past, outstripping the lightning flash, while it passes in review the scenes from the cradle to this hour!—all the bright and happy days; the dark clouds and direful storms that have swept over the soul, and realizing the still more awful agony of the farewell greetings of sad-faced Hope leaving the heart; for until this last act of Hooker Jim’s she had lingered lovingly on the threshold undecided. Words may not tell the anguish, the gloom, the terrible loneliness without her presence. Every heart breathes a prayer for her return. “Oh, come back to us now; be with us in this expiring hour of life’s last midnight!”

Thank Heaven, she comes again clad in garments, not as in days past, made up of ambitions and worldly dreams, but in shining robes of spotless purity and immortal light, and she whispers, “Be of good cheer, the journey is short, and it is but a change from one life to another;” and though the voyage be stormy and the night be dark it will end in a morning of eternal day in the beautiful sunlit summer-land where sorrows come no more.

Meacham turns towards Gen. Canby and invites him to talk. Every movement is scrutinized by the Modocs. Meacham has made an excuse to look Gen. Canby in the face. He sees plainly that the general understands the situation. Will he, oh! will he not promise to remove the soldiers on the demand that has been so often made? It would avert the tragedy. It would save the lives that are banging on his words. Will he do it? Surely, now, when convinced, as he must be, that the threat will be executed, will he not feel justified in yielding? Now that the Modocs have absolved him from all obligations to them, will he grant their request; or will the high and extraordinary sense of honor that controlled his reply to Meacham in the morning, when the latter proposed to grant “any demand made, rather than give the assassins an excuse for murder,” control him now? Every eye is on him. The Modocs understand that he is chief.

He stands upright in form, and character as well. He looks the great man he is. His face alone shows the intensity of his feelings. His lip quivers slightly, as it always does under excitement. He speaks slowly:—

“Tobey, tell these people that the President of the United States sent the soldiers here to protect them as well as the white men. They are all friends of the Indians. They cannot be taken away without the President’s consent. Tell them that when I was a young man I was sent to move a band of Indians from their old home to a new one. They did not like me at first, but when they became acquainted with me they liked me so well that they made me a chief, and gave me a name that signified ‘Friend of the Indian.’ I also removed another tribe to a new home; and they, too, made me a chief, and gave me a name that meant ‘The tall man.’ Many years afterwards I visited these people, and they came a long distance to meet me, and were very glad to see me. Tell them I have no doubt that sometime the Modocs will like me as those people did, and will recognize me as their friend.”

As the general sits down, Meacham turns to Doctor Thomas, and invites him to speak. The doctor drops forward on his knees, and, with his right hand on Meacham’s left shoulder, says, “Tobey, tell these people, for me, that I believe the Great Spirit put it into the heart of the President to send us here to make peace. We are all children of one Father. Our hearts are all open to him. He sees all we do. He knows all our hearts. We are all their friends. I have known Gen. Canby eight years; I have known Mr. Meacham fourteen years, and I have known Mr. Dyer four years. I know all their hearts are good. They are good men. We do not want any more bloodshed. We want to be friends of yours. God sees all we do. He will hold us all responsible for what we do.”

The doctor resumes his seat. Captain Jack is ill at ease. His men are watching him closely. They evidently distrust him.

Meacham has almost decided in his mind that when the attack is made Captain Jack will throw himself in the breach, and, if he takes part at all, it will be with the white men.

The chief is slow to give the signal to begin. He is not in position according to the programme arranged in the morning. He had hoped that the demand for the withdrawal of the troops would be complied with. He sits now with his hands on his knees, staring into Meacham’s face. He meets a gaze intense as his own. What are the thoughts of his mind? He is wavering. Perhaps he may refuse to sanction the butchery. He feels that his own people are watching him. Suddenly, rising to his feet, he turns his back on the white men. He is walking away from them. See! he stops! Schonchin springs to the seat Captain Jack has left, and, with eyes gleaming with the pent-up fury of hell, begins to talk. His voice is loud, and betokens great excitement. How savage he looks now, while he says, “Give us Hot Creek for a home, and take the soldiers away.”

