For an account of the immediate circumstances attending the final surrender of the Modoc chieftain, I subjoin the following from the pen of Samuel A. Clarke, of Salem, Oregon, who was on the ground, and had abundant opportunity to learn the facts and incidents connected therewith. He was correspondent for the “New York Times,” from which paper of June 17, 1873, this graphic account of one of the most important events of 1873 is taken:—

This was substantially the end of the great Modoc war. The closing scenes were very exciting. Some of them are worthy of mention as having an immediate bearing on the question of Peace and War as between the superior race and the original inheritors of the soil.

Time, June 8th, 1873. Location of the scene, Rocky Point, near the mouth of Lost river.—Characters in this tragedy: first, Civilized Christianized white men; second, Helpless Modoc captives.

James Fairchild—a brother to John A., the “gray-eyed man”—left Fairchild’s ranch on the morning of the 8th, with a four-mule team, and a wagon filled with Modoc men, women, and children, who had surrendered and were entirely unarmed.

Very little things sometimes turn the current of great events. When leaving Fairchild’s ranch on the morning in question, the entire party consisted of seventeen Modoc captives and the brothers Fairchild. Among the captives were Bogus Charley and Shacknasty Jim. Before arriving at Lost river the party divided, James Fairchild driving the team and going by a longer route, on account of crossing Lost river at a wagon ford; John A. Fairchild, together with Shacknasty Jim and Bogus on horseback, going by a shorter route. The latter party, not mistrusting danger, continued on their way, not waiting for the team to come up to the junction of the roads.

While James was crossing the river he encountered a body of Oregon volunteers, under command of Capt. Hizer. The soldiers gather around the wagon and question Fairchild. He explains to them that the Indians under his care are Modoc captives, all of them Hot Creeks; that he is taking them to the head-quarters of General Davis on “the peninsula,” to deliver them up; that none of them have been accused of being parties to any murder or assassination. This seems to satisfy the soldiers, and they retire to their camp. Fairchild passes on towards his point of destination. After proceeding a few miles he sees two men going towards the road, with the evident intention of intercepting him. The Indians in the wagon also make the discovery, and beg Fairchild to turn back, to save them. He feels that trouble is brewing. He looks in vain for his brother John and the Indians that are with him. The two men have halted by the roadside. Fairchild comes up to them. They order him to halt, and accompany the order with a heavy “persuader” in close proximity to his head. The music made by “spring steel” under the manipulation of a man’s hand has but two notes,—a short tick and a long click; and then the “persuader” is ready for business. Fairchild, hearing this kind of music, halts, and to the “Get down, you old white headed ——,” etc., demands, “By whose authority?” “By mine. I am going to kill them Ingens, and you too, —— you!”

One of the civilized white men cuts the mules clear of the wagon. Fairchild leaps to the ground, still clinging to the lines. The unarmed captive women beg for mercy. They plead with Fairchild to save them. They raise imploring hands and cry, “Don’t kill! don’t kill!” The four Indian warriors are mute; they know resistance is in vain. Fairchild entreats the white men to desist. The muzzle of a needle-gun is within six inches of his ear. A shot, and “Little John’s” brains are scattered over the women and children. Another, and “Te-hee Jack” is floundering among them. Another, and “Poney’s” blood is spurting over his wife and children. Still another shot, and “Mooch” falls among shrieking squaws. One more, and “Little John’s” wife is shot through the shoulder. The five are writhing in the death agony together, and the blood of the victims is streaming through the floor of the wagon and dropping in puddles on the ground beneath. A dust is seen rising from the road. The civilized white murderers decamp in haste, leaving Fairchild holding to his mules, while the uninjured Modoc women are extricating themselves from the dead bodies which had fallen on them. The blood of this civilized butchery still drops from the wagon. Sergeant Murphy and ten men, Battery A, of the Fourth Artillery, came upon the scene. The civilized butchers are fleeing. No effort is made to arrest them. Sergeant Murphy had not been ordered to arrest them, and, of course, he had no right to arrest white men without an order. Capt. Hizer’s company of Oregon volunteers is within a few miles also. The country is open; the murderers have but a few miles the start. But Capt. Hizer has no orders to arrest white men either. He is not there for that purpose; and no one can censure him because he did not catch the civilized white murderers. Those men were seen by Fairchild before and behind the wagon. They were on the watch for John Fairchild. Had he and his party been with the team when the attack was made, the census return of that county would not have been quite so large as it is, especially on the Anglo-Saxon civilized list. Pity he was not there, for he is “a dead shot.” The commiseration is due, however, to the community that furnished homes for the fellows who covered themselves with glory by performing this heroic feat. True, they dare not boast of it now, but they will by and by. The grand jury of Jackson County did not find bills of indictment against them. No effort has ever been made to discover the names of the perpetrators of this deed. True, there were those that claimed to know who the persons were, but they never tell; neither would they tell, if placed on the witness stand. I would not have my reader suppose that the people of Oregon approved of the crime—very far from it. They condemned it in unstinted terms, and with one voice shouted, “Shame! Shame!” So they would have done if the tables had been turned. No State in the Union has a more orderly, law-abiding, peace-loving people than Oregon; none that venerates justice more highly. True, they have sometimes been lenient to the white men of bad character. But no more so than other States where votes are necessary to elevate men to power. Like all other peoples they are tender-hearted towards all men who control votes. As a people they are brave, without a doubt; but among them occasionally may be found specimens of cut-throats, who kill unarmed people; and once in a great while, just as in the States of Massachusetts or New York, an editor who does the same kind of work with his pen, when he thinks he can do it with impunity. But the respectable editors, there as elsewhere, have learned sense enough to let a man alone when he is down, until they are sure he can’t get up before they kick him. With great unanimity those of Oregon and the whole Pacific coast denounce the killing of helpless, unarmed Indians, as they did the killing of settlers after the battle of Lost river, Nov., 1873,—only not quite strong enough to justify the authorities in making any efforts to bring the offenders to justice.

