This old man, whose name was Link-river Joe, had attended a meeting held by Rev. A. F. Waller, at the Dallas Methodist Mission, twenty years before, and had still retained some of the impressions made at that time.
Old man Chi-lo-quin said he had often heard that the white man could tell when the sun would turn black a long time before it happened,—referring to the eclipse,—and inquired how the white man knew so much. This was explained until the old fellow said he thought he knew how it was; but I doubt it. Thus the last night of 1869 wore away with questions and answers. Finally we mentioned that “to-morrow will be the New Year.” The question was asked, how we knew it was so. Never have I seen an audience of five or six hundred persons so eager for information. We proposed to explain, and, holding up a watch, said to them, that when all the “little sticks” on its face were in a row together, the old year would die in the west, and another would be born in
the east. The watch was passed around while the explanation was being made. Allen David requested that, since all could not see the watch, we should fire a pistol at the exact moment. After assurance that it would cause no alarm, we held the pistol upward above our heads, and announced,—“five minutes more and 1869 will be dead,—four minutes now,—now but three.” The stillness was almost painful,—“Two minutes more, now but one,”—and five or six hundred red men were holding breath to catch the signal,—all eyes watching the finger that was to announce, by a motion, the event; the three hands on the face of the watch were in range,—the finger crooked,—a blaze of light flashed over the dusky faces, and a report went reverberating up the rocky cañons, and before it died away, six hundred voices joined in an almost unearthly farewell to “1869,” and, quickly facing to the east, another wild shout of welcome to “1870.”
The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving one white man and an interpreter sitting by the smouldering fire, talking over the wonders of the white man’s knowledge and power, accompanied by old Chief Schon-chin, Captain Jack, Allen David, and O-che-o. Thus was begun the year 1870. I was surrounded then with elements of power for mischief that were only waiting for the time when accident or mismanagement would impel one of these chieftains—Captain Jack—to open a chapter with his finger dipped in the heart’s blood of one of the noblest of the American army, the lamented Christian soldier, General Canby, who was then quietly enjoying a respite from the labors of the rebellion, with the honors of a well-spent
life gathering in a clustering wreath around the great warrior’s brow, settling down so lightly that he scarcely seemed aware that he wore a coronet made of heroic deeds and manly actions. He was looking hopefully to a future of rest in the bosom of his family, and consoling himself that life’s hardest battles were over, and that when, in a good old age, the roll-call should be sounded for him, his friends would answer in salutes of honor over his grave.
While we were shedding little rays of light on the darkened minds of our hearers, a beardless Indian boy, with face almost white, was sporting with his fellows, or quietly sleeping in his father’s lodge, soothed to rest by the rippling waters of Klamath lake. This boy—Boston Charley—was to send the messenger of death through the heart of the eminent divine—Dr. Thomas. That night Dr. Thomas was with his friends, watching on bended knees before a sacred altar, waiting for the death of 1869 and the birth of a new year, little dreaming that the crimson current of his life was so soon to mingle with the blood of the other hero in recording the tragic event of the year 1873.
He, too, had fought the good fight of the cross for thirty long years, and now felt the honors of his church gathering around his gray locks, and was looking steadily forward to the hour when his Great Commander should call him to his reward; hoping quietly and peacefully to gather up his feet in God’s own appointed time, and, bearing with him his sheaves, present them as his credentials to a mansion of eternal rest. While old Chief Schon-chin, with his long gray hair floating in the winds of the new-born year, was
opening his heart to the influx of light, sitting quietly by the dying council fire, his brother John was brooding over his broken hopes of careless life or high ambition, sitting moody and gloomy over his own camp-fire, or dreaming of a coming hour when he might avenge the insults offered his race. It may be he was living over the scenes of his stormy life, while the hand that had that day received from my hands pledges of friendship and Government faith was in three short years to fire eleven shots at the heart that beat then in kindliest sympathy with his race.
The last hours of the dying year and the first of the new one had I given from my life for the advancement of a race, whose very helplessness enhanced the zeal with which I labored for them. I could not draw aside the veil that hid the future, and see the gleaming eyes of Schon-chin John, nor his left hand clutching a dagger while his right discharged repeated shots at my breast. I did not then see my own body prostrate and bleeding in the rocks of the Lava Bed, or my own beloved family surrounded with sympathizing friends, eagerly watching the electric sparks speaking words of hope and despair alternately; but I did see, somewhere in the future, my hand running over whited page, telling the world of the way I passed the watch-night of 1869.