Devil's Backbone: The Modoc War, 1872-3

by Terry C. Johnston

  More important still, Seamus had not seen a glimpse of his uncle.

  Then, from the shadows emerged the first pair of warriors. Their ponies halted, then moved, halting again before inching forward at an agonizing pace, heads slung low, weary of the weeks and miles of chase.

  Another pair, then a third—until twelve warriors had emerged from the trees, following the Fairchilds down the green slope. Behind the men came the women, some with little children clutched in their blankets. Others riding double and triple on ribby ponies clearly done in and in need of proper grazing. A dozen men and fifty-one others, including a handful of old ones who hooded their faces from the soldiers beneath tattered, dirty blankets. Nearly all wore some scuffed and greasy part of a soldier uniform, taken from the army’s dead.

  “Dear Lord,” whispered Captain Jackson. “Half-naked children, aged squaws who can scarcely hobble. Blind, lame and halt. The scum of the tribe—how this war has made beggars of them!”

  “By the Virgin Mary,” Seamus whispered in a sudden gasp.

  “What was that?” Jackson asked, then turned to find what had caused the Irishman to utter his quiet, prayerful exclamation.

  Ian O’Roarke brought up the rear, the last down the trail on his own weary animal. And in front of him, on the old saddle the settler had ridden all those years since mining the creeks of Colorado, sat a young girl not more than five or six summers. Her hair in hung greasy sprigs, her face smudged with dirt and the smoke of many desperate fires, and clutching Ian’s coat about her trembling shoulders, beneath it her own dress in wind-whipped tatters.

  Try as he might, Seamus could not swallow down the hot lump of glorious pride caught in his throat at the sight. Seeing even now that his uncle was more of a family man than any others might suspect. In his heart swelled a fierce love for that man bringing up the rear of the sad procession. His eyes grew moist as a rustle crossed the crowd.

  Davis started forward with his officers, stepping onto the road. Soldiers surged forward and the colonel whirled on them, flinging his arm and ordering them back. He went on with a handful of his staff. Fifty yards from Fairchild’s cabin, they stopped. Waiting for the rancher.

  Fairchild, then his wife, came to a stop without a word spoken. When the first pair of warriors came to a halt with Fairchild, the rancher finally said, “Colonel Davis—this here is Bogus Charley.”

  “One of the murderers?”

  “Yes.” Fairchild turned, nodding to Charley. “This is the soldier tyee, Charley. It’s time—like we talked about … now.”

  The dirty Modoc drew himself up as he slipped from the back of his skinny pony. He strode over to the officer who towered over him in the bright sunlight, rubbed his Springfield rifle affectionately one last time, then laid the weapon at the colonel’s feet.

  Without another word being spoken, the rest of the warriors dismounted as they rode into the ranch yard and laid their weapons, rifles and pistols, at the soldier’s feet.

  “Tell them I want their knives too, Fairchild.”

  When the rancher told the warriors, there were some flinty glares from the black eyes. But one by one the Modocs came up to lay their skinning and scalping knives with the firearms.

  “Now tell them I am much pleased,” Davis instructed. “Show them a place where they can camp across Cottonwood Creek, Fairchild. And remind them that any attempt to escape will be dealt with in a swift and harsh manner.”

  By the time O’Roarke was into the yard and handing the young girl down to a squaw, Seamus was at his side, taking off his own coat to wrap about the shoulders of an old woman who hobbled along near the end of the procession, dragging an injured foot.

  “Didn’t know how long I could wait … to know … to see you,” Seamus admitted when he had his uncle locked in an embrace.

  “You would have waited as long as it took, lad. Same you done already … getting here to find me.”

  As the sixty-three Modocs turned to cross the creek with their infantry escort, Davis caught up with Fairchild once more. “Call Captain Jack from the group. I wish to see the man for myself.”

  Fairchild slowly lidded his eyes. “Jack’s not with them.” He turned to the warriors and called out. “Charley—come here!”

  Bogus Charley returned, shading his eyes as he looked up at the tall soldier chief.

  Fairchild said, “Tell the tyee about splitting from Jack.”

