Lots of Pluck—One of the Rangers Killed—Thinking of a Brother—Taking a Good Position—Loss of Hair, and what the Red-skins think of it—"Captain Jack's" or the Modoc Country—"Captain Jack's" Stronghold—On Our Way Back—Signal-fires and Some Strategy—Half a Hundred Scalps for One—The Pah-utes on the Warpath—Fishing for the Dead—The White Flag—Washo Bravery.

Bob's location was at some thirty miles' distance from my cabin, and we arrived there, shortly after the dazzling rays of the morning sun were blindingly increased in strength by the reflection from the snow.

Spencer and Dorsey had told us the bare fact. Butch', however, had a keener nose than they apparently possessed.

"Dirty Bob fit well for it," he said, after glancing through the cabin. "Some of the red skunks war hurt, and no mistake. He al'ays had lots o' pluck."

He was unmistakably right. There were marks of blood on the hard soil of the floor. But, whether the soaked in and dead crimson had once run in his veins or those of his Indian enemies, remained to be seen. We almost at once struck their trail, which led through the forest, beyond the spot he had selected for his hunting-ground. This we followed, for something more than six miles. The track was by no means an easy one, rising and falling, broken up by rocks and intersected with the stumps of fallen trees. In short, it was one which none of the delicate nurslings of city civilization would have cared about following, even for the purpose of pulling trigger at their first live venison, and, of necessity, missing it.

Arnold and Painter were in advance.

The fatigue of the past two days and night had kept me somewhat in the rear of the party, with Butch' and "Fatty."

Painter uttered a savage oath.

We ran up to him. He and Arnold were standing close to the body of poor Bob. His knife, smeared with dried or frozen blood, was still clenched in the hands of the corpse, which was frightfully mutilated. It had also been scalped. Evidently, his death had been the result of a vigorous struggle to escape; for the snow on which he was lying was crushed in and trodden down in every direction; while a young tree had been torn from its roots by the force with which some one had fallen against it. Glancing at Ben Painter, I saw that his teeth were set tightly together, and his under lip, which his beard permitted me to see, was rigid and almost blue. I took him by the hand and squeezed it.

"I war thinking of my brother."

This was all he said, as we continued upon the trail.

From this point, it could very readily be followed. The marks of blood were visible enough all along it. One or more of the red-skins had been wounded. In about half a mile further, the road became easier and the trees were more scattered. Arnold, who was still in front with Painter, and Brighton Bill, had sighted what they supposed to be a dead Indian.

"Here's one of them," cried Arnold.

Scarcely had he uttered this than, wounded as he was, the savage leapt to his feet and ran. His strength, however, only availed him for a short spurt. He again dropped, and, while on the ground, drew his bow. The arrow struck Bill on the left arm, making a slight flesh wound. But before the red devil could discharge another, Ben Painter was up with him, and the knife he had drawn was buried in his heart. On examining the dead body, we discovered the wound Bob had inflicted on its side. Blood was still slowly oozing from it.

From this point, the trail diverged towards the Lower Klamath Lake. We followed on it as rapidly as possible, passing Shasta Mountain, until we arrived at Fall River. Beyond this stream lies the country, which is the stronghold of the Modoc and Pit-River tribes.

It is certainly a fitting section to have such an appellation applied to it.

Throughout, it is covered with natural fortifications. Huge rocks rise from the earth, varying from two hundred to three hundred and fifty feet in height. A single precipitous and narrow path, sometimes natural, not unfrequently fashioned by the Modocs or their tributaries, the Pit-River Indians, who are by no means as warlike, leads to the top of these. Here, in many cases, the summit is defended by a breastwork. In the beds of lava, for this part of the country has formerly been volcanic, you will also occasionally come upon a triangle of rocks, from four to six feet in height, with a steep cavity in their centre, large enough in every case to admit a man, and frequently much larger. The reasons of these curious formations I leave to more inquiringly scientific minds than my own. They are certainly too numerous, as well as now too low, to be supposed the series of small craters from which lava formerly flowed.

Even in saying this, I feel I am getting beyond my depth.

Let me, therefore, confine myself to the details of actions which I am assuredly able to speak of, from the mere fact that I very decidedly took part in them.

We had followed the Modocs as far as Battle Creek.

Here, knowing the situation they intended to trap us into, we halted for two days, in order to give ourselves some rest, and enable a portion of the Rangers whom our speed had outstripped to catch up with us.

On the second day we consulted together for a long time. This council was the first in which my advice had not been immediately taken by the Rangers, without any opposition.

