CHAPTER XI.
LOTS OF PLUCK--ONE OF THE RANGERS KILLED--THINKING OF A BROTHER--TAKING A GOOD POSITION--LOSS OF HAIR, AND WHAT THE RED-SKINS THINK OF IT--"CAPTAIN JACK'S" OR THE MODOC COUNTRY--"CAPTAIN JACK'S" STRONGHOLD--ON OUR WAY BACK--SIGNAL-FIRES AND SOME STRATEGY--HALF A HUNDRED SCALPS FOR ONE--THE PAH-UTES ON THE WARPATH--FISHING FOR THE DEAD--THE WHITE FLAG--WASHO BRAVERY.
Bob's location was at some thirty miles' distance from my cabin, and wearrived there, shortly after the dazzling rays of the morning sun wereblindingly increased in strength by the reflection from the snow.
Spencer and Dorsey had told us the bare fact. Butch', however, had akeener nose than they apparently possessed.
"Dirty Bob fit well for it," he said, after glancing through the cabin."Some of the red skunks war hurt, and no mistake. He al'ays had lots o'pluck."
He was unmistakably right. There were marks of blood on the hard soil ofthe floor. But, whether the soaked in and dead crimson had once run inhis veins or those of his Indian enemies, remained to be seen. We almostat once struck their trail, which led through the forest, beyond thespot he had selected for his hunting-ground. This we followed, forsomething more than six miles. The track was by no means an easy one,rising and falling, broken up by rocks and intersected with the stumpsof fallen trees. In short, it was one which none of the delicatenurslings of city civilization would have cared about following, evenfor the purpose of pulling trigger at their first live venison, and, ofnecessity, missing it.
Arnold and Painter were in advance.
The fatigue of the past two days and night had kept me somewhat in therear of the party, with Butch' and "Fatty."
Painter uttered a savage oath.
We ran up to him. He and Arnold were standing close to the body of poorBob. His knife, smeared with dried or frozen blood, was still clenchedin the hands of the corpse, which was frightfully mutilated. It had alsobeen scalped. Evidently, his death had been the result of a vigorousstruggle to escape; for the snow on which he was lying was crushed inand trodden down in every direction; while a young tree had been tornfrom its roots by the force with which some one had fallen against it.Glancing at Ben Painter, I saw that his teeth were set tightly together,and his under lip, which his beard permitted me to see, was rigid andalmost blue. I took him by the hand and squeezed it.
"I war thinking of my brother."
This was all he said, as we continued upon the trail.
From this point, it could very readily be followed. The marks of bloodwere visible enough all along it. One or more of the red-skins had beenwounded. In about half a mile further, the road became easier and thetrees were more scattered. Arnold, who was still in front with Painter,and Brighton Bill, had sighted what they supposed to be a dead Indian.
"Here's one of them," cried Arnold.
Scarcely had he uttered this than, wounded as he was, the savage leaptto his feet and ran. His strength, however, only availed him for ashort spurt. He again dropped, and, while on the ground, drew his bow.The arrow struck Bill on the left arm, making a slight flesh wound. Butbefore the red devil could discharge another, Ben Painter was up withhim, and the knife he had drawn was buried in his heart. On examiningthe dead body, we discovered the wound Bob had inflicted on its side.Blood was still slowly oozing from it.
From this point, the trail diverged towards the Lower Klamath Lake. Wefollowed on it as rapidly as possible, passing Shasta Mountain, until wearrived at Fall River. Beyond this stream lies the country, which is thestronghold of the Modoc and Pit-River tribes.
It is certainly a fitting section to have such an appellation applied toit.
Throughout, it is covered with natural fortifications. Huge rocks risefrom the earth, varying from two hundred to three hundred and fifty feetin height. A single precipitous and narrow path, sometimes natural, notunfrequently fashioned by the Modocs or their tributaries, the Pit-RiverIndians, who are by no means as warlike, leads to the top of these.Here, in many cases, the summit is defended by a breastwork. In the bedsof lava, for this part of the country has formerly been volcanic, youwill also occasionally come upon a triangle of rocks, from four to sixfeet in height, with a steep cavity in their centre, large enough inevery case to admit a man, and frequently much larger. The reasons ofthese curious formations I leave to more inquiringly scientific mindsthan my own. They are certainly too numerous, as well as now too low, tobe supposed the series of small craters from which lava formerly flowed.
Even in saying this, I feel I am getting beyond my depth.
Let me, therefore, confine myself to the details of actions which I amassuredly able to speak of, from the mere fact that I very decidedlytook part in them.
We had followed the Modocs as far as Battle Creek.
