ordered their people to prepare for the war on this coming army. Circular bowl-shaped basins, six feet in diameter, were made in the ground, and paved with cobble-stones; large piles of dry wood, brush and grass were collected near the pits. All the available forces were armed with baskets, sacks, and other implements, and ordered on to the attack. The forces were put in position, and the alarm sounded, and this strange battle began. Let us stand by one of the basins, or pits, and witness the arrival of the victors, who come laden with the wounded and maimed enemies. Those in charge of the slaughter-pens, or basins, throw in wood, dry grass and sage brush, and when burnt down, the ashes are swept out with long willow brooms; then a fire is built around the upper rim of the basin, and as each captor comes with her load of thousands, they are thrown into the basin on the heated rocks. The children, especially the girls, are stationed around the circle to drive back the more enterprising crickets that succeed in hopping over, or through the fiery ring surrounding this slaughter-pen. Think, for a moment, of the helpless, writhing mass of animated nature in a hot furnace,—a great black heap of insects being stirred up with poles until they are roasted, while their inhuman torturers are apparently unconscious of the fact that these crickets are complete organisms, each with a separate existence, struggling for life.
I don’t know that it was any more inhuman than a “Yankee clam-bake,” where brave men and fair women murder thousands of animated bivalves without a thought of inflicting pain. The Indians had the advantage in a moral point of view, for the crickets
were their enemies. When the bake is over they shovel them into home-made sacks, and then, sewing them up, put them to press.
An Indian cricket-press does not work by steam, with huge screws. Plat rocks are placed on the ground, and the sack full of cooked crickets is placed thereon, and then another rock is laid on the sack; finally stones, logs, and other weighty things are placed upon the pile, until the work is complete. Meanwhile, look away down the sloping plane and see the line of battle, with sprightly young squaws on the outside, deployed as skirmishers. See how they run, and laugh, and shout, until the enemy is turned, and then the victory is followed up, each anxious to secure trophies of the battle. This is one kind of war where the women wield implements of destruction quite as well as their masters.
The battle has been fought and won, and the intruders routed and driven into the rapid current of Sprague’s river. The people rest from the siege contented, for the growing crop—carrots, and turnips—has been saved. This is not the only cause of gratulation, for now comes the best part of the war. The luscious cakes of roasted crickets are taken from the rude presses, and the brave warriors of this strange battle celebrate the victory with a feast of fresh crickets, and a grand dance, where sparkling eyes and nodding feathers, and jingling bells keep time to Indian drums.
Fastidious reader, have you ever been to a clam-bake, and seen the gay dancers celebrate the funeral of a few thousand sightless bivalves?—things that God had placed in hardened coffins and buried on
the shore, while godlike man and woman brought them to a short-lived resurrection.
Well, then, you understand how little human sympathy goes out for helpless things, and how much of thoughtless joy is experienced in this civilized kind of feasting. The Indian has the advantage, for his roasted crickets are sweet and nutritious. I speak from “the card,” as a Yankee would say.
O-che-o and Choc-toot are safe from want. The compressed cakes are “cached” away for winter use; that is to say, they are buried in a jug-shaped cellar, dug on some dry knoll, and taken out as necessity may require. The cakes when taken from the bag—as Yankee people would say, for they call everything a bag that western people call a sack—present the appearance of a caddy of foreign dates or domestic plums when dried and put in shape for merchandise.
Since my-visit to Yai-nax, at the time of locating O-che-o and his people, others have been added to the station. Old Chief Schonchin, the legitimate leader of the now notorious tribe of Modocs, has taken up his residence at Yai-nax.