In September, 1852, an emigrant train, comprising sixty-five men, women and children, was making its way northward into the lake region of Southern Oregon.
    The California-Oregon trail led between Lower Klamath and Tule Lakes. [The trail involved was the southern route of the Oregon Trail, commonly called the Applegate Trail--not the trail between Oregon and California.] Huge bluffs several hundred feet high approached nearly the shore of Tule Lake, leaving a narrow road between the cliffs and the water. There the emigrant party mentioned was overwhelmed Modoc Indians led by old Schonchin. The Modocs closed both ends of the trail and attacked from the bluffs. The settlers fought bravely, but to no avail. Those not killed were captured and tortured to death with every device of savage malignity. One man, desperately wounded, and left for dead, escaped to tell the tale. Two girls of twelve and fourteen were spared. The massacre of Bloody Point long remained a ghastly memory on the frontier.
    This affair was the culmination of a series of unparalleled atrocities. The magnitude of this latest massacre, however, begot stern determination for revenge. One Ben Wright, a man of influence and standing in California, led a body of volunteers in pursuit of the Modocs. The Indians eluded him, and he was unable to bring them to a stand in order to crush them. Failing that, he resorted to a stratagem--which was treachery of the deepest dye. He sent messengers to the Modocs with propositions of peace. They agreed to his proposition, that Schonchin and his principal warriors should meet the settlers for a peace conference at a point on the shore of the lake across from Bloody Point, both sides being unarmed. There was to be an armistice; each party was to come and go freely, unharmed of the other. It is alleged that Wright mixed strychnine with food which he prepared for a peace feast, hoping to poison the whole party. Two reasons are given for the failure of this enterprise. One, the Modocs refused to eat; two, the strychnine proved to be innocuous.*

    *Perhaps the person who sold it may have tricked the purchaser, being unwilling to further such wholesale assassination.

    At any rate, out of conflicting stories one thing is clear.
    Some forty-six Modocs attended this conference. Schonchin was kept from it by illness, but his sub-chiefs and principal men were present. Wright's men were armed, the Modocs were not. Giving a signal, Wright whipped out his pistol and shot the nearest Indian dead. In five minutes after the firing began forty-one guests of this Red Abencerrages feast lay dead. Five escaped, among them the younger brother of the chief, named Schonchin John.
    It is true the Modocs had been guilty of numberless outrages. They had waged war in a cruel and unjustifiable manner, from the civilized standpoint, although quite in consonance with their savage customs. The settlers were justly exasperated, yet there was no excuse for the ineffable treachery of assassination under a flag of truce. Yet public opinion, highly wrought as it was, fully sustained Wright and his men. The chief murderer was acclaimed a popular hero and was subsequently made Indian Agent--for having shown that he possessed qualities which enabled him to deal successfully with the red men, I presume! He was killed by the Indians a few years later.
    The lesson was a severe one to the Indians. The power of the Modocs was broken. They remained defiant, but their capacities for further mischief were greatly impaired. They remembered the transaction, however, and it bore bitter fruit in the end.
    In 1864 a treaty was made with the Modocs by which they agreed to go upon the reservation, which had been set apart for the La-lakes, or Klamaths, and themselves. The treaty was not ratified by the United States Senate until 1869. One or two minor alterations were made in it before the ratification, and the Modocs saw in these changes an excuse for [not] complying with its provisions. The main body of them under old Schonchin finally accepted the treaty and went on the reservation. Captain Jack, one of the head chiefs, with a band numbering about a score of warriors with their women and children, Curly-headed Doctor, one of his sub-chiefs, Hooker Jim, and others, with small groups of followers, proved recalcitrant. They were finally induced to go on the reservation, there to meet with bitter persecution from the malicious and overbearing Klamaths, who greatly exceeded them in numbers.
    Jack protested to the Indian agents who, instead of requiring the Klamaths to leave the Modocs in peace, moved them from one part of the reservation to another. This happened several times until the Modocs finally grew desperate. They refused to stay on the reservation any longer and migrated to their old home in the Lost River region, a country teeming with game and fish. Having accepted the treaty, they had no right there, of course, and the section was rapidly filling with settlers who resented their presence. But they had been [badly] dealt with; the government had given them no protection on the reservation. They had been moved from pillar to post, and had never remained long enough in one stay to make a crop--even the poor crop of the Indian. Wherever they had been sent the Klamaths had followed them and had made life a burden for them. No other reservation was proposed to them. They naturally went back to the land of their fathers.
    It cannot be denied that they were a drunken, dissolute, disreputable lot. Just a sordid, squalid, degraded band of homeless, wretched Indians. They frightened the women and children, and worried and annoyed the settlers, although there is no evidence that they resorted to open violence. The situation, however, was plainly impossible. Something had to be done.
    The commander of the Department was Gen. Edward S. Canby, a soldier of forty years' experience, distinguished in three wars, familiar with Indian affairs, well-disposed toward his red brethren, a just and upright man of the highest qualities. The matter could not have been committed to better hands. Asserting that the Modocs had been unjustly and harshly treated, he deprecated the employment of force against them. He hoped to effect a settlement of the difficulties by peaceable methods. In spite of every effort the trouble grew, until it culminated in a formal request from the local Indian Agent upon Maj. John Green of the First Cavalry, who commanded at Fort Klamath, made at the instance of the Interior Department, that the Modocs be put on the reservation, "peaceably if you can, forcibly if you must." Major Green dispatched Capt. James Jackson with some forty troopers to Jack's camp on Lost River, a few miles above Tule Lake.
    Jackson had orders to arrest Captain Jack and several of his companions for the murder of an Indian medicine man whom Jack had shot on the reservation because he had failed to cure the chief's ailing children--a summary way to pay a doctor's bill! Jack and Schonchin John with fourteen men and their women and children were encamped on the west side of the river, a deep, rapid stream some three hundred feet broad. On the other side were Hooker Jim and Curly-headed Doctor, with fourteen warriors and others. Twelve citizens had been apprised of Captain Jackson's movement, and they came down on the east side to intercept any Indians who might retreat across it, thus cooperating with the soldiers. Leaving Fort Klamath on the morning of November 28, 1872, after a hard all-night march through a pouring rain, Jackson reached the Indian camp at daybreak on the morning of the 29th.
    In his own expressive language he "jumped the camp." The Indians, unsuspicious, knew nothing of his presence until they were ordered to surrender. They all came out of their tepees except Jack, and a parley began. The soldiers ordered the Modocs to disarm. One particularly bold savage, named Scar-faced Charley, whose father had been killed by the whites--lassoed and hung before his son's eyes--refused to give up his weapon, and others followed his example. Jackson ordered Lieutenant Boutelle to take a squad of men and arrest him. Boutelle started toward the Indians, and the battle began. It is asserted that Scar-faced Charley fired first, but it is probable that the officer and the savage fired simultaneously. At any rate, the soldiers poured in a volley, the Indians snatched up their guns and returned it, and then ran to the hills seeking concealment in the timbers and undergrowth on the bank of the river, from which they stoutly engaged the soldiers.
    At the first shot Captain Jack came out of his tent and took charge of the defense. Meanwhile, the citizens engaged the party on the other side of the river and were badly worsted. Captain Jackson lost one man killed and seven wounded. Three citizens were shot down. In all fifteen Indians were killed, some of them being women and children. After fighting for about an hour, Jackson became convinced of the impossibility of whipping the Indians with his small force. Boats were at hand and the troops withdrew across the river. Leaving his wounded under a strong guard at Crawley's Ranch, Jackson recrossed, found the Indians gone, burned their camp and retired. Meanwhile, Hooker Jim's band had also escaped.
    Jack retired posthaste to the lava beds. He molested no one on his retreat. Hooker Jim and his followers killed everybody they met, in all some seventeen settlers. They did not molest any women. After this bloody raid they joined Captain Jack in the lava beds. Col. Frank Wheaton, commander of the district, repaired to the scene of the action at once. The nearest available troops (detachments of the First Cavalry and Twenty-first Infantry) were sent to him together with two companies of Oregon militia and one from California. In all, his force numbered over four hundred men.
    On Hot Creek, an affluent of Lower Klamath Lake, another band of Modocs dwelt. Some of these broke away and joined the defiant in the lava beds, so that Jack's force was increased to fifty warriors and about one hundred and fifty women and children. They were well supplied with ammunition and food. They boasted that with the natural advantages of the lava beds they could whip a thousand soldiers, a statement which was literally true, but which was laughed to scorn at the time. The fight they put up, whatever be their character, awakened the admiration of the world.
    These lava beds are among the most peculiar natural formations on the continent. They are a mass of volcanic débris included in a territory about eight miles long and four miles wide. The formation is thus described by Captain Lydecker of the United States Engineers, who surveyed and mapped it.
    "They present the appearance on first view of an immense sagebrush plain, with no obstructions to easy movement in every direction. A closer examination, however, develops the fact that the plain is broken at irregular intervals by sections of low, rocky ridges. The ridges are not isolated, but occur in groups, and form a perfect network of obstructions, admirably adapted to a defense by an active enemy; they seldom rise to a height of ten feet above the bed, and are, as a rule, split open at the top, giving thus continuous cover along their crests."
    Transversal crevices furnished excellent communication through which the Indians were enabled to pass from one ridge to another without the least exposure. Only a few of these cross-passages and unseen positions, sufficient to satisfy the requirements of free communication, were left open by the Indians in that series of ridges which made up "Jack's Stronghold." The rest were in all cases blockaded by rolling in heavy stones.
    The Modocs were familiar with every foot of it. None of the soldiers and few of the settlers had ever entered it; certainly, none of them had explored it. The ridge formation was not continuous. It broke out in spots separated by wide open places comparatively level, although the ground was everywhere terribly rocky and uneven. These open places, however, were cut up by deep, impassable ravines and pitted with holes or pockets. There was no way to tell the existence of a ravine or pocket, until one stood on the very brink of it.
    During the campaign there were numerous small skirmishes, for the description of which space is lacking. On the morning of January 17, 1873, a heavy fog lying low on the pedregal, the first effort at dislodgement began. The troops started out gleefully, shouting that they would have "Modoc steak" for breakfast. "A more enthusiastic, jolly set of regulars and volunteers I never had the honor to command. "If the Modocs will only try to make good their boast to whip a thousand soldiers all will be satisfied," wrote Colonel Wheaton, two days before.
    The soldiers fought all day and scarcely saw a Modoc. They stumbled blindly forward over rocks, ranging in size from a cobble to a church, with points like needles and edges like razors. From the most unexpected places would come a spit of fire, followed by the crack of a rifle or musket. Somebody generally received the bullet. The soldiers fired volleys at the ridges and did not hit a single Indian. Their courage was of the highest order. They scrambled forward over the rocks, blazing away at every rifle flash, fearlessly exposing themselves, traversing impassable ravines in a desperate endeavor to come at close quarters with the enemy, and all to no avail. The Modocs had made good their boast!
    When evening came the troops withdrew to their camps on the shores of the lake--they had attacked the stronghold from both sides--utterly discomfited, with a loss of nine killed and thirty wounded. The infantry battalion under Major Mason lost nearly one-fourth of its strength; the loss among the volunteers was trifling. Captain Perry and Lieutenants Kyle and Roberts were wounded. If the Modocs had been better shots the loss would have been vastly greater. Thereafter, Colonel Wheaton stated that he would require at least a thousand men with mortars and other artillery to dislodge the little Modoc band from its position. He and other experienced officers declared that they had never seen a position so thoroughly defensible, so impossible of successful attack, as the lava beds. The soldiers, no longer cheerful, were in a state of complete exhaustion. Their shoes were cut to ribbons, their uniforms in rags, their ammunition expended, their spirits depressed by the hardships and struggles of the long and fruitless day. Wheaton had done his best with the means at his command. Neither he nor his men had dreamed of the difficulties of the situation.
    He was superseded, however, and Col. A. C. Gillem, First Cavalry, was ordered into the field. Reinforcements were hurried to him until the thousand men required were present. General Canby then took command in person. It was thought best, before proceeding further, to try the effect of negotiations. A Peace Commission was created charged with their conduct. From a humanitarian standpoint there can be no question as to the propriety of this course. To the Indian an offer to negotiate is a confession of weakness. The Modocs concluded that the white soldiers were afraid of them.
    The United States demanded that the Indians go back on the reservation and that the men, headed by Curly-headed Doctor and Hooker Jim, who had killed the settlers after Captain Jackson's unsuccessful "jump" of the Modoc camp, should be surrendered for trial as murderers. It is true they had shot down inoffensive men, yet the first act of hostility had come from the soldiers and the little band of settlers who had attacked them on Lost River. Jack had not participated in this slaughter, yet to have given up these men would have been a lasting disgrace in his eyes. He refused to surrender them, naturally. He demanded a complete amnesty and the withdrawal of the troops as his conditions of peace. He professed willingness to go upon the reservation, but he wanted to choose his own. Several localities that he suggested were regarded as impracticable. Finally, he proposed the lava beds. Such a thing could not be thought of. The United States was not ready to name any definite reservation. They offered to place Jack and his people on Angel Island in San Francisco Bay, and thereafter to transport them to some suitable reservation as might be desired.
    Jack promptly refused this proposition. The Lost River country was his home and he wanted to stay there. For one thing, the wily chief was playing for time. The negotiations were terribly protracted. Meanwhile, he had tried in vain to induce the other Indians to join forces with him, especially the main body of the Modocs on the reservation under old Schonchin. Failing in that, he was inclined toward peace, ultimately, if he could get it on his own terms. The majority of his warriors were clamorous for war. Boston Charley professed to be able to make medicine which would protect the Modocs from the soldiers' bullets. He pointed out the fact that none of them had been killed in the recent attack as proof of his claims. Jack was a man of much native shrewdness, and he realized what the end of the little handful of Indians would be. He stood out for a settlement as best he could. There were scenes of intense dramatic interest in the lava beds. Finally, the warriors put a woman's hat and shawl on their chief and called him a squaw. This insult, and his inability to agree upon anything definite with the commissioners, broke down his determination. He tore off the offensive garments and declared that if the band wanted war they should have it with a vengeance.
    The first step resolved upon was the murder of the commissioners and the commanders of the soldiers. The commission had been variously constituted at different times, but at present included General Canby, whose function was of an advisory nature; Colonel Gillem; the Rev. Dr. Eleazer Thomas, a Methodist minister, a man of the deepest piety and widely known as a friend of the Indians; the Hon. A. B. Meacham, formerly an Indian Agent, who was also famed for his just treatment of these very Modocs, who knew him well, and Mr. L. S. Dyer, another Indian Agent of character and standing.
    The Modoc stronghold was in the center of the north line of the lava beds, about three-quarters of a mile from Tule Lake. Jack had roughly fortified his position by joining several ravines by rudely made stone walls, and by filling some of the exits and entrances with huge boulders, rolled into the crevices with prodigious labor.
    On the east side of the lava beds near the lake front, about two miles from the stronghold, Major Mason's men were posted. About the same distance on the west, General Canby had his headquarters with the main body under Colonel Gillem. About three-quarters of a mile from headquarters the peace tent had been pitched under the shadow of a bluff, a short distance from the lake shore. Meacham and others had visited Jack in the lava beds during the negotiations, and various Modocs had returned these visits to Gillem's and Mason's camps. There had been a rather free exchange of courtesies and calls.
    After he had decided upon treachery, Jack requested that the five commissioners with [Frank] Riddle, a squaw man, who had married a Modoc woman named Toby, and who acted as interpreter, should meet an equal number of the Modocs at the council tent for final conference, both parties to come unarmed. The meeting was agreed upon, but before it took place it was reported from the signal station on the bluffs back of Gillem's camp, from which the peace tent was in full view, that, in addition to the six Modocs who were of the council party, some twenty armed warriors were concealed in nearby ravines. The commissioners refused to go to the meeting. They were not surprised at this evidence of bad faith.
    Undeterred by this, another meeting was arranged under the same conditions. So confident was Riddle, an unusually intelligent man, that treachery was intended, that he remonstrated personally with each member of the commission. Meacham and Dyer agreed with him that the meeting should be declined, and urged the two officers and Dr. Thomas to refuse it. General Canby realized the danger. He did not doubt that the Indians desired to murder the commissioners. He did not believe, however, that they would be so short-sighted as to commit an act which would inevitably bring summary punishment upon them. In any event he felt that it was his duty to leave no stone unturned to bring about a peaceable solution of the difficulty. In this conclusion Dr. Thomas agreed. He said the whole matter was in God's hands and that, if necessary, he would go alone to the meeting.
    Meacham was chairman of the commission. Since the others looked at it in that way, he bravely decided against his better judgment and agreed to go. He felt that without its chairman the conference would be a failure. It was his duty to accompany the others; his honor would not permit him to withdraw from danger that they were willing to face. Like considerations influenced Dyer. Therefore, the meeting was arranged for eleven o'clock on the morning of April 11, 1873.
    Riddle demanded that the commissioners go with him to the bedside of Colonel Gillem, who was too ill to go with them, and he there made a formal protest. He, too, would have backed out except for an unwillingness that any man should say that he was afraid to go where other men went.
    Jack had sent two Indians, Bogus Charley and Boston Charley, to make the final arrangements. Dr. Thomas had entertained these Indians at his tent the night before. Piloted by them, he and General Canby on foot started for the peace tent. A short distance behind them Meacham, Dyer, and Riddle followed on horseback with the faithful Toby. The signal station reported that there were no warriors concealed in the vicinity and that the only persons present were Jack and five other Indians and that they had no rifles with them. These Indians were Schonchin, Black Jim, Hooker Jim, Ellen's Man and Shacknasty Jim.*

