But Scar-Faced Charley suddenly pushed past his old friend the chief, striding up to Bogus Charley. “I will talk with my friends, Jack. I am a Modoc warrior, and no one will tell me I can’t talk to my friends.”
So, it had come to this. Jack brooded, his eyes darkening as his best friend whispered among the four Hot Creek Modocs.
In those last few weeks since the great split, things had not gone well between Jack and Scar-Faced Charley. More fissures were splintering Jack’s band. More grumbling all the time. He had done everything he could to keep his people together—even killing a good white man to do it—and now the people were slowly deserting him. These unfaithful, ungrateful people who had followed the shaman’s bloody magic and now wanted to abandon the fight.
How much pain, he wondered—how much pain must one man have to endure?
“Are you here to guide the soldiers to us?” demanded William Faithful as he stepped up to where Bogus Charley was talking to a few of Jack’s band.
“The soldiers are coming whether we guide them here or not,” Bogus answered.
“This talk is no good,” Jack grumbled again. “I cannot allow you.”
“We will talk,” Scar-Faced Charley said. He turned back to the four and continued to tell them how bad things had become within Jack’s dwindling band. “There are many who would leave him—if they could sneak away. He stays up the nights now—watching everyone so they cannot flee. Like a madman … possessed he’s become.”
“As bad as my father-in-law?” Hooker asked, half a crooked smile on his face.
Scar-Faced Charley wagged his head. “This is something else again, Hooker. It is like he holds us prisoner now with the chains of his own great pride.”
* * *
Now knowing for certain that Captain Jack was on Willow Creek, Colonel Davis dispatched Jackson’s B Troop, a squad of Perry’s cavalry and some of Hasbrouck’s mounted artillery to Applegate’s ranch in the event the hostiles did make a vengeful attack on the settlement. It was there Davis would establish his final headquarters for the campaign.
Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton had arrived on the scene, vowing he would now see the end to the whole sad affair he had begun the previous November. When he told fellow officers that the next few days would see Jack captured or killed—Davis told Wheaton it would be far more prudent to keep his mouth shut and his ears open.
Jefferson C. Davis was clearly in command of the Modoc campaign.
That Friday, 30 May, when Major Green led mounted squads under Captains Jackson and Hasbrouck away from Applegate’s ranch, a wet, deepening snow began to fall that would make it easier to track the fleeing Modocs. It slowed most travel into the Willow Creek area as well, but the soldiers knew that reports from the Hot Creek Modocs who had visited Jack’s camp had told Colonel Davis there was growing discontent in the band. In all likelihood, more of Jack’s warriors would defect as the noose tightened around the chief.
Three miles out from where the four bloodhounds said the soldiers would find the camp, Major Green divided his troops into three wings, each with a contingent of McKay’s Tenino scouts: Hasbrouck’s men, guided by Hooker Jim, rode to the north side of the Willow Creek canyon, in the event Jack attempted to flee by crossing the creek itself; Green and most of the rest moved along the south side of the creek with Steamboat Frank as their guide; and meanwhile, Fairchild, O’Roarke and Donegan, along with the other two bloodhounds and some Warm Springs scouts, inched their way up the snowy floor of the valley.
Perhaps the snow had made Jack’s pickets less watchful. Perhaps they were more mindful of their own cold, wet feet and chattering teeth. Green’s soldiers drew to within a mile of the Modoc camp before they were spotted by Jack’s warriors.
“You go around that hill,” Steamboat Frank advised Major Green, “your soldiers get so close to camp Jack won’t see you come.”
Green obediently dispatched Lieutenant Bacon and a dozen infantry to the backside of the enemy position. In the meantime, McKay and his Teninos got to within three hundred yards of the soggy, blanket shelters when four warriors appeared, about the time the civilians and more scouts showed up from the creek bottom.
“Why you Indians come to our camp?” one of them hollered to the Warm Springs mercenaries.
“Yes—why you bring so many men with you?” demanded another, waving his rifle at the three civilians.
