Preparations are making for defence, as the Indians do not doubt that an attack will be made immediately. Many bitter recriminations are uttered; but it is war, war to the last man! They hush all their quarrels in the necessity for united action. They pledge themselves to fight until the last man is dead. The Curly-haired Doctor calls his assistants around him and begins the Great Medicine Dance. All night long the sound of drum and song is heard. The Modocs expect every moment to hear the signal of their sentinel on the outposts announcing the “soldiers!” No sleep comes to this camp to-night.
The morning comes, but no blue-coats are seen among the rocks. The army of one thousand men are not ready yet.
The Modocs exult; they are jubilant; they have scared the Government. “It is afraid. It will grant us, now, all we ask.” Captain Jack and Scar-face Charley do not assent to this unreasonable view of the situation.
“The soldiers will come. Our victory is not complete. We must fight now until all are dead. The Modoc heart says ‘We must fight!’” Captain Jack affirms.
Saturday morning, April 13th, finds the three camps side by side, and each on the lookout for an attack.
Strong hands are bearing two rough-looking boxes up the steep bluff. In the foremost one is the body of Gen. Canby; in the other, all that is mortal of Dr. Thomas. Slowly they mount the rugged hill. They reach the waiting ambulances. The bodies are each assigned an escort. Sitting beside Gen. Canby’s coffin are his adjutant, Anderson, and the faithful Scott.
How changed the scene! a few hours since all were hopeful. Now, all are in despair, crushed under the affliction of the hour. While they move cautiously under escort, the terrible news is flashing along thousands of miles of telegraph lines, over mountains, under rivers and oceans. Before the sun sets the hearts of millions of people are beating in sympathy with the bereaved. Extras and bulletins are flying from a thousand presses. The newsboys of America are shouting the burden of the terrible telegram. The Indians along a thousand miles of the frontier have already learned that something of dreadful import has happened.
About the middle of the afternoon of this day a woman sitting in her room on State street, Salem, Oregon, raises her eyes, turning them towards the street. Perhaps the sound of steps on the wooden pavement attracts her attention. She sees two familiar faces turned towards her window. “Oh, see her! How pale she is!” She drops her work, and runs hastily to meet the two gentlemen.
“Is he dead? Is he dead? Tell me! Has my husband been killed by the Modocs?” the woman cries.
The gentlemen are speechless for the moment, while the lady pleads. They dare not speak the truth too plainly, now; she cannot bear it.