    *The curious names of these Modocs were given them by white men for various trivial reasons: Jack was called Captain because of a fondness for brass buttons and uniforms, Hooker Jim had worked for a man named Hooker, Boston Charley was very light-colored, like the "Bostons," i.e., the soldiers, etc.

    A fire had been built and stones piled around to form a council ring. It was noticed that the tent was between the council ring and the signal station on the bluffs, concealing the council from the observation of the officers. The commissioners, to their great dismay, at once saw that the Indians were armed with revolvers. Beneath coats and shirts which they wore, the butts of the weapons were plainly visible. But two of the commissioners were armed. Before they started Meacham had suggested that each of the commissioners carry a concealed weapon.
    General Canby and Dr. Thomas positively refused. Each had given his word of honor to come unarmed, and that word he would not break. They pointed out that the suspicions of the Indians were highly excited and that the least evidence of bad faith would probably result in breaking off the negotiations. Mr. Meacham then proposed that in case affairs looked threatening they should immediately agree to any propositions made by the Indians in order to get away. General Canby and Dr. Thomas again refused. They declined to promise anything which they could not perform. Dr. Thomas said, "I will be a party to no deception under any circumstances; this matter is in the hands of God." General Canby said, "I have dealt with Indians for thirty years. I have never deceived an Indian and I will never consent to it--to any promise that cannot be fulfilled." Meacham and Dyer gave up after that. Before they started someone gave each of these two a small derringer pistol, single shot, which they slipped in their pockets.
    General Canby passed cigars to the savages and then the speech-making began. The council was short, but full of excitement. The Indians were insolent in their behavior and extravagant in their demands. In spite of the endeavor of the commissioners so to group themselves that they were mingled with the Indians, they found the Modocs gathered on one side of the fire and themselves on the other. During the council another white man approached, but at Jack's request he was sent back. At one period Hooker Jim got up and took Mr. Meacham's overcoat from the pommel of his saddle and put it on with an insulting remark. Thinking to pacify him, Meacham gave him his hat also with a careless jest.
    Everybody knew now what were the intentions of the Indians. There was nothing then to be done but brave it out. No one exhibited the least sign of fear. After perhaps an hour's conference the demands of the Indians culminated in a peremptory request for the immediate removal of the soldiers, which was proffered by Schonchin John. Captain Jack had withdrawn from the council fire a moment or two previously. He came back just as Schonchin John finished his speech and Canby rose to reply. The General's answer was a prompt, unqualified negative. The soldiers were there and there they would stay until the thing was settled one way or the other. Schonchin John again began speaking vehemently. Before he had finished two Indians, Barncho and Sloluck, suddenly appeared from the cover of the rocks, each with his arms full of guns. At this Jack stepped from behind Dyer's horse, pistol in hand. He spoke one guttural word, "At-tux!" (All ready!) and as he did so snapped the pistol in Canby's face. The revolver missed fire. The General started toward the Modoc, but Jack recocked the pistol with the barrel almost touching the old soldier and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Canby under the eye. Dazed, he staggered back.
    Dr. Thomas had been kneeling on one knee, his hand on Meacham's shoulder. He had just made an eloquent plea for peace. Boston Charley deliberately shot him through the breast. Schonchin shot Meacham while the others opened fire upon Dyer and Riddle. To each Indian had been apportioned a victim. Dyer had risen and was standing some few feet away from the fire. He and Riddle ran for their lives, hotly pursued by the Indians. Bullets cut the air about them. One grazed Dyer. Hooker Jim drew near to him. His pursuit was checked by a shot from Dyer's derringer. He and Riddle succeeded in escaping. Meacham snapped his pistol at Schonchin, wounding him slightly. He was instantly shot by half a dozen Indians, receiving five wounds.
    Canby was shot twice more, once by Ellen's Man. Toby was knocked over by the butt of Sloluck's rifle and would have been killed had it not been for a threat of Scar-faced Charley, who said that he would shoot the first man who touched her. He was attached to Toby for some reason and was watching the scene from a hiding-place in easy range. General Canby had gone but a short distance when he was shot dead. Dr. Thomas, unable to move, raised himself on one arm, and put out his hand in faint protest, exclaiming:
    "Don't shoot again, Charley. I am a dead man already."
    "Damn ye," returned the Indian, who spoke English, "maybe you believe next time what squaw tell you." He shot the dying man again and again until life was gone.
    The Indians stripped Canby, Thomas, and Meacham, and Boston Charley started to scalp the latter, who was thought to be dead. He had made a long cut in the head and prepared to tear away the scalp when Toby, to whom Mr. Meacham had been very kind, raised herself from the ground where she had been lying, tremblingly awaiting her doom, and shouted with quick wit, "Soldiers are coming!" The murderers fled instantly to the lava beds. The tragedy was over.*

    *In writing about the Modoc War I hope you will not get the two Thomases mixed. The other Thomas was Dr. Thomas, the Methodist preacher from Petaluma, who had been appointed a member of the Peace Commission of which Meacham was chairman, and who was butchered at the council tent. He made the mistake, in the absence of the chairman, of promising a committee of Modocs that the commission would go out and hold a talk with them the next day. Toby Riddle, the Modoc wife of Frank Riddle, warned them that they were to be killed, and from what I have heard from soldiers I should judge that Meacham did all he could to prevent the commission going out. When Meacham was Superintendent of Indian Affairs for Oregon and Washington, he issued an order compelling all white men living on reservations with squaws either legally to marry them or get off the reserves. This resulted in Toby being made a legal wife, and she always felt grateful to Meacham for it. Everybody said she made a good wife. She saved Meacham from being completely killed.
    They used to illustrate the strength of commissary whiskey in the army by telling that when Dr. Cabaniss, contract surgeon and a very brave man, was reviving Meacham with the whiskey, the latter refused to take it and said that he was a teetotaler and had taken the pledge. Cabaniss replied, "Damn it, if that's the case, pry his teeth apart and pour canteen and all down him," which was done as nearly as possible. That kind of whiskey is said to have had sufficiently strong reviving qualities to set equestrian statues of General Jackson cavorting around single-footed on their pedestals.--NOTE BY J. W. REDINGTON.

    While all this was going on another band of Indians had approached the camp of Colonel Mason on the east side and had requested a parley with him. The officer of the day, Lieut. Walter Sherwood, met them with Lieut. W. H. Boyle. The Indians opened fire upon them at once. Sherwood was mortally wounded and Boyle escaped by the skin of his teeth. The plan had been for the Indians to kill all the commissioners and ranking officers in the belief that by so doing the soldiers would withdraw and their freedom would be achieved.
    The cowardly attack on Lieutenant Sherwood was signaled from Mason's camp to the station on the bluff. Scarcely had the message been received when the officers there discovered that the peace commissioners had been attacked. Scrambling down the bluffs, they burst into Colonel Gillem's tent with the dire news. The sound of the firing had been heard throughout the camp. The soldiers, without orders, sprang to arms, yet there were moments of unaccountable delay. The advance was not made promptly. There was some question as to Gillem's course later on. Finally, the several companies and troops went forward on the double quick. Sergeant Wooten, with twenty men of K Troop, First Cavalry, led the advance without orders. They arrived too late, of course. There was nothing to be done but bring back the dead bodies and the wounded Meacham. His life was despaired of, but he finally recovered.
    It was plain now to everyone that the Modocs must be subdued at whatever cost. Colonel Gillem and Major Mason attacked the lava beds on the 14th. There were three days of fierce fighting exactly of the character of Wheaton's battle. This time the soldiers were reinforced by several mortars, which finally got the range of Jack's Stronghold and threw shell after shell into it. One of the shells did not explode. The Indians seized it and, their curiosity excited, tried to open it and find out what it was. One Indian attempted to draw the plug with his teeth. The shell blew up and killed several of the Indians. Convinced that his lair had become untenable on account of the artillery, Jack withdrew. For three days he had been cut off from the lake which was his only water supply, the lava beds being as dry as a bone.
    The troops had surrounded the place, and on the morning of the 17th they moved forward to the final attack. There was some skirmishing by a rear guard of Modocs, but the soldiers at last rushed the ridges that had been so gallantly defended against such heavy odds. They found the place deserted. An underground passage connected with the distant ravines had afforded the Modocs a way of escape. They were still somewhere in the maze of the lava beds, but just where no one knew. The troops had lost eight killed and seventeen wounded. They found the bodies of three men and eight women in the Modoc stronghold.
    On the 21st of April a party of soldiers with fifteen Warm Springs Indians, auxiliaries, eighty-five in all, under the command of Capt. Evan Thomas, with Lieuts. Albion Howe, Arthur Cranston, G. M. Harris, all of the Fourth Artillery, and Lieut. T. F. Wright of the Seventeenth Infantry, with Act. Asst. Surg. B. G. Semig, was sent to the lava beds to discover the location of the Indians. They were instructed to proceed cautiously and to avoid an engagement. These soldiers were from the Twelfth Infantry and the Fourth Artillery, the latter being used as infantry in the lava beds and sometimes as cavalry in the open country, in this campaign.
    They proceeded carefully with skirmishers thrown out on both sides, the Warm Springs Indians far on the flanks. By this time the soldiers had conceived a wholesome respect for their antagonists which almost amounted to fear. The ground was admirably adapted for surprise, and it was with difficulty that the flanking parties could be kept to their proper distance. They were constantly shrinking in toward the main body. They were not molested in their advance, however, and at noon halted for dinner.
    They had stopped at the base of a sandhill in comparatively open ground, with lava beds several hundred yards distant on either side, and were quietly eating when a rifle-shot from one of the ravines, which two men had been directed to reconnoiter, gave the alarm. This shot was followed by a volley from the hidden enemy, and a number of men fell. The officers, the noncommissioned officers and some of the veteran privates coolly ran to cover to some of the pits and ridges before mentioned and returned the fire. The sandhill in front was charged by a detachment which occupied it, only to find that it was commanded by another hill to which the unseen enemy had retired. The place was a regular death trap, and the Modocs got on both sides of the soldiers and coolly shot them down. The plain was alive with fire.
    A panic took possession of some of the men, a panic which is remembered with shame by the Army of the United States to this day. Half of them turned and fled headlong, abandoning their officers and their braver comrades who disdained to fly. Every officer was killed or mortally wounded except the surgeon, who was desperately wounded in two places. The total loss was twenty-two killed and eighteen wounded. The cowards who fled reached the camp in safety. The Warm Springs Indians were scouting at the time, and being mistaken for Modocs by the troops, they were unable to succor them. These all escaped. Fortunately for some of the wounded who remained on the field, the nature of the ground was such that the Modocs could not come at them. They were found still alive by the rescuing party, which reached them from the main camp late in the evening. The Modocs had but twenty-one men in the field. None of them was hit.*

    *General Davis thus comments on the battle in his report:
    "An error was made by the officer in command in not pushing his skirmish line further to the front and on the flanks before halting, but this mistake could have been easily and quickly remedied had the men, as a few did, stood by the officers and obeyed orders. This they did not do. The result was conspicuous cowardice on the part of the men who ran away, and conspicuous bravery and death on the part of the officers and men who stood. The lesson taught by this affair is that a great many of the enlisted men here are utterly unfit for Indian fighting of this kind, being only cowardly beef-eaters. My recommendation is, however, that they be kept here, trained, and made to fight. I shall take such steps while here as I think will ensure this training."

