University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
THE LAST BATTLE FOR THE REPUBLIC.

TENDERLY at last I laid her down, and
moved about. Glad of something to do, I
gathered fallen branches, decayed wood, and
dry, dead reeds, and built a ready pyre.

I struck flints together, made a fire, and when the
surf of light again broke in across the eastern wall, I
lifted her up, laid her tenderly on the pile, composed
her face and laid her little hands across her breast.

I lighted the grass and tules. The fire took hold
and leaped and laughed, and crackled, and reached,
as if to touch the solemn boughs that bent and waved
from the cliffs above, as bending and looking into a
grave. I gathered white stones and laid a circle
around the embers. How rank and tall the grass is
growing above her ashes now! The stones have
settled and settled till almost sunk in the earth, but
this girl is not forgotten. This is the monument I
raise above her ashes and her faithful life. I have
written this that she shall be remembered, and properly
this narrative should here have an end.

The “Tale of the Tall Alcalde,” which men assert
on their own authority to be a true story of my life
here and her death, was written for her. I could not
then make it literally true, because the events were
too new in my mind. It had been like opening
wounds not yet half healed. I was then a judge in
the northern part of Oregon. I had, with one law
book and two six-shooters, administered justice successfully
for four years, and was then an aspirant for
a seat on the Supreme Bench of the State. Men who
had some vague knowledge of my life with the Indians
were seeking to get att the secrets of it and
accomplish my destruction. I wrote that poem, and
took upon myself all the contumely, real or fancied,
that could follow such an admission.

At sunrise I began to make my way slowly up the
river, towards the Indian camp, which I knew was
not more than a day's journey away. I ate berries
and roots as I could find them in my way, and at
night I entered the village and sat down by the door
of a lodge.

An old woman brought me water, but she could
not restrain her eagerness to know of my companions,
and at once broke the accustomed silence.

“Uti Paquita? Uti Olale?”

I pointed my thumbs to the earth.

She threw up her arms and turned away. The
camp was a camp of mourning, for nothing but defeat

and disaster had followed them all the summer. Still
they would mourn for Paquita and the brave young
warrior, and they went up to the hill-top among the
pines and filled the woods with lamentations.

Let us hasten to the conclusion of these unhappy
days. I rested a little while, then took part in a
skirmish, captured a few cavalry horses, and two
prisoners, whose lives I managed to save at the risk
of my own, for the Indians were now made desperate.
The Indians were now doing what little fighting was
done, entirely with arrows.

The Modoc Indians had exhausted all their arrows
and were returning home. A general despondency
was upon the Indians. No supplies whatever for the
approaching winter had been secured. The Indians
had been kept back from the fisheries on the rivers
and the hunting grounds in the valleys. The Indian
men had been losing time in war and the Indian
women in making arrows and nursing the wounded.
Even in the plentiful season of early autumn a famine
was looking them in the face.

No gentleness marked our actions now; I did not
restrain my Indians in any ruthless thing they undertook
short of taking the lives of prisoners.

I made a hurried ride through the Modoc plains
around Tula lake and saw there but little hope of
continuing a successful struggle as it was then being
conducted. Lieutenant Crook, now the General

Crook famous in American history, had established a
military post on the head-lakes of Pit river. This
was in the heart of the Indian country, and almost
on the spot where the three corners of the lands of
the three tribes met, and he could from this point
reach the principal valleys and the great eastern
plains of the Indians with but little trouble.

A new and most desperate undertaking now entered
my mind. It was impossible to dislodge the military
from the Indian country as things then stood. I
resolved to “carry the war into Africa.”

I laid my plan before the Modocs, and they, poor
devils, made desperate with the long and wasting
struggle, were mad with delight.

It was resolved to gather the Indian forces together,
send the women and children into the caves to hide
and subsist as best they could, leave our own homes,
and then boldly descend upon the white settlements.
This we were certain would draw the enemy, for a
time at least, from our country.

I never witnessed such enthusiasm. These battle-scarred,
worn-out, ragged, half-starved Indians arose
under the thought of the enterprise as if touched by
inspiration.

I was to go down to Yreka, note the approaches
to the town, the probable strength of the place, the
proper time to attack, while they gathered their
forces together for the campaign and disposed of the
women and children.

The attack was to be made on the city itself.
There we were to strike the first blow. The plan
was to move the whole available Indian force to the
edge of the settlement and there leave the main
body. Then I was to take the flower of the force,
mounted on the swiftest horses, and, descending upon
the town suddenly, attack, sack, and burn it to the
ground.

We had had many a lesson in this mode of warfare
from the whites and knew perfectly well how the
work was to be done.