To Seamus Donegan it was as clear as rinsed crystal that Jack’s warriors were now more interested in negotiating than in firing the first shot.
“Bogus, get one of them to come over here and surrender,” John Fairchild suggested in a loud whisper.
“Yes,” O’Roarke echoed. “If they see one do it without harm—the rest will come up and lay down their arms.”
Bogus Charley hollered out his offer. “These men will not harm you. You know Fairchild and O’Roarke. They have always been good to us.”
“Bogus? Is that you with O’Roarke?”
Bogus turned to flash a big grin at the civilians as the snow gently fell, soaking into their wool coats. “That Boston Charley. Know his talk anywhere.” He turned back to his friend back in the timber. “Boston—come talk with us.”
The warrior looked at his companions, then alone he crossed the open ground between the camp and the white men. With the look of a harried, frightened animal, Boston stopped before Fairchild, still clutching his rifle nervously as he eyed the Teninos.
“McKay, tell your scouts to lay down their weapons,” Fairchild suggested. “To let the Modocs know they will not be killed by us.”
As the Teninos laid their weapons on the ground, Boston Charley laid his rifle at Fairchild’s feet, then stood with a smile of a man suddenly relieved of an awful burden.
“I thought you were dead, Boston,” O’Roarke said as they performed the normal handshaking ritual so popular with the Modocs.
Across the open ground more and more of Jack’s band appeared, watching warily in the mid-distance, from behind boulders and trees, making certain by watching Boston that they would not be killed if they showed themselves.
“Me? Boston no dead. Bogus tell you that?”
“Yes,” answered Fairchild.
Boston laughed, easily now. “Bogus. Him all time tell lies about Boston. Good jokes, this Bogus tell!” They pounded each other on the back like reunited brothers who enjoyed the most primitive of practical jokes.
“You hungry, Boston?” asked Steamboat Frank.
“Me? Always hungry. You got some soldier food?”
Frank nodded and strode back to his horse, forgetting that he had cocked the hammer of his rifle. When the animal shied while he was busy at his saddlebags, Steamboat lunged for the horse, catching the heavy hammer on a stirrup fender.
The rifle fired.
As one, the group of scouts and civilians jumped and whirled. Steamboat Frank stood there with a sheepish look on his face, and with a shrug of his shoulders continued to dig in his saddlebag for something to eat.
But the damage had been done.
Those Modocs who had been watching Boston’s surrender had disappeared before the last echo of that gun’s blast had rolled down the canyon. As far as they were concerned, Boston had been lured into a trap and slaughtered by the white men and Teninos.
“You better go get them, Boston,” O’Roarke suggested. “Likely they think you’re dead.”
“Boston Charley no dead. He hungry.” The Modoc ravenously gnawed off a chunk of dried salt-beef. “I go. Bring them back. Tonight. Maybe in morning.”
Seamus watched the Modoc cross the open ground and disappear into the timber toward the camp. “Does he have a chance of talking the others in?”
Fairchild shrugged. “It’s the only chance we’ve got that doesn’t mean more blood spilled.”
Chapter 35
May 29–31, 1873
“I think we’ve been played the fool, Fairchild,” growled Major John Green.
O’Roarke glanced at the pocket watch
Fairchild held in his palm. Seamus looked into the sky at the falling sun. Boston Charley had been gone for better than two hours.
“You think he could have done us wrong?” Fairchild asked of O’Roarke.
“Didn’t really figure him to, John.”
Green stood suddenly, his own frame taut with tension. “We’ll get something salvaged out of the day. Davis sent me here to end this war—and end it I will. McKay!”
The half-breed loped over. “Major.”
“Take a few of your men and see if you can advance into the village. Find out what happened to Boston Charley—if he’s played a hoax on us. I’m not waiting any longer to attack if he has.”
In a half an hour McKay was back—but coming in from the south, in the opposite direction of the camp.
“Didn’t you go looking for Boston as I ordered you?” Green snapped.