    In the meantime Col. Jefferson C. Davis, a brilliant and energetic old soldier with a distinguished record, was appointed to the command with instructions to prosecute the campaign vigorously until it closed. He restored Colonel Wheaton to his place at once. He also set about restoring the somewhat shattered morale of the soldiers. He reorganized the troops, brought up supplies and reinforcements, and prepared to force the fighting.
    The Indians finally separated, roughly speaking, into two bands. A portion remained with Captain Jack and the rest under Hooker Jim, and others withdrew. By a series of scientific and gradual approaches, by occupying the lava beds just as the Indians had done, General Davis constantly tightened the cordon around the Modocs. The situation of the Indians had become exceedingly difficult. They had been forced away from their water supply; their provisions and ammunition were running low; they were practically surrounded in the lava beds with little hope of escape. Dissensions arose, as was natural in a body so loosely coherent and comprised of so many diverse and mutually independent elements. Finally, they decided to leave the lava beds.
    On the morning of the 10th of May Hasbrouck's light battery of the Fourth Artillery, mounted as cavalry, and two troops of the Fourth Cavalry were encamped on Sorass Lake on the west side of the pedregal. The Indians, who seemed to have temporarily reunited, made an attack upon this force. Captain Jack, clad in General Canby's uniform, led a company of thirty-three Modocs in a charge on the camp, while a detachment was absent for water. They succeeded in stampeding the horses and mules, and for a time things looked serious. Hasbrouck, however, rallied his men, checked the advance, and, by a series of brilliant charges directly upon the lines the Modocs had established in the surrounding hills, cleared them out of the country, killed one man and--most important of all--captured twenty-four pack animals, carrying most of the Indians' ammunition, all with a loss of but two killed and seven wounded. This was the first clean-cut defeat the Modocs had sustained, and proved conclusively that they could not fight the troops in the open.
    After this the differences between the two parties of Modocs became permanent. They separated, left the vicinity of the lava beds, and fled. A vigorous advance all along the line disclosed the fact that the Indians had abandoned their stronghold and were at last in the open. A hot pursuit was instituted in every direction. The first large party, numbering about a hundred, was captured on the 22nd of May after some hard marching, but Jack and his immediate following were still in the field.
    Davis determined to use the leaders of the first party to effect the capture of the remainder. These Modocs saw the game was up and were willing to save their own lives by betraying the others. Hotly pursued by the soldiers, who were guided by the traitors, the remaining Modocs were gathered up in little bunches here and there, and on the 1st of June Jack was captured in Willow Creek Cañon by Captain Perry's troop. He had been literally run to earth by the cavalrymen. As he came out of the cañon and surrendered his gun, he sank to the ground exhausted, with the remark that his legs had given out.
    General Davis made preparation to hang Jack and the other murderers of the commissioners out of hand. He was stopped by an order from Washington, and after considerable discussion as to the legality of the proceedings, upon the opinion of the Attorney General, Captain Jack, Schonchin, Boston Charley, Black Jim, Barncho, and Sloluck were ordered for trial before a military commission. Hooker Jim, Bogus Charley, and Shacknasty Jim turned state's evidence. Ellen's Man had been killed. The charge was violation of the laws of war, attacking a peace commission under cover of a flag of truce. The prisoners were not represented by counsel. As Jack remarked, they had been unable to obtain any. The trial was fairly conducted, nevertheless. The testimony of the witnesses, both white and Indian, was strong against the prisoners. The captives asked these witnesses no questions. They called a few witnesses to the stand in their turn, and these only with the apparent object of establishing the fact that the Klamaths, their hereditary enemies, had urged and incited them to war, and had furnished the weapons and supplies to enable them to carry it on, all of which may possibly have been true, but none of which was material.
    Jack made a speech, pitiful in its futility, in which he brought out one point that hostilities had commenced by Captain Jackson's attack on his camp on Lost River. Jack also stated that the Modocs who had betrayed him and turned state's evidence were the very Modocs whom he had refused to surrender at the beginning of the war, and if he had done so there would have been no trouble. It was also shown that these men were the most guilty and that it was their insistence in their desperation which had induced him and others to commit the murders.
    In closing, the Chief Advocate specifically acquitted the prisoners of any participation in the murder of the citizens after Captain Jackson's attack. The verdict was guilty, and the punishment death by hanging.
    Peace societies and earnest, intelligent, but misguided individuals, some of them of great eminence, all over the country, pleaded with the government for a suspension or commutation of the sentence. Public agitation rose to fever heat. The government, however, declined to interfere and stood firm in the case of the greater culprits.
    It was shown that Barncho and Sloluck were merely tools of the others. President Grant, therefore, commuted their sentences to imprisonment for life, but that was all. In the case of the other four the sentence was carried out with due solemnity and all the forms of the law at ten o'clock in the morning of Friday, October 3, 1873.
    They were hanged in full view of the Klamaths and their own women and children, who, from the stockade in which they were confined, saw all that happened. The prisoners met their death with calm fortitude. A wail of anguish rose from the stockade, in which even the stoical Klamaths joined when the trap was sprung and the men swung in the air. Justice had had her innings. The murder of the great general and of the devoted missionary had been avenged. The dignity of the United States had been upheld.
    It was right that Jack should die, but what might he not have said had he possessed the fluent tongue of some of his race, as he stood on that scaffold, looking southward toward that point where but twenty-one years before, when he was scarcely fourteen, Ben Wright had violated a flag of truce in the same way as that for which he was being punished, only to receive reward and promotion thereafter from his fellow citizens? What must Schonchin John, who had escaped from that catastrophe, have felt as the noose was placed about his neck?
    The history of the Modocs thereafter is unimportant. To the number of thirty-four men who had been in the lava beds, five other men who had joined them, fifty-four women and sixty children, they were translated to a reservation at Baxter Springs, Kansas. Today a handful survives.
    In the war the Modocs lost twelve killed, four executed, one a suicide--all warriors, and an unknown number of women and children. The total loss of the white settlers and soldiers was one hundred and sixty-eight, of whom eighty-three were killed. The cost of the war was over half a million dollars. They say it takes a ton of lead to kill one soldier in battle: to put down these fifty Modocs about twelve hundred men were employed. Each Modoc accounted for three men and cost the United States government over ten thousand dollars before he was himself killed or captured--a fearful price, indeed.
    Insignificant people they were, but in their brief hour they managed to stamp themselves on the pages of history. The name of Captain Jack will not be forgotten, and the defense of which he was the central figure, in spite of his treachery, together with the desperate campaigning of the soldiers in the land of burnt-out fires, is a story that will long be related. With all his faults, the rude Modoc chief had some of the high qualities that go to make a man. We can bury his vices in his unmarked grave and remember his virtues and his wrongs.

    Note on the present status of Modocs furnished by the Department of the Interior.
    This office is in receipt of your communication of the 10th instant, in which you state you are anxious to know the present status of the Modocs who were translated from California and Oregon to Baxter Springs, Kansas, in 1873; and you ask if these Indians are still at Baxter Springs, and if they still retain their tribal existence. You further inquire as to their number and their temporal condition.
    The Modoc reservation embraces a tract of land about two and one-half miles square, and is situated about one and one-half miles northeast of the Quapaw Agency. It was formerly a part of the Shawnee Reservation and contained in round numbers about 4,000 acres, equally divided as to timber and prairie land. The reservation was obtained for them by agreement with the Eastern Shawnees, made June 23, 1874, which was confirmed and ratified by Congress in an Act approved March 3, 1875 (18 Stats. 447): 3,976 acres were allotted to sixty-eight Indians, 8 acres being reserved for church and cemetery purposes, 2 acres for a school, and 24 acres were set aside as a timber reserve to supply timber to allottees living on the prairie.
    The last annual report of Mr. Horace B. Durant, Superintendent of the Seneca Indian Training School (address at Wyandotte, Indian Territory), and in charge of the Modocs, gave the following statistics concerning the Indians under consideration:

	Population	54
	Males	25
	Females	29
	Males over eighteen	17
	Females over fourteen	16
	Males under eighteen	8
	Females under fourteen	13
	Children between six and sixteen	11
	Number of allotments	68
	Acres in each allotment	48
	Indians of one-half Indian blood and over	40
	Indians of less than one-half Indian blood	14
	Living out of the Agency, inclusive of children in non-reservation schools	15
	Males over eighteen who are farmers	4
	Children in non-reservation schools	1
	Children attending all other schools	5

    He further reported that all of the Modocs wore citizens' clothes and that all were engaged in civilized pursuits and were living in very poor houses of mainly one room each and with dirt floors.
    From the above you will see that the Indians practically no longer sustain their tribal relations, they having received their allotments of land in severalty; that they all wear citizens' clothes and that they are still near Baxter Springs.

    *Abridged from the account of the war by Col. James Jackson, U.S.A. (Retired), in The United States Service Magazine, July, 1892, by permission of the publisher.

     The Modoc Indians belong generally to the races known as "Digger Indians"--from living largely upon esculent roots which the squaws dig, dry and cache for winter subsistence--but they are much superior to the average Digger Indian, and are more nearly allied in character--and by intermarriage--to the "Rogue Rivers," a warlike tribe, now about extinct, inhabiting at one time the western slope of the Cascade Mountains in Oregon.
    Schonchin was chief of the tribe when the treaty was made with the Klamaths, Modocs and Yahooskin Snakes, by which these tribes, for the consideration offered by the Indian Bureau, agreed to live upon the Klamath Reservation, then just established.
    The Indian title to the Lost River and Tule Lake country was thus extinguished, and the land thrown open to settlement.
    The Klamath Reserve proving to have a much colder climate than the Modocs were accustomed to, and the Klamath Indians, their ancient foes, taunting them with living on "their" land, catching "their" fish, and killing "their" game, the Modocs became discontented.
    The governing chief, "Old Schonchin," with a large part of the tribe, got as far away from the Klamaths as he could, and lived up to the terms of the treaty; but the restless and desperate spirits of the tribe, under the leadership of the Indian afterward widely known as "Captain Jack," and John Schonchin, a brother of the hereditary chief, left the reservation and returned to the Tule Lake basin, declaring that they would live in their old home and nowhere else.
    It is with this band of desperadoes that history has to deal when treating of the Modoc War, though subsequently to the breaking out of hostilities they were joined by the Hot Spring and Rock Modocs, making a fighting force of about one hundred and twenty warriors. Many of these Indians were what would be called "half-civilized." A number of them had been born and reared near the outlying California settlements, and had worked for white men on their ranches and cattle ranges.
    They dressed like the frontier white men, talked some English, and were familiar with the ways of white people, including all their vices.
    They were well armed with breech-loading and other rifles, which, by constant practice at game and waterfowl, they had learned to handle with skill and precision. The settlers in the country thrown open to settlement by the treaty soon began to complain of Captain Jack's band of desperadoes, charging them with killing cattle and abusing the settlers' families when their men were absent.
    The Indian Agent of the Klamath Reserve made repeated efforts to induce them to return to the reservation; but every effort was met with contemptuous refusal and the declaration that they would fight rather than leave their present location.
    The home of these Modoc Indians was in a district of country just east of the Cascade Mountains and lying on both sides of the boundary line between Oregon and California: a rocky, broken, sagebrush region containing a number of alkaline lakes, some fertile valleys, and a few mountain streams, but covered for the most part by volcanic scoria.
    Their principal habitat was the valley of Lost River and the basin of Tule Lake, into which the valley opens.
    The rivers and lakes abounded in fish and were the resort of vast numbers of waterfowl; game was plentiful in the adjacent mountains, the bunchgrass was luxuriant, the climate mild, snow seldom fell and never remained long in the valleys. Taken altogether it was a paradise for nomadic Indians.
    At the southern extremity of Tule Lake basin was a district of country known as the "Lava Beds," which at the outbreak of hostilities was, to the white man, a terra incognita, being for miles each way a confused jumble of lava, which had in some prehistoric period rolled down the slopes of volcanic peaks on its eastern border, and, lashed into furious foam and toppling waves by the obstructions in the lake valley, had--apparently while at the height of the disturbance--solidified into a hard, blackish rock, honeycombed by bursting air bubbles, caught in the lava flow, leaving a surface over which no white man ventured of his own accord, and whose intricate passages and cavernous retreats were known only to this tribe of Indians and the mountain lion as he stalked them in search of prey. The ocean breakers as they dash on a rocky coast, suddenly petrified in all the wildness of their fury, would give some idea of the character of a portion of this lava surface and induce a realizing sense of the difficulty of carrying on military operations in such a country.
    Along a mile or more of the lake front, the molten lava had poured over the abrupt and irregular bluffs, forming, as it cooled, a rock wall whose almost vertical face was impossible of direct ascent. On the crest of this wall the lava, in cooling, had broken away from the horizontal flow, forming a deep crevice which in an irregular line followed the indentations of the lake shore and, curiously enough, made almost as perfect a defensive work as a military engineer could have laid out.
    There was no part of this abrupt rocky glacis that was not covered by a line of fire from the natural rifle trench, while at the angles masses of rock had fallen forward, forming lunettes, covering the receiving lines and affording loop-holes or windows through which all approaches could be observed, and serving as admirable picket or lookout stations for a defending force.
    Where the line of crevice had been broken through, or failed to give sufficient defense, the Indians had supplemented it with a double wall of broken lava, carried to and around the caves used for sleeping purposes, affording a continuous channel of unexposed communication from one flank to the other, completing and making impregnable, against a small force, this Modoc stronghold.
    In the fall of 1872 the settlers in Southern Oregon procured an order from the Interior Department for the removal of Jack's band to the Klamath Reservation, "peaceably if possible, forcibly if necessary." The Superintendent of Indian Affairs, Mr. Odeneal, visited their village and tried to induce them to comply with the orders he had received, but failed in his attempt; and while negotiations were still pending, but with no uncertainty as to the result, turned the matter over to the military authorities, sending his agent, Mr. Ivan Applegate, to Fort Klamath to request the commanding officer there, at that time Col. John Green, Major First Cavalry, to send a force to the Modoc camp to compel their compliance with the orders from the Department of the Interior, and insisting upon it that only a "show of force" (about twelve or fifteen men was mentioned) was necessary to accomplish the object.
    Colonel Green directed Major Jackson to take all available men of his troop (B, First Cavalry) and proceed by forced march to the Modoc camp, and induce them to comply with the orders given by Superintendent Odeneal, or, failing in this, to arrest the leaders.
    Major Jackson with thirty men, and accompanied by Lieut. F. A. Boutelle and the post surgeon, Dr. H. McEldery, who had volunteered to go with the command, was soon on the march.
    Mr. Ivan Applegate, in the capacity of interpreter, and a few citizens joined the column while en route. These citizens were detached at the ford on Lost River to take post at Crawley's Ranch to protect the family there and prevent an attack on the rear of the troops, the ranch being situated between the two Modoc villages or camps, which were about a half-mile apart on opposite sides of Lost River, a deep, sluggish stream with abrupt banks, that could be crossed only by boat.
    Marching continuously day and night, the troops arrived at the Modoc village about daylight and formed line among the tepees, taking the Indians completely by surprise. Had they been undoubtedly hostile there would have been no Modoc War. The chiefs and leaders were called for, particularly Captain Jack, but he did not put in an appearance, and, so far as is known, took no part in the subsequent fight. Some of the sub-chiefs gathered around, and the orders of the Indian Superintendent were explained by the commander of the troops to such Indians as could understand English, and to all of them by Mr. Applegate, who visited both villages to carry out his instructions.
    The time given to parleying was used by the Indians to recover from their surprise, and to get ready for the resistance which they had previously determined upon. While some talked to gain time, the boldest spirits disappeared in their tepees and soon came out painted, stripped to the buff, and carrying from one to three rifles.
    The interpreter, after using every effort to persuade the tribe of the folly of resisting United States authority, gave it up, and, convinced that no compliance with the orders of the Indian Superintendent could be obtained, so informed Major Jackson.
    It was then determined to carry out the second part of the instructions before alluded to and "arrest the leaders."
    A squad of the best-known warriors having taken position near some tepees about thirty yards in front of the line of dismounted cavalrymen--seventeen men in skirmish order--Lieutenant Boutelle was directed to advance some men from the left and secure these Indians.
        At the order to move forward all of the Indians aimed their rifles at the line and one of them fired, apparently at Lieutenant Boutelle.
    The troops instantly returned the fire, pouring volley after volley in and through the tepees, behind which the Indians had taken cover, and from which they were rapidly firing at the soldiers.
    This fire beginning to weaken the line, a charge was ordered, which drove the Indians from cover of the tepees into the surrounding brush and left in the village only a few squaws bemoaning their dead and wounded.
    The Indians continuing the fire from distant cover, a line of pickets was thrown around the captured camp, in such shelter as could be found or improvised, while the wounded were being cared for by the surgeon and then transported across the river, by canoe, to Crawley's Ranch.
    This done, an advance was ordered, when the owner of the ranch came galloping up on the other side of the river, imploring assistance to protect his family and the wounded men at his house from a threatened attack on that side of the river, the citizens stationed there having left to notify the settlements of the breaking out of hostilities. He was told to hold the place at all hazards, and the troop, carrying its dead, moved quickly up the river to the ford, Lieutenant Boutelle with a small skirmish line protecting the rear and keeping the Indians at a respectful distance.
    The command arrived at the ranch in time to prevent any catastrophe there.
    The Indians lingered around until sundown, burned a few haystacks and then retired to the "rock fort," which, they had told the settlers, was to be their refuge and stronghold.
    What this "rock fort" was no one knew, further than that it was a place in the lava beds which Jack had boasted he could hold against any number of white men, and where he had cached the possessions of the tribe and a sufficiency of dried roots and jerked beef to last his people a year.
    Thus commenced the Modoc War.