It was, that we should make what a military tactician would call a feint.

In other words, we should seem to retire as if we did not dare to carry the pursuit any further. During the succeeding night we might return, and, under its cover, secure one of the best positions in the section of country immediately beyond Fall River.

Harry Arnold and Lute Spencer decidedly objected to this. They asserted that it would be the first time in which we had ever backed from any number of the "darned red skunks." Many of the others agreed with them, amongst whom were Butch' and "Fatty."

Painter, however, greatly to my surprise, in the teeth of their opposition, took my side of the question, as did Brighton Bill. Laying his broad hand on my shoulder, the latter said:

"The Cap's more nor 'arf ha Hinjun. Hi'll be blamed hif 'e hisn't right!"

At length we carried the day, and broke up our camp on the following morning. Upon the same night we returned, moving with the greatest silence and caution, securing a position admirably adapted for my purpose. Part of the Rangers took possession of one of the natural forts which commanded an area of some two hundred yards in width. The rest of us were posted in a series of the triangular pits opposite this position. Their duty was similar to that of sharpshooters, although I may say not a single Ranger would have been unfit for such a duty, or would have failed in it.

It was a little after daybreak, when we first caught sight of a party of the Modocs. These counted barely ten. They had evidently come out to see whether we had quitted our late position by Battle Creek.

Nothing was to be seen of us. The Creek was visible. Consequently returning, they halted immediately between the rock on which part of our number were encamped and the rifle-pits opposite. From this spot they despatched a runner to warn the remainder of the red-skins. So far, everything had worked rightly. In some twenty minutes more fifty or sixty of the remaining Modocs had joined their scouting party.

They were together, some pointing in the direction they supposed us to have taken, and others talking, it may be presumed, on the wisdom of following us, when I gave the word.

We all had Sharp's carbines. Indeed, these were our invariable fighting weapons. Throwing in cartridge after cartridge, we kept up an almost continuous fire. Those who escaped our balls, scattered in every possible direction.

Forty-three of the red-skins had been slain.

After taking their scalps, we started off in the direction of Pit River.

Here, possibly, the reader may feel some shrinking horror at the constant repetition made by me, of this, to his mind, unpleasantly barbaric proceeding. Let him remember that the unscalped Indian is supposed, by his red brethren, to hold a higher rank in the Happy Hunting Grounds of his belief than the one who has lost his hair. He will then form some idea of the reason for which the white ranger or scout invariably scalps the red-skin who has fallen under his ball.

When we were near old Fort Crook, a signal-fire was seen, far to our left.

Having advised with Arnold, he and Bill ascended the mountain nearest us, to answer it from that point. Crossing the valley to the further side, I repeated the answering signal from the opposite hill. Then, passing the low "divide" or range of insignificantly steep ground between Pit and Fall Rivers, we once more started a signal-fire, on the highest point we could find.

All that seemed at the moment left for us to do, was to conceal ourselves and wait what might next turn up. While hidden, Brighton Bill touched my arm.

"Hi'm blamed hif the red rascals harn't hat hit hagain."

His eyes had been quicker than mine or any of the rest of us. Another signal had been kindled on a large bald or bare mountain on our left, and slightly in our rear. Butch' was sent to a hill lying some half of a mile to our right, to answer this. He was one of the quietest scouts amongst the Rangers; and saying this, is paying him a high compliment, when all of us had learnt to be so apt and ready. He had been, on this occasion, selected by me, because the last signal-fire had ignited so near to us, that caution and care were absolutely necessary in him who replied to it, to prevent any detection of the white man who might be employed to kindle it. We waited for his reply some time. Almost immediately after it was seen by us, the smoke from an answer to it was seen upon a low hill to the right of our ambuscade. There was certainly no possibility of mistaking the meaning of this signal. It was an inquiry whether the friends who had so kindly answered them were "on our trail?"

We were waiting for Hasbrouck to come back, when we saw in the gathering gloom the crimson light of another signal-fire, farther up the valley.

Without coming back for new orders, Butch' had exercised his own judgment. He had displayed his rapidity of decision and accuracy of calculation, in what he had done.

He had not yet returned when I saw a party of Indians, numbering in all, from twenty to twenty-five, stringing, with great care and silence, up the valley. Quite unconscious of our ambush, they advanced right into it.

But, that the boys fired too soon, not a single one of the luckless red-skins would have escaped.