“Maybe we cannot get Hot Creek for you,” replies Mr. Meacham.

Then Schonchin says, “I have been told we could have Hot Creek.”

Meacham asks, “Did Fairchild or Dorris say you could have it?”

“No,” replied Schonchin; “but Nate Beswick said we could have Hot Creek.”

“Hot Creek belongs to Fairchild and Dorris,” says Meacham. “We can see them about it, and if we can get it you may have it.”

“Take away your soldiers and give us Hot Creek, or quit talking. I am tired of talking. I talk no more,” shouts Schonchin in loud tones, and with eyes burning with passion.

The interpreter is rendering the speech, but, before it is finished, Captain Jack, who has returned to the group, and is standing a step behind Schonchin, gives a signal, and the Modoc war-whoop starts every one present to his feet (except Tobey, who lays close to the ground); catching the sound, and oh! the sight, too, of Barncho and Slolux coming with the rifles.

“Jack, what does that mean?” demands Meacham.

The answer came quickly. Captain Jack, thrusting his right hand under the left breast of his coat, draws a six-shooter, and shouts in a loud voice, “Ot-we-kau-tux!”—(“All ready!”)

Holding the barrel with his left hand, and cocking the pistol with his right, he points it at Gen. Canby’s head, touches the trigger, and explodes the cap, but does not the powder. Quickly he revolves the cylinder, and again presents it to the petrified general, who stands unmoved. Why, oh, why does he not close on the monster, and wrench the weapon from him? Quick, general, quick! He is too late. Another instant, and a shot is passing through his head. He does not fall, but turns and flees. Jack and “Ellen’s Man” pursue him until he falls on the rocks. They close on him. Captain Jack holds him by the shoulder, while the other cuts him across the neck. In the fall his chin struck on the rocks and shattered his lower jaw. The monsters strip him of every article of clothing, while he is struggling in the agonies of death. Barncho comes up now, and “Ellen’s Man” snatches a rifle from his hands, and, pointing at the general, discharges it, and another ball passes entirely through his head. They turn him on his face, and leave him in the last agony of a horrible death, while, with his uniform on their arms, they go back to the council tent.

Look towards the soldiers’ camp. Two men are running. The foremost one is Dyer, and following him is Hooker Jim, who fires repeatedly at Dyer, who turns, and pointing his pistol, Jim drops to avoid the shot. Dyer resumes his run for life, and the other follows until Dyer has widened the space between them so much that Hooker Jim, fleet as he is, abandons the chase, and returns to join the other murderers.

Over towards the lake two other men are running. The foremost one is Frank Riddle. The pursuer is Black Jim, who fires rapidly at Riddle; in fact, he is not trying to hit him, because he knows that Scar-face Charley is watching, and if Riddle falls by a shot from Black Jim, Black Jim himself will fall by Scar-face Charley’s rifle.

Simultaneously with Jack’s first attack on General Canby, Boston Charley’s first shot struck Dr. Thomas in the left breast, above the heart. The doctor drops partly down, and catches with his right hand, and with the other uplifted towards his assassin, begs him to shoot no more, as he has already received a death-wound. Bogus joins Boston. They permit the doctor to get upon his feet, and start to run, when they trip him and he falls again. They taunt him with his religion, saying, “Why don’t you turn the bullets? Your medicine is not strong.” The doctor rises again and walks a few steps, when they push him down, still ridiculing him. Again he pleads for them to spare his life. They laugh in his face and say, “Next time you believe a squaw, won’t you?” Once more—and it is the last time that he will ever walk in that bruised and mangled body—the doctor rises to his feet, and, going a few steps, pleading with his inhuman tormentors for mercy, and with his Maker for mercy on them, he falls to rise no more. Slolux joins them, and Bogus, placing the muzzle of a gun towards the doctor’s head, sends another bullet crashing through it. The red devils now strip him of his clothing, jesting and mocking his words of prayer, and finally turn him face downwards, while through the blood from the wounds on his lips he cries, “Come, Lord—” and the prayer is smothered forever.