Here, knowing the situation they intended to trap us into, we halted fortwo days, in order to give ourselves some rest, and enable a portion ofthe Rangers whom our speed had outstripped to catch up with us.
On the second day we consulted together for a long time. This councilwas the first in which my advice had not been immediately taken by theRangers, without any opposition.
It was, that we should make what a military tactician would call afeint.
In other words, we should seem to retire as if we did not dare to carrythe pursuit any further. During the succeeding night we might return,and, under its cover, secure one of the best positions in the section ofcountry immediately beyond Fall River.
Harry Arnold and Lute Spencer decidedly objected to this. They assertedthat it would be the first time in which we had ever backed from anynumber of the "darned red skunks." Many of the others agreed with them,amongst whom were Butch' and "Fatty."
Painter, however, greatly to my surprise, in the teeth of theiropposition, took my side of the question, as did Brighton Bill. Layinghis broad hand on my shoulder, the latter said:
"The Cap's more nor 'arf ha Hinjun. Hi'll be blamed hif 'e hisn'tright!"
At length we carried the day, and broke up our camp on the followingmorning. Upon the same night we returned, moving with the greatestsilence and caution, securing a position admirably adapted for mypurpose. Part of the Rangers took possession of one of the natural fortswhich commanded an area of some two hundred yards in width. The rest ofus were posted in a series of the triangular pits opposite thisposition. Their duty was similar to that of sharpshooters, although Imay say not a single Ranger would have been unfit for such a duty, orwould have failed in it.
It was a little after daybreak, when we first caught sight of a party ofthe Modocs. These counted barely ten. They had evidently come out to seewhether we had quitted our late position by Battle Creek.
Nothing was to be seen of us. The Creek was visible. Consequentlyreturning, they halted immediately between the rock on which part of ournumber were encamped and the rifle-pits opposite. From this spot theydespatched a runner to warn the remainder of the red-skins. So far,everything had worked rightly. In some twenty minutes more fifty orsixty of the remaining Modocs had joined their scouting party.
They were together, some pointing in the direction they supposed us tohave taken, and others talking, it may be presumed, on the wisdom offollowing us, when I gave the word.
We all had Sharp's carbines. Indeed, these were our invariable fightingweapons. Throwing in cartridge after cartridge, we kept up an almostcontinuous fire. Those who escaped our balls, scattered in everypossible direction.
Forty-three of the red-skins had been slain.
After taking their scalps, we started off in the direction of PitRiver.
Here, possibly, the reader may feel some shrinking horror at theconstant repetition made by me, of this, to his mind, unpleasantlybarbaric proceeding. Let him remember that the unscalped Indian issupposed, by his red brethren, to hold a higher rank in the HappyHunting Grounds of his belief than the one who has lost his hair. Hewill then form some idea of the reason for which the white ranger orscout invariably scalps the red-skin who has fallen under hi
s ball.
When we were near old Fort Crook, a signal-fire was seen, far to ourleft.
Having advised with Arnold, he and Bill ascended the mountain nearestus, to answer it from that point. Crossing the valley to the furtherside, I repeated the answering signal from the opposite hill. Then,passing the low "divide" or range of insignificantly steep groundbetween Pit and Fall Rivers, we once more started a signal-fire, on thehighest point we could find.
All that seemed at the moment left for us to do, was to concealourselves and wait what might next turn up. While hidden, Brighton Billtouched my arm.
"Hi'm blamed hif the red rascals harn't hat hit hagain."
His eyes had been quicker than mine or any of the rest of us. Anothersignal had been kindled on a large bald or bare mountain on our left,and slightly in our rear. Butch' was sent to a hill lying some half of amile to our right, to answer this. He was one of the quietest scoutsamongst the Rangers; and saying this, is paying him a high compliment,when all of us had learnt to be so apt and ready. He had been, on thisoccasion, selected by me, because the last signal-fire had ignited sonear to us, that caution and care were absolutely necessary in him whoreplied to it, to prevent any detection of the white man who might beemployed to kindle it. We waited for his reply some time. Almostimmediately after it was seen by us, the smoke from an answer to it wasseen upon a low hill to the right of our ambuscade. There was certainlyno possibility of mistaking the meaning of this signal. It was aninquiry whether the friends who had so kindly answered them were "on ourtrail?"
We were waiting for Hasbrouck to come back, when we saw in the gatheringgloom the crimson light of another signal-fire, farther up the valley.
Without coming back for new orders, Butch' had exercised his ownjudgment. He had displayed his rapidity of decision and accuracy ofcalculation, in what he had done.
He had not yet returned when I saw a party of Indians, numbering in all,from twenty to twenty-five, stringing, with great care and silence, upthe valley. Quite unconscious of our ambush, they advanced right intoit.
