The expectant man has waited, watched, listened for the sound of a voice that would bring joy to him. His attendant carefully breaks the disappointment, fearing the consequences.

Friday morning, and a Warm Springs soldier is sitting beside the commissioner. A look at his face, and we recognize him as the man who stood out so long in the meeting at Warm Springs Agency, in 1871.

Pia-noose had come in to vent his feelings and to express his friendship. After the usual ceremony of salutation on his part, he remarked that the white men did not know how to fight Modocs. “Too much music. Suppose you take away all the music, all the big guns, all the soldiers, and tell the Warm Springs, ‘Whip the Modocs,’ all right. Some days we get two men, some days we get more, and by and by we get all the Modocs. Warm Springs don’t like so much music,”—referring to the bugle.

This morning Gen. Canby’s remains are lying in state in Portland, and a whole city weeps with the widow who does not—cannot look on the beloved face.

In San Francisco bells are tolling, and a vast concourse of sad-hearted citizens are following the dark-plumed hearse that conveys the Rev. Dr. Thomas to his last resting-place in Lone Mountain Cemetery.

Mrs. Meacham is sitting in a small parlor at Linkville, and expecting each moment the arrival of a courier that will confirm her worst fears. Mrs. Boddy—whose husband was murdered last November by the Modocs—is with her. The two mingle their tears. They are kindred, now that sorrow has united them.

Gen. Gilliam has called a council of war, and plans for future operations are being discussed. The hospital gives out a sad murmur of mingled moans, curses, and groans. Two soldiers are going toward the burying-ground; one carries a spade, the other a small, plain, straight box, in which is the leg of a soldier going to a waiting-place for him. Riddle and his wife, Tobey, are cooking and washing for the wounded. Riddle often calls on Meacham, bringing refreshments prepared by his wife. Col. Tom Wright calls on Meacham this morning. A spicy colloquy ensues. He remarks that the Modocs are nearly “h—l.” Meacham says, “Where is your two thousand dollars now? Suppose you and Eagan took them in fifteen minutes, didn’t you?” Col. Wright: “Took ’em, not much,—we got the prettiest licken ever an army got in the world.” Meacham: “What kind of a place did you find, anyhow, colonel?” Col. Wright: “It’s no use talking; the match to the Modoc stronghold has not been built and never will be. Give me one hundred picked men, and let me station them, and I will hold that place against five thousand men,—yes, ten thousand, as long as ammunition and subsistence last. That’s about as near as I can describe it. Oh, I tell you it is the most impregnable fortress in the world! Sumter was nowhere when compared with it.” Meacham: “What kind of a fighter is Captain Jack, colonel?” Col. Wright: “Fighter; why, he’s the biggest Ingen on this continent. See what he’s done; licked a thousand men, killed forty or fifty, and has not lost more than three or four himself. We starved him out, we didn’t whip him. He’ll turn up in a day or two, ready for another fight. I tell you, Jack’s a big Ingen.”

Let us see where this distinguished individual and this gallant band of heroic desperadoes are at this time. From the signal-station on the mountain side, above Gilliam’s camp, we can look over the spot, but they are so closely hidden that we cannot locate them; not even a curl of smoke is seen. Follow the foot of the bluff around three miles, and then strike off south, or left, two miles more, and amid an immense jumble of lava rocks we find them. Go carefully; Indian women are on the picket-station, while the warriors sleep. Since sundown last evening they passed between the soldier camp and the council tent and brought water to the famishing. A man sits upon a jaded horse, at the gate of a farm-house, near Y-re-ka. Children are playing in the front yard. A watch-dog springs to his feet and gives warning by loud barking. A stout-built man looks out from a barn to ascertain the meaning, while a middle-aged woman comes to the kitchen door. The whole, together, is the picture of a western farmer’s home,—happiness and contentment. The horseman takes in the scene, and while he views the photograph he recognizes in it the home of young Hovey. A painful duty is his. He hesitates. He knows that his words will send a dark shadow over this household. The farmer comes towards him. The dog is hushed; the children cease their sports; the mother stands waiting, waiting, listening, and the throbbing of her own heart prepares her for the awful tidings. “Is this Mr. Hovey?” the horseman says, while from his inside coat pocket he withdraws a letter. “That is my name,” the farmer replies. “I have a letter for you, Mr. Hovey?” The children gather around the father, looking attentively at him and the horseman, while the latter, with trembling hand, passes the envelope that is so heavy ladened with sorrow. “Where’s the letter from?” asks the anxious mother, while the father tears it open. “The Lava Beds,” replies the horseman, turning away his face. The paper shakes in the hands of the farmer, while his face changes to ashy paleness. “What is it, father? Oh, what does the letter say?” cries the mother, as she comes to his side and glances over his arm. Let us not intrude on this scene of sorrow.