The scene changes to a military camp on the “peninsula,” at the south end of Tule lake. A hundred white tents declare this to be the head-quarters of the army that whipped the Modocs,—that is to say, the army to whom the Modoc traitors turned over their chief. One hundred and twenty poor, miserable specimens of humanity are under guard. There is great rejoicing over the victory. The Modoc women and, children are contented, in one sense at least,—they are well fed, and have rest. The Government teams have just arrived from the mountains with timber. The quartermaster’s forces are engaged in rough carpenter work. Curious-looking building they are erecting,—looks something like a country butcher’s windlass; but it is not that, for there is more of it. The Modoc captains wonder what it is for. They are unsophisticated in civilized modes of appeasing outraged justice.

Scar-face Charley asks a soldier, “What for that thing they make?”

“To hang Modocs,” laconically replies Mr. Soldier.

A wail of savage woe breaks the air. The medicine-man says he “can beat that thing.”

“May be so, Curly-haired Doctor; but unless some other medicine interferes you can have a chance to try it, and, in the mean time, to reflect on the inhuman manner in which you and Hooker Jim killed Brotherton, Boddy, and others.”

Not far from the gallows we see an artist with his camera, and going toward it two men under guard. One of them shouted “Kau-tux-ie” at the council tent the 11th of April. The other one was his right-hand man then. They are inseparable now, as they have been for years past; but this time a few links of log chain, as well as bloody crimes, unite them. They cast anxious eyes towards the gibbet. They meet John Fairchild, and ask him where they are going. “Go on; it’s all right,” he replies. They take places before the camera. The artist lifts his velvet cloth, and Captain Jack looks squarely at what appears to him to be “a big gun.” To his surprise the big gun is again covered up, and he is then assured that it will not shoot. It was under such circumstances that the likeness of Captain Jack, which accompanies this book, was taken. Old Schonchin is next made a target. They smile when led away, for they had expected to die.

Some satisfaction to know that the old fellow endured suspense, even if it was temporary. They are taken back to the guard-house, and, as they march under escort, they see Hooker Jim, Bogus Charley, Shacknasty Jim, and Steamboat Frank, walking around unfettered, unguarded, well clothed, well fed, and well armed. The chief restrains himself until he arrives at the tent used for guard-house, then he gives way to a tempest of passion, and, in true Indian style, declaims against the injustice of what he sees and feels. True, Captain Jack, you are wearing chains that properly belong to those villains. True, you pleaded with all your eloquence for peace, and against the assassination of the commissioners. True, they voted against you. True, that Bogus first proposed to kill Gen. Canby, and that he was also first to betray you to your enemies. It is also true, that for this double treachery he is now being rewarded with liberty. True enough, that that cut-throat, Hooker Jim, is the very man that put the woman’s hat on your head, and taunted you to madness, until at last you yielded against your judgment, and consented to commit the first great crime of your life. True, that he was the man who followed your trail, day and night, like a hound, until he pointed the steps of the soldier to your last hiding-place. It is for this damnable act of treachery to you that he is now being rewarded. True, also, that Steamboat Frank and Shacknasty Jim fired as many shots at the commissioners as you did; and that they, too, voted against you while you were trying to make peace, and that they boast yet of the number of soldiers they have scalped. They joined Bogus and Hooker Jim in hunting you, carrying each a breech-loading rifle, and wearing the uniform of the United States soldiers, and were with your captors when your star fell. It is for these last-named heroic acts that they are now enjoying the boon for which you have pleaded all your life, from the same Government that pets them, and almost fawns upon them as heroes. Certainly your cup is full of grief, while theirs runs over with joy. If you were a white man we would commiserate you, and half the people of America would join in an effort to save you; but you are an Indian. No Indian can be an “honorable man;” the idea is an insult to every Irishman, and German, and the whole Caucasian race besides. You are simply unfortunate in being born in the land of the free, and the home of the brave, with a red skin. Better you had been born across the sea, and with any brogue in the world on your tongue. If you had only been blessed with a white skin, and had that kind of manhood that would have permitted you to wear some rich man’s collar, fawn upon and toady to the whims and caprices of your masters, at the sacrifice of your own self-respect, and that of the rest of mankind, then your crimes might have been condoned. But you are now a citizen, and you may enjoy a citizen’s privilege of being punished for other men’s crimes as well as your own.

