Old Schonchin John arose; his face was full of war; he was in for a fight. He recalled the “Ben Wright” massacre; he said, “We have nothing to expect from the white men. We can die, but we will not die first. I won’t give it up; I want to fight. I can’t live long. I am an old man.” Schonchin sat down. He had no hope for his life; his crimes were all arrayed against him, and he knew it.
Scar-face Charley rose to talk. He said, “I was mad on Lost river; my blood was bad. I was insulted. I have many friends among the white men. I do not want to kill them. We cannot stand against the white men. True, I am a Modoc. What their hearts are, my heart is. May be we can stop this war. I want to live in peace.”
Curly-haired Doctor, who was with the murdering gang in Lost river, arose and said, “I am a Modoc. My hands are red with white man’s blood. I was mad when I saw the dead women and children on Lost river. I want war. I am not tired. The white men cannot fight; they shoot in the air. I will make a medicine that will turn the white man’s bullets away from the Modocs. We will not give up. We can kill all that come.”
The discussion is ended, and now comes the vote. They divide off,—those who were for war walked out on one side, and those who favor peace on the other. These people are democratic; the majority rules.
The vote is of vast importance to others than the Modocs. One hundred and fifty soldiers and many citizens are interested in that vote. Gen. Canby, Dr. Thomas, and your writer, are to be very much affected by that vote. Millions of dollars hang on the decision.
Hold your breath while each man elects for himself. The chief, Captain Jack, walks boldly out on the side of peace, but, O my God, few dare follow him. The majority vote for blood, and gather around Schonchin John, and the Curly-haired Doctor. The die is cast, war is inevitable; let us see who is with Captain Jack. There goes “Scar-face Charley,” “William” (the wild gal’s man), “Miller’s Charley,”
“Duffey,” “Te-he Jack,” “Little Poney,” “Big Poney,” “Duffey’s Boy,” “Chuckle-head,” “Big Steve,” “Big Dave,” “Julia’s man,”—fourteen men, no more.
The bloodthirsty villains who held the balance of power are, “Schonchin,” “Curly-head Doctor,” “Bogus Charley,” “Boston Charley,” “Hooker Jim,” “Shacknasty Jim,” “Steamboat Frank,” “Rock-Dave,” “Big Joe,” “Curly Jack,” and the remainder of the band, numbering thirty-seven, all told. There are two strange Indians there, also; they are Pitt river thieves, they do not vote. The doctor’s speech has done the work. These infuriated thirty-six men believe in him, and his promise to make medicine that will turn the bullets of the white men. This has more power than the clear, logical reasoning of Captain Jack. Having turned the current of so many lives, the doctor, exulting in his success, repaired to his cave to fulfil his promise.
Suppose we follow him and see how this thing is done. He calls the singing women of the band together, and, having prepared roots and religious meats, he builds a fire, and, with a great deal of ceremony, he places the sacrifice thereon; then inhaling the smoke and odor of the burning mess, he begins his religious incantations; calling down the good spirit, calling up the bad spirit, and calling loudly for the spirits of the dead Indians to come; while the women, having pitched a tune to his words, begin to sing, and with their shoulders touching each other, they start off in a rough, hobbly kind of a dance, singing meanwhile; and a drummer, too, joins in with a hideous noise, made on a drain of peculiar shape, with but one head
of dried rawhide, or untanned buckskin, drawn tightly over a rough-made hoop.