Trailing the Fugitives.
While all this was going on I was riding from Salem, Oregon, "Gov.
Grover's mad-cap Colonel," as Jas. D. Fay, Harvey Scott of the
Oregonian, and some other of my enemies, designated me. Fay did not like
me and I happened to to be with Senator Nesmith when he caned Harvey
Scott in the Chemeketa Hotel at Salem. My meeting with Senator Nesmith
was accidental, but Scott never forgave me, nor did he in fact neglect
any opportunity to "lambaste" me after that time.
But to return to my trip. The Oregon volunteers had been ordered out,
with General Ross in command. The murderers of the 17 settlers along the
shores of Tule Lake had been indicted by the Grand jury of Jackson
County, Oregon. The Governor demanded the surrender of the murderers
from the United States authorities. The murderers were not yet captured
but we knew it was only a matter of days. I left Salem on Thursday and
went by train to Roseburg that evening. There I took the stage, and
telegraphing ahead for horses at Jacksonville found a magnificent saddle
horse awaiting me. Did you ever travel from Salem to Roseburg by train
and then by stage to Jacksonville through the long weary night?
If so you will have some faint idea of my condition. Arriving at
Jacksonville I lost no time in proceeding on my journey. That night I
rode to Coldwells' place, sometimes called the Soda Springs. The next
morning at 4 o'clock, after only about 4 hours' rest in 48, I started on
my journey. I knew how to ride a horse, how to save him and how to rest
him. At the head of "Green Springs" I met a Government courier. He told
me that Gen. Ross had left Linkville that morning with his entire
command.
Thanking the courier, I then began to ride, and at precisely half past
11 o'clock was shaking hands with Alex Miller at Linkville. I had ridden
one horse 55 miles that morning over a range of mountains. Mr. Miller
asked me, when did you leave Salem?"
"Day before yesterday noon," I replied.
"If I did not have all kinds of respect for you I would call you a liar"
remarked Mr. Miller. Just them J. B. Neil and Mr. Jackson, District
Attorney and Sheriff of Jackson County came up, and showing these
gentlemen my papers with the dates, stopped all further discussion of
the matter. But I said, "Alex, I want the best horse in Linkville, for I
am going to overtake Gen. Ross tonight."
"You shall have not only the best horse in Linkville, but the best horse
in the State of Oregon." A ride of 45 miles that evening accompanied by
Mr. Neil and Mr. Jackson, convinced me that Alex. Miller told me the
truth. We reached the headquarters of Gen. Ross late in the night. I had
ridden that day 95 miles on two horses, and I want here to plead guilty
to cruelty to animals. The horse I rode into Linkville, to use the
common expression, "quit," and the only means I could use to get a "move
on," was to shoot the tips of his ears off with my revolver. I will say
further that this is the only instance in my life when I was cruel to a
dumb brute, but I justified myself then and now on the grounds of
"Duty."
Arriving at Headquarters, "for the night," as the General expressed it,
the next morning we took up the trail of a band of Jack's renegades.
Black Jim, one of the worst of the band of murderers, headed the band.
There were only about twenty men in the outfit, and the only means we
had of following them was by a crutch used by an Indian shot by John
Fairchilds on the 17th of January. Late one evening, in fact just at
sundown, we lost the trail. We had tracked the stick to a juniper tree,
but there lost it. Finally one of our boys discovered a hand up in the
juniper and leveling his gun, told him to come down.
After some parley the Indian came down. Gen. Ross and I told him we were
chiefs and that all Indians surrendering would be protected. A hundred
yards away, somewhere between Tule Lake and Langel Valley, there was a
rim rock, and in this the Indians were hiding. On assurance from our
juniper tree man they finally surrendered. Only Black Jim showed any
hesitancy, but the muzzle of a 50 caliber Springfield answered as a
magnificent persuader.
We then returned to Tule Lake, sending for Mrs. Body and Mrs. Schira to
identify the murderers of their families. We were still on the Oregon
side of the line, but much to our disappointment neither of the ladies
could identify any of the men. We had Black Jim but the ladies did not
and could not identify him. We therefore took them to the headquarters
of Gen. Davis and surrendered them at the Peninsula.
We arrived about 10 o'clock. I went to the tent of Gen. Wheaton and told
him my business. Mr. Neil and Mr. Jackson were with me. Gen. Wheaton
took us up to the tent of Gen. Davis and introduced us. I presented to
Gen. Davis my papers and told him that the officers of the law were
there. The General replied, as nearly as I can remember, "Colonel, I
will deliver them to you at any time after 2 o'clock, at least, I will
deliver to you their bodies." I simply replied, "that is entirely
satisfactory, both to the officers present, the Governor of Oregon and
to your humble servant."
He then told me that he had the timbers all framed and ready to put
together and intended to hang all the murderers promptly at 2 o'clock.
While we were talking a courier arrived with dispatches from the
Secretary of War instructing him to hold the murderers until further
orders. All were astounded, but a soldier has no choice but to obey
orders. Gen. Davis was angry, and remarked to me that if he "had any way
of making a living for his family outside of the army he would resign
today."
Mrs. Body, Mrs. Schira, Mrs. Brotherton were all there. Their entire
families had been wiped out-butchered. The Indians took a large amount
of jewelry, pictures, and more than $4,000 in money. A tent had been
spread for the ladies and Gen. Davis had ordered a tent, with tables,
chairs, bed, writing material, etc., arranged for my convenience. The
correspondent of the New York Herald was living at the sutler's tent, in
fact, with good old Pat McManus.
Mrs. Body and Mrs. Schira had also been provided with a tent. They sent
to Gen. Davis and asked that they be permitted to talk with Black Jim,
Hooker Jim and one or two others. They said that possibly some of the
family relics could be reclaimed. The order was issued and the General
and I were talking of the awful results of the war and its blunders.
