“Desertions?” O’Roarke asked.
“Yes,” replied Seamus. “I’ll wager you’ll find the greatest number of desertions among those who fought the Modocs last January … and don’t want to again.”
“You’re right, Mr. Donegan,” Canby replied.
“With all this talk of going back to war with the Modocs—they’re the ones remember best what kind of hell this war with the Modocs really is,” Seamus added.
“Appears Jack’s warriors are ready to make a fight of it again,” Meacham said. “When sentries spotted some two-dozen Modocs hiding in the trees near the council tent this afternoon—I called off the conference.”
“Didn’t like the smell of that one,” Fairchild said.
“Something’s going on up there,” Dyar added.
Meacham rose, stretching. “As head of the delegation, I want your approval on something. One last time—I want to offer Jack’s people a chance to walk out of the Lava Beds without harm—before the general’s troops are turned loose. Do I have your agreement to make that offer?”
“Here, here,” Thomas seconded loudly.
“Any dissent?” Meacham waited. “Good. I’ll send Toby Riddle to Jack’s stronghold tomorrow with our final offer of safety for those who want out before the killing starts.”
* * *
“Take him from here, Frank,” begged Winema Riddle, her head bowed as she sat atop a soldier horse the following day, 9 April.
“His heart aches as much as mine,” Frank replied as he stood beside her stirrup. He had one hand touching his Modoc wife, the other arm clutched around their sobbing twelve-year-old son.
“I will return to you both,” Winema said, barely getting the words out as she reined away.
Behind her she heard the renewed wails of grief and anxiety as her only child howled. She knew Frank was having to restrain him, from the sound of the scuffle. Soldiers silently parted for her, others rose from their smoky mess-fires as she plodded by. Most of them took their hats from their heads in a sign of respect for her and the mission she had undertaken.
Winema straightened. Not only was she different from other Modoc women and therefore deserving of respect—but Toby Riddle was doing this brave thing. Called on by Meacham to carry an important message to her uncle, Kientpoos. Captain Jack of the Modocs in the Lava Beds.
It did not take that many minutes for her to pass through the council meadow and cover the last two miles to the edge of the Stronghold where the first warriors appeared from the rocks.
“I come with a message from the white men for the ears of Captain Jack.”
Without ceremony she was once more escorted to the heart of the Stronghold, where many warriors sat about cleaning and oiling their rifles. She did not find Jack among them. Dismounting, she handed the reins to William Faithful and climbed through the rocks to her uncle’s cave.
“If you have important news,” Jack announced, “we must tell it to all our people. Come—we will call everyone together.”
When everyone had taken their seats in blankets and quieted the children, Winema explained, “The white men are offering safety to all those who will come out of the rocks now—before the fighting starts. They will be given a reservation of their own, far from the Klamath land.”
For a moment there was some silence. Then Curly Headed Doctor started to hoot rudely. If the message bearer had been a man, he would be soundly shamed. But this was a woman, niece of the chief. Still, she suffered through a growing clamor of derision.
Jack quieted the noisy throng. “Let us vote. Those warriors who would accept the white man’s offer of safety for our women and children—let them line up with me here.”
A slow, deliberate shifting as first a few, then a handful, then eleven men jostled their way out of the crowd.
Winema watched Jack’s shoulders sag when it grew painfully clear no more were rising to stand with him.
This time Hooker Jim began the crazed hooting, followed by more jeering laughter from the thirty-eight other warriors who wanted nothing of the white man’s offer.
Jack turned to Winema. “My people have decided. They will not leave this place for their own safety.”
Schonchin John suddenly surged forward, stopping before Winema, his eyes angry and glazed with hate. “Take the white man our message now,” he spat like an angry cat. “Tell him that we are going to kill any Modoc who attempts to leave our Stronghold. No Modoc will give himself up and live.”
She read the moistness in her uncle’s eyes as he blinked the tears back. “I have heard your warriors speak,” she said, turning to go.
