Hanging to Hooker Jim’s belt is a fair-haired scalp, still fresh; the blood of young Hovey still undried upon Hooker’s clothing, giving him no more concern than if it had come from the veins of a deer or an antelope. The lock of hair had once been blessed by the hands of a tender mother, who for nineteen years had watched over her first-born son. Now it is dishonored, used only as a record by which a savage makes proof of excellence in performing feats of fiendish heroism.
The “Iowa Veteran,” with an eye always out for
sport, remarks, “Old man, there’s going to be some lively fun in a few minutes; wish you could see it. There’s fourteen Indians going for water, and a company has started out to capture them. Two to one the Modocs lick ’em.” Taking a station at the tent door, he continued: “I’ll keep you posted, old man; keep cool. The Modocs are taking position. They aint more than eight hundred yards from here. Now look out,—the fun will begin pretty soon.” Bang, bang, and there is a rattling of rifles mixed with the Modoc war-whoop. “Here they come back, carrying three men; but the Modocs are following up. Don’t that beat the devil and the Dutch?” remarks the irate veteran; “you’ve seen a big dog chase a cayote until the cayote would turn on him, and then the big dog would turn tail and run for home with the cayote after him, haven’t you? Well, that’s exactly what’s going on out here now. This whacks anything I ever witnessed, by Jupiter! Two to one, the Modocs take the camp. By gorry, old man, don’t know what we are to do with you. You can’t run; you can’t fight; you are too big for me to carry; wish I had a spade, I’d bury you now until the fun is all over; but it’s too late. Can’t help it, old man, you needn’t dodge; it won’t do any good; just lay still, and if they come, play dead on ’em again. You can do that to perfection, and there aint a darn bit of danger of their trying to get another scalp off of you. Too big a prairie above the timber line for that. ‘Boston’ was a darn fool to try it before.”
While this speech is being made, the Modocs are coming towards the soldier camp, firing occasional shots in among the tents. “By Goshens, we’ll have
fun now. They’re a-going; shell ’em; ha! ha! ha! Shell a dozen Modocs! Ha! ha! ha! don’t that beat sulphur king out of his boots? Ha! ha! ha! Steady, old man, steady now. Keep cool. They’re ready to fire. The Indians are in plain sight! Yip-se-lanta; there it goes, screeching, screaming, right in among the rocks where the Modocs are, and explodes.” The smoke clears up. The Indians come out from behind the rocks, and, turning sideways to the soldier camp, pat their shot-pouches at the Boston soldiers. Shell after shell is fired and each time the Modocs take cover until they explode, and then, with provoking insolence, they pat their shot-pouches at an army of five hundred men,—that is, what is left of that army. “Cease firing!” commands Gen. Gilliam, from the signal-station. The shell guns are covered with the nice canvas housing. The Modocs now organize an artillery battery, and, taking position, elevating their rifles to an angle mocking the shell guns, Scar-faced Charley stands behind and gives the order, “Fire!” and the Modoc battery is now playing on a camp where there are no rocks for cover. Several shots spit down among the Boston soldiers.
“I went with Grierson through Alabama, with Sherman through Georgia, but that whacks anything ever I saw. Two to one they attack the camp, by thunder! and if they do they’ll take it sure. B’gins to look pretty squally, old man. If they come, your only show is to play dead. You can do it. I don’t like to leave you, but I’ll have to do it, no other chance. We’ll come back and bury what they don’t burn up.”
The gray-eyed man, Fairchild, comes to the tent-door and engages the veteran in a talk. “I say,
captain, don’t you wish we had Capt. Kelly’s volunteers here now? Wouldn’t they have a chance for Modoc steaks, eh? They’re the fellows that could take the Modocs. I’ve been out home and just come in. Where are the Warm Springs’ scouts all this time?” The veteran—Capt. Ferree—replies: “Oh, they are out on the other side of the Lava Beds surrounding the Modocs; to keep them from getting away.” Fairchild: “They aint going to leave here, no fear of that. But did you ever see anything like this morning’s performances?—fourteen Indians come out, kill three men, insult the whole camp, mock the shell guns, threaten the camp, scare everybody most to death, and then retire to their own camp. That caps the climax. Say, old man Meacham, how you making it, anyhow? Going to come out, aint you? You wasn’t born to be killed by the Modocs, that’s certain. That old bald head of yours is what saved you, old man, no mistake.” Veteran: “I’ve just been telling him that I’ll have a spade on hand next time the Modocs come, so I can bury him until the fun’s over.” Fairchild: “Bully! that’ll do; just the thing. I think you had better have the hole ready. No telling what might happen. Them Modocs mighty devilish fellers; just like ’em to attack the camp; and if they do they’ll take it, sure; wish we had the Oregon volunteers here now to protect us.”
Four P.M.—and a long line of carriages are returning from Lone Mountain, leaving Dr. Thomas with the dead.
Another long line of mourners are following a hearse down Front street, Portland, to the steamer Oriflamme,