Suddenly Fox of the New York Herald called at the door of Gen. Davis'
tent and said, "the women are going to kill the Indians." Both of us
sprang from the tent door and rushed to the tent where the women were
domiciled. Davis was ahead of me. I saw Mrs. Schira with a double edged
knife poised. Hooker Jim was standing fronting the women, as stolid as a
bronze. Mrs. Schira's mother was attempting to cock a revolver. Gen.
Davis made a grab for the knife, catching the blade in his right hand
and in the struggle his hand was badly lacerated. A surgeon was called
who dressed the wounded hand, and then we all went to dinner at "Boyles'
mess." At the dinner table were seated about forty officers, men grown
gray in the service of their country and young Lieutenants just out from
West Point. The latter, as is always the case, were in full uniform,
while the old fellows wore little or nothing that would indicate their
calling or rank. During dinner one of the young men made some slighting
remark about the conduct of the women in attempting to kill the Indians,
characterizing their act as unwarranted and a breach of respect to the
General.
Instantly Gen. Davis pushed back from the table and rose to feet, fire
flashing from his eyes, and if ever a young upstart received a lecture
that young officer received one. I was sitting to the left of Gen. Davis
while Jesse Applegate, one of the "Makers of Oregon," sat at his right.
The General spoke of the women as the wife and daughter of a
frontiersman, and before whom stood the bloody handed butcher of
husbands and sons. It was one of the most eloquent, at the same time one
of the most withering addresses that it has ever been my fortune to
hear. Resuming his seat the General continued his conversation with
those about him, but there were no more remarks, you may be assured,
upon this incident.
The next morning at daylight the orderly to Gen. Davis came to my tent
and awaking me said that the General wanted to see me at once. Hastily
dressing I walked over to the General's tent. He was sitting on the side
of his camp bed, partly undressed. Jas. Fairchilds was sitting in the
tent talking as I entered. The General asked him to repeat to me what he
had been saying. Mr. Fairchilds then proceeded to relate that a bunch of
Indians, four bucks and a lot of women and children, had come in to the
ranch and surrendered. He had loaded them into a wagon and started to
the Peninsula to turn them over to the military authorities. When within
about six miles of his destination he was headed off by two men who were
disguised past identification. They ordered him to stop and unhitch his
team and after doing so was told to drive the horses up the road. When
about thirty yards away he was ordered to stop. The men then began
killing the Indians while he stood looking on and holding to his team.
After firing a dozen shots into the wagon, the men rode away, telling
him to remain there and not to leave. He remained until dark and then
mounting one of his horses rode to camp.
While we were talking Donald McKay came up and accused the volunteers of
the massacre. I told Gen. Davis that it was impossible that the
volunteers could have committed the crime. McKay was drunk and swaggered
around a great deal and finally asked the General to let him take his
Indians and follow the volunteers and bring them back.
Becoming angered at the talk and swagger of McKay I told the General to
let him go, and plainly told McKay that I would go with him. That he,
McKay, was an arrant coward and could not take any one, much less a
company of one hundred men. I then expressed my belief to Gen. Davis
that the killing had been done by some of the settlers whose relatives
had been massacred by the savages; that Gen. Ross had gone around the
south end of the lake and that Capt. Hizer must have been many miles on
his road towards Linkville.
I told him, however, that I would make an investigation and if possible
bring the perpetrators of the act to justice. Mounting my horse I rode
rapidly back to where the wagon was standing in the road. The women and
children were still in the wagon with their dead, not one of them having
moved during the night. It was a most ghastly sight, the blood from the
dead Indians had run through the wagon bed, and made a broad, red streak
for twenty yards down the road. Soon after my arrival Donald McKay rode
up, and I ordered him to go to the lake and get some water for the
women, one of whom had been severely wounded. Soon after his return with
the water Mr. Fairchilds came with the team and all were taken to the
camp. The woman was not seriously hurt, but the four bucks were
literally shot to pieces.
I remained several days at the Peninsula, making an excursion into the
lava beds in company with Capt. Bancroft of the artillery, and with
Bogus Chancy as guide. We explored many of the caves, at least as far as
we were able with poor lighting material at our command. I then started
to overtake the volunteers, coming up with them before reaching
Jacksonville, where Capt. Hizer's company was discharged. Capt. Rogers,
of the Douglas county company, was discharged at Roseburg. After this I
returned to my newspaper work at Salem, Oregon.
The Indians were moved from Boyles' Camp at the Peninsula to Fort
Klamath where five of them, Jack, Sconchin, Black Jim, Hooker Jim and
Boston Charley were all executed on the same gallows. One of the
murderers of the Peace Commission, "Curley Headed Doctor," committed
suicide on the road to Klamath. The remainder of the Indians were then
moved to the Indian Territory, where the remnants now live.
Thus ended the farce-tragedy of the Modoc war, a farce so far as
misguided enthusiasts and mock humanitarians could make it in extending
the olive branch of peace to redhanded murderers. And a tragedy, in that
from first to last the war had cost the lives of nearly four hundred men
and about five millions of dollars.
The foregoing pages describe in simple language what I saw of the Modoc
war. Several so-called histories have been written purporting to be true
histories. One by A. B. Meacham in his "Wigwam and Warpath." Meacham
wrote with the view of justifying all that Meacham did and said. It was,
in fact, written in self defense. Another, by one "Captain Drehan," who
claimed to have been "Chief of Scouts." The gallant Captain was simply a
monumental romancer. No such man served at any time during the war.
Donald McKay was chief of scouts, and the exploits of Drehan existed
only in his own imagination. I was personally acquainted with all the
officers and know that no such man was there. For the truth of all I
have said I simply refer the Doubting Thomases to the official reports
on file at Washington.