Jack caught her arm. “Tell them … tell Mee-Cham that we are ready for war—ready to fight. But tell them Jack will not fire the first bullet.”
“I go, Uncle. But my prayers stay here with you.”
A teenage boy appeared from the crowd with her soldier horse.
Winema grew worried. “Where is William Faithful?” she asked.
“He asked me to bring you the horse. That is all I know.” The youth cupped his hands and helped her aboard the animal where she spread her skirt.
Winema reined away, heading into the maze of pathways—fissures and crevices—that would take her back to the soldier camp.
She had not come much more than a half-mile from the center of the Stronghold when a voice whispered to her from a thick tangle of brush.
“Do not look my way when you stop your horse.”
She appeared confused, frightened, gazing into the bushes.
“We will both be killed if you let them know I am here—talking to you.”
She thought she recognized William Faithful’s voice, but could not be sure, as it was spoken so softly.
“Get off the horse and adjust the stirrups while I talk to you,” the voice instructed. “Those who are watching you must not be made suspicious.”
Winema dropped to the ground and slowly, deliberately circled to the off side, where she began adjusting stirrups lazily.
“I come to warn you, Winema,” the voice hissed in a harsh, frightened whisper. “They mean to kill the peace talkers when next they come to the tent. Everyone.”
She froze, frightened, her heart caught in her throat. Then started to turn.
“Don’t look at me hiding here! I am your friend. You warn your friends not to come to the tent anymore. Perhaps even your own life is doomed if you come with them. All will be killed!”
There was a sudden rustle in the brush and then all was silent. The voice was gone.
With her heart still in her mouth and her blood pumping hot in her ears, she slowly mounted, her eyes searching for any warriors who might kill her now if they knew she had learned of their deadly plot.
Talking to herself, lips slowly moving, Winema Riddle convinced her shaking hands to grip the reins tightly, nudging her heels against the mare’s flanks. Slowly, ever so slowly plodding back to the white man’s camp.
Where she would embrace her husband and son as she had never embraced them before.
* * *
It was plain to Meacham that Winema Riddle was spooked when she came tearing into the soldier camp, galloping the last half-mile or so as if the devil himself were right behind her.
Strange too that she refused to talk to Meacham, but dismounted only when she had arrived in front of her tent, where Frank Riddle appeared with their son. Frank helped his wife down, then clutched her to him. On her toes, Toby Riddle whispered something in Frank’s ear. He drew back, his face gone white and drawn. She nodded.
And Frank motioned for her to go into their tent with the boy.
Meacham strode over as Winema disappeared behind the tent flaps. “Something’s wrong. Frank. I need to know. Was Toby hurt?”
Frank turned on him with a look on his face Meacham had never seen worn by Riddle.
“I’ll tell you in private.”
Meacham yanked Riddle into a nearby tent they found empty. “Tell me.”
“She won�
�t dare tell anyone but me, Meacham.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll all be killed!”
Meacham choked on it, believing the warning instantly. “How? When and where?”
“At the tent—the next time they come there to talk with you.”
The old man shook his head in disbelief. “Surely … they wouldn’t try something so bold—”
“You don’t believe Toby?”
He nodded. “I believe her, I do. Let’s call the others together. She can tell them herself.”
“If anyone finds out she talked to you—my wife is dead.”
“We’ll swear every man—”
“No, you can’t. We know you. Toby trusts you. These others are strangers to us.”
He grasped Frank’s shoulders firmly. “Quiet—it will be safe with us. We’ll swear each man to secrecy.”
Which is what Meacham did when he had the other three men in the Riddles’ tent.
“While I do not consider this woman a liar,” General Canby began, “I can’t put much stock in this plot to kill us. They simply wouldn’t dare!”
“I quite agree with the general here,” Reverend Thomas said. “What wicked evil is at work among those savages! Praise be, the power of God will be like a mantle for us all. The Modocs will have no chance to kill us while we carry forward the sword of God’s power like Christian soldiers.”