When the signal for the attack was given, Schonchin was in position, and, springing to his feet, he draws a revolver from his left side, and, with his other hand, unsheathes a knife. He is so near his victim that he dare not trust to a pistol alone. He is very much excited, and is not so quick as the others in cocking his pistol.

Meacham draws his Derringer, and pushing the muzzle squarely against the heart of Schonchin, pulls the trigger, but, alas! it does not fire. Why? Oh! why? He tries again, and still the hammer does not fall. He now discovers that it is but half-cocked. Too late! too late! Schonchin thrusts his pistol forward, almost touching Meacham’s face. The latter jumps back and stoops, while the ball from Schonchin’s pistol tears through the collar of his coat, vest, and shirt on the left shoulder, so close that the powder burns his whiskers and the bullet bruises him. He runs backwards with the pistol now ready for use, but with Schonchin pursuing him and firing as fast as he can until his pistol is empty. Now he drops it on the ground, and, drawing another from his right side, he continues the attack, but dare not close on the Derringer still in the hands of Meacham. Why does not the pursued man fire? He is a good shot. Why don’t he drop the old scoundrel? He was very much frightened when the attack began, but, like a soldier in battle, he has passed that, and is terribly cool now. He dare not risk his only shot, for fear of missing Schonchin, and because of the danger of hitting Tobey, for she is now interposing for his life, and, putting her hand on Schonchin’s pistol, turns it away again and again, while pleading, “Don’t kill him! don’t kill Meacham! He is the friend of the Indians.” Slolux joins Schonchin, and, with his gun, strikes the woman on the head, while Shacknasty, snatching it from him, says, “I’ll fetch him,” at the same time sitting down and taking deliberate aim. Meacham, striking his breast with his left hand, shouts, “Shoot me there, you cowardly red devil!” Tobey strikes down the gun. Shacknasty threatens her, and again takes aim and fires just as Meacham leaps over a low ledge of rocks and falls. “I hit him, high up! He is all right!” shouts Shacknasty.

Meacham now decides to fire his only shot, and pushing the pistol up over the rocks, carefully raises his head, with it thrown back, and just as his eye comes above the rocks, he sees Schonchin sitting with his revolver resting on his knee. Instantly a flash and a sting, and a ball strikes Meacham in the forehead, between the eyes. Strange freak of the bullet that passes under the eye-brow and out over the left eye, but does not blind the other eye. Meacham now fires at Schonchin, who leaps up and falls on the rocks, wounded. Almost at the same instant a ball passes through Meacham’s right arm. The pistol drops. Another ball cuts away the upper part of his right ear, and still another strikes him on the right side of the head and glances off. He quivers, and his limbs are outstretched, denoting the death-struggle. Shacknasty is the first to reach him, and he proceeds to strip him of his clothing, first pulling his boots off, then his pantaloons, and, while taking off his coat, tears the vest down at the side and throws it away. Then he strips him of his shirt, for it is a good one, and Shacknasty saves it for his own use.

While he is unbuttoning the shirt at the neck, Slolux comes up, and, placing the muzzle of the gun close to the temple of the wounded man, sets the hammer, and as he raises it up to his face to get it in range, Shacknasty pushes it away, saying in Modoc, “You needn’t shoot. He is dead. He won’t get up.” Hearing the voice of Captain Jack calling, they leave the scene, saying to Tobey, “There lies another of your brothers, you white-hearted squaw! Go and take care of him. You are no Modoc.”

This hour seems to have inherited even the wrath of the Almighty. The blackness of unnatural night hangs over this scene of blood. Gen. Canby’s limbs have straightened on yonder rocks, but a few steps to the west, and his stark body looks ghastly in the awful gloom. Twenty yards to the east the form of Dr. Thomas, his body half stripped and covered with blood, is still convulsing, while his face presses the cold rocks.

The chief calls again to the red-handed demons and bids them flee to the stronghold. They gather around him with the clothing of the slain still dripping blood upon their feet. They are exulting by wild shouts of half-satiated thirst for blood. While glancing towards the soldiers’ camp they reload their arms.