McKay’s dark face flushed with anger. “Charley not in the camp. He got to camp about the time your goddamned soldiers with Captain Hasbrouck showed up in the village on other side—coming from another direction. They captured Boston more than two hours ago after he left us here. They sent him down the valley with guards.”
“The fools!” Green yelped as if bit.
“Hasbrouck said he didn’t know any better—thought Charley was lying to him about going to get the others to come in and surrender to you.”
“Damn!” Green wheeled on Fairchild and O’Roarke. “Do you see what I’m saddled with at times? Hasbrouck captures what he thinks is an enemy warrior—and doesn’t even think to tell me. Had I known two hours ago … goddamn! I’d love to swear like a gut-cut sea swabby!”
The major whirled back on McKay suddenly. “All right—go back to Hasbrouck and tell him Boston Charley is to be released—to you. Bring that Modoc here so we can get the rest of these people with Jack induced to surrender.”
By the time Boston Charley reached Major Green and was again sent into Jack’s camp with the army’s message, most of the Modocs had flown.
“They don’t ever come back here,” Charley explained when he showed up at dusk, shadows grown long and the air more cold than it had been in many days.
“No one?” Green cried. “You can’t find a one of them?”
Boston shook his head. “Find some: squaws, children. Queen Mary too—she come to soldiers.”
“Queen Mary? Who’s this?” Green asked, turning to O’Roarke.
“The chief’s sister. Jack’s own family,” Ian answered. “It means something if she’s surrendering.”
“Likely they’re hungry, Major,” said Fairchild. “Cold too. Army blankets and hard crackers sound mighty good to them right about now.”
The major turned back to the Modoc bloodhound. “Go bring this Queen Mary in, Charley. With the rest. Tell them they can eat their fill tonight and sleep warm by our fires.”
* * *
Those who did not surrender that evening bolted north into the Langell Valley, intending to make it all the way to the Yainax Agency where Old Schonchin and his small band were still living in some safety. Although the various groups of them were all heading in the same general direction, with Steamboat Frank’s careless accident with the rifle, Captain Jack’s holdouts had gone the way of feathers tossed on the wind, scattering over the hills and ridges along Willow Creek in pairs and small groups—every one of them certain the soldiers had come to butcher them all.
If only they could make it back to Yainax alive …
Just past midday that thirtieth of May, Fairchild and O’Roarke crossed some fresh tracks cut through the soggy new snow. Six grueling miles later, after following a trail only a mountain goat could have made, they spotted three warriors who kept running and dodging, despite what assurances the civilians could holler across the distance. The warriors disappeared into another steep canyon cluttered with boulders and deadfall—impossible for a horse to follow.
An hour later Green’s footbound troops discovered still another small group of Modocs and drove them over the hills toward the civilians. Thirteen more warriors now disappeared into the narrow canyon.
The uncertain terrain took its toll on the soldiers, who repeatedly slipped and fell on the soggy ground and slick snow. While they all grumped for their horses, not one man among them failed to understand that there wasn’t a horse yet born could have followed the Modocs’ trail into the Langell Valley.
Green halted his command for a breather, calling up McKay.
“Take your best trackers and find out where those warriors have forted up,” the major ordered. “I want no bloodshed if we can help it. Don’t fight—just find them for me.”
Time dragged by for soldiers forced to sit, unable to move about much at all. First one hour, then a second passed. And finally McKay showed up at the bottom of the valley, waving in greeting to the soldiers.
Green was pacing, slapping a glove against the side of his leg by the time the half-breed climbed the slope.
“You found them?”
“Fifteen of ’em. Not many more than that left, Major.”
“Lead me down there to them.”
“Your surgeon already talking to them.”
That brought the major up as if someone had yanked hard on the back of his hair. “My surgeon? Cabaniss?”
“He came down, alone,” McKay explained. “While we were talking to the Modocs.”
“You two actually talked to them?” asked Captain Hasbrouck.
“Yes. We talk some after they fire four shots over our heads.”
“You said over your heads,” Fairchild repeated. “You think they were avoiding hitting you and your men.”