As it was, eight of them paid the penalty of having mistaken our signal-fires for those of their own friends. In almost a word, I may say that the slaughter of fifty-one Modocs had atoned for the death of our luckless associate, Bob Thorn.

His was the first name wiped out from the Buckskin Rangers, and, after we had punished the tribe which had taken his life, not unnaturally, his memory was frequently recalled by most of us, with sorrow.

I was possibly the only one of the Rangers that remembered the close of his life, with something approaching pleasure. The dead man had been enabled by it, to escape that most horrible of dooms, as I was too well aware, the slow death at the stake.

About the end of February, we once more reached the settlement at the lower end of Honey Lake. We were enabled to carry with us a fair stock of skins, or as the traders call them, "peltry."

These we disposed of at a reasonable and remunerative figure. No sooner had we done so, than after a few days' idleness spent with friends and acquaintances, the larger part of us decided upon returning to our silver lodes upon the Humboldt River. The truth is, that during the past fall and winter, the report of our success in prospecting for ore in that locality, had spread far and wide. It had exercised the usual charm which the news of such a discovery invariably does. If we had delayed in the occupancy of our claims, we might, in the sequel, have found them a subject of dispute. The law of the mines is an unwritten one. Consequently, its strictness in some points is only equalled by its vagueness in others. Here our luck was various enough, but on the whole we fairly prospered. Nothing of particular account, however, presents itself for me to put on record, save the presence of my friends and his Grizzlyship, my now considerably large pet, Charley.

On returning from our life at these mines, we spent the whole of the following winter in the valley or at Susanville.

It would be useless to inquire into the reason of our doing so. Possibly we were lazy, or more probably had reaped too much profit from mining and trapping, during the past year. However, there were no Indian troubles that season. There may be an equal chance that this was the reason of our comparative inactivity.

The succeeding winter, that of 1861 and '62, will be remembered by all old Californians as one of the most severe which had ever occurred in that part of our country. The mountains were closed very early, so early, indeed, that few or none of the settlers in the up-lands had got in their winter supplies. They were actually shut in by the heavy snow-falls, from the possibility of doing so.

In addition to this trouble, our old enemies, the Pah-ute Indians, had again become restless.

Possibly, Uncle Sam had forgotten to purchase their forbearance. At any rate, they were again upon the war-path, for the purpose of stealing stock.

My first knowledge of this arose from the following occurrence:

A lame man, named Thomas Bear, was at this period keeping the Deep Hole Spring Station, on the Humboldt road. He chanced to be in the valley upon business, when some travellers from the Humboldt passed through it, on their way to Susanville. In passing Deep Hole, they had paused at the Station. It was to find it deserted and plundered of almost everything which an Indian would be likely to take. The floor was marked with numerous stains of blood, and there were unmistakable signs visible, which clearly told them a savage struggle had recently taken place there. Meeting Tom, they recounted these facts to him.

He had known me for some three years, and hunting me up—for if anywhere in this end of Honey Lake Valley, no man was very difficult to find,—asked me to accompany him to the Station, to discover what was the matter. The request was a natural one, and I at once complied with it.

From snow the roads were almost impassable, save on foot. I, nevertheless, set out with my lame companion on this pleasant tramp.

While resting during the night at George Laithrop's Ranch, as a matter of course, I explained the facts which induced me to accompany Bear. A young lad no more than sixteen years of age overheard me, and wished to go with us. In fact, he displayed such a determination to make a third in our party, that I could not refuse him.

"You must get a rifle from Laithrop," I said, when he asked me to take him with us.

"I've one of my own, and a Colt's six-mouthed barker, too," was his reply.

"If so, you can come with us."

On the next morning, we started again, Tom, the boy, and myself. Little trouble was anticipated by me from the red-skins, in spite of what Bear had heard. The road from the Humboldt was so constantly travelled over, and lay so much out of the usual line of their depredations, that I was almost disinclined to put full faith in the account which he had so implicitly accepted. Mud Spring Station had, however, been apparently abandoned, and we were compelled to push on to Smoke Creek without resting there. Next day, we rose early, and made the best speed we could, in the hope of reaching Deep Hole on the same night. This was, however, in consequence of the depth of the snow in many places, impossible. We were forced to stop at Wall Springs. This was at six miles' distance from the point to which our steps were directed.

When, on the succeeding day, shortly after dawn, we arrived at the Station, we found that the travellers had told Tom nothing but the truth.

