James Fairchild—a brother to John A., the “gray-eyed man”—left Fairchild’s ranch on the morning of the 8th, with a four-mule team, and a wagon filled with Modoc men, women, and children, who had surrendered and were entirely unarmed.
Very little things sometimes turn the current of great events. When leaving Fairchild’s ranch on the morning in question, the entire party consisted of seventeen Modoc captives and the brothers Fairchild. Among the captives were Bogus Charley and Shacknasty Jim. Before arriving at Lost river the party divided, James Fairchild driving the team and going by a longer route, on account of crossing Lost river at a wagon ford; John A. Fairchild, together with Shacknasty Jim and Bogus on horseback, going by a shorter route. The latter party, not mistrusting danger, continued on their way, not waiting for the team to come up to the junction of the roads.
While James was crossing the river he encountered a body of Oregon volunteers, under command of Capt. Hizer. The soldiers gather around the wagon and question Fairchild. He explains to them that the Indians under his care are Modoc captives, all of them Hot Creeks; that he is taking them to the head-quarters of General Davis on “the peninsula,” to deliver them up; that none of them have been accused of being parties to any murder or assassination. This seems to satisfy the soldiers, and they retire to their camp. Fairchild passes on towards his point of destination. After proceeding a few miles he sees two men going towards the road, with the evident intention of intercepting him. The Indians in the wagon also make the discovery, and beg Fairchild to turn back, to save them. He feels that trouble is brewing. He looks in vain for his brother John and the Indians that are with him. The two men have halted by the roadside. Fairchild comes up to them. They order him to halt, and accompany the order with a
heavy “persuader” in close proximity to his head. The music made by “spring steel” under the manipulation of a man’s hand has but two notes,—a short tick and a long click; and then the “persuader” is ready for business. Fairchild, hearing this kind of music, halts, and to the “Get down, you old white headed ——,” etc., demands, “By whose authority?” “By mine. I am going to kill them Ingens, and you too, —— you!”
One of the civilized white men cuts the mules clear of the wagon. Fairchild leaps to the ground, still clinging to the lines. The unarmed captive women beg for mercy. They plead with Fairchild to save them. They raise imploring hands and cry, “Don’t kill! don’t kill!” The four Indian warriors are mute; they know resistance is in vain. Fairchild entreats the white men to desist. The muzzle of a needle-gun is within six inches of his ear. A shot, and “Little John’s” brains are scattered over the women and children. Another, and “Te-hee Jack” is floundering among them. Another, and “Poney’s” blood is spurting over his wife and children. Still another shot, and “Mooch” falls among shrieking squaws. One more, and “Little John’s” wife is shot through the shoulder. The five are writhing in the death agony together, and the blood of the victims is streaming through the floor of the wagon and dropping in puddles on the ground beneath. A dust is seen rising from the road. The civilized white murderers decamp in haste, leaving Fairchild holding to his mules, while the uninjured Modoc women are extricating themselves from the dead bodies which had fallen on them. The blood of this civilized butchery still drops from
the wagon. Sergeant Murphy and ten men, Battery A, of the Fourth Artillery, came upon the scene. The civilized butchers are fleeing. No effort is made to arrest them. Sergeant Murphy had not been ordered to arrest them, and, of course, he had no right to arrest white men without an order. Capt. Hizer’s company of Oregon volunteers is within a few miles also. The country is open; the murderers have but a few miles the start. But Capt. Hizer has no orders to arrest white men either. He is not there for that purpose; and no one can censure him because he did not catch the civilized white murderers. Those men were seen by Fairchild before and behind the wagon. They were on the watch for John Fairchild. Had he and his party been with the team when the attack was made, the census return of that county would not have been quite so large as it is, especially on the Anglo-Saxon civilized list. Pity he was not there, for he is “a dead shot.” The commiseration is due, however, to the community that furnished homes for the fellows who covered themselves with glory by performing this heroic feat. True, they dare not boast of it now, but they will by and by. The grand jury of Jackson County did not find bills of indictment against them. No effort has ever been made to discover the names of the perpetrators of this deed. True, there were those that claimed to know who the persons were, but they never tell; neither would they tell, if placed on the witness stand. I would not have my reader suppose that the people of Oregon approved of the crime—very far from it. They condemned it in unstinted terms, and with one voice shouted, “Shame! Shame!” So they would have done if the
tables had been turned. No State in the Union has a more orderly, law-abiding, peace-loving people than Oregon; none that venerates justice more highly. True, they have sometimes been lenient to the white men of bad character. But no more so than other States where votes are necessary to elevate men to power. Like all other peoples they are tender-hearted towards all men who control votes. As a people they are brave, without a doubt; but among them occasionally may be found specimens of cut-throats, who kill unarmed people; and once in a great while, just as in the States of Massachusetts or New York, an editor who does the same kind of work with his pen, when he thinks he can do it with impunity. But the respectable editors, there as elsewhere, have learned sense enough to let a man alone when he is down, until they are sure he can’t get up before they kick him. With great unanimity those of Oregon and the whole Pacific coast denounce the killing of helpless, unarmed Indians, as they did the killing of settlers after the battle of Lost river, Nov., 1873,—only not quite strong enough to justify the authorities in making any efforts to bring the offenders to justice.
The scene changes to a military camp on the “peninsula,” at the south end of Tule lake. A hundred white tents declare this to be the head-quarters of the army that whipped the Modocs,—that is to say, the army to whom the Modoc traitors turned over their chief. One hundred and twenty poor, miserable specimens of humanity are under guard. There is great rejoicing over the victory. The Modoc women and, children are contented, in one sense at least,—they are
well fed, and have rest. The Government teams have just arrived from the mountains with timber. The quartermaster’s forces are engaged in rough carpenter work. Curious-looking building they are erecting,—looks something like a country butcher’s windlass; but it is not that, for there is more of it. The Modoc captains wonder what it is for. They are unsophisticated in civilized modes of appeasing outraged justice.
Scar-face Charley asks a soldier, “What for that thing they make?”