Hanging to Hooker Jim’s belt is a fair-haired scalp, still fresh; the blood of young Hovey still undried upon Hooker’s clothing, giving him no more concern than if it had come from the veins of a deer or an antelope. The lock of hair had once been blessed by the hands of a tender mother, who for nineteen years had watched over her first-born son. Now it is dishonored, used only as a record by which a savage makes proof of excellence in performing feats of fiendish heroism.

The “Iowa Veteran,” with an eye always out for sport, remarks, “Old man, there’s going to be some lively fun in a few minutes; wish you could see it. There’s fourteen Indians going for water, and a company has started out to capture them. Two to one the Modocs lick ’em.” Taking a station at the tent door, he continued: “I’ll keep you posted, old man; keep cool. The Modocs are taking position. They aint more than eight hundred yards from here. Now look out,—the fun will begin pretty soon.” Bang, bang, and there is a rattling of rifles mixed with the Modoc war-whoop. “Here they come back, carrying three men; but the Modocs are following up. Don’t that beat the devil and the Dutch?” remarks the irate veteran; “you’ve seen a big dog chase a cayote until the cayote would turn on him, and then the big dog would turn tail and run for home with the cayote after him, haven’t you? Well, that’s exactly what’s going on out here now. This whacks anything I ever witnessed, by Jupiter! Two to one, the Modocs take the camp. By gorry, old man, don’t know what we are to do with you. You can’t run; you can’t fight; you are too big for me to carry; wish I had a spade, I’d bury you now until the fun is all over; but it’s too late. Can’t help it, old man, you needn’t dodge; it won’t do any good; just lay still, and if they come, play dead on ’em again. You can do that to perfection, and there aint a darn bit of danger of their trying to get another scalp off of you. Too big a prairie above the timber line for that. ‘Boston’ was a darn fool to try it before.”

While this speech is being made, the Modocs are coming towards the soldier camp, firing occasional shots in among the tents. “By Goshens, we’ll have fun now. They’re a-going; shell ’em; ha! ha! ha! Shell a dozen Modocs! Ha! ha! ha! don’t that beat sulphur king out of his boots? Ha! ha! ha! Steady, old man, steady now. Keep cool. They’re ready to fire. The Indians are in plain sight! Yip-se-lanta; there it goes, screeching, screaming, right in among the rocks where the Modocs are, and explodes.” The smoke clears up. The Indians come out from behind the rocks, and, turning sideways to the soldier camp, pat their shot-pouches at the Boston soldiers. Shell after shell is fired and each time the Modocs take cover until they explode, and then, with provoking insolence, they pat their shot-pouches at an army of five hundred men,—that is, what is left of that army. “Cease firing!” commands Gen. Gilliam, from the signal-station. The shell guns are covered with the nice canvas housing. The Modocs now organize an artillery battery, and, taking position, elevating their rifles to an angle mocking the shell guns, Scar-faced Charley stands behind and gives the order, “Fire!” and the Modoc battery is now playing on a camp where there are no rocks for cover. Several shots spit down among the Boston soldiers.

“I went with Grierson through Alabama, with Sherman through Georgia, but that whacks anything ever I saw. Two to one they attack the camp, by thunder! and if they do they’ll take it sure. B’gins to look pretty squally, old man. If they come, your only show is to play dead. You can do it. I don’t like to leave you, but I’ll have to do it, no other chance. We’ll come back and bury what they don’t burn up.”