    In the latter part of November, 1872, Mr. Odeneal, Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the State of Oregon, appeared upon the scene and sent word to Captain Jack of the Indians that he was at Linkville and to meet him there. Jack not responding, he was informed that Odeneal would be at Lost River two days later to talk to him. Instead of making preparations for his suggested meeting he dispatched Mr. I. D. Applegate to Fort Klamath, asking that troops be sent to move the Indians.
    Mr. Applegate arrived at Fort Klamath about five o'clock in the morning of November 28th, and was brought by the sergeant of the guard to my quarters, I being Officer-of-the-Day. He told me his errand and asked if I thought Colonel Green would send troops. I told him to make himself comfortable until later, as I knew Colonel Green would not send troops, that he had been informed if troops were used enough men should be sent to place the result "beyond peradventure."
    About eight o'clock, I was amazed at receiving orders from Major Jackson to make ready for a trip to Lost River; that we were ordered to move the Modocs. Soon after I was called to the adjutant's office to prepare an order for the move. When the command was ready, or about half after eleven, I met Colonel Green and took occasion to call attention to the copy of General Canby's letter to the commanding officer, District of the Lakes, which had been furnished him for his guidance, and to suggest to him that there was no reason to believe these Indians would not fight, and that the command he was sending was, in my judgment, altogether inadequate--just enough to provoke a fight in fact. His reply was:
    "If I don't send the troops, they (the citizens of Klamath Basin) will think we are all afraid."
    The command, consisting of Maj. James Jackson, First Cavalry, in command, Asst. Surg. Henry McEldery and myself, both of us being second lieutenants at that time, and thirty-five enlisted men, followed by five other enlisted men with pack train, left Fort Klamath about noon in a cold rain and sleet-storm. We arrived at a point near Linkville in time to cook supper and feed the animals. Here the Major found Superintendent Odeneal and had a talk, the character of which I cannot relate. As soon as possible after supper we were in the saddle and en route to the Modoc camp. We were accompanied a part of the way by a party of citizens, who next morning engaged the Indians on left bank of Lost River.
    The heavy roads made the ride an unusually hard one, and when daylight appeared it found a very tired lot of soldiers about to attempt a very disagreeable task. We halted about a mile from Jack's camp, dismounted to adjust saddles. I took off my overcoat, saying to Major Jackson that if I was going into a fight I wanted my deck cleared for action. Most of the men, seeing my movement and hearing my remark, followed suit, notwithstanding the fact that the temperature had fallen and that the wet coats were partly frozen. We strapped the coats on the cantles of our saddles. Mounted again, we rode at a rapid rate and came into the Indian camp before many were out of bed. An Indian who was out fishing saw us crossing and ran down the riverbank crying:
    "Soldiers! Soldiers!"
    Soon after our arrival Scar-faced Charley crossed the river in a canoe and as he came up the bank of the river fired a shot. He told me after the surrender that it was an accidental discharge. I believed him.
    As soon as we were formed in the Modoc camp Major Jackson, through Applegate, who knew the Indians individually, attempted to summon Captain Jack; but could neither get a talk with, nor a sight of, the chief. While these attempts at parley were going on, the Indians, under the influence of Scar-faced Charley and others, were undoubtedly preparing for combat. Applegate saw that there was trouble brewing as fast as possible. Scar-faced Charley had withdrawn to one end of the camp and was talking in a very excited manner with a number of other Indians. He had one rifle in his hand which he waved defiantly, and three or four lay on the ground at his feet.
    Major Jackson finally rode over to me and said:
    "Mr. Boutelle, what do you think of the situation?"
    "There is going to be a fight," I replied, "and the sooner you open it the better, before there are any more complete preparations."
    He then ordered me to take some men and arrest Scar-faced Charley and his followers. I had taken the situation in pretty thoroughly in my mind, and knew that an attempt to arrest meant the killing of more men than could be spared if any of the survivors were to escape. I was standing in front of the dismounted men of the troop. I called out to the men, "Shoot over those Indians" and raised my pistol and fired at Scar-faced Charley. Great minds appear to have thought alike. At the same instant Charley raised his rifle and fired at me. We both missed; his shot passing through my clothing over my elbow. It cut two holes through my blouse, one long slit in a cardigan jacket and missed my inner shirts. My pistol bullet passed through a red handkerchief Charley had tied around his head; so he afterward told me. There was some discussion after the close of the war as to who fired the first shot. I use a pistol in my left hand. The track of Scar-faced Charley's bullet showed that my arm was bent in the act of firing when he fired. We talked the matter over, but neither could tell which fired first.
    The fight at once became general. Shots came from everywhere, from the mouths of the tepees, from the sagebrush on our left, from the riverbank and from the bunch of braves in which Scar-faced Charley was at work. As soon as I had time to see that I had missed as I supposed I fired another shot at Charley, at which he dropped and crawled off in the bush. Just then an Indian dropped on his knees in the opening of a tepee a few yards from our right and front and let slip an arrow at me. This I dodged, and the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.
    The men of the troop were tired as well as exhausted by the ride of fifty-six miles in a terrible storm; and when the firing had knocked out eight of the twenty-three men in action, the line began to give way. I saw that to retreat meant death, and calling on the men to charge, we rushed right at the main body. We were white and they were red. There was the almost invariable result. The dark skin gave way.
    We had the camp and everything in it, women and children included. It was believed by all that we had killed very many Indians; so many that there would be no further resistance if the women and children were permitted to go to the men. This was allowed and the camp destroyed.
    As soon as the fight was over, Major Jackson crossed the wounded over the river and sent them to Crawley's Ranch about half a mile beyond. About the time this work was accomplished a messenger came flying from Crawley's Ranch with the information that the Indians were making a demonstration upon that point.
    I failed to mention that the party of citizens who accompanied us from Linkville had had a brush with a small party encamped on the left bank of the river below Crawley's Ranch and had not been successful. The river was not fordable at this point. Major Jackson then took all sound men except about ten left with me and started for a ford seven miles up the river where he crossed and came down the other bank of the river to Crawley's Ranch.
    As soon as the Indians, who had retreated to the foothills, saw Jackson leave me with a small party they came on and made a futile attack. They had had enough and did not want any more. I followed Jackson, reaching Crawley's Ranch late in the afternoon with the dead strapped on horses.
    A dreadful mistake had been made; yes, more than one, but I shall not treat of matters previous to the attempt to move the Indians. In the attempt the greater sin lies at the door of Mr. Odeneal, who would not trust his precious skin to a council on Lost River; but preferred treacherously to send troops with guns in place of an agent of the Indian Department with an olive branch. He was sadly mistaken in believing that the Indians would not fight. He was dealing with desperate men. When the troops were sent, "a boy was sent to the mill." The heroes of the so-called outbreak do not diminish with years. I believe Superintendent Odeneal still lives. If he failed to send any word to the settlers on the north side of Tule Lake that troops were coming, he has more to think of than I should care to have. Of such failure he was freely charged in those dreadful days.
    You may in your work have seen a book written by A. B. Meacham, at one time Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the State of Oregon. I do not know where he got the information upon which he based his description of the first fight with the Modoc Indians. I remember seeing it years ago and that he represents me as advancing upon Scar-faced Charley, uttering vile and insulting epithets. I did not move forward a foot when I received Major Jackson's order to disarm the party, but commanded the men to fire and fired myself. I did not address a word to an Indian that morning. Meacham attempted to get an account from me and was referred to Major Jackson's official report. Hence his insults to me. Meacham made the battle last three hours, and that we were whipped. Rot! It did not last much more than so many minutes. We drove the Indians across the sagebrush plain and burned their tepees. Left when called to the other side of the river for the purpose of protecting our wounded and citizens threatened by Indians from camp on left bank of river.
    The citizens who attacked the Indian camp on the left bank of Lost River were there without order or authority, and had no more right for their attack than if it had been made on Broadway, New York. The Indians, who repulsed them and afterward made such dreadful killing, were called treacherous murderers and were indicted in the Oregon courts, Scar-faced Charley, among others, who I have ample reason to believe was on our side of the river.
    In contrast with the action of this civilized party may be noticed the "brutal" conduct of some of Jack's people who saw two cowboys, whom they knew, approaching their assemblage. They went out to meet them, telling of the occurrences of a few hours previous, and advising them to go away while they were at war with the soldiers, as they did not want to hurt them.
    Of the fight in the lava beds chapters might be written by the participants in explanation of why so many men were not able to dislodge so small a number of Indians. The newspapers frequently asked why some officer experienced in such work was not sent to command. There was no officer experienced in such work; he did not live.
    The popular impression of the Modoc was that he was a dreadful savage, a wild Indian. As a matter of fact, all of them wore white men's clothing. Nearly or quite all had cut off their hair, and many were in the habit of working for the neighboring stockmen or farmers. Nearly all understood English, and many spoke it as well as many white men. As an instance: I had encamped just across Lost River from Jack's camp a few months before the war, and had talked enough with the Indians to recognize Bogus Charley's voice. In the early morning of January 17th, as the two lines, one on each side of the stronghold, were closing in on the Indians, I heard a voice calling out to Colonel Bernard's command:
    "Don't shoot this way. You are firing on your own men."
    Colonel Bernard commanded "Cease firing," and was surprised to hear me bawl out:
    "Look out, Colonel Bernard, that is Bogus Charley talking!"
    Bogus talked a great deal, and when on April 1st I told people that at last Bogus Charley was dead, I was rallied a good deal and asked how I knew. I replied that I had not heard him and knew he could not keep his mouth shut. It transpired that Bogus had left the Modocs the night before the investment and could not get back.
    As an indication of the disposition of the Modocs, with relation to learning the ways of the white men and not asking for assistance from the government provided they were allowed to remain on Tule Lake, in one of the peace talks Bogus Charley offered as proof or reason why he should want a cessation of hostilities that he had "lost his whole winter's work."

