A dark spot in the road between Fairchild’s ranch and Gen. Davis camp shakes, upheaves, and with thunderous voice proclaims in the ears of a Christian nation, “Here we fell at the hands of your sons after we had surrendered. ‘Vengeance!’”
Fifty thousand hearts, in red-skinned tabernacles on the Pacific coast, respond, “Wait.”
Seventeen voiceless spirits have answered the roll-call who were sent off to the future hunting-ground by United States sulphur, saltpetre and strong cords.
Seventeen from fifty-three, leaving thirty-six,—the returns say, thirty-nine.
How is this? Look the matter up, and we shall find that “Old Sheepy” and his son Tom Sheepy, who never fired a shot during the war,—in fact, was never in the Lava Beds,—are compelled to leave their home with Press Dorris and go with the party to Quaw-Paw.
Another,—a son of Old Duffey,—who remained at Yai-nax during the war, sooner than be separated from his friends, joins the exiles on their march.
Now all are accounted for, and the record here made is correct.
The other side we have told from time to time in the progress of this narrative. The cost of this war has not yet been footed up.