The sentence was suddenly shortened by the appearance of the sentry, who announced that several soldiers were conducting a Modoc prisoner to head-quarters.
Gillem glanced at Kit and smiled, as he rose to his feet.
“We’re decimating their ranks at the rate of one per week,” he said. “This war is costing Uncle Sam a neat little figure.”
“Yes,” said Lava-Bed Kit. “It costs about two millions to kill a Modoc; half that sum to give one a flesh-wound. Reg’lars can’t fight Indians in California.”
“Please don’t reflect upon the regulars, Kit,” responded Gillem. “You know I won’t argue with you on the question you have sprung; but let us take a look at the solitary captive of the whole army.”
The two men left the tent, and greeted a sturdy sergeant and two privates who had halted before it with the captive Modoc.
This fellow, they said, had entered the camp with a white rag streaming from his gun-barrel, and declared himself disgusted with the Modoc cause. He would fight no more against the Government, and wished to be released on parole. His name, he said, was New York Harry, and his rank a sub-chief under the Modoc rebel.
General Gillem relieved him of his arms, a fine Spencer rifle, a brace of silver-mounted revolvers, and a bowie-knife, and released him on his word of honor.
“I will tell my men of you,” he said, through Kit, who acted as interpreter on the occasion, “and if you attempt to pass the lines, you will be shot dead.”
The savage expressed himself fully satisfied with the restrictions, and, after delivering some important information concerning Jack, was allowed to depart.