The gray-eyed man, Fairchild, comes to the tent-door and engages the veteran in a talk. “I say, captain, don’t you wish we had Capt. Kelly’s volunteers here now? Wouldn’t they have a chance for Modoc steaks, eh? They’re the fellows that could take the Modocs. I’ve been out home and just come in. Where are the Warm Springs’ scouts all this time?” The veteran—Capt. Ferree—replies: “Oh, they are out on the other side of the Lava Beds surrounding the Modocs; to keep them from getting away.” Fairchild: “They aint going to leave here, no fear of that. But did you ever see anything like this morning’s performances?—fourteen Indians come out, kill three men, insult the whole camp, mock the shell guns, threaten the camp, scare everybody most to death, and then retire to their own camp. That caps the climax. Say, old man Meacham, how you making it, anyhow? Going to come out, aint you? You wasn’t born to be killed by the Modocs, that’s certain. That old bald head of yours is what saved you, old man, no mistake.” Veteran: “I’ve just been telling him that I’ll have a spade on hand next time the Modocs come, so I can bury him until the fun’s over.” Fairchild: “Bully! that’ll do; just the thing. I think you had better have the hole ready. No telling what might happen. Them Modocs mighty devilish fellers; just like ’em to attack the camp; and if they do they’ll take it, sure; wish we had the Oregon volunteers here now to protect us.”

Four P.M.—and a long line of carriages are returning from Lone Mountain, leaving Dr. Thomas with the dead.

Another long line of mourners are following a hearse down Front street, Portland, to the steamer Oriflamme, which has been detailed by Ben Holliday to bear the remains of Gen. Canby to San Francisco. The widow is supported by the arms of officers. Anderson and Scott walk beside the hearse. A city is weeping, while they pay respect to the memory of the noble-hearted Christian General, who hears not the signal gun of departure. Couriers are bearing despatches to Y-re-ka. “The Modocs cannot escape; we have them surrounded. The Warm Springs scouts are out on the outpost. The Modocs cannot escape. Lieut. Sherwood died last night. Lieut. Eagan, improving. Meacham may recover, though badly mutilated and blind.” The salute of honor over the grave of young Hovey announces his burial by the kindly band of army officers.

“Extermination to the Modocs!” says Gen. Sherman. “Extermination,” repeat the newspapers. “Extermination,” says an echo over the Pacific coast. Extermination is the watchword everywhere. “It does look like extermination, that’s a fact, with half a hundred upheaving graves filled with soldiers near the camp; a hospital overflowing with wounded; an army demoralized, and lying passive seven days after the assassination of Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas; while every day the Modocs waylay and kill unguarded men almost in sight of camp, strip and scalp them, and then heap rocks on their bodies. This looks like extermination, but not of the Modocs. Perhaps it suits those who were so free with denunciation of the Peace Commission. But whether it does, or not, this condition of the plan of extermination is to some extent attributable to the infuriated, senseless, cowardly, and unmanly opposition that was made against Canby and the Peace Commissioners, who saw and felt how costly in human life a peace made through the death-dealing bullets must be.

Saturday morning, and Modoc emissaries are crawling into the camps of the Klamaths, Snakes, and Wall-pa-pahs, endeavoring to induce these people to join the Modocs in the war. They paint in glowing colors the great success they have had, and declare that the time has come when red men should unite against a common enemy. It cannot be denied that in every Indian camp along the frontier line there were sympathizers with the Modocs; but nowhere were they in sufficient force to precipitate a general war, although the new religion proclaimed by “Smoheller” had found followers everywhere, and was gaining strength by every victory won by Captain Jack. How nearly the frontier came to witnessing a great Indian war is not understood by the people of the Pacific coast.

A Warm Springs Indian, who does not belong to the scouts, is going carefully along the northern shore of the lake. His destination is Linkville. His mission is to bear a letter to Mrs. Meacham. The letter contains a message that will cause her almost to leap for joy:—

Saturday passes away without an episode that is worthy of record. Not a Modoc has been seen. The scouting parties have brought no tidings of them. The sentinels walk the rounds. The surgeons are visiting the wounded. The hospital gives out moans, and furnishes another victim for the grave-yard, and a volley of muskets says, “Farewell, comrade!” Meacham is counting the hours as they pass. He is impatient. The long night wears away, and morning breaks at last. Another messenger is stealing away along the lake shore. An ambulance, with a mounted escort of citizens, is drawing toward the mouth of Lost river. “Are you ready to take me to meet my wife?” says a voice in a small tent. “No; the surgeon says the air is raw, and the lake is too rough. We have sent a message to your wife that we can’t go,” replies Capt. Ferree. After a few minutes’ silence the disappointed man replies, “That is not the reason. The wind does not blow.” Very serious thoughts are passing through the minds of both the hearer and the speakers. “I want to know why I am not going.”—“The doctor says you could not stand it to go; the lake is too rough.”—“You and the doctor are cowardly. You think I am going to die.”—“If you force me to be candid, I must tell you the truth. The doctor says you have not more than twenty chances in a hundred to recover.”