McKay nodded. “They didn’t mean to hit us—just scare us off.”
“What were they telling Dr. Cabaniss?” Green asked.
“Scar-Faced Charley came down close to talk with the surgeon,” McKay declared. “He said they are hungry and tired of running now. They have nothing no more. Without food for many days. Charley and four others surrendered to doctor.”
“By God, that’s good news. We’re slowly whittling them down now!” The major was clearly exuberant.
“Scar-Faced Charley tell surgeon that Jack probably come in morning to see you.”
“See me in the morning?”
“Charley says so. But that wasn’t good enough for your surgeon.”
Green began pulling his glove on. “Where’s Cabaniss now?”
“He go with Scar-Faced Charley to talk with Jack himself.”
“He’s gone in to talk with Jack? I hope to hell he doesn’t botch this.”
Fairchild wagged his head. “Cabaniss can’t possibly do any worse than what your soldiers have done to botch things up the last few days, Major.”
* * *
“I’ve never seen them more anxious, uneasy—downright scared,” Dr. Cabaniss explained to those who had gathered at Major Green’s fire after the surgeon came into camp that mid-afternoon of the thirtieth, accompanied by one of Jack’s warriors, One-Eyed Mose.
“They damn well have reason to be afraid,” Green said. “We’re rounding them up at last. You did talk to Jack personally—see him yourself?”
“Yes, of course. His head was in his hands when I came up. He’s terribly despondent. More lonely than I’ve seen anyone in my life, Major. But we sat and had a good talk. Still, he doesn’t look like the man I knew before all this started. The toll this has taken on him.”
“He’s not the only one, Surgeon,” snapped Green. “Tell me when he’s going to surrender.”
Cabaniss sighed at the affront. “Jack wants to know what you’re going to do with him if he surrenders to you.”
Green hunched forward. “You didn’t tell him he was going to be hanged, did you?”
The doctor leaned back, staring at the fire. “I told him nothing, Major.”
“Good. Did the two of you discuss anything else?”
“That his people had been without food and warm clothing for many days. I promised him I
would return with some.”
One of Green’s eyes flickered slightly. “You were sticking your neck out there, Doctor.”
“If you didn’t order the requisition—I was sure I could ride down and secure permission from Colonel Davis.”
Green rubbed his gloves atop his thighs, his turn to suffer an affront. “I’m sure you would have, Dr. Cabaniss. All right—you have my permission to draw foodstuffs, clothing and blankets from the quartermaster’s stores.” He stood. “And, in fact—you’ll return with something more. Tell Jack I’m going to pull my soldiers back a few miles before we bivouac for the night.”
“That will go a long way to easing some of the Modocs’ fears, Major. Thank you,” Cabaniss replied.
“Not at all, Doctor. It seems you’ve made some headway with Jack’s bunch—so I want you to continue to win their confidence. I won’t do a thing to spoil your hard work. You see, I’ve got this war almost in my palm. We don’t want anything to go wrong, do we?”
Green was good at his word. As Cabaniss and One-Eyed Mose took the food and supplies into the canyon, the major ordered his troops to move due west some five miles down the Langell Valley to the Wilson ranch, where they would establish a short-term outpost as the sun again fell from the sky.
As clear as it was after the recent storm, tonight would be even colder than expected.
It made a man shiver to watch the light bleed from that sky, wondering on the morrow.
* * *
“He what?”
“Jack slipped away on me, Major,” Cabaniss tried to explain with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I trusted him. Hell, I trusted you!”
“He was there in camp when I went to sleep. It was late. This morning at sunrise he was gone. Up before me.”
“You know where?”
Cabaniss shook his head. It was more from sympathizing with the hunted chief than from his own grave error in trusting Jack. “He told the other warriors he was leaving early to find a new campsite where they would be safer from the soldiers. But the others knew.”
“Knew what?” Green demanded, seething.
“They knew that was just an excuse.”
Devil's Backbone: The Modoc War, 1872-3 Page 35