    Perhaps few places on earth, of like area, have cost so much in blood and treasure as Klamath land, and yet it may be worth the price, dear as it was, for it is one of nature's brightest gems. The native possessor held it with a tenacity which compels us to admire his patriotism, his reverence for the land of his ancestors, while we deprecate the methods of his warfare. As he would put it: "Here is the dust of my fathers. Better for me to die here than to be removed to any other country. If I die here I go down to dust with my father and my people. If I die in some other land I shall be lost forever."
    The Modocs stood as bloody sentinels along the line of the emigrant road. As far back as 1852 they began the work of ambush and slaughter, and Modoc land was for a quarter of a century the scene not only of savage treachery and cruelty, but of heroic deeds and tragic incident. Weary immigrants toiling onward toward the setting sun--no record tells how many--were here sacrificed almost on the very threshold of their land of promise.
    Later, when the enterprising white man, having seen and appreciated this land of green meadows, silvery lakes and crystal streams, determined to possess it, brave settlers, representing that hardy race of men and women who have led the hosts of civilization across the continent, planted settlements here; but a band of about three hundred renegade Modocs, under the leadership of Captain Jack, renouncing the authority of brave old Schonchin, the rightful chief, inaugurated a reign of terror throughout the lake country.
    During the summer of 1872 many petitions were forwarded through the Indian Department, asking the authorities at Washington to order the removal of Captain Jack's band from the vicinity of Tule Lake, their ancient home, to the Klamath Reservation, and to keep them there. Orders were finally received by the Superintendent of Indian Affairs in Oregon, Hon. Thos. B. Odeneal, to secure their removal, peaceably if possible, but by force if necessary.
    On his arrival from Salem, Mr. Odeneal, having by messenger called upon the Modocs to return to the reservation without avail, determined to place the matter in the hands of Capt. James Jackson, of the United States Army, an officer of well-known discretion and courage. At noon, on the 28th day of November, 1872, Captain Jackson, with thirty-five men of Company B, First United States Cavalry, left Fort Klamath and arrived at the pioneer town of Linkville at a little after dark. Here he met Superintendent Odeneal and received instructions as follows:
    "When you arrive at the camp of the Modocs, request an interview with the head men and say to them that you did not come to fight or to harm them, but to have them go peaceably to Camp Yainax on Klamath Reservation, where ample provision has been made for their comfort and subsistence, and where, by treaty, they agreed to live. Talk kindly but firmly to them, and whatever else you may do, I desire to urge that if there is any fighting let the Indians be the aggressors. Fire no gun except in self-defense, after they have first fired upon you. I. D. Applegate will accompany you as my representative; will also act as guide and interpreter."
    During that dark rainy night we made our way from Linkville down the Klamath Valley toward the stone bridge on Lost River, where Captain Jack was encamped on the west side of the river. About a third of his forces, under Hooker Jim and the Curly-headed Doctor and some other of his trusty lieutenants, were encamped on the east side of the river near the Dennis Crawley cabin.
    We found it very difficult in the darkness to make our way through the heavy sagebrush, for we had to leave the road in order to avoid being discovered by the wily Indians who, doubtless, were observing as closely as possible every movement. We followed along the foot of the chain of hills west from Lost River, and at daylight we were about one mile west of the Modoc camp, which was at that point on the riverbank where Dan Colwell's residence now stands.
    The company was formed into two platoons, and we rode directly through the village and halted upon the riverbank, facing the encampment. As we came near the river, Scar-faced Charley, who had crossed just before we came up, fired at us from the other side of the river, shouting at the same time to arouse the sleeping Indians. In a moment there was great excitement and commotion.
    As soon as the men were dismounted and advanced in line, standing at order arms in front of the horses, I was directed to enter the camp to see Captain Jack and inform him of our friendly mission and assure him that no harm was intended, but that he would be required to remove with his people to the reservation. Going from camp to camp I was not able to find Captain Jack.
    As I came out of one of the huts I saw Scar-faced coming up the riverbank. As he passed Major Jackson, who was still mounted, the Major ordered him to halt, at the same time drawing his revolver. To this Scar-faced paid no attention, but came on into the village, all the time haranguing his people and demanding that they fight to the death; telling them that if they would be quick enough they could kill every soldier without the loss of a man. With an oath, he rushed past me and went into Bogus Charley's tent, and in a moment both Scar-faced and Bogus appeared with their guns drawn, and called to the women and children to throw themselves flat on the ground. Then I knew they were going to fire upon us. I immediately started toward our men saying, "Major, they are going to fire!"
    At this, the Major ordered Lieutenant Boutelle, who stood in advance of the line, to take four men and arrest the two Indians who had guns in their hands. As Boutelle stepped forward with the four men, the two Indians fired. The warriors in the camps and in the heavy sagebrush in the rear of the village fired almost simultaneously. Then all was din and commotion; men were falling in the line, the riderless horses were dashing here and there and kicking among us, but instantly came the order from the brave Major, "Fire!"
    The attack was so sudden and desperate, the Modocs rushing onto us with demon-like yells, that the men were forced back a step or two, and it seemed for a moment that the thinned line would yield and break. But immediately came the order "Forward!" and it was like an inspiration. The men sprang forward, under the leadership of the brave Boutelle, delivering a deadly fire, and the Indians were forced back.
    Scar-faced's first shot struck Boutelle's revolver, disabling it, and cutting through the sleeve of his blouse, passed through the clothing on his right shoulder. Scar-faced was knocked down by a bullet which cut through the handkerchief he had tied around his head, and Watchman, Captain Jack's most daring lieutenant, fell, riddled with bullets, almost at our feet. Boutelle's calmness saved us. Speaking to the men coolly and confidently, he led the charge into and through the village, driving the Indians out, advancing his skirmish line far beyond into the heavy sagebrush.
    O. C. Applegate, who was to take charge of Captain Jack's band in case they came onto the reservation, rode from his station at Yainax on November 28th, reaching Linkville (Klamath Falls) late in the evening. Superintendent Odeneal informed him of the movement on foot and requested him to be present to assist in securing, if possible, a peaceable removal of the Modocs. With the Klamath scout, Dave Hill, and five trusty citizens, he forded Lost River near the Lone Pine that night and reached the Crawley cabin, near Hooker Jim's camp, about daylight on the morning of the 29th, finding there Messenger Brown of the Indian Department, Dennis Crawley, Dan Colwell and a few other citizens. When daylight revealed the presence of the cavalry in Captain Jack's camp, Hooker's men made a rush for their canoes, evidently to reinforce Captain Jack, but were prevented by the citizens. The object of the authorities was explained to the Indians, and a few of them were in the act of giving up their arms when the firing began at Captain Jack's camp.
    Instantly the Modocs fired on the citizens and a fierce fight at close range took place, so that, looking across the river during the fight with Captain Jack, we could see another battle going on almost opposite to us. Two citizens, Jack Thurber and William Nus, were killed and Joe Penning was maimed for life, and the Indians, securing their own horses, which were near at hand, escaped to the long rocky ridge east of where the Frank Adams' farm is now located; while the citizens rallied at the Crawley cabin.
    Captain Jack, with most of his best and most desperate men, had made good his escape, though at the time both he and Scar-faced were reported among the killed, even by the prisoners. We had lost Sergeant Harris, killed, and as nearly as I can remember, six men were mortally wounded, and several others painfully though not dangerously hurt. Among the Indians killed were Watchman and We-sing-ko-pos, leading warriors, and Black Jim, Long Jim and Miller's Charley were among the wounded. The loss on our side amounted to fully a third of the military force then in the field, and was quite sufficient to disable Captain Jackson's small force for the time being.
    After the fight Captain Jackson sent his wounded across the river in a canoe, Dave Hill being the oarsman; Surgeon McEldery and a few more as a guard were also taken over and the men were conveyed to the Crawley cabin. The remaining troopers mounted their jaded horses and, as there was no ford in the vicinity, hastily rode up toward the Stukel Ford seven miles distant. Before arriving at the ford word reached them that Jack and his infuriated men had renewed the fight. Looking toward Tule Lake, great volumes of smoke could be seen arising from burning buildings. Dashing through the rapid ford, the poor horses seemed to realize the awful situation as they put forth renewed effort down the river with utmost speed on the east side, and soon the cavalry rode onto the ground where the citizens and Hooker's men had so lately fought, but the wily savage was already wreaking vengeance on the inoffensive settlers, beyond the ridge on the plains at the head of Tule Lake.
    The butchering and devastation on Tule Lake had already begun, and eighteen settlers were added that day to the long list of Modoc victims.
    On that fateful day, a few miles below the scene of the fight, a mule team was seen coming toward the Boddy residence, but no driver held the reins. Mrs. Boddy secured, unhitched and stabled the team. Very uneasy, she called to her married daughter, Mrs. Schira, and hastily the two women started toward the woods, where the men had gone that morning to their accustomed work. They had not gone far when they saw the Indians not far away and heard the awful war-whoop. Soon they came upon the stripped and mutilated body of Mr. Schira, and soon after those of Mr. Boddy and his older son.
    The younger boy, who had been on the plain below herding sheep, could not be seen, and the sheep were wandering at will among the sage. The heroic but horror-stricken women knew that all were killed; that nothing remained for them but to seek their own safety in flight, to hide themselves among the juniper and mahogany in the almost trackless and, to them, unknown woods. Struggling onward, they knew not whither, only that they felt that they were going away from a sad and awful scene; soon night settled upon them among the mountain solitudes. As they shivered amid the snow and strove to look down through tears of burning anguish toward the mutilated forms of dear ones and upon desolated homes, what tongue could tell, what pen depict the poignancy of their grief?

    Should an officer stationed in Oregon receive an order about the 25th of December to march his company three hundred miles to take part in an Indian war, both he and his men would, most likely, consider the same a very cool proceeding. And they did. Now, this is about the distance from Camp Harney to the Modoc country. Our instructions were "light marching order," instead of comfortable wagons where one could stow a tent and numberless blankets. However, what comforts or necessaries could be taken along were piled upon those unfortunate mules and off we went.
    The snow lay pretty deep at home, but we launched out into the great prairie, which resembled one huge, fleecy cloud, and in imagination the effect was the same as riding on the unsubstantial sky, which possessed almost as much sustaining power. We plodded on through the virgin whiteness, never before disturbed by foot or hoof, and at the day's end dismounted to sleep in its folds. The old campaigner does not, however, take such a desolate view of the situation.
    Instantly, on halting, the great sagebrush plant is lighted; no shivering over a few green boughs or saturated logs dug from the wet, but a veritable can of kerosene. This great source of comfort in the winter wilderness grows to the height of six feet or more, bearing branches some inches in thickness and a stalk fully half a foot in diameter, all oily and odorous. One bush is sufficient to thaw the benumbed feet and limber the aching joints. Then a pile can be gathered for the cooks and the fire by night. And in the same dreary neighborhood grows the red willow fringing the springs; this adds an intensity to the heat more than enough for all purposes.
    Thus we moved on day by day, varying the monotony by an occasional dousing in slightly frozen streams, climbing the rugged bluffs, skirting the shallow lakes, winding over the great alkali plains that are even in summer white as snow. At the end of one hundred and fifty miles we ascended the mountain ridge that encloses old Camp Warner.
    Now we quitted the sagebrush and the wind-swept valley for the somber solitude of the forest. Here the snow lies deeper, and our tired and panting animals must be lightened and shown the way. Here our spare grain sacks of "chicken gunny" are brought into service for foot-covering; and unlucky is he who fails to secure a supply of these air-letting stockings, the coarseness of the texture preventing the melting of the snow on the foot.
    Now is our camp cheered by the fires from the pine, fir and juniper, and we linger long at night beside the fragrant heat. The hungry horses champ the scanty supper from the canvas nosebag, thrashing their icy tails and glancing with knowing looks at the accustomed blaze. The isolated sentinel moves cautiously among them or seeks shelter beside the convenient tree. The storm rages far overhead, and the air is filled with glistening diamond-like particles. The great forest monarchs bend and crack in the blast, ever and anon with a shiver discharging their overladen tops. At last fatigue claims rest. So, scooping the snow from the frozen ground on which we scatter a few hemlock boughs, all stretch themselves beside the smoldering logs in chilly slumber. This is the oft-repeated picture of our bivouac.
    In the dark, cold morning after rather superficial ablutions, the frozen lash-ropes are thawed, the packs adjusted and we move out, but do not mount; horses will wade through snow two feet deep by alternating the lead, but beyond that man must break the way. So on we go, up and down the mountain, plunging sometimes armpit deep, dragging our unwilling beasts and often stopping to rescue a comrade or his horse from total submersion. The blazes on the trees are quite indistinct, the storm battening the snow far up on the weather side. The fairy-like track of the snowshoer [today we call them skiers] can be sometimes sighted through the timber. He is our mail-carrier in these parts. Lightly equipped with letter bag and staff, he skims quietly past the pine openings, up and over the ridge, and disappears. He is seldom met by the weary traveler blundering along the heavy trail, who casts envious glances at the beautiful mark which impresses him as the sign of some subtle, hidden motor. Still on we trudged and finally descended the long mountainside into Goose Lake Valley. Now we embarked upon the ice, and a full day's journey was made over the bosom of this beautiful lake.
    Again our route took us through the sage-covered knolls and into a valley where the snow lay even deeper than before. A cabin was spied on the hillside like a black blur on the snowscape. Here the cattle men were hibernating through the cold snap, their nearest neighbor being fifty miles away. Thence on through the sleet and storm, until at the end of two long weeks we halted beside the Agency of the Klamath. After a short rest at this point, we again mounted and plunged into the forest-covered spurs of the Sierras. And so we went on for fifty more miles till Lost River was found. The main command joined and the campaign began.
    The great lava bed where the desperate Modoc Indians took refuge is situated in northeastern California, on the extreme verge of the state. In extent it is about five miles by three and a half and covers an area of fifteen hundred acres, where the lava plain is well defined, although the lava country extends for many miles farther, even to Pit River and Goose Lake. The McLeod range of mountains bound the upper or southern side, a beautiful timbered range, on the highest peaks of which the snow remains throughout the year. Directly at the base of these mountains stand the rows of lava buttes or extinct craters, red, grimy, and uncanny to behold.
    The plain from these descends by gentle inclination to the lake, a body of water some twenty miles in length by a mile or two in width, varying in extent and depth as the conformation of the land gives scope. The general side of approach is bounded by a line of almost precipitous bluffs covered with grass, except where rough overhanging ledges of rock crop out, barring all passage or confining the trail to one particular route. The eastern side presents an apparently open way through slightly undulating knolls; but the country is so broken and strewn with boulders and blocks of stone that no very easy access is to be had even on that side.
    Standing on the highest eminence, the eye can scarcely traverse or take in the whole area of this blighted region. An elevated ridge, or series of upheavals, extends completely through the center from lake to mountain, and in the center of this ridge are located the caves or strongholds selected as the best defense by the Indians. Into these the animals which provided subsistence during the siege were driven and slaughtered.
    Notwithstanding the sterility of this section as a whole, abundant and luxurious grass is to be found struggling through the cracks and crannies of the rock; sagebrush and greasewood abound which would supply the needs of many men for many months. The one thing lacking, when the lake is guarded by an army, is water; and this it was that practically caused the abandonment or change of quarters by the Modocs as the warm weather approached.
    The troops marched for the first time into the lava bed from a distance of about ten miles and descended the bluffs by a trail a mile or more in length through a dense fog. Very few of the soldiers knew what such a spot resembled or what it was. No wonder then that they should be defeated where every step was obstructed by blocks of slippery lava the size of houses, and pits or potholes the depth of mining shafts; where the foe could fire from the right, the left, above and below. Even subterranean passages, leading from cave to cave, facilitated attack and rendered retreat a certainty. The only counterpart to such a battleground in the annals of our Indian fighting was the Everglades of Florida, and there the forces were equally stubborn and alert.
    The dead victims of the effort to dislodge them were bestowed in five different graveyards; and so uncertain was life throughout the campaign that many reflected only upon what part of the sulfurous domain their bones would be cast. Four and five separate and distinct days of battle were expended against the rocky fortresses; but the general ignorance of the country, the lack of woodcraft and knowledge of Indians, as well as bad management of troops due to inexperience, brought only disaster, discouragement and humiliation. Finally superstition, the want of cohesion, and treachery among themselves scattered the savages and made them an easy prey to the constantly increasing command surrounding them. The soldiers worked hard and withstood much exposure, tramping through the snow and lava with bandaged feet quite often, as the glassy lava and scoria beds cut through shoe and leather as through paper; sleeping at night on the bare rock, and frequently this latter comfort was denied, when anticipated alarm or the night of travel required many of their number to be afoot. A long dreary winter! And for what? To drive a couple of hundred miserable aborigines from a desolate natural shelter in the wilderness, that a few thriving cattle men might ranch their wild steers in a scope of isolated country, the dimensions of some several reasonable-sized counties.