Staring at Dyar’s fear-taut face, Meacham replied, “God will not watch over us if we don’t watch over ourselves.”
“Damn right,” Frank Riddle replied, embracing his shaken wife. “I may not be as smart as any of you. But I do know the Modocs. And if they say they’ll kill us—they will do it.”
The general cleared his throat self-consciously in the silence that followed Riddle’s warning. “We’ll see what the morrow brings,” Canby suggested. “For now, I cannot worry about some rumor the Modocs wanted brought back here to stir us up. Good evening, gentlemen.”
While Meacham and the others were beginning their breakfast the next morning, a delegation of three Modoc warriors approached, escorted by armed soldiers.
“These Indians say they want to talk to Meacham,” a young sergeant announced.
Bogus Charley nodded, smiling with that winning grin of his. “Mee-Cham. Yes, Mee-Cham. Good!”
After Riddle arrived to interpret, the rest of the civilian commissioners sat across from Bogus and Boston Charley, as well as Shacknasty Jim, all three of whom eyed the bacon sizzling in the cast-iron skillet over greasewood flames.
“You’ll get some to eat, all right,” Meacham said. “When it’s cooked and when I’m ready to feed you. So, tell me what you come here for.”
“Captain Jack wants to meet with you,” Boston Charley announced in his halting English. His eyes bounced over the group, scanning the nearby soldier camp. “Where is the old man, soldier tyee?”
Something crawled up Meacham’s spine, like January ice water. “He stays with the soldiers.”
“He will come to meet with Jack too?” Shacknasty Jim asked.
“Yes, if we have something important to talk about, he will come.”
The three heads bobbed eagerly. “Good things to talk about. Jack says come talk with him. Much important talk now.”
“You can tell the soldier chief yourself,” Meacham replied. “He’s coming over now.”
Canby strode up purposefully, his eyes darting over the three gape-mouthed prisoners. “What are these Modocs doing here now?”
“They bring us word from Jack,” Meacham answered. “Wants to parley at the tent.”
Canby nodded. “Odd, isn’t it? I just got a message from our lookout tower. They’ve spotted a half-dozen armed warriors already at the tent. Armed, mind you. And two dozen more with rifles lurking in the brush and rocks a few yards off.”
Meacham stood slowly, the look on Winema’s face yesterday now plain once more by this morning fire. He stood before Boston Charley, held out his hand and dragged the Modoc up while shaking. “We are not ready to talk yet. Perhaps soon. But not yet.”
The Modocs listened to Riddle’s translation, then dove into a confused discourse that offered every reward should the white men come now to make peace talk at the council tent. It only served to make Meacham all the more anxious.
For the entire time, Reverend Thomas had been silent—watching only as the noise of the discussion grew around him. He finally stood, tugging at the points of his woolen vest, then stopped self-assuredly right before Bogus Charley.
“My son,” Thomas began in that stentorian tone of his usually saved for the pulpit, “why would you and the others want to kill us? We are here to help you and your people. We come as your friends and benefactors—to make peace in this country for all time.”
Meacham watched the impish light in Bogus Charley’s eyes change to a flinty glare as Riddle translated.
“How you say we going to kill you?” he spoke in his own rough English. “Who tell you we kill white peace talkers?”
Meacham shook his head when Thomas glanced at him for support.
“I cannot lie to a man—not even an Indian,” Thomas said, proud of himself despite stepping on his own tongue. He turned back to Bogus Charley. “It was Toby Riddle.”
Charley glared at them. “She lies to you!”
“There,” Thomas replied smugly as he turned back to the other white men. “I knew there was no real cause for alarm. She must have misunderstood something Jack said.”
Frank Riddle was already moving away from the fire, anger etching his face, pounding one fist into the palm of his other hand as he cursed preachers and peace talkers.
