“Try me, and you will find out that I am John Fairchild.” These brave fellows had not lost any Indians just then, they hadn’t. Bah!
“Who are your officers?” said Fairchild.
The information was furnished, and soon the grey-eyed man was reading a chapter not found in the Talmud, or the Bible either. As reported, it was eloquent, though not classical.
Preparations were being completed for a forward movement. One-half the army was to move to the attack from the south, while the other was to move down from the north. The 16th of January, 1873, the two wings were within a few miles on either side. Orders were given to be in motion before daylight the following morning. Some spicy little colloquies were had between the members of the volunteer companies; some, indeed, between officers.
One brave captain of volunteers said to another, “I have but one fear, and that is that I can’t restrain my men, they are so eager to get at ’em; they will eat the Modocs up raw, if I let ’em go.”
“Don’t fret,” said Fairchild; “you can hold them; they wont be hard to keep back when the Modocs open fire.”
“I say, Jim, are you going to carry grub?”
“No. I am going to take Modoc Sirloin for my dinner.”
“I think,” said a burly-looking fellow, “that I’ll take mine rare.”
Another healthy-looking chap said he intended capturing a good-looking squaw for a—dishwasher. (Good-looking squaws wash dishes better than homely ones.)