Another silence of a few minutes, and the invalid replies, “I’ll take the twenty chances. I must live; I have so many depending on me.”

“If you pass midnight, the doctor says you may live.”

The ambulance, with the mounted escort, is standing on the battle-ground of November 30th, 1872. A woman is in the front end, with a field-glass, scanning the lake. No boat is in sight. Her hopes and fears alternate, when she suddenly catches sight of the messenger on the lake shore. The glass drops from her hands, and she sinks down on the seat and waits the coming of the messenger. He holds out the letter. The woman grasps it, and as she reads, her lips quiver. “Why, oh why is this? The air is not chilly. The lake is not rough.” Words are too poor to express the torturing suspense that follows while the ambulance carries her back to Linkville. Hope sets alternately with despair in the heart. For ten days has this woman felt the presence of each as circumstances bade them come and go. Two more days is she yet to walk beneath a sky that is half hidden by dark clouds. ’Tis midnight, Sunday. The surgeon, De Witt, and Capt. Ferree are sitting beside the woman’s husband.

“I can tell you in another hour. If he comes out of this well, he is all right.” Dr. De Witt, with his finger on the patient’s pulse, nods to Ferree, “He is all right.” The patient awakes, and finds the doctor there. “How am I, doctor, shall I live?”—“I think you will, my dear fellow. You have passed the crisis.” “Thank God!” comes from every lip. “Keep quiet; don’t get excited. We can save you now, but you had a very close call. If you had been a drinking man all the surgeons in Christendom could not have saved you. Rest quiet until morning, and I will come in again.” Oh, what a change a few hours have wrought! Yesterday the sun went behind a dark cloud, and the invalid withstood the shock of “Twenty out of a hundred” for life. Now the sun of life comes again, and makes the vision clear of a loving family, home and friends. The transitions from despair to hope have been so frequent with this man that he can scarcely realize that he is again led by the angel of hope.

It is morning. Dr. De Witt and Capt. Ferree are in council. “I think he is on the safe side if he is careful,” remarks the doctor. Another messenger is despatched to Linkville, with a letter making another appointment at the mouth of Lost river for the next day.

Donald McKay is in camp to receive orders. He reports that his scouts have circled the Lava Beds. “The Modocs have not escaped; they must be in there somewhere.” Couriers arrive bringing newspapers, containing obituary notices of Gen. Canby, Dr. Thomas, and A. B. Meacham. Fairchild, Riddle, and Ferree were in Meacham’s tent, reading. Ferree remarks, “See here, old man, they have had you dead. You can know what the world will say about you when you do die. Some of them say very nice things. Here’s one fellow that knows you pretty well.... ‘Meacham was a man of strong will and positive character, who made warm friends and bitter enemies.’” ... “There, that will do; when I die I want those words put on my tombstone,” replies Meacham. “Here, how do you like this? ... ‘Served him right. He knew the Modocs better than any other man; why did he lead Canby and Thomas to their death? On his skirts the blood must be,’ ... Here is another that’s pretty good. This fellow has found out you aint dead, and he is mad about it. It’s a Republican organ, too, at that.... ‘If Meacham could be made to change places with Canby or Thomas few tears would be shed. He is responsible for all this blood. He knew the Modocs. They did not. We are not disappointed. We expected that this fanatical enthusiast would do some foolhardy thing, and we can only regret that he did not suffer instead of innocent men.’ ... There, how do you like that, old man? That’s what you get for not being a general or a preacher. They pay you a high compliment,—sending Canby and Thomas to their death. Big thing, old man! You are somebody. Now, I’ll tell you if you don’t get through to straighten this thing out I’ll do it, if it costs my life.”—“Call on me, captain, I know that Meacham did all in his power to prevent the meeting,” says Riddle. Fairchild remarks, “If they had listened to Meacham, they would have been alive now. I know what I am saying, I know all about the whole thing, and I know that Meacham did his best to keep them from going. I can tell those newspaper men some things they would not like to hear. They abused Meacham all the way through, while Canby escaped their slander, when he was in truth as much a peace man as Meacham, and more too. I have been with the commission. All I have to say is that it was a d——d cowardly contemptible thing from the beginning to the end the way the Oregon papers ‘went for’ the peace policy. I guess they are satisfied now. They wanted war, and they’ve got it. The Modoc-eating Oregon papers and volunteers haven’t lost any Modoc themselves. Better send some more volunteers down here to eat up the Modocs, like Capt. ——’s company did the day that Shacknasty Jim held a whole company for seven hours in check, d——n ’em.” Capt. Ferree replies, “Fairchild, you had better go slow. Almost every editor in Oregon is a fighting man. Two or three of them were down here once, and they may come again for more Modoc news, and if they run across you you’re gone up.” Fairchild: “Yes, they’re ‘on it,’ seen ’em try it. Shacknasty tried ’em. One of them came down here looking for Squire Steele, of Y-re-ka, and when a man pointed out Steele to him, this fighting editor rode out of his way to keep from meeting him. It’s a fact! An other one was going to scalp old Press Dorris. He didn’t fail for the same reason that Boston Charley did on the old man there,—cause he hadn’t any hair;—no, that wasn’t the reason. He rode too good a horse himself; that’s why. Press was around all the time. He didn’t keep out of the way; fact is, Press was anxious for the scalping to begin. If any of those fighting editors come down here, well, set Shacknasty after them, and then you’ll see them git. Bet a hundred dollars he can drive any two of them before him.”—“Look here, here’s something rich,” says Ferree, turning the paper: ... “‘Gov. Grover will call out volunteers to assist the regulars. They will make short work of it. The regulars are eastern men, and cannot fight Indians successfully.’” Fairchild says, “That’s rich. One thousand soldiers here now, and more Oregon volunteers coming, to whip fifty Modocs. All right; the more comes the more scalps the Modocs will take; that’s about what it’ll amount to.”

