“Burying the dead,” quietly responds the veteran nurse.
A few minutes pass, and another volley is fired, and another soldier is being laid away to rest forever. Still another, and another yet; until five volleys announce that five of the boys who started out with United States rifles in the morning are occupying the narrow homes that must be theirs forever.
At irregular intervals during the night the fight is continued. The Modocs are constantly on duty. The soldiers relieve each other, and are in fighting condition when Tuesday morning comes. No cessation of firing through the day. No rest for the Modocs.
One of the camp sutlers, well known all over the
West as a game fellow, unable to restrain his love for sport, and being Pat-riotic, goes to quartermaster Grier and demands a breech-loader, and also a charger to ride, saying he wanted to do something to help whip the Modocs. Mr. Grier informed Pat that he could not issue arms without an order. Pat was indignant, and made application successfully to a citizen for the necessary outfit for war. He mounted Col. Wright’s mule and repaired to the scene of action.
On reaching the line of battle he looked around a few minutes, and, to a word of caution given him by an officer, replied, “Divil an Indian do I see. I came out to git a scalp, and I’m not goin’ home without it.”
The officer who had given him the friendly advice watched the bold sutler as he kept on his way with his “Henry,” ready to pick off any Modoc who might be imprudent enough to show his head. The soldiers shout, “Come back! come back!” but on goes the fearless sutler, carefully picking his way. Look very closely, now, and we can see what appears to be a moving sage-bush. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it creeps over the ledges. If Pat would only look in the right direction he could see it and have a chance at the travelling bush; and as he is a good shot, he might scatter the leaves, besides boring a hole through Steamboat Frank’s head. A puff of smoke comes out of the now immovable bush, and the report mingles with the roar of battle. Pat’s mule drops under him, and he slips off and takes cover behind a low rock. The mule recovers its feet, and, with almost human sense, makes its way back to the soldiers’ line. Pat, anxious to discover his man, raises his head above the rocks. Whiz! comes another bullet, so
close that Pat drops back quietly,—indeed, so very quietly that the soldiers report him dead; and noble-hearted Pat is named among the slain. But let us see how he really is. After lying contented awhile, he again slowly lifts his head, and another shot comes so close that Pat again drops behind the rock, and a second time the soldiers shout, “They’ve got him this time, sure!”
Not so, however. Pat is not hurt yet. Again and again he attempts to move from behind the rock, scarcely large enough to protect him, and each time Steamboat fires. No one who knows Pat McManus ever doubted his courage, but he deserves credit, also, for remembering that “Discretion is the better part of valor.” He finally arranges himself for a “quiet snooze behind the rock,” as he expressed it, and awaited the welcome shades of evening. He then crawls out to the soldier line. It is said that he stood the fire of the soldiers who mistook him for an Indian, until he shouted to them, “Dry up, there! It’s me! Don’t you know a white man on his knees from an Injun on his belly?”
Directly west of Captain Jack’s stronghold is a flat an almost level plain of lava rocks of six hundred yards in width, but commanded by the stronghold, while it does not offer protection to those who attempt to hold it. To complete the investment it is necessary to take this “flat.” Lieut. Eagan is ordered to the execution of this enterprise. He is a daring leader, and, calling to his men to follow, moves forward. It is known to be a hazardous undertaking, but Eagan is just the man. Away he goes, jumping from one rock to another, calling to his men: “Come, my