“I am going to have old man Meacham’s scalp to put on my shot-pouch,” says Boston, passing the doctor’s clothing to a companion standing near.

“He has no scalp,” breaks in Hooker Jim, “or I would have it myself.”

Boston now runs to where the bleeding man is lying, and takes from his pocket a small two-bladed, black-handled knife which had been taken from the pocket of a soldier who was killed in the January battle. The Indian woman is wiping the blood from the mutilated face, now upturned with closed eyes. Boston thrusts her aside, and with his left hand, still red with the blood of Dr. Thomas, grasps the largest locks, and makes a stroke with the knife. The woman remembers that the prostrate man over whom Boston is bending has been her benefactor, and that through his official action, in 1869, he compelled Frank Riddle to make her a lawful wife, and that, had it not been for this man, she would now, perhaps, be a cast-off squaw. She cannot restrain her indignation, but rushes against the red cut-throat and hurls him back on to the rocks. He rises and threatens to take her life if she again interferes, taunting her with being a “white woman.” Stamping on the prostrate man’s head, he places one foot on his neck, and renews his attempt to secure an ornament for his shot-pouch, swearing because he found no better scalp, but saying that he would take one ear with it. With his left hand resting on the head, he cuts square down to the skull a long, half-circular gash preparatory to taking off the side lock and ear, too, with his knife.

Tobey now resorts to strategy to accomplish what she cannot do otherwise. Looking towards the soldiers’ camp she claps her hands and shouts, “Bos-tee-na soldiers. Kot-pumbla!”—(“The soldiers are coming!”) Boston, without waiting to ascertain the truth of the warning, starts suddenly and leaves the woman alone with the dead.

Tobey’s warning to Boston has reached the ears of the band of murderers at the council fire, who, hastily putting the slightly wounded old sinner, Schonchin, on “Joe Lane,” while the blood-stained uniform of Gen. Canby and the gray suit of the doctor, together with Meacham’s clothes, are lashed on Dyer’s horse, turn away, leaving Boston behind, who grasps the rein of Tobey’s horse. She shouts to Jack, who turns and orders Boston to leave him.

Jack and his party scamper over the rocks, looking back, expecting to hear the guns of the white soldiers who are coming to the rescue.

Tobey again wipes the blood from the face of her benefactor, and, stooping down, places her hand over his heart. “It stop! It stop!” she cries. With her finger she opens his eyes. They do not see her. They are overflowing with blood from the wound in his face and on his head. Again with her dress she wipes the blood from his face. She straightens his limbs and body. Then, standing alone a moment, with three dead men in sight, she sorrowfully mounts her horse and starts for the soldiers’ camp.

While this scene of terror is being enacted at the council tent, another, a little less bloody, is in progress on the opposite side of the Modoc stronghold, the plans for which have been mentioned. Curly-haired Jack (Cum-ba-twas) and Curly-haired Doctor have gone out towards Col. Mason’s camp, with a flag of truce, to decoy the “Little Tyee” (Col. Mason) among the rocks. But he is an old Indian fighter, and cannot be caught by such devices.

Maj. Boyle is there, and, notwithstanding the fact that on the day before Meacham had told him of the threatened treachery, he proposes to Lieut. Sherwood to go out and meet the flag of truce. The major was Indian agent at Umatilla, and had been successful in managing peaceable Indians. He had been with Gen. Crook in Arizona, also; and, having confidence in his sagacity to manage still, he volunteered to go now.

Having obtained the consent of Col. Mason, they leave the picket-line behind them and the guard of the day on the lookout. They go cautiously, and, when within hailing distance, the Modocs, under cover of the flag of truce, ask for the “Little Tyee.”

“He will not come,” replies Boyle. The quick eye of the major catches sight of a musket behind the flag of truce. He turns and flees, calling on Sherwood to “Run! run for your life!”

