Fairchild’s men now go to the rescue, crawling on their faces; they almost reach the two wounded men; one of the rescuers falls; they cannot be saved. One wounded man begs to be killed. “Don’t leave me alive for the Modocs.” The cry is in vain. The army of four hundred men are on the retreat. They fall back, followed by the shouts and bullets of the
Modocs, and soon leave the voices of the wounded behind them. Is it true that our army is retreating now from fifty savages?
Is it possible that our heroes, who were to dine on “Modoc sirloins,” are scrambling over the rocks on empty stomachs, after a ten-hour fight? Is it true that the cries for help by wounded soldiers are heard only by the Modocs? Yes, my reader, it is true. Every effort to save them cost other lives.
Our army grope their way in darkness over the rocks they had passed so hopefully a few hours since. They climb the bluff, expecting an attack each minute; the wounded, who are brought off the field, are compelled to await surgical aid until the army can be placed in a safe position.
The camp on the north is reached, and, without waiting for morning, they fall back to “Bremer’s” and “Fairchild’s.”
When the roll is called in the several companies thirty-five regulars and volunteers fail to answer. Their dead bodies lie stark and cold among the rocks. The Modoc men disdain to hunt up victims of the fight. The squaws are permitted to do this work. It is from Modoc authority, that they found two men alive at daylight next morning, and that they stoned them to death; finally ending this long night of horror by one of the most cruel deaths that savage ingenuity could suggest. Look now in the Modoc camp when the squaws come in, bearing the arms and clothing of the fallen United States soldiers. See them parade these before the Indian braves. See those young, ambitious fellows, with those curious-looking things. Here are “Hooker Jim,” “Bogus Charley,” and “Boston Charley,”
“Shacknasty Jim,” “Steamboat Frank,” and several others, holding aloft these specimens of God’s handiwork and their own.
You ask, What are they?
Go to yesterday’s line of battle, scan the rocks closely, and you will see some of them are dyed with human gore; look closely, and you will see a bare foot, may be a hand, half-covered with loose stones; examine carefully, move the rocks, and you will find a mutilated white body there, and if you will uncover the crushed head you will see where the articles came from that the Modoc braves are showing with so much pride.
Suppose you count the Modoc warriors now. We know they had fifty-three yesterday morning, for we have the names of all the men of the whole tribe, and we have taken pains to ascertain that every man who did not belong to Captain Jack’s band was at “Yai-nax,” under the eye of the old chief “Schonchin” and the Government agent, while the battle of yesterday was going on, except three Modocs—Cum-ba-twas—and they were with Capt. Oliver Applegate’s company during the fight. There is no miscount. Fairchild, Applegate, Dorris, and Frank Riddle know every one personally. Call the roll in Jack’s camp, and every man will answer to his name, except one man who was wounded in a skirmish on the 15th, with Col. Perry’s company of regulars. This statement is correct, notwithstanding the Telegraph said the Modocs had two hundred men in the fight.