Monday passes slowly away to join the unnumbered days of the past. No sound of war is heard. Quiet reigns until the sunset volley announces that the decomposed lava is covering up another one of the fruits of the demand for blood, and the cry for vengeance went up so loudly that even the Modocs in the Lava Beds heard it.

Tuesday morning. The ambulance is leaving Linkville, escorted by a mounted guard of citizens, destined to the Lost-river battle-ground. Hope is leading the woman who is making this second journey to this historic place. The miles are long to her who has been so many days alternating between joy and sadness. Surely, she will not be disappointed this time.

“Old man,” Dr. DeWitt says, “you cannot go this morning. I think it is unsafe, and it may cost your life.”—“I’m going; I’ll take the risk. I cannot bear to disappoint my wife again.” A stretcher is brought to the side of the mattress whereon the speaker lay. Strong arms lift the mattress and man upon it. When he was carried on the stretcher, a few days since, he weighed one hundred and ninety-six pounds, less the blood he left on the rocks. Now he weighs one hundred and fifty pounds. “Lieut. Eagan’s compliments, with a request for Mr. Meacham to call on him before leaving.” The stretcher is carried into Lieut. Eagan’s tent, and set beside the wounded officer’s cot. The salutations commonly given are omitted, or half performed. Eagan lays his hand on Meacham’s arm and says, “How do you make it, old man?”—“First-rate, I guess. I am going home. Are you recovering from your wound?”—“Very fast. Be about in a few days. Want to help finish up this job before I go home.”—“Good-by, Eagan.”—“Good-by, Meacham.”

These men were old-time friends, and this parting was suggestive of sad thoughts. Both wounded. Will they ever meet again?

As the latter is being borne to the shore of the lake, a half cry is heard from Tobey. “I see him, Meacham, one time more. May be him die. I no see him ’nother time.” A small white hull boat is waiting in the little bay. Lieut. M. C. Grier, A. A. Q. M., is managing the preparations for the departure. With thoughtful care every possible arrangement is made. Mattresses, awnings, oarsmen, buckets for bailing, and arms for defence are provided; and while many officers of the army gather around the boat, the wounded man is carried on the stretcher and carefully laid on a mattress. “Old Fields” is placed in command. Dr. Cabanis sits in the stern; the veteran beside the wounded. The departure is made with “God bless you!” from the officers. A small squad of armed men are starting up the lake shore to prevent the possibility of the Modocs capturing the party in the boat.

Steadily the soldier oarsmen pull along near the land, while the inveterate jokers, Dr. Cabanis and Capt. Ferree, beguile the time in story-telling and witticisms; some of them at the expense of the man on the mattress. “Say, Meacham, what will you give me not to tell how much brandy you drank the other day while you was on the stretcher at the council tent? It’s all right for you to humbug the Good Templars by saying that you never drink; but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. No man ever drank a canteen full the first drink, as you did that day; it won’t do, Meacham.”