They run. But see! Sherwood falls! A bullet from the musket of Curly-haired Jack has broken his thigh. The guard rush to the rescue. The Modocs fire a volley, and then flee to their stronghold, pursued by the guard. The signal-station at Mason’s camp says, “Boyle and Sherwood attacked, under a flag of truce.” Capt. Adams, of the signal corps, on the bluff above Gilliam’s camp, receives and dictates it to his secretary, who, after writing, sends it to Gen. Gilliam, in the camp, one hundred yards below. The general reads the dispatch, and calls for Dr. Cabanis to come in, while he writes a message to send by the doctor, informing the commissioners of the attack on Mason’s men. The general has written but a line, when Maj. Biddle, who has the other glass at the signal station, shouts, “Firing on the commissioners!” The officers order the men to “Fall in!” Soon the bugle repeats the assembly call. The men spring to their arms, and in a few moments the five hundred men are ready to rush to the rescue. Each company forms in line in the order in which they are encamped,—Col. Miller’s company occupying the left front, Lieut. Eagan’s next on the left, and Maj. Throckmorton taking his position behind Eagan’s company; the cavalry companies are on the right.

Gen. Gilliam is astounded, petrified. He hesitates; he does not give the order to march; he seems bewildered. Maj. Biddle rushes down from the signal station and cries, “I saw Canby fall.” The men are frantic. They do not understand the delay. The officers swear, and threaten to move without orders.

Gen. Gilliam now awakes from his lethargy, and gives the order, “March, and deploy from the left in skirmish line!”

“Forward!” shouts Col. Miller.

“Forward!” rings out along the lines, while Maj. Riddle’s bugle sounds “Forward!” Maj. Thomas is ordered to remain with his battery and guard the camp.

Now that the order to march is given, the men go flying towards the scene of blood in skirmish line. Behind the army are the surgeons with the stretchers.

The newspaper reporters are there, also, and foremost among them “Bill Dad” of the “Sacramento Record.” While waiting for orders Bill Dad says to a citizen, “I will give you fifty dollars to carry my message to Yreka ahead of all others. Yes, seventy-five!”

“All right,” responds the man, anxious to make money out of the occasion. Other reporters engage couriers.

Col. Miller nears the council tent, urging his men on. He is behind them, pushing them forward, expecting every moment to see a Modoc blaze of fire in front. They soon after meet Dyer, who, breathless, says, “They are all killed but me.” Soon after they discover Riddle, who cries, hurriedly, “They are all killed.” But now they meet Tobey, who sobs, “Canby, Thomas, Meacham, all ‘kill.’”

Thirty minutes have passed, and Meacham is struggling to get upon his feet. He hears a voice. “Up, on the left! Forward, my boys!” Faintly the sound reaches his ears. “Steady, right! Up! up on the left, you d——d scoundrels!” Distinctly and clearly he hears the words, “Steady, right! Guide, centre!” Then the sound of men’s feet on the rocks mingles with the words of command. The men near the centre level their guns.

“That’s an Indian,” says one of the men.

“Don’t shoot, he’s a white man!” shouts Col. Miller.

The line passes over the wounded man still in skirmish order, as they expect a Modoc volley. As they pass, Dr. Cabanis comes up and says, “Bring a stretcher here. Take Meacham. He’s not dead.”

“I am dead! I am dead!” murmurs the wounded man.

The soldiers lift the mutilated body on a stretcher.

“Water! water! give me water!” moans the wounded man.

The doctor puts a canteen of brandy to his lips. The lips refuse.

“I can’t drink brandy. I am a temperance man,” says Meacham.

“Stop your nonsense. No time for temperance talk now. Down with it! down with it!” cries the doctor.

“Am I mortally wounded, doctor?” asked Meacham. The surgeon hastily thrusts his finger into the several wounds and replies, “Not unless you are wounded internally.”

“I am shot through the left shoulder,” said the wounded man.

“Now, boys, for the hospital! Quick! Lose no time, and we will save him,” cries the doctor.

“I hit Schonchin in the right side. He fell over just in front of me,” says the man on the stretcher.

“Never mind Schonchin,” says the doctor. “We’ll look out for him. Here, take some more brandy. Now, boys, quick! He’ll stand it until you reach the hospital.”