Nevertheless, on a thorough examination, I found that none of the provisions or blankets had been taken. Nothing but the guns and ammunition had been made away with. But for the marks of blood on the floor and in the doorway, it is more than probable Bear's suspicions might have been equally divided between the man he had left in charge of the Station and the red-skins.

As yet, nothing had been found inside the premises to indisputably settle the fact of the man's murder, or if he had been murdered, to prove how or by whom the outrage had been committed.

The snow in front of the house might possibly have offered some proof; but the feet of the party who had brought the news to Honey Lake, had effaced all such evidence, which might have been left on it. Some days had, to a certainty, elapsed. My life in the last few years had, however, taught me the two great Indian virtues, patience and persistence. Only half of our search was yet over.

I began to examine the grounds round the Station, and found, leading to one of the largest and deepest of the springs from which it has taken its name, the track of moccasins.

Getting a long lariat, which lame Tom had procured for me, I extemporized a hook from the hoop of an old keg, and with the line to which I had attached it, began fishing in the spring, for anything I might find in it.

Nor, was my search long unrewarded.

Shortly after, in dragging the bottom, my hook caught hold of something heavy. When we had raised it to the surface of the water, it proved to be a body. As I glanced at Bear, he said, with almost a groan:

"Sure enough, it's poor Dave."

The head of the murdered man had been split with a hatchet, and afterwards scalped. A fragment of rock had been tied to the body by the Pah-utes for the purpose of sinking it.

After we had interred it, as decently as we could, we proceeded to cachÈ the blankets, provisions, and anything else which might be of value. All of the stock had been driven off, with the exception of a lame horse. This we took away with us, as, otherwise, it must have perished.

On our return, when we had reached the low Sand Hills at the foot of Smoke-creek CaÑon, we saw eight or ten red-skins coming down the side of the mountain to the right of the track in front of us. Each of them carried a stick with a piece of white rag tied to it. In the hands of an Indian, a flag of any sort means fight, and we knew it. Our preparations were speedily made. Telling the boy to lead the horse and draw his revolver, I gave his rifle to Tom Bear, who had none, bidding him cover our rear. Then, before taking my place in front, an uncommon one for most generals, and only to be pardoned on account of the exceedingly restricted number of my army, I gave my directions to the boy. They were very simple. He was to follow after me, and not use his Colt, unless I fired—if necessitated to do so.

When all was settled satisfactorily, we steadily advanced.

Soon after, the Washos reached the road. So, at least, my lame friend afterwards said they were, and it appears probable, as ten Pah-utes to two whites and a boy, even if a tall one, would scarcely have been cowed so easily. They had drawn up on either side of the track, and attempted to induce us to stop. Pushing them right and left with my rifle, I paid no attention to this, and as soon as we had passed, faced round, bidding Tom to do the same, until we were out of the range of their arrows. None of them had fire-arms.

On reaching the caÑon, instead of going through it, we crossed to the west side, in the view of preventing any risk of an ambush from them while we were in the defile. Had we exposed ourselves to this chance, and had they enough resolution to have availed themselves of it, their arrows would have told, while, unless they had incautiously uncovered themselves, there would have been exceedingly small risk of their losing any of their own party. Tom Bear was right. They very certainly could not have been Pah-utes.

We had no more trouble until we reached Laithrop's Ranch, which we did in as short a period as lame Tom and the still lamer quadruped could traverse the distance. Here, the lad who had accompanied us was to remain; and when I left him there, I was unable to refrain from giving him a few words of warm praise.

"You behaved very well, my boy, when you gave up your rifle, at once. If you obey orders so promptly now, some day you will be in a position to give them."

"I'm right glad, Captain Mose, to hear you tell me that."

As he said this, the young fellow flushed through his richly bronzed skin up to the very roots of his hair, with pleasure.

When I saw him, a somewhat sad and bitter reflection came over me. In the far West, self-reliance comes early as well as quickly. Manhood grows with action, not by years. How soon, life must rob him of the capacity of blushing at any such recognition of obedience.

There, amid the roughly hardy dwellers on the frontier, exertion rapidly blots out the modest valuation of our own merits. It, indeed, teaches a self-appreciation which frequently approaches the style of Bombastes, and which I have not uncommonly heard stigmatized as braggadocio.

This is, nevertheless, an unfair judgment. He who has to be ready for anything, whose energy and audacity have drawn him through difficulties and dangers his Eastern fellow-countryman never has been exposed to, will at times necessarily glorify his own pluck and endurance. And why should he not do so, having none around him who would be inclined to sing his praises, while they believe themselves equally or more gallant and plucky than he is?