    There were a great many tragical and pathetic happenings in the lava beds during the Modoc War in 1873. In fact, all occurrences were tinged more or less with diabolism. Now these matters acquired in the minds of everyone the feeling just expressed by reason of the hesitancy with which the campaign was prosecuted. At least, that is my own humble opinion. The mail-carriers were kept busy and the wires were kept warm conveying every word spoken and every movement undertaken in the vicinity of the seat of war to Washington, and from Washington to the Peace Commissioners; and everything that leaked out from their deliberations found its way to eager newspapers, and was there rehashed, recolored and fed to the community at large. So each and every actor felt as though a great drama in many acts was being played, each one startling the audience more than the one previously. First it was war, then peace, then council, then murder, then war again. Such veering and hauling was never before experienced by landsman or sailor.
    General Canby and his colleagues had twice before put their lives in jeopardy; but on the fateful morning of their last attempt the very sky was ominous of impending disaster. Talk had been going on the night before, and very early in the morning an occasional swarthy Modoc could be seen flitting through the uncomfortable camp, while men and officers gathered into little groups discussing the possibilities. When the commissioners emerged from the General's tent the snow was falling, and the wind swept dismally across the rocky fastnesses. One experienced officer remarked to me that the party was wrong in going to meet the Indians on that day. His utterance struck me with prophetic force. So another and myself repaired at once to the signal station to watch, if possible, anything occurring at the council ground.
    To retrace a little, when the commissioners were fully prepared to start for the council tent, situated by the lake side and distant but half a mile, it was noticeable that General Canby was dressed in his full uniform, wearing his high black felt hat with gold cord. His appearance was both handsome and dignified. He doubtless expected this to be a culminating assembly, when the Modocs would either submit to the will of the authorities or become outlaws in reality. Rev. Dr. Thomas walked by the General's side, a position he always held both in conference and in camp. Mr. Meacham was mounted on the fleet old race horse belonging to John Fairchild, and he seemed very proud of his mount. Agent Dyer followed with his particular charge, the Indian woman Toby, and "her man," a white man by the way. This Indian woman had exhibited throughout the morning great perturbation, as, from hints dropped by hostile visitors on the night before, she feared the very treachery that followed. In fact, she had given a solemn warning of what would happen. However, the General, who was chief, had passed his word that the meeting would take place at the hour appointed; and he intended to keep it at all hazards, fondly hoping that the vexatious matter would be ended to the credit of the government and in justice to the savage. General Canby was a man of the highest personal honor and courage.
    After the departure of the commission, Dr. McEldery and I immediately climbed up the steep bluff overlooking the distant scene and took a stand quite near the signal officer, Lieutenant I. Q. Adams, First Cavalry, who, with his sergeant, had been keeping watch since early dawn. After observing a little desultory flagging from Colonel Mason's camp, distant four miles across the lava beds, Lieutenant Adams sprang up in great excitement, and gave the glass to the Doctor, with strict injunctions to keep it on the council tent while he read a most important message from Mason. Then, seizing the flag from the soldier, he began an energetic series of wig-wag motions. Then he told us the result of his communication with the station at Colonel Mason's camp.
    He said that Lieutenant Sherwood had been shot by the Modocs, and that Major Boyle had narrowly escaped being shot also! It happened that these officers had left their camp but a few moments before to hold a parley with the Indians, though at long range, and as the latter had no doubt decided to begin war that day, they selected these two as the first and most convenient victims. Well, after this sad message had been confirmed by a few more signals, the Lieutenant resumed the glass. We were naturally filled with foreboding for the General and his brave companions.
    Almost in a moment he announced an unusual stir at the tent. I will mention here that Adams was a most expert signal-officer, having been quite prominent in that capacity during the War of the Rebellion. Keen of eye and very attentive to duty, he rendered most important service throughout this war from the very beginning.
    The words just referred to were scarcely uttered when we all heard firing at the tent, though very faintly, and in a moment the Doctor, who was very keen-sighted, saw the tall form of the General stagger out into the open and fall. Lieutenant Adams jumped to the edge of the bluff and called out to the camp below:
    "They are firing on the commission!"
    All were astir in a moment. I ran down and assembled my troop, dismounted, and started without further order for the scene. Others were as quick to form and move at double time, but alas, the distance of half a mile in the lava beds was as hard to traverse as five times that on ordinary ground. When the troops, consisting of nearly the whole force, arrived on the scene the massacre had been accomplished.
    The General and his faithful friend and co-laborer, Dr. Thomas, lay dead some little distance in the rear or toward our camp. Mr. Meacham was discovered bleeding from several wounds, though alive. He had made a strong effort to escape, though his horse, which I presume he intended should aid him if required, had been taken off by the murderers. The arrangement of the council caused him to be separated from this resource. Agent Dyer escaped by the aid of his little pistol, a ruse he had practiced in violating the treaty or obligation that all parties should meet unarmed. I do not believe there will ever be another such covenant. The woman Toby and "her man" Riddle were unhurt, though at the fatal moment at hearing the watchword of Jack, "At-tux" (all ready), she sprang to avert the demon's will, but in vain. For her faithful service during this war, through peril and in hardship endured, a pension was given her which she enjoyed until her death some years later.
    Our large camp under the great cragged bluffs was that night a house of mourning. Officers took turns in watching the dead form of their commander day by day, until his honored remains were carried on the shoulders of some twenty or more stalwart veterans up the rocky, winding trail, and deposited in the ambulance which conveyed them away to other friends and civilization. Thereafter several other bodies traversed the same dismal journey, conveyed in the same manner and equally the victims of the Modocs' wrath.
   
    I was sitting in the signal station with the signal officer when the firing commenced on the other side of the lake. The signal officer ran down to report it and asked me to watch the tent where the meeting took place. I saw a commotion and the commissioners and General Canby try to escape, and two Indians pursuing him and firing at him till he fell. I saw them go up to him, I thought to scalp him, but they did not; just took his clothes--a portion of them. I could not identify the Indians through the glass, so could not be a witness at the trial.

    The Modocs were a small band of Indians, located on Lost River, Oregon. Lost River empties into Tule Lake, which lies partly in California and partly in Oregon. These Indians, numbering about seventy-five or eighty adult men capable of bearing arms, were camped near the mouth of the river, and bordering on the lake. They traded back and forth to Yreka, California, and many could speak a little broken English. So far as I could learn they were entirely peaceful, and, according to tradition, their ancestors for many generations had inhabited that region. This, however, was not included in the Indian Reservation; therefore this small band of Indians must be removed from the home of their childhood, the land of their ancestors, that the white man might possess it. To this the red men demurred and it was, therefore, decided to send Jackson's troop of the First Cavalry from Fort Klamath, Oregon, by a sudden and stealthy march at night, surround them at daylight, and move them forcibly onto the reservation they hated. To the Indian Department this apparently seemed an easy matter. How easy subsequent events show.
    Jackson made the attempt and appeared before the astonished Indians on the morning of November 29, 1872. The latter, evidently considering this treatment a declaration of war, opened fire upon the troops and then fled to the lava beds. They had undoubtedly considered this emergency and were prepared for it.
    The lava bed was of irregular shape, estimated roughly to be thirty-five miles north to south and twenty-five east to west, and washed by Tule Lake on northeast and east side. In the lava bed were a number of extinct volcanoes, all of which had at some time assisted in distributing this enormous amount of lava. Most of it was of a dark color about the same as the Indians, and appeared like a solid molten mass suddenly cooled. There were many caverns and fissures, undoubtedly known to the Modocs, as I shall hereafter designate these Indians. There was only one trail over which animals could be taken, traversing the lava bed from northwest to southeast, but animals might be taken around the edge of the lake, although exceedingly rough. This scoria, or lava, had hardened in undulations or waves, some of them reminding one of the waves of the Atlantic on the Jersey coast, could they be caught and held rigidly as you observe them coming in, one after the other. These, as can readily be seen, formed admirable natural defenses, the Modocs retiring from one crest to another as the troops advanced, and invariably, from their concealed position, inflicting loss.
    At this time I was stationed at Camp Warner, Oregon, about one hundred and fifty miles from the lava beds. The news of Jackson's fight and orders to proceed at once with my troop to his camp reached me by courier about December 2, 1872. Upon my arrival, I found Bernard with his troop First Cavalry already there, he having gone from Bidwell, California. And Major John Green (affectionately designated by his younger officers as Uncle Johnnie), than whom no braver man ever wore the uniform.
    By this time it became certain that we were confronted with no easy task, and troops were ordered in from all nearby garrisons, including about one hundred Oregon militia, reinforced by a major and a brigadier general from the same state, who looked upon the whole affair as a sort of picnic. In the meantime, Bernard, with his own and Jackson's troop, had been ordered to the south end of the lake to prevent the Modocs leaving the lava beds by that route. Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton (brevet Major General) had arrived from Warner and assumed command and moved our camp from the mouth of Lost River to Van Bremmer's Ranch, about ten miles farther west, as being more accessible, both as a rendezvous for troops and for supplying them, as everything had to be shipped via Yreka, California.
    All being in readiness, it was decided to attack the Modocs on the 17th of January, 1873. Bernard was to move up the trail along the lake, leaving his horses in camp, and traveling at night, capture the Indian stock (ponies) grazing on the lake front. In this he was successful. After that and simultaneously with our attack of the Modoc position on the west, he was ordered to strike them from the east. What was afterward known as "Jack's Stronghold" was near the lake and about midway between the east and west attacking points.
    We moved out the afternoon of the 16th and made a dry camp that night about one mile from the bluff at the north end of the lava bed. This bluff was very steep and high, undoubtedly putting a stop to the further flow of lava in that direction; but by erosion there was quite a space grass-covered at the bottom, large enough to enable us later to put our whole command, much increased, in camp there. The command on the north side consisted of a battalion of infantry under command of Major Mason, my troop of cavalry, and the Oregon militia, the whole under command of Colonel Wheaton. We moved soon after daylight, the infantry taking the head of the column, the cavalry following, and the Oregon militia bringing up the rear.
    Before the fight it had been a joke around camp that "there wouldn't be enough Indians to go round." As I stood on the bluff and gazed out above the lava bed that morning, it conveyed the impression of an immense lake. A mist or fog hung over it, so dense that nothing transpiring therein was visible, while about us at the top of the bluff all was clear. To see the column go half way down and then disappear from view entirely was, to say the least, uncanny and might have suggested the words of Dante's "Inferno," "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
    But I did not have time to indulge in fancies inspired by the sight of disappearing troops, as my turn to move soon came, closely following the infantry which deployed so soon as the descent was accomplished, their left vesting on the lake. I deployed my troop on the right of the infantry, and the militia in turn took position on my right. These dispositions had not been completed when the Modocs opened fire upon us, and the first man hit was a militiaman who was on the way to his position, passing in rear of my line. At the same time we could hear the reports from Bernard's guns, showing that he was attacking as directed.
    In this way we pushed or worked along for perhaps a mile, the men screening themselves as well as possible. No Indians could be seen; they, of course, were much scattered in order to contest the advance of our whole front, the troops being much more numerous than the Modocs. The Indians would lie behind the crest of the waves, before mentioned, their black faces just the color of the lava; and, after firing, retreat to some other crest, where the same thing was repeated. They never exposed themselves for an instant, and the first warning the troops would have of their proximity would be the cracking of rifles and the groan of a comrade, with perhaps a glimpse of curling smoke as the fog lightened.
    Knowing as they did every crevice and fissure through which to escape detection after each shot, it can readily be seen what obstacles the troops had to overcome in order to make any progress at all. These conditions continued, with the exception of the fog, which gradually lightened and finally disappeared throughout all the fighting of that day in the lava beds.
    We made but little further progress, and being much annoyed by the fire directly in my front, I ordered a charge by that portion of my line most exposed to it, when greatly to my surprise I found running along my entire front an enormous chasm absolutely impassable, so far as I could ascertain. Just then some of my men called out that they had found a way down into the chasm, at which the men nearest broke to the right and left and entered this gorge. On joining them, I found that the Modocs had evidently anticipated this very move and prepared for it. They had it completely covered by their rifles, and had it not been for the fact that at the mouth of the gorge stood an enormous boulder, I and my party must have been annihilated.
    To get out of our predicament I called to one of my men, who had been stopped at the entrance, to hurry to Colonel Green, explain the situation, and ask him to order the infantry to make a demonstration in front of the Indians, in hopes that it would relieve the pressure on my position. This was done and I got back to my line with comparatively small loss.
    We were now close enough to Bernard's right to call him, and found that he had made no greater progress on that side than we had on ours. By this time it must have been between one and two o'clock in the afternoon, and I heard Colonel Green, who was in command of the firing line, call to Bernard that he was going to connect with his (Bernard's) right. This meant moving by our left flank along the lake and in front of Jack's Stronghold, which, of course, the Modocs would resist desperately as, in the event of our seizing it, they would be cut off from water. And this they did, and with such effect that our line, moving by the flank, was cut in two, part of my troop and the militia remaining on the west side. At this time the firing by the Modocs was so fierce and deadly that the whole command was forced to lie prone. I don't remember any order to that effect. None was needed. And the Modocs held us there until darkness permitted our escape.
    During all this day's fighting I did not see an Indian, and I don't recall that anyone else did, though they called to us frequently, applying to us all sorts of derisive epithets. It was at this point that our greatest number of casualties occurred. I was wounded about four P.M., having raised myself upon my left elbow to look at a man who had just been killed. A shot at my head missed that, passed through my left arm and into my side.
    That night we retreated to Bernard's camp on the south side of the lake, about twenty miles from the scene of the fight, over a rough trail through the lava. General Wheaton, with the remnant of the command on the west side, returned to the main camp at Van Bremmer's Ranch. Colonel Green was obliged to march around the east side of the lake, in order to join General Wheaton, and this he did with as little delay as possible. We who were wounded were sent to Fort Klamath, about a hundred miles distant, which we reached at the end of the third day.
    It was now realized that to subdue the Modocs a much larger force would be necessary, and troops were rushed to the scene from all available points; but, before anything more could be done by the military powers, the Washington authorities decided upon a peace commission to treat with these Indians, a great mistake at this time, as anyone should have realized the utter futility of attempting such a thing with a savage foe flushed with victory. After hostilities have actually begun, the only way to treat with an Indian is to first "thrash" him soundly, which usually has the effect of rendering him amenable to reason.
    While these negotiations were being conducted my wounds healed, and I was permitted to rejoin my command at Van Bremmer's Ranch, the date I am unable to state. Shortly after this General Canby, the Department Commander and President of the Peace Commission, concluded that it might have a better effect upon the Indians to inject a little display of force into their deliberations, so he moved his whole command into the lava beds, Bernard taking up his old position on the east side, from where he made his attack January 17th, and we with all the other troops camping at the foot of the bluff heretofore described. Our signal station was far enough up the bluff to command a view of everything in our front and communicate with Bernard.
    It was no unusual thing, when flagging to the other command, to see an Indian appear on the top of Jack's Stronghold and mimic with an old shirt or petticoat the motions of our flags. From the signal station close watch was kept on the tent where the Peace Commissioners were to meet Captain Jack and the other Modocs on that 11th of April, 1873. I neglected to state that, in the meantime, the command on the east side had been much strengthened and Major Mason given command.
    Two or three days previous I had been detached to escort the body of a brother officer to Yreka, and returned the afternoon of the 11th, and at the top of the bluff heard the sad details of the massacre of the Peace Commission.… I have always thought, as these Indians could have had no animosity against General Canby, nor hoped to kill off all the soldiers, that they believed, if they could kill the Big Chief and incidentally as many of the lesser lights as possible, that, like a savage force whose leader had been killed, the balance would become demoralized, disintegrate and disappear. On no other theory can I account for such base treachery.
    Of course all hopes or wishes for peace were now abandoned and preparations made for the coming struggle. The exact date I cannot recall, but think it was the 14th of April. I left camp at two A.M. with two troops of dismounted cavalry and three days' cooked rations. I marched about half-way to Jack's Stronghold and waited for the balance of the command, infantry and artillery, the latter as infantry, except a detachment that had a section of cohorn mortars. This command did not leave camp until eight A.M., and soon as they arrived were put into position much the same as January 17th, but this time, owing to our numerical superiority, we were able to make greater progress and by night had them closely pressed, though unable to dislodge them.
    Then our cohorn mortars were put into position and dropped shells into their camp all night long at fifteen-minute intervals. The firing by the Indians continued all night, and several times they tried to stampede our lines by fierce assaults; but in every instance without success, though their firing was incessant. The next day we succeeded in closing in a little more, and that night the mortars continued the same as the night before, viz: throwing shells into Jack's camp every fifteen minutes, while the Indians continued firing more furiously than ever, accompanied by demoniacal yells which made the scene one never to be forgotten by those who heard it.
    Just before daylight the firing by the Indians slackened, and about the same time some of our advanced lines were enabled to gain ground, and about ten o'clock we discovered that the stronghold had been abandoned. One reason was that we had cut them off from water, and, also, the mortars rendered their stronghold untenable. As I remember, by noon of the third day not a trace of an Indian could be discovered. They had vanished completely and were lost to us among the vast caverns of the lava beds which they knew so well. During the three days just described our men were killed going back and forth to our camp, so that if anything was needed a large escort had to be sent.
    The following extract from a letter of mine, written April 17, 1873, well describes our condition:
    "The great event of the campaign has been accomplished, viz: the driving of Jack from his stronghold. The fact of our remaining on the line day and night convinced him that we had come to stay. The infantry and artillery are camped in the stronghold. Bernard and Jackson have gone around on the east side, while I go the west side of the lava beds, so that in the event of the Modocs trying to get out, we can cut them off. I can't write more tonight as I am very tired and have to be in the saddle at daylight. I have not washed nor combed my hair for three days. It's no pleasant thing to live in the rocks for three days and two nights with now and then a bite of cold food, and an incessant fire on the line all the time."
    The cavalry as indicated above made the entire circuit of the lava beds without finding any trace of the Indians, and close watch was kept in every direction to prevent their escape. No further fighting occurred until the 26th of April, but during the intervening time speculation was rife in camp as to the exact locality of the Modocs. That they had not left the lava bed was certain. How they procured water was a mystery never solved satisfactorily. Once in a while a moccasin track would be reported and the locality closely watched, but no reappearance was ever reported.
    On the 25th of April it was decided to make a reconnaissance into the lava beds in an effort to locate the Indians. The command was to be composed of foot troops, infantry and artillery. Captain Thomas of the latter arm sought and obtained the command, consisting of sixty or seventy men and six officers, including the doctor, as follows: Captain Thomas, Lieutenants Howe, Cranston, Wright, Harris, and Dr. Semig. The command left camp at seven A.M., and about noon signaled back that they had struck the Indians. We could distinctly hear firing, and with a glass make out a portion of the troops. There did not appear to be any hard fighting, and everybody in camp supposed that Thomas could easily take care of himself, if unable to inflict any punishment upon the Indians.
    About three P.M. some stragglers and wounded men made their way into camp and said the command had been ambushed and cut off. Colonel Gillem immediately dispatched all the available men in camp under command of Colonel Green to the assistance of Thomas. I did not accompany the command, owing to trouble with my wound that interfered with my walking. We did not anticipate anything serious, but supposed Thomas had probably taken up a strong position and, waiting for darkness, would make his way back to camp. During that night quite a number of stragglers came in, and in the morning Colonel Green signaled that they had found the bodies of Thomas, Howe and Wright, Harris and Semig, the last two both wounded. Cranston they were unable to find. Colonel Green returned the morning of the 28th with the dead and wounded. They had been without sleep or rest for two nights and a day, part of the time in a pelting rain.
    It now seemed that the only thing to do was to wait until, compelled by starvation, the Indians would be obliged to leave the lava beds. There was no more fighting until the Indians struck Jackson's command as they were leaving the lava, but of this I can give no account as to date or particulars of fight.
    The events above narrated bring me to the capture of Captain Jack. When the Indians left the lava beds, Colonel Green took up the pursuit with all the cavalry that he could quickly get together. My squadron being too far away, I did not participate. However, General Davis, who had succeeded General Canby in command of the Department, decided to move his headquarters to Applegate's Ranch on the east side and in the direction the Modocs had taken. We had just gotten into camp at Applegate's when the General sent me word that the Modocs had surrendered, but that Captain Jack and his family and a few followers had escaped, and for me to take my squadron and endeavor to effect his capture. I started at once and taking a few Warm Springs Indians, whom I knew to be good trailers, started to cut the main trail. This was some time after noon, and about sundown I struck one trail of Colonel Green's command and, knowing that I could accomplish nothing by following that, went into camp.
    During the night I made up my mind that Jack intended going back to the lava beds where he could conceal himself indefinitely, so at daylight I took the back track and before noon my scouts reported squaw tracks traveling in the same direction as ourselves. I have neglected to state that my squadron consisted of my own and Captain Trimble's troop of the First Cavalry. About the time that these tracks were reported we were marching parallel to a deep gorge that lay on our right and impassable for animals except at a few crossings, and, coming upon one of these, directed Trimble to cross to the opposite bank. Soon after my scouts sent me word that the tracks led into the ravine. I then deployed my company, under my lieutenant, and went ahead with my interpreter and found that the ravine turned to a sharp angle to the left.
    I had reached the bank and stood on a ledge projecting well out, watching my scouts who had crossed and were intently discussing some signs they had discovered, when one of them suddenly ran back and said they had found squaw tracks that had gone out there and thence ran back to the ravine, probably had seen Trimble. Just at this time I saw on the opposite bank of the ravine and about a hundred yards to my left an Indian dog suddenly appear at the top of the ravine, and just as suddenly an arm appeared and snatched the dog out of sight. I then knew that the coveted prize was mine. In the meantime my men lined the bank.
    Jack and his family were secreted in a little cave near the top of the ravine and within point blank range of the ledge on which I stood. I told my scouts to ask Jack if he would surrender, and to come out if he desired and give himself up. He replied that he would surrender, but requested time to put on a clean shirt before making his appearance. This I granted and sent word to Trimble to come up and receive him and conduct him back to the crossing where I would join him. I then took Jack and his family back to headquarters and turned him over to General Davis together with his rifles.*
    Thus ended the terrible Modoc War where so many valuable lives were sacrificed, and which I always believed might have been avoided by a little judicious handling of these Indians at the outset.
    For his gallantry in this campaign Captain Perry was recommended for a well-earned brevet.--C.T.B.
   
