by Vella Munn
"I never—"
"You say you believe in nothing, that you live only to fight, but I say you have too much heart for that."
"Do I? I cursed you yesterday. Wanted you dead. When I had a man's blood on my hands, I wanted it to be yours."
In the distance, a horse pounded its hoof against the ground. Another responded by whinnying loudly. The sounds briefly turned her from him, and yet she didn't appear to be startled. Why should she? She believed some bird rendered her everything but immortal. "I do not believe you," she said. "It would be easier if I did."
"Leave, damnit. You got what you came here for; you found out your braves didn't finish me off—this time."
"You hate me."
"There's dead men over there, one barely old enough to leave his mother's side."
"I killed no one."
"You know what I'm talking about! The boy didn't want to be here. He was probably so scared he couldn't move."
She took a backward step. He told himself he was going to let her go. Still, his hand snaked out and caught her wrist. She jerked, forcing him to grip tighter. "Let me—"
A sudden shard of light distracted him. Someone had opened the cabin door; the glow from the lantern spilled into the dark. Before he had time to react, someone called out his name. Instantly, Luash's arm became like a taut bowstring.
"Don't!" he hissed. Although there was no need, he pulled her around and clamped his hand over her mouth. Fear hammered at his heart, stark terror for this woman. "I'm out here," he responded as loudly as he dared, hoping none of the soldiers would wake, hoping the night hid both him and her. "What do you want?"
"What are you doing? It's the middle of the night."
"Some things a man's got to do in private. I'll be right there."
"You'd better. Perry's awake and asking for you."
"I told you, I'll be there." Luash was still, her body both soft and solid against his. The man, Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton, muttered something Jed didn't catch. He stood with his shoulder braced against the doorjamb as he peered into the night. Wheaton was director of the command against the Modocs. The last two days had been a nightmare for him, and his endurance and patience had been stretched nearly to breaking. What he might do if he spotted Luash turned Jed numb. After a minute, the lieutenant colonel cursed softly, then stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.
"He didn't see you," Jed whispered.
She twisted against him, yet there was nothing frantic about her movements. Even more of her warmth flowed into him. She felt so light; he marveled that there was so much strength in her slight form, such softness beneath the thick layers of clothing.
"Jed. Let me go."
"Are you going to leave?"
"I do not know. Let me go."
He couldn't do that, not yet, but he knew that a few more moments of her body against his wouldn't still his need. In fact, it would only make it worse. Slowly, cursing himself for not turning his back on her when he first realized who was out there, he drew his hands off her. He waited for her to jerk away, but she simply took a half step and spun around so that she was looking up at him.
He didn't need morning or light from the campfires to know her eyes were filled with questions, distrust, and secrets kept from him, maybe a tiny opening into her soul—even if he didn't believe in souls.
He laid his fingertips on her cheek. She pulled in a quick breath, but didn't move. Stop it. Don't.... He couldn't hold onto the rest of the warning he needed to give himself, but then how could he, with the sound of her breathing in his ears?
He explored her face in the dark, a blind man seeking answers in brush strokes of sensation. She had no spare flesh over her narrow nose and strong chin. Below her eyes, he discovered warm velvet that made his fingers feel like roughened wood by contrast. He turned his attention to her lashes, to the bones which sheltered her huge dark eyes. That she allowed him to touch her so intimately seemed the greatest of miracles. He knew the spell could be easily broken, wondered at the reason for this small measure of trust, then decided trust had very little to do with it.
He could still hear her breathing. In his exploration, he'd discovered that her nostrils were flared. There, simple and basic and primitive was the reason why she hadn't let the night envelope her.
He sensed her tremble, guessed that her response came from that place where sensation and little else dwelled. He wanted to tell her he understood, but when he tried to form the words, they jumbled inside him. They now stood apart from each other, but he remained imprinted with her and need crawled over him like a hungry animal.
"You were afraid of the man who called to you," she whispered. "Why?"
"Not for me. For you."
"You should not care what happens to me."
"No. I shouldn't. I cursed you yesterday, wished you into that hell I don't believe in. But I did that because—because I was scared and angry and sick. I knew the army wasn't going to win that attack."
"Because my spirit is strong."
"Stop it! That damn bird of yours has nothing to do with this! You think you're invincible; someday that's going to get you killed."
Her laugh was short and musical, a soft brush of sound that reminded him of why her life had become precious to him. "There are going to be other battles," he forced himself to say. "And your people are going to lose them."
"If that is so, then hiding me from your soldiers is foolish."
"Go, Luash. You don't belong here."
For too long he didn't think she was going to speak, and when she did, her voice lacked strength. "You are right, Jed. I no longer have any right to stand on this land."
"That's not what I meant. I'm talking about—"
"I know what you are saying, Jed Britton. And I have no wish to be here when your soldiers wake. But there is something I leave with you. Our spirits remain on this land; you cannot order Sun God to leave Mount Shasta. You say Kumookumts is not the creator, but your words do not change what I know. Listen to the night, Jed Britton. When you hear a coyote howl, when owl sings his song, you will know that death will again visit your kind."