Four pairs of strong hands grasp the handles of the stretchers, and four other pairs carry the arms, and walk beside to relieve the carriers. A soldier covers the man with his coat as they hurry along. Listen, now, to the sad wail of young Scott, Canby’s orderly, who was with him through the war of the Rebellion. When he reaches the body of his beloved general, who was more than a father to him, he throws himself on the prostrate form, and, frantic with grief, raves like a madman. “Bill Dad” and a soldier lift him up and cover the body with their coats.

Men with stretchers come up, and, while they lift the general, Bill Dad cuts the side of the council tent out and covers him over. Strange that this council tent should become Gen. Canby’s winding-sheet! The body of Dr. Thomas is also placed on a stretcher, and it, too, is covered with a part of the tent. It is his winding-sheet, also.

While these affairs are taking place at the scene of the terrible tragedy, the quartermaster, at the camp, is putting the hospital in order for the reception of patients, ordering cooks to prepare food for the men, packing mules with supplies, stretchers, water-casks, and such other things as are necessary for the men while fighting, never doubting but that they will be needed. The animals are ready and waiting for orders from the general commanding.

But lo! behold! The glistening bayonets above the rocks come nearer! The army of five hundred men are returning to camp. “Why is this?” ask the men. “Why did we not follow the murderers to their den?” demand the officers.

“We shall not be ready to attack them until the Warm Spring Indians come,” replies the general, who a few days since thought “he could take the Modocs out with the loss of half-a-dozen men.” Why did not Col. Mason follow up the Modocs who attacked Sherwood and Boyle? Because he could not move without orders, and the orders were not given.

Three or four horsemen are waiting while a dozen pencils are rattling over paper. The burden of each despatch is the assassination. “Modoc treachery! Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas killed; Meacham mortally wounded; Dyer and Riddle escape.” How much these hasty lines will tell, and how many hearts will feel a dark shadow fall over them when the electric tongue of fire repeats this message to the world!

“Fifty dollars extra, if you get my despatch into the telegraph office ahead of the others,” says Bill Dad, as he hands the paper to his courier. Away goes the courier up the steep and rugged bluff.

“One hundred dollars if you get to the office in Y-re-ka, first,” says another reporter, in a whisper, to his courier, who dashes off close behind the first.

Another rider is mounted and waiting for the word to start. Gen. Gilliam’s adjutant hands this man a sealed envelope. It contains an official telegram for the authorities.

“Lose no time! Off with you!” says Adjutant Rockwell. And now three riders are urging their horses up the hill. Y-re-ka is eighty-three miles distant. A long race is before them. The evening is dark and gloomy, but the clouds pass away, and the moon shines on three men galloping together, mile after mile. Sunrise finds two of them still together. One of them, as they near a ranch, swings his hat and shouts. A man in shirt-sleeves runs to a stable and brings a fresh horse to the man who signalled him. The rider dismounts, and, while changing the saddle from his horse to the fresh one, tells the awful tidings. The other rider urges his horse on, on, for he, too, has a fresh horse but a few miles ahead. On he goes, and looking behind him sees his rival coming. He comes up and passes, saying, “Good-by, George!”

Twenty minutes more and both are mounted on fresh horses, one leading, but now in sight of each other. One is casting an eye backwards over his shoulder; the other is pressing the sides of his horse. The gap closes up. Y-re-ka is now in sight, and they are galloping side by side. Both are sitting erect, and the music of jingling spurs is in harmony with the stride of the horses. One mile more, and somebody wins. It all depends on “bottom.” The spurs cease to jingle. They are muffled in the bleeding sides of the panting horses.

What a race! One is an iron-gray, the other a Pinto horse. The rider of the gray, reaching back with his spurs, rakes his horse from the flank forward, leaving a vermilion trail where the spurs have passed. With extended head and neck, and lengthened stride, he goes ahead a few yards. With another application of spurs, the switch of the horse’s tail touches his rider’s back.

“Ah, ha! I’ve got you now!” shouts the rider of the Pinto, as he comes up like the moving of a shadow, and leaves the gray and his rider behind. One hour more, and the lightnings of the heavens are repeating the messages, and sending them over mountains and plains, to almost the farthest ends of the earth.