    *"It was quite pathetic, during the scout, to discover the means and maneuvers of this small band of fugitives to elude capture. They had with them the infant daughter of the chief, by whose tiny footprints, pattered on the earth, the trailers made sure of their game. While the small party took refuge in the cañon and sought to make preparations for further flight, one poor deformed henchman, with devoted loyalty, stood guard upon the height. A small white cloth on which was spread some freshly cured camas root, drying, claimed his attention for a moment, or it may be that the pangs of hunger overcame his watchfulness, for in his moment of inattention he was surprised and captured almost with gun in hand. Now, trembling with fright and unspeakable anguish, he was made to disclose the proximity of his master, who, upon his sentinel's repeated summons, returned the hail and came forth a captive, to return no more."--Memorandum by Major Trimble.

    I have always considered the disaster to Major Thomas' command as one of the saddest in our military history. It was a small affair, but so senseless and unnecessary, and such a waste of a good life.
    About a week or ten days after the last fighting in the lava beds, which resulted in the expulsion of the Modocs and their retreat to a point near what was known as the Land Butte and Black Ledge, Major Mason's command, consisting in part of the troop with which I was serving, was in bivouac in "Jack's Stronghold." About eleven o'clock in the morning, as nearly as I can remember, my attention was attracted to men looking in a southerly direction, or toward the butte, soon to be made historic. I ran over to where Major Mason was standing, field glass in hand, and asked him what was the excitement. He replied that he understood that General Gillem had sent out a party of about sixty under command of Major Thomas to ascertain if howitzers could be placed on the butte for the purpose of shelling Jack's camp located nearby. I asked Mason if he thought General Gillem had believed that Thomas could reach the butte without a fight, and if he dreamed that he would be able, with a handful of inexperienced men, to make successful work against a party which had kept our whole command busy. The Major shook his head and replied, "Too bad."
    Puffs of smoke from guns indicated that a fight was on.
    About two in the afternoon a signal message from Gillem's camp, or headquarters of the expedition, conveyed the information that disaster had befallen Thomas and ordered out a relief party. At the same time a party was also ordered out from Gillem's camp. The several detachments joined en route and proceeded as fast as possible through the lava bed, until it was thought we were in the vicinity of the place where Thomas was last seen. All firing had ceased several hours before. We found nothing and, darkness coming on, we went into camp, first piling rocks about the position we selected for defense from a night attack, and prepared to wait until dawn, when we could see to resume our search. It would have been suicidal to have gone blundering aimlessly through the lava beds at night, and our fate would have been worse than that of Thomas. Strong guards were posted and the rest of us tried to get some rest for the work of the next day.
    Between eleven o'clock and midnight eight men, six of whom were wounded, stumbled into our line, bringing the appalling information that Thomas and nearly all of his officers were dead, and the enlisted men of his command nearly all dead or so badly wounded that they were helpless. The men said that they could guide us to the party. The troops were at once called to arms. The wounded men were directed the nearest way back to Mason's command, and with the two unhurt men from Thomas' command we moved forward.
    About an hour before daylight the guides were obliged to admit that they were lost and they could not tell where to look for Thomas. Again we halted and began the work of throwing up rock breastworks against a possible attack. While this work was in progress the gray of the morning appeared, and I thought I would look around in front of our lines and see if I could find anything indicating that the troops we were looking for had been there before us. A similar idea seemed to have occurred to Sergeant Boyle of the command. As we were cautiously moving forward over the broken ground, the natural tendency caused us to approach each other, so that at the same time we came upon the most heartbreaking sight it has been my fate to behold.
    The terrain was of irregular lava-rock ridges, between which the decomposed rock had formed fertile soil, overgrown by very large sagebrush. In the bottom of one of these little depressions under the sagebrush, some little distance from our second halting-place, were Major Thomas, dead, Lieutenant Howe, dead, Lieutenant Harris, mortally wounded, and Acting Assistant Surgeon Semig dangerously wounded, together with a number of enlisted men, all dead or wounded.
    The fearful ordeal through which these poor fellows had passed--shot down in the morning, lying all day without food, water, attention, or protection from the cold, with the horrible fear of impending death at the hands of the Indians--had so thoroughly imbued them with the one idea, that while they heard us within a hundred yards of them, piling rocks and talking, they had no thought but that we were Indians preparing for their slaughter as soon as light should enable them to pick off their victims. Their relief when the survivors recognized us can scarcely be imagined.
    I sent Boyle back to the command, which was at once brought to the front, and the work of succor and search was begun. The Modocs were in plain sight while we were thus engaged; but made no demonstration, probably thinking that Mason's entire command was there.
    The search for the survivors continued all day. Lieutenant Wright (Colonel Tom) was discovered with a few of his men some distance to the left of Thomas. All were dead. Cranston could not be found at first. His body, with the bodies of half a dozen enlisted men, was found some time after to the left and front.
    This useless sacrifice was one of the most sickening errors of the whole Modoc fracas. General Gillem has been justly blamed for sending an inexperienced man in command of such an expedition. The experience of the past few weeks should have indicated to him that it was not proper to send any small party anywhere in the lava beds. It is true that Thomas, a distinguished veteran of the war, had never seen any Indian service and lacked that kind of experience, but experience in hell, even with the fire out, was rare. Nobody on earth had ever had any such experience previous to our first attack with the Indians in the stronghold.
    It was afterward learned that Thomas had found no signs of Indians up to the time of the attack, and was resting his command and taking luncheon when he was surprised by a withering fire coming from the rocks in almost every direction. He attempted to make disposition of his force, but, seeing his party rapidly falling and that there was no hope of escape, coolly remarked that he supposed that where they were was as good a place to die in as any other, and so fought out the losing battle to the end. He died, as did many other brave fellows, sacrificed to the blunders of Odeneal and others. A lovelier character or a braver heart probably never graced the army of the United States than Major Evan Thomas, Fourth Artillery, twice brevetted for gallantry--at Gettysburg and, I think, at Fredericksburg.
    The sight of dead men was not new to me. In my service during the Civil War I had seen them by the acre, but the sight of the poor fellows lying under the sagebrush dead or dying and known to have been uselessly slaughtered was simply revolting.
    In the midst of all the horrors, I recall something awfully ludicrous. As I discovered that Semig was living I exclaimed:
    "Hello, Doctor, how are you?"
    "Oh," he replied, “I am all right, Captain, but I am so d----d dirty."
    I asked him if he was hard hit. He replied that he guessed that he was. With one hand, not disabled, he pointed to his shoulder and exclaimed:
    "My shoulder here is busted and my heel down there is all split to hell."
    I opened his shirt, and seeing the track of the bullet across his chest, I told him that he was as good as three quarters of a man at least, that his shoulder was not dangerous, though serious, and that with the loss of a few inches of his leg, he would be able to go on all right. He looked up with a half-credulous grin and said:
    "Boutelle, do you think I'm a d-----d fool? I'm a doctor."
    I was right. He lived for years, having had that heel amputated.
    All that day we were engaged in our search and making preparations for going out as soon as darkness would conceal our movements. Meanwhile, signal communications had been established with Gillem's headquarters, and Assistant Surgeon McEldery, with a dressing case and such articles of comfort as he could carry upon his splendid shoulders, had made his way out and was administering to the wounded, upon whom, knowing that they were comparatively safe, the dreadful reaction had set in. Added to the horrors of the day was an absence of water. There was none nearer than Tule Lake, except a spring supposed to be in the possession of the Indians. The pleadings of some suffering from peritonitis, the result of intestinal wounds, were dreadful and continuous. When it ceased we knew what had occurred. They were dead.
    As soon as it was dark the command was put in motion for a return to Gillem's camp about four or five miles distant--mark the distance! I was placed in charge of the stretchers to carry the wounded. I had three reliefs, one to carry on the stretcher, one to carry the guns of those bearing the wounded, and one resting. I hardly know how to describe what followed. The command was a good one, as good as any in existence, well-officered, ready to fight and fight well, but what they had seen and endured was too much for human endurance. Added to the horrors of the situation, a bitter storm of sleet and rain came down in torrents, freezing as it fell. In a short time an overcoat would stand alone.
    You write me that you purpose writing history. The history of this night's work would not be complete without an account of the entire demoralization of good men. The night was as black as a wolf's mouth. Very little of the time could you see your hand before your face. As soon as darkness fell most of the enlisted men of the command were in a state of complete demoralization. My stretcher party, knowing that they could not be detected, joined the mob working its weary way toward a beacon kept burning for our guidance on a bluff near Gillem's camp, with the one idea of getting back! Officers stormed, commanded and pleaded. Do not understand that there was any insubordination, for there was not. As a stretcher party became exhausted, anybody--nobody knew whom, for no one could see--was seized and placed on the handles. I firmly believe that a few shots from the Indians would have caused the entire abandonment of the wounded in a wild race to camp.
    After several hours of this kind I concluded that my muscle was worth more than my authority and I dropped beside the moving mass. As I caught the outlines of faces against an occasional glimpse of light in the sky, I called aside three men of my troop. When I had my third man, I said to them:
    "You see the utter demoralization here! I want you to stay with me and we four will carry off one wounded man."
    This they cheerfully did, and we happened to get hold of the stretcher bearing Lieutenant Harris of the Fourth Artillery, whom we carried the remainder of the night and until we reached Gillem's camp, about an hour after sunrise. We were from about seven o'clock in the evening until half-past six in the morning making four or five miles!
    Such looking faces as the dawn revealed are seldom seen. Eyes seemed to have receded a half inch, and around all were dark circles. Several times I heard one man say to another:
    "I wonder if I look as you do!"
    As you need embellishment for your book perhaps a relief from the gruesome tale will be in order.
    During the War of the Rebellion a young Irishman by the name of Geoghegan enlisted in the army and soon won his way to a commission and was assigned to a sword with the Tenth Infantry, in which Lieutenant Harris was at that time serving. The two soon became friends. Geoghegan's heart was light, strong and good. His habits were convivial, and he in time found that he had become addicted to too great use of whiskey. Rather than bring disgrace upon himself or the army, he resigned. Hearing of the Modoc outbreak, he enlisted under the name of Sutherland and was assigned to the troop with which I was serving. He was one of the men selected to assist in carrying on a stretcher and in so doing helped carry off Harris, his old-time and dearest friend, who died without knowing whose tender hand had been so careful to keep him tucked up on his shoulders. Years after, when Sutherland (Geoghegan) had been discharged, and had reestablished himself as one of the first citizens of the state of Washington, a member of the Legislature, Receiver of the Land Office, and so on, he told me that part of the story which I had not known.
    Before blaming the men for the demoralization described, one should consider that the command rested in Jack's Stronghold, which afforded no comfortable resting place, the night before the movement. All the night following it was searching for the Thomas party, all the next day engaged in collecting the dead and wounded and caring for the latter, and that night carrying off the wounded in one of the worst storms I have ever seen. The nervous strain was too great for ordinary endurance.
    It is often remarked that army and navy officers frequently appear much older than they are. The unthinking and the ignorant sometimes charge it to idle or dissolute habits. They are probably much like other men in their habits, but the others seldom have such experiences.
    It may be thought that such accounts of demoralization as I have given you might well be omitted. I do not think so. Under too trying circumstances the best of men may fail, and it may help a little in their chagrin that others have done the same, and that it was not cowardice or a lack of enduring nerve.
    The foregoing you will have to edit.* You have facts for a good chapter. I have just read what I have written, and told my wife what I had been doing and that I did not like my work. She suggested that she would read it to me and perhaps it would sound better. I told her I could not stand it, but would send it to you.
    I enclose a rough outline of the scene of the Thomas massacre. It is probably quite a good bit out on directions. The meanderings of the lake shore are not attempted.
    If anybody again writes me if I know anything of our Indian campaigns, I'll tell them I don't. I have never written for publication and am too old to learn.
   
