Just ahead, we see rising above the rocky plain a craggy ledge, standing like an immense comb, the spikes of lava forming great teeth. On the right and left it looks as if the teeth-like crags are broken midway, and our trail is pointing to one of these breaks.
Before reaching it, we see on either hand where the breaks are filled with stones, piled in such a way that port-holes are left, through which the Modocs propose to fire on the advancing foes when they come to the attack.
Passing between upright spires of lava, we come out on a smooth plain of fractured stones; and, passing near the end of the second little bay, we find rough, sharp ledges rising to intercept our way.
Picking our steps, we stand on the summit of the ledge. Shut your eyes now while we pass over a chasm of thirty feet in depth, and with walls almost perpendicular. Our bridge has been made by a gorge of loose rocks that fill the chasm to its lips. Some of these have been rolled in by Indian hands, and some by old Vulcan himself, when he spilled the lava there.
Come, follow the trail,—now we stand a moment and, looking right and left, we see great fissures and caverns that look dark and forbidding; suggesting ambush. No danger here now,—we left the Modoc sentinel behind us, at the huge comb-like ledge. He
is not afraid of us, and all the other Modocs are in council. Climbing a cliff that overlooks a deep, wide chasm, we catch sight of the sage-brush fire, and suddenly half a hundred warriors, in half dress of “Boston,” half of savage costume,—some of them are bare-armed, and have curious-looking figures on them made of paint.
This is not safe now, for sharp eyes scan the surroundings, and while this council is going on, the Modoc women are doing duty. Some of them are piling on the sage brush to keep the fire going. Others are standing, apparently pillars of stone; sphinx like, they gaze outward, for although this council is being held in a place secure from gaze of pale-faced man, the Modocs, Indian like, are ever on the alert, and do not intend to be taken by surprise. Since this is not safe for us, we had better play Indian spirit, if we would see and hear what is going on. What we lack in catching the words in the spirit correctly, we will obtain from some friendly Indian hereafter. See that fellow there; his face looks familiar; yet he is not a Modoc. Oh! yes; we recognize him now; we saw him at the peace meeting, taking the Modocs by the hand then, and afterwards taunting them with their poverty and cowardice while they were on Klamath Reservation in 1870. That fellow is Link-river Jack. He is a natural traitor.
He has crept cautiously into the Modoc camp to give them warning of the soldiers coming. He is the Modocs’ friend now; he tells them that a large army is coming; that they are on the bluff almost within sight.
This was not news; for the Modocs had counted the soldiers, man by man, and knew exactly how many was in either camp. They knew, too, that half the soldiers were citizens with whom they had dealt for years. Link-river Jack tells them of the feeling outside against them; that peace may be had on the surrender of the Modocs who killed the settlers. We did not hear him tell them that if they would hold out a few days, the Klamaths and Snakes would join them; but our friendly Indian asserts that he did.
All eyes turn now to the chief, Captain Jack. He rises with stately mien and says, “We have made a mistake. We cannot stand against the white men. Suppose we kill all these soldiers; more will come, and still more, and finally all the Modocs will be killed; when we kill the soldiers others will take their places; but when a Modoc gets killed no man will come to take his place; we must make the best terms we can. I do not want to fight the white man. I want no war; I want peace. Some of the white men are our friends. Steele and Roseborough are our friends; they told us not to fight the white men; we want no war; soon all the young men will be killed. We do not want to fight.”