Round go the singing dancers, and louder grow the voices of the doctor and the women; both increasing in fury until exhausted nature gives proof of the presence of the various spirits.
The braves stand looking on to see what the prospects are; satisfied that the medicine is getting strong enough, they saunter back to the cave of the chief, where he sits with thoughtful brow, planning in a low voice the defence of the morrow; repeating again, “This is the last of my people; I must do what their hearts say; I am a Modoc, and I am not afraid to die.” Then giving orders for the fight,—designating where each man should be stationed, and appointing women to carry water and ammunition to the various stations, while they fight,—he inspects the arms, and estimates how long the powder and lead will last, tells the women to mould bullets for the old-fashioned rifles; he then turns sadly away to his sister, Queen Mary, and declares that he is now going to do what he thought he never would do,—“fight the white man.”
We leave the howling doctor and the sad chief and return to the soldier camp on the top of the bluff. The sentinels are walking the rounds; all is quiet, and the boys are taking their rest,—some of them their last rest save one. Ah! Jerry Crook, you jumped down from a stage-driver’s box to help whip the Modocs. Your heart is beating steadily now; it will beat wildly for a few minutes to-morrow afternoon, and then its pulsations will cease forever. George Roberts, too, has left a good position to come on this
mission, promising, as he fondly hopes, a dream of glory, which he will share with his comrades when hereafter he cracks his whip over the teams of the Northwest Stage Company. Enjoy it now, my dear fellow, for the vote in yonder camp has sealed your fate. Others may tell how bravely you died, but you will not live to tell of the shout of victory that the M-o-d-o-c-s will send over your dead body to-morrow night. Sleep soundly, my soldier boys; thirty of you will not answer the roll-call after the battle of the morrow.
Brave Gen. Frank Wheaton, why do you still walk back and forth, arm-in-arm with Col. John Green and Maj. Jackson? You do not feel so sanguine about to-morrow. Jackson has said something that has driven sleep from your eyes. You might find comfort in consulting Gens. Miller and Ross, and Col. Thompson, of the “Salem Press,” and Capt. Kelley, of the “Jacksonville Times.” They are State militia officers, it is true, but they are old Indian fighters, and can tell you how quickly you can whip Captain Jack in the morning. They are leading men, who may be hard to restrain, but they will take the advance. Don’t say a word to Capt. John Fairchild; he knows the Modocs, as does Press Dorris. They know the Lava Beds, too; they have hunted cattle over this country, and understand the lay of it better than any white men in the camp.
They are not so very confident. They said, to-day, to some impatient boys, “Don’t fret; you will get enough to do you before you see your mother again. The Modocs are on it sure!”
CHAPTER XXV.
MODOC STEAK FOR BREAKFAST—GRAY-EYED MAN ON THE WARPATH.