    *I would not think of altering the Major's graphic and thrilling description. No imagination could better describe that ghastly midnight retreat in the bitter storm with the helpless wounded. No wonder the old soldier looks old after such an experience as this and the others set forth in this volume.--C.T.B.

    About the most saddening, as well as the most fatiguing, experience which happened in my career as a soldier in connection with the above, took place at the lava beds during the Modoc Indian War, 1873. The brave Capt. Evan Thomas, Fourth Artillery, and his small command had just been massacred or dispersed, and the relief under the command of Col. John Green, having arrived on the ground late in the evening, drove off the few remaining hostiles, and wearily awaited the approach of day to commence the search for the bodies of the slain and wounded.
    Early in the morning these were found, presenting different forms of anguish and distortion, some in the position of desperate defense, others prostrate in figures of dire helplessness, and quite a number yet alive, but in the agony of painful wounds. All were soon gathered in, some to be informally interred, others attended with the means at hand and prepared for transit to the camp.
    As the sun disappeared from sight on this sorrowful  day, and the dusk was thickening over us, the order of march was announced, carrying parties told off, and the nine stretchers with their bleeding occupants placed in column. Only a few miles of journey lay before us, but these were miles of rock, precipice and chasm; and as we took up the march, black and swiftly gathering clouds began to discharge their bucketfuls of wrath, and with short notice all were soon drenched and shivering in our thinly covered pelts. The Warm Springs Indians in charge of the famous scout, Donald McKay, took the lead, and in the order by file we moved forward.
    The hostiles, who had been confronting us all day, toward evening showed in considerable numbers on the ridge nearby, apparently close, but from the nature of the country far beyond reach. They lit their signal fires, and danced about them in glee; and some, suspecting a movement on our part, had posted themselves between us and our destination, there to intercept and annoy.
    Our movements were slow, the head of the column frequently halting, and those at the stretchers calling often for relief, as the poor sufferers had to be lifted over high rocks and across gulches. They were jarred and shaken terribly and frequently had to be adjusted in position. Not a sound was heard except those made by the fall and shifting of the great black boulders, as they were displaced to clear the trail, and the occasional groans from the wounded.
    We had progressed about half a mile when the wild braying of our two released pack mules, stumbling past, disclosed our movements to the wily Modocs. Quickly some two or more rifle shots broke the stillness, and as before arranged, all on our side promptly took the position of squat. This was the only demonstration from the Indians, and we soon resumed the march.
    The darkness had now become so intense that each man had constantly to tap the shoulder of his comrade in front in order to keep the direction and avoid being left entirely behind. Soon the halts became so frequent as to give rise to the fear among many of our being discovered at daylight weary, unprepared and struggling with our helpless burdens. About midnight the rain changed to snow, and the wind from a gentle breeze to keen and cutting storm. All had now served many times at the stretchers and ready volunteers were sought in vain; details were made by orders, and repeated and vociferated orders at that; many, from a slight feeling of panic and uncertainty, slyly shifting the labor to those more resolute and manly.
    The peculiar state of feeling of the whole had been very much wrought upon of late by the numerous disasters and doleful events just transpired; such as the treacherous killing of our esteemed commander, General Canby, and his colleague, Rev. Mr. Thomas. Would that I could command language to describe these two great characters--martyrs to duty in the strictest sense. After gentle remonstrance from loving subordinates, they went forth, their lives in their hands and the cause of humanity uppermost in their hearts. Besides, we had the three days of hard and unsuccessful battle, and the several murders and killing in the region adjacent to the lava beds. Each stretcher required the work of six strong and feeling men, and in this duty the officer fully shared the labor imposed upon the soldier; none more willingly than our veteran colonel.
    After climbing, stumbling and tramping, until the first rays of the coming day appeared, we reckoned our journey but half accomplished, and the sun had mounted high as we halted across the famous stronghold of Captain Jack, luckily for us then deserted. Now was the extent of the great lava bed disclosed to us under these circumstances, the row of black lava buttes towering grimly in the distance, resembling huge red ovens gone out of business. Aided by the storm in the air and our own abject feelings, amidst this chaos of nature one could almost discover in imagination a resemblance to a scene in the drama of the "Inferno," substituting the misery of cold for the torture of heat. There were only lacking the little black Modocs to represent the demons; and again in imagination I think these were supplied.
    What a weird and woebegone sight we presented! The want of proper water for the past thirty-six hours, the scant food and scantier clothing, and the chilling storm had blanched every cheek. Add to this the heavy coating of snow on the head and shoulders of each, the many bandaged heads and limbs, and sadder than all else, our racked and tortured charges, whose pallid faces now became visible as they lay resigned to any event, and you have a picture none could forget. We reached the main camp all alive at eight o'clock A.M., thus consuming thirteen honest hours in traversing a distance of five miles. The wounded comrades were quickly placed under skillful treatment, and all but three finally recovered.
    One circumstance, in my opinion, contributed not a little to this disaster; that was the certain knowledge by the Indians of the approach of the command, even from the beginning of the march. From the high sand butte behind which they were entrenched the glistening gun barrels, reflected on the black vitreous lava, distinctly marked each movement. Some of us, who took post at the signal station, easily traced the troops up to the very moment of contact, and afterward almost each individual movement, though no firing could be heard. A reconnaissance to find the enemy had to be made in daylight, and the hostiles with knowing, snake-like maneuvers and clinging moccasins could always anticipate the soldiers.
    Lieut. George Harris, Fourth Artillery, was one of the wounded found upon the field and carried across the lava beds. The Lieutenant bore his great suffering manfully, being one of the least complaining. His wound was through the body, very severe, and as it transpired, mortal. He was tenderly cared for in a good wall tent pitched for the purpose, and his mother telegraphed for--at least informed as quickly as possible of his condition.
    This refined and delicate lady, past middle age, lost not a moment after getting the painful dispatch, but taking train to San Francisco from her home in Philadelphia, journeyed day and night until reaching the terminus of railroad transportation at Redding, California; thence she came on without rest by stagecoach, ambulance or spring wagon to the vicinity of the high bluffs which bound the lava country; thence by saddle mule down the boulder-strewn trail until the camp was reached and her darling boy clasped in tender embrace.
    I was on duty some distance from the main camp when my attention was called to a strange object traveling down the trail, and which could not be made out properly until a gray lace streamer floating behind established the fact that it was a lady's veil! Only a mother's devotion could have withstood such a journey, and the good Lord seemed to have held the ebbing life of her son in His own powerful keeping until her arrival. She was thus enabled to soothe his dying moments, to be recognized by him and remain by his cot side until the last. His death occurred just twenty-four hours after she arrived. The body was enclosed as fittingly as the circumstances would allow and carried to the hilltop, where it was placed, I believe, in the same conveyance that had brought the dear lady from the frontier to the Modoc stronghold, and borne thence to its last resting place near his native city. I was told that Mrs. Harris was a sister or relative of Bishop McIlvaine, the once eminent Bishop of Ohio.

    I marched from Redding, California, my Battery B, Fourth Artillery, being equipped as cavalry, under the command of Captain John Mendenhall, Fourth Artillery, April 19, 1873, and arrived at Promontory Point, April 28th. April 29th marched under Captain Mendenhall to Captain Jack's old stronghold in the lava beds. May 7th I left the stronghold in command of my own battery and Troops B and G, First Cavalry, and arrived at Peninsula Camp, May 8th. May 9th, under verbal instructions of the Department Commander, marched to Sorass Lake in command of my battery, Captain Jackson's Troop B, Lieutenant Kyle's Troop G, First Cavalry, and Warm Springs Indian scouts under Donald McKay, Act. Asst. Surg. J. S. Skinner, medical officer. Camped at the lake with the cavalry and Indians, and sent the battery to camp in the timber about one mile to the southeast. May 10th was attacked by the Modocs just before daylight. Their main line occupied a line of bluffs about four hundred yards distant, and a smaller party soon took possession of a lower line about two hundred yards nearer. Outposts had been established the night before upon the higher bluffs, but the Modocs succeeded in getting possession without their knowledge. The horses were stampeded by the first volley and Indian yells and ran through the camp in every direction. Under the personal supervision of Captain Jackson, the men who were asleep in their blankets got their arms with steadiness and alacrity. I directed Lieutenant Kyle to take a portion of his Troop G and recover the herd, and Lieutenant Boutelle to order the battery up at once.
    A few minutes after the first shot was fired I ordered a charge, and the nearer line of bluffs was quickly carried. Capt. James Jackson, First Cavalry, led the right, and First Lieut. H. M. Moss, First Cavalry, the left of the charging party which was dismounted and composed of B Troop and part of G Troop. After a short pause the high bluffs were carried and the Modocs pursued with as much rapidity as possible for about four miles, when further pursuit was abandoned.
    At the commencement of the action I directed Donald McKay to send his Indians, who were mounted, one half to the right and one half to the left. They were soon on the flanks and endeavored to gain the rear of the enemy, but his retreat was so rapid that they were unable to do so. When the battery arrived at the foot of the bluffs, the men were dismounted and sent forward through the rough lava rocks, but our line had advanced so quickly that they did not arrive on the firing line until after the fighting was over.
    Lieut. F. A. Boutelle, having delivered his message to the battery, joined the charging party just as the higher bluffs were taken. I would have continued the pursuit but for the want of water. It was expected to find some at the lake, but it had dried up and none could be obtained, though wells had been dug the night before. The officers and men had no water issued to them this day. I had but twenty gallons, and that was reserved for the use of the wounded, of whom there were twelve. The horses were all recovered by night.
    For list of officers and men who particularly distinguished themselves, I respectfully refer to my report to the Cavalry Command, Modoc Expedition; and for the list of killed and wounded, to the report of Act. Asst. Surg. J. S. Skinner to Chief Medical Officer, Modoc Expedition.
    The Modocs left one warrior dead on the field. They abandoned a number of ponies, a lot of blankets, fixed ammunition, and loose powder and bullets which I turned over to the Warm Springs Indians. Just after sundown, the wagons sent for having arrived, the wounded were transported to Peninsula Camp with Lieutenant Boutelle in charge of escort, and the rest of the command marched to Promontory Point, the nearest place to water and the supposed position of the Modocs.
    May 11th. Sent dispatch to Department Headquarters that I believed the Modocs were near Sandy Butte in the lava beds, and as the country in that direction was impracticable for mounted troops, asked authority to turn in horses at Peninsula Camp.
    May 12th. Turned in horses to Peninsula Camp and marched on foot to Sandy Butte and found Modocs in strong position there. Donald McKay was obliged this day to relinquish command of Warm Springs Indians and be sent back to go into hospital.
    May 13th. Visited Major Mason, Twenty-first Infantry, whose command had camped the night before about three miles north of the butte.
    May 14th. Arranged with Major Mason plan of attack for the next day. In the afternoon of the 14th an Indian scout reported to me that he thought the Modocs had fled. First Lieut. J. B. Hazleton, Fourth Artillery, with twenty-six men, all of whom had volunteered for the purpose, advanced through the stronghold and confirmed the report.
    May 15th. Followed the trail about eight miles and found that it led in a southwest direction; returned to Sandy Butte that evening.
    May 16th. The horses for the command came up just after sundown. Act. Asst. Surg. J. E. Fallon reported today.
    May 17th. Followed trail with command mounted and found it led along the Ticknor road and afterward branched off toward Antelope Springs. Met Captain Perry, First Cavalry, with his squadron half-way to Van Bremmer's. My men, who had had no water all day, received a small supply from him. Went into camp at Van Bremmer's.
    May 18th. Captain Perry marched to Antelope Springs. I was to march to ford on Butte Creek, and the next day the two commands were to march toward each other in the valley of the creek until they united. While on the march to the ford I found the trail of Indians going up the hill opposite Van Bremmer's. I sent Captain Jackson to follow it with a troop of cavalry while I moved slowly down the road with the rest of the command. Very soon some shots were heard and I ordered B Troop and the Warm Springs Indians to join Captain Jackson at a gallop. When we joined Captain Jackson, I found him in hot pursuit of the Modocs, who were the Cottonwood or Hot Creek branch of that tribe. They were pursued along the top of the hills opposite Van Bremmer's Mountain about eight miles, to a point near Fairchild's Ranch and at as fast a gait as the very difficult ground permitted. Two bucks and three squaws were killed, the latter through mistake, and a number of squaws, children, ponies, blankets, etc., were captured.
    Beside the rocks there were many juniper trees which afforded good places for hiding. Had the ground been more open many more would have been killed or taken. The Indians were now so much scattered and the horses so exhausted that the pursuit was stopped and the command camped at Van Bremmer's. Captain Jackson was distinguished in this affair for his gallantry and sound judgment. Lieutenants Moss, Boutelle, and Kyle led their men ably and gallantly. Acting Assistant Surgeon Skinner, the efficient medical officer of the command, rode in advance with the line officers. All the men, as in the previous affair at Sorass Lake, did their duty. A message to Lieutenant Hazleton, commanding Battery B, to remain in the road with the pack train, until he should receive further orders, was incorrectly delivered by the orderly to whom it was entrusted, and the Battery continued its march to Butty Creek and did not return to Van Bremmer's until the 19th.
    May 19th. Marched to Fairchild's Ranch and sent twenty men under Lieutenant Boutelle to escort mail carrier, who reported to me he had been fired on while making his way to Tule Lake and forced back.
    May 20th. Command was saddled and about to resume march in search of the Modocs, when Mr. Fairchild told me that he had learned from one of the captured squaws in our possession that the Modocs were tired of fighting and wanted to surrender unconditionally, and that they were on their way to give themselves up when we attacked them on the 18th. I sent out the squaw to tell the Indians to come in and give themselves up, and made her distinctly understand that the surrender was to be unconditional.
   
Cyrus Townsend Brady, Northwestern Fights and Fighters, Doubleday 1913, copyright 1907, pages 229-325



Last revised March 23, 2025