  “We go another way … many days ago. Jack go there. We come west.”

  It was clear to read the disappointment in Davis’s face. He scratched at his beard. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Fairchild. But this means that the staunchest of the warriors are still at large—still on the run.”

  “That’s right, Colonel.”

  Davis turned back to Bogus Charley. “You lead this bunch?”

  The Modoc nodded. “Now I do. Hooker Jim not want to surrender. Me? Tired of fighting. Running. Look at the people. Hungry. Their clothes no more keep out the cold. The little ones cry too much. Mothers no have the food, or milk to feed them no more. Charley so tired … tired of running.”

  Before supper late that afternoon, Hooker Jim—leader of the Lost River murderers—came down the ridge on foot to surrender to the troops at Fairchild’s Ranch.

  He too was tired of running.

  Chapter 34

  May 23–29, 1873

  Six weeks had passed since the murders of Canby and Thomas on that Good Friday. Yet, this next to the last Friday in May had wrought its own surprise.

  “For two hours this morning, Davis interrogated Bogus and Hooker and the rest,” explained Ian O’Roarke around a last mouthful of Dimity’s tender white beans. He sopped the last of the pork gravy from his cracked plate with a slab of her special cornbread, then popped it in his mouth, carefully licking each finger before he went on.

  “But it was this afternoon that we watched the best show of all, Dimity.”

  She set two refilled cups of coffee before the men and quickly gathered dishes licked clean by children and adults alike. If Ian and Dimity O’Roarke had done anything right—it had been to teach their children not to take food for granted. Bones were always picked clean before they went to the hounds, and the last drop of milk from the cow was always argued over before the pitcher was drained.

  Seamus himself was full and well-satisfied as he pulled the battered corncob from his pouch. Well-used it was, for back in the fall of ’69 he had bought it from trader McDonald, sutler at Fort McPherson, Nebraska, shortly before pulling out for Denver City, Colorado Territory.*

  Dimity finally perched herself on one of the long benches that ran along both sides of the table. She smoothed the long, patched apron. “Those dishes can wait, Ian. I figure your story can’t.”

  Ian smiled, nodding his head in approval. “See, Seamus—how a good woman knows what it takes to make a man happy. She fixes him the best meal we’ve wrapped ourselves around in many weeks … and then she politely listens to his stories without complaint—like they was the most important bits of news around.”

  She slapped at his shoulder, then swiped the corner of the table with her apron as she said, “I’d listen to you talk about the price of dirt, were you to do that, Ian O’Roarke. Just to hear your voice … after so, so long.”

  Ian realized she was going to cry were he not careful. Quickly clutching her hand in both of his, he stroked the roughened, callused skin battered from so many dunkings in soapy water, washing dishes and home and children alike. “After suffering in the company of so many male voices for so long now myself, Dimity—the Lord knows how best to bless me with what’s most important: the heavenly music of your voice.”

  For a moment Seamus felt like a sham outsider, watching the couple embrace once more every bit as fiercely as they had when the men had come riding into the yard from Fairchild’s place not far down the road as the sun eased out of the day.

  “This war ain’t long in lasting now, Dimity,” Ian reminded her as she drew back and sw
iped at the corners of her eyes with the apron.

  She blinked the pretty, reddened eyes clear and forced a smile for Donegan’s benefit. With a swallow she said, “So, Ian O’Roarke—tell me what business you’ve got in this war any longer.”

  Ian still held her rough hand in both of his. “I figure I can only speak for myself—but I was there when this whole thing started last November, woman. And I’ve vowed I’ll see it through.”

  “As well for me,” Seamus replied.

  “How long will it take for the army to round the rest of them up?” she asked.

  Her husband wagged his head. “I can only pray it won’t be long.”

  “You can’t give me anything—nothing to hold onto while you’re gone off to fight Modocs again, Ian O’Roarke?”

  He smiled, stroking the back of her hand. “Two weeks.”

  “At the most,” Seamus added, seeing something akin to gratitude come across his uncle’s face.

  “How are you so sure this time—either one of you?”

  Ian glanced at his nephew. “I suppose because this time Davis is sending Modocs out to track down Captain Jack.”

