“That’s an Indian,” says one of the men.
“Don’t shoot, he’s a white man!” shouts Col. Miller.
The line passes over the wounded man still in skirmish order, as they expect a Modoc volley. As they pass, Dr. Cabanis comes up and says, “Bring a stretcher here. Take Meacham. He’s not dead.”
“I am dead! I am dead!” murmurs the wounded man.
The soldiers lift the mutilated body on a stretcher.
“Water! water! give me water!” moans the wounded man.
The doctor puts a canteen of brandy to his lips. The lips refuse.
“I can’t drink brandy. I am a temperance man,” says Meacham.
“Stop your nonsense. No time for temperance talk now. Down with it! down with it!” cries the doctor.
“Am I mortally wounded, doctor?” asked Meacham. The surgeon hastily thrusts his finger into the several wounds and replies, “Not unless you are wounded internally.”