"Coyote? An owl? You can't believe that."
She stood before him, her body motionless, touching him only with her words. "You have no spirit, Jed Britton, and mine is powerful. That is what I know."
No! he wanted to throw at her, but a distant wolf had caught the night breeze with his ageless call and she was looking up at him. Smiling a little.
Listen, he heard her say although her lips didn't move. This sound belongs, only this sound and those who understand it.
Chapter 9
Five days after the abortive attack on the stronghold, Captain Bernard, under orders from General Canby, abandoned Land's Ranch. He took with him several wagon loads of supplies and a small number of men, their destination the Applegate Ranch to the west. As they approached Scorpion Point, they were attacked. Although none of the fleeing men were hurt, the Modocs burned all the wagons plus the badly needed grain.
Shortly after, some Modocs fired at the military camp at Van Bremer's ranch, nearly causing a panic there. Other Modocs did the same at the Dorris ranch, their intended victims this time some Indians who hadn't joined them in the lava beds.
While reports of that attack were still coming in, a small number of Modocs attacked a group of volunteers who were moving horses along the lake's north shore. As a result, volunteers began deserting, along with some of the reservation Indians. The soldiers who would replace them hadn't yet arrived.
When he received word that General Canby wanted to meet with him, Jed was certain he knew why. Although he expected other officers to join them for an update on what had happened over the last few days, except for the general's aide, they were alone at an isolated spot some five miles from the stronghold. They had an unbelievable view of an entire valley clogged with black, lifeless rubble and rocks, proof of what a volcanic eruption could produce.
"Incredible. Absolutely i
ncredible," General Canby said from where he stood overlooking the valley before Jed had had time to dismount. "And not just the land. The Modocs know no fear. They're like ghosts. No one knows where they'll show up next. I'm certain they're not out here. Nothing, not even an animal, would have any reason to be, and yet I keep thinking I'm going to see some warriors."
Leaving his horse with the aide, Jed joined his general. Although he'd heard of this spot, this was his first time here. Incredible. Vast. Nearly incomprehensible. Both lifeless and compelling. "This humbles me," he admitted. "No matter what civilization accomplishes, it can't match this."
"I agree, Lieutenant," General Canby went on. "I've fought Seminoles and taken part in the removal of Seminoles and Cherokees to Indian Territory. I thought chasing Seminoles through the Everglades had tested me in ways I never would be again, but I was wrong. These Modocs—I am inclined to believe you have been right all along and that cutting them off from all hope of food or escape is the only way to bring an end to this war. However, and this is between the two of us, that is not what is going to happen."
"I don't understand."
With an impatient finger, General Canby motioned for his aide to join them. The scruffy-looking young man handed Jed a telegram. Reading carefully, Jed learned that the newly reelected President Grant had decided to dispatch a peace commission to deal with the Modoc situation. Grant was under considerable pressure from religious groups and pacifists to end the hostilities without further bloodshed. Head of the commission was to be A.B. Meacham, the former Oregon Indian superintendent.
"I want the truth from you, Jed," the general said. "I'm beginning to think you're the only one who will tell me what I need to hear, not just what you might believe I want to hear. Do you honestly believe a peace commission has a chance of bringing things to a close?"
"Where is Meacham?"
"In the capital, unfortunately. It'll take him several weeks to get here, and I'm not at all convinced that he and whoever is appointed to work with him will succeed in defusing things peacefully. I'm well aware that the relationship between Meacham and Captain Jack is not the best. However, the president has made his decision, and I am bound to honor that. In the meantime, I have decided that Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton must be relieved of responsibility for the entire campaign. The soldiers have lost confidence in him. If we're going to prevent any more desertions, any more demoralization, we must have new leadership."
Was General Canby thinking to give him that position? Before Jed could remind his commanding officer that there were others who outranked him and who wanted the position, the general smiled, the grin barely visible through his beard.
"I believe I know what you are thinking, Lieutenant. However, you can rest your mind on that matter. You have the reputation of being a bit of a rebel; when you believe you are right, you don't care who hears. I'm concerned the men might not look to you with the degree of respect needed. We must present a positive, united front to the troops and volunteers, something that's sadly lacking at this point. Beyond that, if you have to answer to me for everything you and the men under you do, you might be less honest than you are now."
"I might," he acknowledged.
General Canby laughed. "And I need that honesty, even if I don't always act on it. To lay my cards on the table, much as I would like to do as you've advocated and simply trap the Modocs until they are forced to give up, this is not what the president and his advisors want. They are adamantly opposed to anything less than a massive show of force, so that when the peace commission is ready to begin work, the Modocs will have full understanding of and respect for our strength. Don't fail me, lieutenant. What are your impressions of Colonel Alvan Gillem?"
"Gillem? I don't personally know him."
"Hmm. But you know of him."