  She sat up a little straighter, looking at him sternly from the corners of her eyes. “Is that what Hooker and Bogus had to do with the colonel?”

  “I suppose they talked about it among themselves before they volunteered—but they told Davis they would help him track down their old chief. Captain Jack himself.”

  “Those cutthroats turning on Jack now, is it?” she said, making a clucking sound with her tongue. “Can you trust ’em, Ian?”

  “I suppose we can. I rode up the mountain with John and Millie Fairchild—”

  “And I’ll never forgive you for taking such a stupid chance with your hide for all my days, Ian O’Roarke!” she replied, yanking her hand from his clutch.

  “I’m here now, Dimity!” he cried, patting his chest and belly. “Look at me—not a hole anywhere. Seamus … well, just look at him. The lad’s a bullet magnet if I ever saw him.”

  She pouted a moment more, then said, “I suppose if you’ve got to go see this thing through, Ian—then take your nephew here along. With his luck, maybe he’ll attract the bullet meant for you.”

  Seamus straightened in mock alarm. “I thank you both for your loving concern! If this shoulder would allow—I’d get up and throttle you both!”

  “Dimity would not need my help in the least, whipping you soundly, Seamus!”

  “Best keep your seat, young man,” she warned. “Ian knows whereof he speaks!”

  Donegan collapsed back on his bench, laughing. “All right—you’ve won this one, you have. But I’ll have you know I’ve caught my own share of bullets and I’m not about to step in front of any more.”

  Colonel Jefferson C. Davis had been dubious at first, believing that Captain Jack was somewhere south of Fairchild’s ranch, in the vicinity of Sheep Mountain. But the Hot Creek warriors continued to shake their heads. The rest of the Modocs, they asserted, could be found in one of three places a person could find drinking water: at the Boiling Springs on Pit River, or at the Coyote Springs southeast of Clear Lake, or somewhere along Willow Creek just east of Clear Lake.

  After some discussion among themselves, the warriors had told Fairchild and O’Roarke they had decided the best bet would be to scout over the Willow Creek country. Besides good water, it was there Jack’s people could find plenty of roots to dig, fish to catch and game to hunt.

  After ordering Major Mason to remain with his infantry to guard the Modoc prisoners at Fairchild’s ranch, followed by placing Major Green in charge of all cavalry, Davis dispatched Jackson’s B Troop to Scorpion Point on the outside chance Jack would be found in that area. By Wednesday, 28 May, Hasbrouck and Perry had themselves come into the Scorpion Point camp, making it Davis’s new headquarters for the capture of the last of the renegades.

  By now the colonel had convinced himself the four volunteers were to be trusted in tracking down their chief.

  “I’ll let Indians fight Indians any day if it will save one soldier’s life,” Davis told his officers in that Scorpion Point camp he had established for the final hunt.

  On the twenty-seventh he issued orders to have rations, used uniforms, Springfield rifles and army mounts given to the four who were now being called the Modoc “bloodhounds” : Bogus Charley, Hooker Jim, Steamboat Frank and Shacknasty Jim.

  Instead of staying out for a full four days as rationed by Davis, the Modocs had decided to come in just before dark that Tuesday. After they had scouted the area south of Tule Lake, they explained to Davis, and were searching the Horse Mountain area toward Clear Lake, the four knew they had to give the soldier chief their sobering alarm.

  Sure that Jack’s band had recently used the road going past Applegate’s ranch, Bogus and the other bloodhounds were just as certain that Jack might now be in the hills above the ranch, planning a raid in retaliation for the parts played by Oliver and Ivan Applegate in the early days of what had become the long and bloody Modoc War.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, 28 May, the four Modoc bloodhounds once more rode away from the soldier camp and headed for Willow Creek, which drained the tall and timbered high country, eventually flowing west into Lost River, which drains into Clear Lake. Early that afternoon, after riding some fifteen miles into the hills, clouds gathered with ominous warning over the shrouded peaks above them as the four Modocs were climbing the pine-covered slopes.

  “Stop!”