But, that the boys fired too soon, not a single one of the lucklessred-skins would have escaped.
As it was, eight of them paid the penalty of having mistaken oursignal-fires for those of their own friends. In almost a word, I may saythat the slaughter of fifty-one Modocs had atoned for the death of ourluckless associate, Bob Thorn.
His was the first name wiped out from the Buckskin Rangers, and, afterwe had punished the tribe which had taken his life, not unnaturally, hismemory was frequently recalled by most of us, with sorrow.
I was possibly the only one of the Rangers that remembered the close ofhis life, with something approaching pleasure. The dead man had beenenabled by it, to escape that most horrible of dooms, as I was too wellaware, the slow death at the stake.
About the end of February, we once more reached the settlement at thelower end of Honey Lake. We were enabled to carry with us a fair stockof skins, or as the traders call them, "peltry."
These we disposed of at a reasonable and remunerative figure. No soonerhad we done so, than after a few days' idleness spent with friends andacquaintances, the larger part of us decided upon returning to oursilver lodes upon the Humboldt River. The truth is, that during the pastfall and winter, the report of our success in prospecting for ore inthat locality, had spread far and wide. It had exercised the usual charmwhich the news of such a discovery invariably does. If we had delayed inthe occupancy of our claims, we might, in the sequel, have found them asubject of dispute. The law of the mines is an unwritten one.Consequently, its strictness in some points is only equalled by itsvagueness in others. Here our luck was various enough, but on the wholewe fairly prospered. Nothing of particular account, however, presentsitself for me to put on record, save the presence of my friends and hisGrizzlyship, my now considerably large pet, Charley.
On returning from our life at these mines, we spent the whole of thefollowing winter in the valley or at Susanville.
It would be useless to inquire into the reason of our doing so.Possibly we were lazy, or more probably had reaped too much profit frommining and trapping, during the past year. However, there were no Indiantroubles that season. There may be an equal chance that this was thereason of our comparative inactivity.
The succeeding winter, that of 1861 and '62, will be remembered by allold Californians as one of the most severe which had ever occurred inthat part of our country. The mountains were closed very early, soearly, indeed, that few or none of the settlers in the up-lands had gotin their winter supplies. They were actually shut in by the heavysnow-falls, from the possibility of doing so.
In addition to this trouble, our old enemies, the Pah-ute Indians, hadagain become restless.
Possibly, Uncle Sam had forgotten to purchase their forbearance. At anyrate, they were again upon the war-path, for the purpose of stealingstock.
My first knowledge of this arose from the following occurrence:
A lame man, named Thomas Bear, was at this period keeping the Deep HoleSpring Station, on the Humboldt road. He chanced to be in the valleyupon business, when some travellers from the Humboldt passed through it,on their way to Susanville. In passing Deep Hole, they had paused at theStation. It was to find it deserted and plundered of almost everythingwhich an Indian would be likely to take. The floor was marked withnumerous stains of blood, and there were unmistakable signs visible,which clearly told them a savage struggle had recently taken placethere. Meeting Tom, they recounted these facts to him.
He had known me for some three years, and hunting me up--for ifanywhere in this end of Honey Lake Valley, no man was very difficult tofind,--asked me to accompany him to the Station, to discover what wasthe matter. The request was a natural one, and I at once complied withit.
From snow the roads were almost impassable, save on foot. I,nevertheless, set out with my lame companion on this pleasant tramp.
While resting during the night at George Laithrop's Ranch, as a matterof course, I explained the facts which induced me to accompany Bear. Ayoung lad no more than sixteen years of age overheard me, and wished togo with us. In fact, he displayed such a determination to make a thirdin our party, that I could not refuse him.
"You must get a rifle from Laithrop," I said, when he asked me to takehim with us.
"I've one of my own, and a Colt's six-mouthed barker, too," was hisreply.
"If so, you can come with us."
On the next morning, we started again, Tom, the boy, and myself. Littletrouble was anticipated by me from the red-skins, in spite of what Bearhad heard. The road from the Humboldt was so constantly travelled over,and lay so much out of the usual line of their depredations, that I wasalmost disinclined to put full faith in the account which he had soimplicitly accepted. Mud Spring Station had, however, been apparentlyabandoned, and we were compelled to push on to Smoke Creek withoutresting there. Next day, we rose early, and made the best speed wecould, in the hope of reaching Deep Hole on the same night. This was,however, in consequence of the depth of the snow in many places,impossible. We were forced to stop at Wall Springs. This was at sixmiles' distance from the point to which our steps were directed.
When, on the succeeding day, shortly after dawn, we arrived at theStation, we found that the travellers had told Tom nothing but thetruth.
