Donald McKay, “the scout,” with seventy-two picked men, is dismounting at Col. Mason’s camp. Leaving them, he is challenged by the picket guard and, passing in, reports himself to the officer of the day.
His men stand waiting his return. Meanwhile we will go close enough to inspect them. They are
dressed in the uniform of the soldiers of the United States. Their arms are the same, and in the moonlight they appear to be “Regulars.” If the wounded man in the hospital were here they would salute him with, “Tuts-ka-low-a?” (“How do you do, old man Meacham?”) And he would reply, “Te-me-na, Shix-te-wa-tillicums.” (“My heart is all right.”)
These boys are Warm Spring Indians, and the same men who were in the council tents in 1856, when the Government swindled them and their fathers out of their homes in the beautiful “Valley of the Tygh.” They were also in the revival meeting at the Warm Springs Agency in 1871, when the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, who now lies in yonder hospital, and Agent John Smith, took so many red hands in their own and recognized a brotherhood with them. They are the same men, too, who have for years past, each Sunday morning, joined their beloved agent in prayer and song. They have left behind them humble homes, in a poor country, where the Government placed them, and where it still keeps them by the strong arm of the law, without consulting their wishes,—a home they cannot leave, even for a day, without a “pass.” Their manhood was acknowledged in making a treaty; but denied as soon as the compact was completed, until in 1866, when the Government found it had an expensive war on hand with the Snake Indians, and then it offered these men the privilege of volunteering to whip the Snake Indians. This offer they accepted, and were rewarded for their services with a few greenbacks, worth fifty cents on a dollar, and an invitation to a new treaty council, in which they were cheated out of a reserved right to the fisheries
on the Columbia river, near “The Dalles;” and then they were summoned back to their unsought homes, subject to the whims and caprices of Government officers, who were given positions as a reward for political services. True, they agreed to the terms, and they must be made to stand by them whether their pledges were made freely and voluntarily, or under the shining bayonets of an army, and by reason of the superior diplomatic talent of the Government officials who outwitted them. It makes no difference. They are Indians, and three-fourths of the people of the United States believe and say that “the best Indians are all under ground.”
Anxious to demonstrate their loyalty to a Government that has been so good to them, and to establish their right to manhood’s privileges, when an opportunity offered, they enlisted by the advice and consent of their agent, and, followed by his prayers, they are here to-night under the famous scout, Donald McKay.
He evidently is not a “Warm Spring Indian,” yet they trust him, knowing, from their experience with him in the Snake campaign of 1866, that he is thoroughly reliable. Donald McKay is half brother to Dr. Wm. C. McKay. His mother was a Cayuse woman. Being a man of extraordinary endowments, which fit him for a leader, he has taken an active part in all recent Indian wars of the Northwest. His name alone carries a warning to refractory “red-skins.”
As Donald approached his men on his return from head-quarters, several voices inquire if “old man Meacham is dead.” Quietly leading their horses inside the picket line, they unpack the kitchen, mule and blanket ponies.
It is now Sunday morning, the 13th of April. The sun finds couriers on the road to Y-re-ka, bearing despatches announcing that “Meacham is sinking. The surgeons have extracted four bullets from his wounds. The Modocs cannot get away.”
A sad, anxious woman is leaving the depot at Salem, Oregon, destined for the Lava Beds. At home her children are in tears, realizing how dark the clouds of sorrow may become.