  The echo of that warning bounced from ridge to ridge as the four horsemen reined to a halt. Captain Jack stared down the slope as a half dozen of his sentries surrounded the four Modocs who had bitterly abandoned him weeks before.

  “We come to see Jack,” announced Bogus Charley.

  Without a word the sentries led the way off the trail, up the slope through the timber. Then the guards stopped, pointed to the narrow meadow a quarter of a mile off, and disappeared to watch the backtrail for soldiers.

  As the four watched, they found the Modocs in camp emerging from the trees, forming a cordon across the footpath.

  “Let them pass,” Jack said, stepping from the shadows behind the line, his fiery eyes taking in every detail of the quartet’s army garb and equipment.

  “You did not bring anyone with you?” asked the chief before the four could dismount.

  “No one,” Bogus replied. He started to ease out of the saddle.

  “Do not get down,” Jack ordered. There was a quiet rustling of weapons behind the chief. “You are welcome to stay in our camp—if you give up your weapons and will be my prisoners while you are here.”

  “I will be no man’s prisoner!” Shacknasty Jim railed.

  “Why do you expect us to give you our guns?” asked Bogus.

  “You deserted the rest of us three weeks ago. You are not welcome as guests. But you can come to talk as my prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?” Bogus squeaked.

  “Yes!” Jack said. “You sold your honor as Modoc warriors to the white man—just to hunt me down. Your freedom … for my neck, right?”

  “I am no man’s prisoner. I will keep my gun,” Hooker Jim said, his finger clearly on the trigger of his rifle. “I won’t be the first to kill a Modoc here today.”

  Jack glanced up at Hooker. “Strange, isn’t it—how you sing such a new song now. Only days ago you were ready to kill me with your bare hands. Like the coward that you are: ready to kill a brother Modoc.” He turned from Hooker, stepping over to Bogus Charley’s horse.

  The chief gazed up at the warrior. “These are John Fairchild’s horses, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t deny that they are.”

  Jack stroked the neck of the animal. “Good horses, Fairchild’s. Where did you get them?”

  “From Fairchild’s ranch,” Shacknasty answered.

  “Then my suspicions are right,” Jack replied, looking over the four. “The white men sent you here to track us down.”


  Bogus glanced at Hooker, then replied, “A few days ago we surrendered to the soldiers. Everyone who went west with us. The white man has been good to us—gave us blankets and food to eat. It is good to stop running.”

  He felt the bile rising high in his throat “You are saying that Kientpoos should stop running too?”

  “Yes,” Bogus replied. “Come, give yourself up to the soldiers.”

  Jack snatched the bridle, yanking it in his anger so hard the horse reared back, nearly unseating Bogus Charley.

  “You! All of you—spineless cowards who called me a squaw! It was you who tied the woman’s dress around my waist. The hat on my head and the shawl over my shoulders. Saying I had the heart of a squaw! But look at you—now you are hunting dogs for the white man. Brave hearts are you? Ha!”

  “The white man guaranteed we would not be harmed,” Hooker explained.

  “You believe them?” He wagged his head. “There is no truth waiting for me on the white man’s tongue. Only a rope—because I did what the four of you wanted me to do! To kill an honorable man in cold blood—simply to show that I was not a coward.”

  “We too have killed, Jack,” Shacknasty tried to explain. “Come in and surrender too.”

  The chief wheeled on him. “I will die with a gun in my hand, hot from firing and killing many before me. I will never—never—die at the end of a white man’s hanging rope!”

  “Your people are hungry and cold, Jack,” Bogus said. “Let them come surrender now.”

  “You have talked too much already!” Jack snapped, flinging his arms up and cutting off further discussion. “Go now while I still let you live. Go live with the white man if you want. But remember this: if I ever see your faces again … if you come within range of my gun—I will shoot each one of you down like dogs.”

  For a long time no one spoke. The four sat nervously atop their horses. Jack stood glaring at them, his arms crossed haughtily.

  “Will you leave, Jack?” asked Bogus. “I want to talk with my friends without you making problems for us.”

  “You ask me to leave?” Jack shrieked in rage. “It is you who must leave—and now! Go before there is great trouble.”