Meacham turned back to find the three Modocs suddenly starting off in the opposite direction. At the edge of the soldier camp the trio began to walk faster, until they were loping across the broken country, headed for the council meadow.
Chapter 19
April 10–11, 1873
She did not know why she was going back to this den of death.
But here she was, inching her soldier horse back through the maze of slippery, black rock. Heading for Captain Jack’s Stronghold behind a stone-faced Hooker Jim.
This morning, less than two hours after Bogus Charley and the other two had learned that Winema Riddle knew of the plot to kill the peace commissioners, Hooker Jim had arrived in the soldier camp. Unannounced, and surprising everyone, he had poked his face next to Winema’s while she sat among the peace talkers and a handful of other white men.
“Jack wants to talk to you,” Hooker Jim declared in Modoc.
Beside her, Frank Riddle began to rise. She placed a hand on his thigh, urging him to sit.
“What…” she said, swallowing hard, “what does Jack want to talk to me about?”
Hooker Jim shook his head, showing his brown teeth through his strained smile. “He wants to see you at his cave.”
She glanced at her husband, now noticing the other white men studying her and Hooker Jim.
“Now—Winema.” The Modoc’s words were terse.
“What is this about?” Meacham asked, coming over quickly.
Hooker Jim straightened, his hands flexing. His eyes met Frank Riddle’s for a moment. “Tell the old man this has nothing to do with him.”
“It has everything to do with me,” Meacham stated. “Tell this one I can have him thrown in irons here and now for harassing this woman. I’ll have him held as my prisoner.”
Hooker Jim licked his lips, smiling, drawing his lips back over his teeth, which reminded Toby of the color of pinewood chips flying from the blade of the axe when she had helped Frank build their cabin years before.
Finally the Modoc sputtered his answer, somewhat cowed by the white men who had risen to impress the warrior.
“Jack wants to know why his niece tells lies about him.”
“How do I know you are not lying?” Meacham replied.
Hooker Jim pointed at the woman. “She tells lies! We do not plan to kill you!
”
Toby wanted to cry, looking at the face of Meacham as he stood there. She could tell he did not believe a single one of Hooker Jim’s protests.
“If Captain Jack wants peace—if he truly wants us to believe you and he are not lying,” Meacham said, grabbing Hooker Jim’s sleeve for emphasis, “then you go now and tell Captain Jack to come here to talk.”
With a sneer, the Modoc yanked his arm from the white man’s grip. “Modoc won’t do what white man says no more. Modoc is not your dog. Woman lie about our chief. She come and face her people.”
“She ain’t going anywhere with you, Hooker,” Frank Riddle said quietly.
“Winema is Modoc. She does not belong to you white men. She Modoc.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Riddle said in Modoc.
“I won’t leave without her,” the warrior hissed between his thin lips.
They stood glaring at one another, hands flexing, perhaps ready to pull a knife or pistol. She saw the same look darken Frank’s eyes as she read in Hooker Jim’s. At last Toby laid a hand against her husband’s arm.
“This is important, my husband. I will go—to help make peace between our peoples.” Toby spoke in English. She gripped his wrist tightly.
He gazed down at her. “They will kill you.”
She bit her lip. “Perhaps. But I took that chance when I rode in there alone yesterday.”
“That was different—they are angry with you now,” he pleaded. “They might even kill you for betraying their secret.”
She shook her head, sensing at last her own resolve beginning to glow like a valiant candle flame fighting a windswept gale. The look in Frank’s eyes made it hard to pull away.
Toby turned to Hooker Jim. “I go. Because I am Modoc, I am brave as any warrior. I go with you now.”
From time to time throughout the three-mile trip, Hooker Jim had glanced back at Winema and smiled that crooked, wicked smile of his between those two thin lips. And each time he gazed back at her, Toby vowed not to let him see her crying. She jut out her chin, blinked her eyes clear and held herself erect atop Frank’s saddle. She was Modoc.
Devil's Backbone: The Modoc War, 1872-3 Page 19