Suddenly a dark cloud moves up, and a strong wind comes off the shore. Landing is out of the question; to put to sea in a whitehall boat with eight men in it, and nearly to the edge, is hazardous. But there is no alternative. The prow cuts across the waves, the water leaps over the bow. Fields, Ferree, and two of the oarsmen, bail for life, now, while Cabanis holds her head to the sea. “Steady, boys, or we’ll swamp her,” says Fields. “Old man, playing dead won’t save you this time; if we swamp her you had better pray like old Joe Meek did. Promise the Lord to be a good man if he will save us this one time more.”—“Save the brandy, doctor, we may need it if we get out into the water,” says Fields, and continues, “Steady, boys, steady! I’ll be —— if she don’t swamp. Look out, boys, what you’re doin’.” The waiting woman in the ambulance catches sight of the boat as it rises on the crest of a wave and sinks again into the trough of the sea. Language is not competent to describe her emotions as she holds the glass on the threatening scene before her. One moment, hope,—another, despair; there, again, as the boat comes in sight, she thanks God; a moment more, and prayer moves her lips. “Can it be that he could live through all he has suffered only to be drowned?”

“Fear not, brave woman, the Hand that was let down out of the dark cloud that passed over the bloody scene when your husband was in a storm of bullets, will calm these waters. Your husband’s work is not yet finished!”

“That was a close call, boys. I tell you it was; but we are all right now,” says old Fields. “They are there waiting for us,” remarks Ferree. “Is Mrs. Meacham there? Can you see her?”—“Yes, yes, old man; she is there, standing in the wagon, looking at us with a glass. Lay still, old man, she is there. You’ll be with her pretty soon.”—“Thank God!” goes up from the mattress. “How far off are we now, Fields?”—“’Bout a mile. Be patient. Yes, old man, there’s your wife, sure. She is standing on the ground now, looking through a glass. Be patient, old man; I’ll introduce you to her. She wouldn’t know who it was,—if I didn’t tell her.”

The “old man” was wondering if it is possible; shall I see her again? Am I dreaming? Is this a reality? Won’t I wake and find it all a delusion? Oh, how slow this boat! “How far now?”—“Only a little piece; keep cool, you’ll be there in a few minutes,” quietly remarks Fields. Ferree, putting his finger on his lips, nods and smiles at his sister.

That smile has lifted despair once more from this woman’s heart. But a moment since she had caught sight of the whitened face of her husband, so motionless and pale. She felt a pain in her heart, for she thought him dead. Now, her brother’s smile has reassured her; but “Why does my husband lie so still?” The keel of the boat grinds on the gravelled margin of the river. Fields jumps ashore, with rope in hand. The woman stands beside the ambulance; she does not come to meet the party. Her joy is too great; she must not, dare not, now express her feeling.

“Well, Orpha, here’s the old man; he is not very pretty, but he’s worth a dozen dead Modocs yet.” The “old man” is carried to the ambulance, and placed on a mattress, and his wife sits beside him, reunited after a separation of five months, during which time one of them had passed so close to the portals that death had left the marks of his icy fingers upon him; and the other through a terrible storm of grief and suspense. The driver mounts his box; the veteran beside him. The escort mount their horses and range themselves on either side. The Modocs have not been heard of for several days and may be looking around their old home to waylay travellers. “Old Dad Fields” calls his crew; Dr. Cabanis cautions the driver about fast-driving, and also “the old man” about humbugging temperance people. The boat leaves the shore, the oars dip the waters. The driver cracks his whip, and one party is returning to the soldiers’ camp; the other is crowding forward to Linkville, half expecting to see a blaze of rifles from the sage bush. Twenty-five miles yet to-night. Over all the smooth road they go at a gallop. At midnight a light glimmers in the distance. It is Linkville. The moon is up, and shines now on thirteen little mounds by the roadside, beneath which sleep thirteen men who were killed by the Modocs last November. Uncle George’s nurse is waiting at the hotel door to receive the old man Meacham once more. Thank God for big, noble-hearted men like Uncle George and his partner, Alex. Miller! “The old man” is sleeping, but wakes up with a start as he has done every hour since the eleventh of April. The glaring eyes of old Schonchin, the horrid yells, the whizzing bullets, all come fresh to the brain when left without direction of his will. He wakes with a sudden start to find himself in a comfortable room, a soft hand on his brow; a familiar voice of affection reaches his ear, and he falls away to sleep again, soothed by the low murmur of a woman’s prayer.