“To hang Modocs,” laconically replies Mr. Soldier.
A wail of savage woe breaks the air. The medicine-man says he “can beat that thing.”
“May be so, Curly-haired Doctor; but unless some other medicine interferes you can have a chance to try it, and, in the mean time, to reflect on the inhuman manner in which you and Hooker Jim killed Brotherton, Boddy, and others.”
Not far from the gallows we see an artist with his camera, and going toward it two men under guard. One of them shouted “Kau-tux-ie” at the council tent the 11th of April. The other one was his right-hand man then. They are inseparable now, as they have been for years past; but this time a few links of log chain, as well as bloody crimes, unite them. They cast anxious eyes towards the gibbet. They meet John Fairchild, and ask him where they are going. “Go on; it’s all right,” he replies. They take places before the camera. The artist lifts his velvet cloth, and Captain Jack looks squarely at what appears to him to be “a big gun.” To his surprise the big gun is again covered up, and he is then assured that it
will not shoot. It was under such circumstances that the likeness of Captain Jack, which accompanies this book, was taken. Old Schonchin is next made a target. They smile when led away, for they had expected to die.
Some satisfaction to know that the old fellow endured suspense, even if it was temporary. They are taken back to the guard-house, and, as they march under escort, they see Hooker Jim, Bogus Charley, Shacknasty Jim, and Steamboat Frank, walking around unfettered, unguarded, well clothed, well fed, and well armed. The chief restrains himself until he arrives at the tent used for guard-house, then he gives way to a tempest of passion, and, in true Indian style, declaims against the injustice of what he sees and feels. True, Captain Jack, you are wearing chains that properly belong to those villains. True, you pleaded with all your eloquence for peace, and against the assassination of the commissioners. True, they voted against you. True, that Bogus first proposed to kill Gen. Canby, and that he was also first to betray you to your enemies. It is also true, that for this double treachery he is now being rewarded with liberty. True enough, that that cut-throat, Hooker Jim, is the very man that put the woman’s hat on your head, and taunted you to madness, until at last you yielded against your judgment, and consented to commit the first great crime of your life. True, that he was the man who followed your trail, day and night, like a hound, until he pointed the steps of the soldier to your last hiding-place. It is for this damnable act of treachery to you that he is now being rewarded. True, also, that Steamboat Frank and Shacknasty
Jim fired as many shots at the commissioners as you did; and that they, too, voted against you while you were trying to make peace, and that they boast yet of the number of soldiers they have scalped. They joined Bogus and Hooker Jim in hunting you, carrying each a breech-loading rifle, and wearing the uniform of the United States soldiers, and were with your captors when your star fell. It is for these last-named heroic acts that they are now enjoying the boon for which you have pleaded all your life, from the same Government that pets them, and almost fawns upon them as heroes. Certainly your cup is full of grief, while theirs runs over with joy. If you were a white man we would commiserate you, and half the people of America would join in an effort to save you; but you are an Indian. No Indian can be an “honorable man;” the idea is an insult to every Irishman, and German, and the whole Caucasian race besides. You are simply unfortunate in being born in the land of the free, and the home of the brave, with a red skin. Better you had been born across the sea, and with any brogue in the world on your tongue. If you had only been blessed with a white skin, and had that kind of manhood that would have permitted you to wear some rich man’s collar, fawn upon and toady to the whims and caprices of your masters, at the sacrifice of your own self-respect, and that of the rest of mankind, then your crimes might have been condoned. But you are now a citizen, and you may enjoy a citizen’s privilege of being punished for other men’s crimes as well as your own.
Gen. Davis has invited the settlers of the Lost-river country, to “come in and identify the murderers,
and stolen property captured from the Modocs.” Among others who availed themselves of the opportunity are two women. We have seen them before,—the first time on the afternoon of November 29th, 1872, when the red-handed villain who walks around camp, the lion of the day,—Hooker Jim,—came to them with his hands red with the heart’s blood of their husbands; and again, when a funeral procession was slowly wending its way to the Linkville cemetery. We recognize them as Mrs. Boddy and her widowed daughter, Mrs. Schiere. Gen. Davis, with the heart of a true man and soldier, receives them kindly, and assigns them to a tent; patiently listens to the sad story of their great bereavement.
He calls on them again, taking with him Hooker Jim and Steamboat Frank. Mrs. Boddy identifies Hooker as one of the Indians concerned in the massacre. When questioned as to the robbery of Mrs. Boddy’s house, Hooker Jim replies, “I took the short purse, and Long Jim took the other purse.”