Gen. Davis has invited the settlers of the Lost-river country, to “come in and identify the murderers, and stolen property captured from the Modocs.” Among others who availed themselves of the opportunity are two women. We have seen them before,—the first time on the afternoon of November 29th, 1872, when the red-handed villain who walks around camp, the lion of the day,—Hooker Jim,—came to them with his hands red with the heart’s blood of their husbands; and again, when a funeral procession was slowly wending its way to the Linkville cemetery. We recognize them as Mrs. Boddy and her widowed daughter, Mrs. Schiere. Gen. Davis, with the heart of a true man and soldier, receives them kindly, and assigns them to a tent; patiently listens to the sad story of their great bereavement.

He calls on them again, taking with him Hooker Jim and Steamboat Frank. Mrs. Boddy identifies Hooker as one of the Indians concerned in the massacre. When questioned as to the robbery of Mrs. Boddy’s house, Hooker Jim replies, “I took the short purse, and Long Jim took the other purse.”

The women are much excited and are crying. They lose self-control. Mrs. Boddy, drawing from her pocket a knife, dashes at Hooker Jim’s breast. Mrs. Schiere, with a pistol, attempts to shoot Steamboat Frank. The man who would not brook insult from Gen. Nelson could not see these women commit a crime; with almost superhuman strength and agility he disarms both women before they have sipped from the cup of revenge, accidentally receiving a slight wound in one hand from the knife held by Mrs. Boddy. The savages stand unmoved and make no effort to escape. Let the reader be charitable in judgment on the actions of these widows. They were alone in the world. Their protectors had fallen by the hands that have since been washed by a just Government, when in its dire necessity it accepted their services as traitors. Ah! double traitors to a reluctant, but brave leader. If the men who killed the unarmed captives in Fairchild’s wagon yesterday can go unpunished after killing Indians that had not harmed them, let charity extend to these broken-hearted women, nor censure them for a thirst for vengeance, especially when they realized that justice has hid her face to these inhuman monsters who are reeking with blood, and guilty of the most damnable treachery. True, these are women; but the accident of sex does not change nature, and never should be urged against those whose wrongs drive them to desperation.

The quarter-master’s carpenters are putting on the finishing strokes to the extempore instrument of a partial justice to be administered without even the farce of an ex-parte trial. The trap is being arranged. Eight or ten ropes are hanging from the beam. Gen. Davis is preparing a statement of the crimes committed by the captives, and, also, his verdict, which he proposes to read to these unfortunate subjugated warriors before he tests the strength of the dangling ropes with live-weight. A courier arrives from Y-re-ka. A message is received by Gen. Davis, ordering him to hold the prisoners subject to further instructions from Washington.

The work on the hanging-machine is suspended. The Modoc medicine-man assures his friends that he has won another victory. Gen. Davis is thoroughly chagrined. The disappointment is great. Modocs enjoy it; white man does not. The brittle thread of life has been strengthened for the temporary benefit of a few vagabonds whose existence is no blessing to mankind outside of the Modoc blood; whose death would cause a shout of joy over the civilized world. Not because it would bring back the dead, and cause them to stand in the flesh again, but because justice has been done to a man with a red skin who dared claim the privileges of manhood; and, being denied, had resisted a good Government in which he had no part.

The scaffold stands untried. Nobody knows whether it is a good hanging-machine or not. The camp is broken up; the war is over, and the Modocs are now where they can be controlled. They are en route to Fort Klamath, under guard.

The chieftain who, a few weeks since, was over-matching the best military talent of the army, holding in abeyance twenty times the number of his own forces, and defying a great, strong Government, is now a captive and in chains, compelled to travel under an escort over the route he had passed so often in the freedom of days gone by. Familiar objects greet his eyes as he raises them from the last look he will ever take of the scene of his glory as a chief; and his shame as an outlaw.