Yes, he did. Dividing his attention between the general and their surroundings, Jed planned his reply. It would be easier for the future of his career to plead ignorance, to keep his opinions to himself, but General Canby had turned to him because he needed honesty. "He's a southerner, but he didn't support the Confederacy during the war."
"And your family did?"
"Yes, sir."
"Which means you might not be kindly disposed toward Colonel Gillem?"
"That's not it. I mean, that's not the reason for my reservations."
"And you have reservations?"
Maybe he should feel backed into a comer, but he didn't. Instead, he welcomed the opportunity for honesty. "What I know about Colonel Gillem comes to me secondhand. However, I have heard the same stories over and over again. It's my impression that Colonel Gillem's treatment of both enlisted men and officers is erratic and sometimes downright unfair."
"I see."
"I also understand that other officers resent him because he has advanced through the ranks more rapidly than most. They believe that wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been a personal friend of President Andrew Johnson."
"Do you believe that?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Hmm. If you were in my position, what would you do?"
Was that why General Canby had asked for him, so he could get an honest opinion? Hoping that was the case and hoping it meant the general would give his observations more serious consideration from now on, Jed gave him as complete an answer as possible.
"Confidence in Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton has been seriously eroded, probably fatally so, thanks to the dismal results of our so-called assault on the lava beds, followed by the recent Modoc attacks. There are other officers already serving here who might be capable of taking over Wheaton's responsibilities, but the question is, do those officers honestly believe the Modocs can be defeated? There's no denying that the January seventeenth attack was a disaster."
"Yes, it was."
"And since then, the Modocs have been toying with us, flaunting their superior knowledge of the area. Perhaps you need new blood, a West Point man with influential political connections, a man who can get the government to provide us with the manpower and arms necessary to defeat the Indians."
"Yes." General Canby drew out the word. "Perhaps that is what this campaign needs." Swinging away from him, the general turned his attention back to the massive lava field. "Thank you, lieutenant. I trust we will be speaking again soon."
* * *
Jed and the other officers met with Colonel Gillem at the newly formed Lost River headquarters on February 9. Afterward, Jed told Wilfred that the tension between Gillem and the outgoing Wheaton had been palpable.
"Gillem's already riding roughshod over what's been going on so far," he explained as they watched a blacksmith at work on the horses corralled at the Van Bremer house. "When he heard that freight companies from Jacksonville and Roseburg have been charging twice what it would cost to bring supplies up from Redding, he immediately cut off all Oregon freight. The teamsters are up in arms over the lost revenue, but there's not much they can do."
"Except hope the Modocs win; they'd probably call it justice."
"It's not going to happen. Gillem's soon going to have nearly seven hundred troops at his disposal."
"That many?"
"More. There's at least another hundred forty at camps Warner and Harney just waiting to be called into service."
"Do you think that's going to make an impression on the Modocs?"
"I'm about to find out," Jed said, his attention fixed on the blacksmith's fire. The erratic wind lashed the flames in first one direction and then the other. It hadn't snowed for several days, but unless he was wrong, more would be here before nightfall.
"What do you mean?"
"Gillem doesn't have the patience to simply sit back and wait for the peace commission, and General Canby has turned responsibility for the campaign over to him."
"Already?"
"Unfortunately," Jed said, honestly, because Wilfred was the one person he could confide in. "You've been at Fairchild's ranch. You know what the word from Captain Jack is."
"He wants someone to go into the stronghold. Probably hopes he'll be able to convince Jack that the peace commission was his idea. A politician to the end," he finished sarcastically.
"You're going to volunteer, aren't you. Why the hell would you want to do a fool thing like that?"
"Because General Canby recommended me."
"You and the general are that close?"
"We understand each other. And maybe..." Jed's gaze strayed in the direction of the stronghold. "Maybe through Luash, I can get Jack to listen to me."
"Jack's going to hear what he wants, and do what he wants. I don't for a minute believe he's thinking about rolling over and giving up."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Someone's got to find out what he's thinking, that's for sure. Look, if he is so inclined, and if he still has the support he did back when his group walked off the reservation, he ought to be able to talk the lot of them into surrendering."
"Not too likely," Wilfred insisted.
"You think not?"
"So do you; admit it. Damnit, Jed, the Modocs have to have heard that the grand jury in Jacksonville indicted some of the braves for the deaths of those settlers. The likes of Hooker Jim and their shaman aren't going to risk getting their heads put through any nooses. They'll hold out, try to talk everyone into doing the same. Put pressure on Captain Jack to stay right where they are."
"That's what I want to find out, how much power and control Jack still has. If they're fighting among themselves, it might change things, make it easier to defeat them."
"Maybe. Who's going with you?"
"No one,"
"The hell you say. You trying to get yourself killed before spring?"
"Whether I approve of the man or not, Gillem is giving the orders. Neither he nor General Canby want to risk more lives than absolutely necessary. And you and I both know there's no guarantee this so-called peace commission is going to accomplish anything. Hell, we don't even know who's going to work with Meacham, when and if he gets here."