Nevertheless, on a thorough examination, I found that none of theprovisions or blankets had been taken. Nothing but the guns andammunition had been made away with. But for the marks of blood on thefloor and in the doorway, it is more than probable Bear's suspicionsmight have been equally divided between the man he had left in charge ofthe Station and the red-skins.
As yet, nothing had been found inside the premises to indisputablysettle the fact of the man's murder, or if he had been murdered, toprove how or by whom the outrage had been committed.
The snow in front of the house might possibly have offered some proof;but the feet of the party who had brought the news to Honey Lake, hadeffaced all such
evidence, which might have been left on it. Some dayshad, to a certainty, elapsed. My life in the last few years had,however, taught me the two great Indian virtues, patience andpersistence. Only half of our search was yet over.
I began to examine the grounds round the Station, and found, leading toone of the largest and deepest of the springs from which it has takenits name, the track of moccasins.
Getting a long _lariat_, which lame Tom had procured for me, Iextemporized a hook from the hoop of an old keg, and with the line towhich I had attached it, began fishing in the spring, for anything Imight find in it.
Nor, was my search long unrewarded.
Shortly after, in dragging the bottom, my hook caught hold of somethingheavy. When we had raised it to the surface of the water, it proved tobe a body. As I glanced at Bear, he said, with almost a groan:
"Sure enough, it's poor Dave."
The head of the murdered man had been split with a hatchet, andafterwards scalped. A fragment of rock had been tied to the body by thePah-utes for the purpose of sinking it.
After we had interred it, as decently as we could, we proceeded to_cache_ the blankets, provisions, and anything else which might be ofvalue. All of the stock had been driven off, with the exception of alame horse. This we took away with us, as, otherwise, it must haveperished.
On our return, when we had reached the low Sand Hills at the foot ofSmoke-creek Canyon, we saw eight or ten red-skins coming down the side ofthe mountain to the right of the track in front of us. Each of themcarried a stick with a piece of white rag tied to it. In the hands of anIndian, a flag of any sort means fight, and we knew it. Our preparationswere speedily made. Telling the boy to lead the horse and draw hisrevolver, I gave his rifle to Tom Bear, who had none, bidding him coverour rear. Then, before taking my place in front, an uncommon one formost generals, and only to be pardoned on account of the exceedinglyrestricted number of my army, I gave my directions to the boy. They werevery simple. He was to follow after me, and not use his Colt, unless Ifired--if necessitated to do so.
When all was settled satisfactorily, we steadily advanced.
Soon after, the Washos reached the road. So, at least, my lame friendafterwards said they were, and it appears probable, as ten Pah-utes totwo whites and a boy, even if a tall one, would scarcely have been cowedso easily. They had drawn up on either side of the track, and attemptedto induce us to stop. Pushing them right and left with my rifle, I paidno attention to this, and as soon as we had passed, faced round, biddingTom to do the same, until we were out of the range of their arrows. Noneof them had fire-arms.
On reaching the canyon, instead of going through it, we crossed to thewest side, in the view of preventing any risk of an ambush from themwhile we were in the defile. Had we exposed ourselves to this chance,and had they enough resolution to have availed themselves of it, theirarrows would have told, while, unless they had incautiously uncoveredthemselves, there would have been exceedingly small risk of their losingany of their own party. Tom Bear was right. They very certainly couldnot have been Pah-utes.
We had no more trouble until we reached Laithrop's Ranch, which we didin as short a period as lame Tom and the still lamer quadruped couldtraverse the distance. Here, the lad who had accompanied us was toremain; and when I left him there, I was unable to refrain from givinghim a few words of warm praise.
"You behaved very well, my boy, when you gave up your rifle, at once. Ifyou obey orders so promptly now, some day you will be in a position togive them."
"I'm right glad, Captain Mose, to hear you tell me that."
As he said this, the young fellow flushed through his richly bronzedskin up to the very roots of his hair, with pleasure.
When I saw him, a somewhat sad and bitter reflection came over me. Inthe far West, self-reliance comes early as well as quickly. Manhoodgrows with action, not by years. How soon, life must rob him of thecapacity of blushing at any such recognition of obedience.
There, amid the roughly hardy dwellers on the frontier, exertion rapidlyblots out the modest valuation of our own merits. It, indeed, teaches aself-appreciation which frequently approaches the style of Bombastes,and which I have not uncommonly heard stigmatized as braggadocio.
This is, nevertheless, an unfair judgment. He who has to be ready foranything, whose energy and audacity have drawn him through difficultiesand dangers his Eastern fellow-countryman never has been exposed to,will at times necessarily glorify his own pluck and endurance. And whyshould he not do so, having none around him who would be inclined tosing his praises, while they believe themselves equally or more gallantand plucky than he is?
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