The first place of historical interest on this last ride of the Modoc chief, as he leaves “the peninsula,” is where Ben Wright killed nearly as many warriors as Captain Jack has had in his command. If the angel of justice accompanies this conquering army with its dejected captives, she will cover her face while it passes the spot where Modoc blood watered the ground under a flag of truce, when she remembers that the perpetrators of that deed were honored for the act. A few miles only, and the vacant cabin of Miller stands, accusing Hooker Jim, the murderer of its builder and owner, for his treachery, and upbraiding a Government that excuses his crimes, because he can be made useful in hunting to the death the chief who led where such a villain forced him to go.

Justice uncovers her face when this army reaches Bloody Point, for now she remembers that it was here that a train of emigrants were waylaid and cruelly butchered, and she shows no favors to the descendants of those who committed the crime. Again the eye of the conquered chief glances over the scene of his childhood, and, too, over the field where he fought his first battle. Since it would be pronounced sickly “sentimentalism” to ponder over the scenes of such a man’s boyhood, and lest we should offend some white man’s fine sense of pride that he is a white-skinned man, though he may have little else of which to boast, we pass along up Lost river, with simply recalling the fact, that this man’s—Captain Jack’s—early home abounds with traditional literature connecting his name with the savage scenes of the past, and linking it with the tragic events of 1872-3.

The conquering army marches over the spot where the white murderers “wiped out” some of the wrongs committed against our race. The tramping of soldiers’ feet and the iron-shod hoofs of mule teams erases the dark spots in the road, where the tokens of requited vengeance were painted by the dropping blood from Fairchild’s wagon on the eighth of June.

This blood does not cry out loud enough to catch the ear of the sober, honest-faced angel who has been perching on the victorious emblem of the free white American! No danger that those dark spots will ever trouble that great angel. The blood that made them was drawn from the wrong kind of veins for that.

While the army marches over the trail, effacing footprints of the fleeing avenger, a shot is heard. Quick almost as lightning flash every soldier’s hand grasps his arms. The thought that the Modocs are attempting escape passes through every mind. “Halt!”—rings out the cavalry bugle. Above one of the Government wagons a small puff of smoke is rising in the clear morning air, while behind and beneath it the spattered drops of blood announce that another tragedy is now being enacted. The wagon halts, and now through the floor the current runs in streams, while its splashing on the ground makes melody for ears of white men and soothes the dying senses of Curly-haired Jack.

A few words of explanation, and the fact is established that treason is still among the Modocs, treason to the Government of the United States, committed by Curly-haired Jack, in blowing out his own brains, thus cheating the aforesaid government out of the great privilege of hanging him for the murder of Lieut. Sherwood, under a flag of truce, on the eleventh of April, 1873.

Poor, conscience-stricken self-murderer! his body is mixed up again with his native land, and his friends are denied the privilege of mourning for him.

The army, with its costly coterie of famous guests, encamps at Modoc camp on Klamath Reservation. This is the spot where Captain Jack and his people settled in the beginning of 1870. How changed the fortunes of this man! Then his limbs were free, though his manhood was half disputed; now every motion of his limbs rings clanking music in his ear, constantly reminding him that his manhood has obtained recognition at the cost of life and liberty. Then he was restless under the restraints of civilization, because it denied to him a clear pathway to its privileges and blessings; now he is passive under the persuasive influence of a power that compels his crushed spirit to submission. Then he was the hero chief of Hooker Jim and Bogus Charley, and the daring band that surrounded him; now he is the humbled, crest-fallen victim of their treachery.

He sits behind a guard whose glittering bayonets warn him of the folly of resistance. His betrayers, unfettered, ramble over the ground where the Modocs had begun their new home in 1870.

He steals glances at the great witness tree where Modocs and Klamaths buried the hatchet. They dance with joy over the results of its resurrection.

The army moves out of camp. The captive chief catches sight of four rough-hewn timbers on the left of the road. These were once designed for use in making that chief a house, wherein he was to have passed through probation, looking toward his ultimate attainment of citizenship under the “Humane Policy of the Government.”

The Klamaths, who badgered him into the abandonment of his new home in 1870, have not disturbed the house-logs referred to. They never will; and the probabilities are that these logs will remain as monuments, marking the sepulchure of broken hopes.

A few miles before reaching Fort Klamath the cavalcade passes through Council Grove,—the place where Klamaths and Modocs made the treaty of 1864 with the United States.

At last the shattered companies of soldiers reach the fort, having left behind them many of their comrades; but having in charge a distinguished prisoner and his companions. When they pass inside the irregular circle of forest trees that shut Fort Klamath up into a grand amphitheatre, the outside is shut out from four, at least, of the prisoners forever.