While we are preparing breakfast a couple of soldiers come about the fire. “I say, capt’n, have you give it up tryin’ to make peace with them Injuns there?”
“Don’t know; why?” we reply.
“Well, ’cause why them boys as has been in there says as how it’s nearly litenin’; them Modocs don’t give a fellow any chance; we don’t want any Modoc, we don’t.”
“Sorry for you, boys; we are doing all we can to save you, but the pressure is too heavy; guess you’ll have to go in and bring them out.”
Squatting down before the fire, one of them, in a low voice, says, “Mr. Commissioner, us boys are all your fre’ns,—we are; wish them fellers that wants them Modocs whipped so bad would come down and do it theirselves; don’t you? Have you tried everything you can to make peace?”
“Yes, my good fellow, we have exhausted every honorable means, and we cannot succeed.”
“Bro. Meacham, where did you learn to make bread? Why, this is splendid. Bro. Dyer, did you make this coffee? It’s delicious.” So spoke our good doctor at breakfast.
“Good-morning, Mr. Meacham,” said Gen. Canby, after breakfast. “Who is cooking for your mess now?”
“Co-pi, ni-ka,—myself.”
“What does Mr. Dyer do?”