I mounted a strong, fleet horse and set out. On
reaching the mountain's rim overlooking the valley I
was struck by the peaceful scene below me. All
the fertile plain was dotted yellow, and brown, and
green from fields of grain. It looked like some
great map. Peace and plenty all the way across the
valley to the city lying on the other side, and thirty
miles ahead.

At dusk I came to a quiet farm-house and asked
for hospitality.

The old settler came bustling out bare-headed and
in his shirt-sleeves, as if he was coming to welcome
a son.

He took care of my horse, hurried me into the
house, hurried his good wife about the kitchen, and
I soon was seated at the table of a Christian eating a
Christian meal.

It was the first for a long, long time; I fell to
thinking as of old, and held down my head.

After supper the old man sat and talked of his
cattle and his crops and the two children climbed
about my knees.

No sign of war here. Not a hundred miles away
a people all summer had been battling for their firesides,
for existence, and yet it had been hardly felt
in the settlements. Such is the effect of the quiet,
steady, eternal warfare on the border. It is never
felt, never hardly heard of, till the Indians become
the aggressors which is seldom indeed.

The old lady came at last and sat down with her
knitting and a ball of yarn in her lap. She talked
of the price of butter and eggs, and said they should
soon be well-to-do and prosperous in their new
home.

I retired early, and rising with the dawn, left a
gold coin on the table, and rode rapidly toward the
city.

I was not satisfied with my desperate and bloody
undertaking. As I passed little farm-houses with
vines and blossoms and children about the doors, I
began to wonder how many kind and honest people
were to be ruined in my descent upon the settlements.

The city I found assailable from every side. There
was not a soldier within ten miles. Fifty men could

ride into the place, hold it long enough to fire it in
a hundred places, and then ride out unhindered.

It seems a little strange that I met kindness and
civility now when I did not want it. Of course I
was utterly unknown, and having taken care from
the first to dress in the plainest and commonest dress
of the time, there was not the least suspicion of my
name or mission.

As I rode back, the farmers were gathering in their
grain. On the low marshy plains of Shasta river
they were mowing and making hay. I heard the
mowers whetting their scythes and the clear ringing
melody came to me full of memories and stories of
my childhood.

I passed close to some of these broad-shouldered
merry men, as they sat on the grass at lunch, and
they called to me kindly to stop and rest and share
their meal. It was like merry hay-making of the
Old World. All peace, merriment and prosperity
here; out yonder, burning camps, starving children,
and mourning mothers; and only a hundred miles
away.

I did not again enter a house or partake of hospitality.
I slept on the wild grass that night, and in
another day rode into the camp where the Indians
had gathered in such force as they could to await my
action.

A council was called, and I told them all. I told

them it was possible to take the city, that my plan
was feasible, and yet I could not lead them where
women and children and old men and honest labourers
would be ruined, and perish alike with the
arrogant and cruel destroyers. An old man answered
me; his women, his children, his old father, his
lodges, his horses had all been swept away; it was
now time to be revenged and then to die.

Never have I been placed in so critical a position,
never have I been so crucified between two plans of
life. But I had said when I climbed the mountain
and looked back on the green and yellow fields and
peaceful farm-houses below, that I would not lead
my allies there, come what might, and I doggedly
kept my promise through all the stormy council of
that long and unhappy night.

Time has shown that I was wrong; I should have
taken that city and held on, and kept up an aggressive
warfare till the Government came to terms, and
recognized the rights of this people.

I rode south with my warriors, and we gathered in
diminished force on a plateau not far from Pit River,
and prepared to make another fight.

If there is a race of men that has the gift of
prophecy or prescience I think it is the Indian. It
may be a keen instinct sharpened by meditation that
makes them foretell many things with such precision;
but I have seen some things that looked much like
the fulfilment of prophecies.

They believe in the gift of prophecy thoroughly
and are never without their seers. Besides the warriors
are constantly foretelling their own fate. A distinguished
warrior rarely goes into battle without
telling what he will do, whom he will encounter, who
will be killed, and how the battle will be determined.
They often foretell their own deaths with a singular
accuracy. They believe in signs of all kinds: signs
in the heavens, signs in the woods, on the waters, anywhere;
and a chief will sometimes suddenly, in the
midst of battle, call off his warriors even when about
to reap a victory, should a sign inauspicious appear.

Klamat, shadowy, mysterious, dark-browed little
Klamat, now a tall and sinewy warrior, was strangely
thoughtful all this time. He went about his duties
as in a dream, but he left no duty unperformed. He
prepared his arms and all things for the approaching
battle with the utmost care. He bared his limbs
and breast and painted them red, and bound up his
hair in a flowing tuft with eagle feathers pointing
up from the defiant scalp-lock.

At last he painted his face in mourning. That
means a great deal. When a warrior paints his face
black it means victory or death. When a warrior
paints his face black before going into battle he does
not survive a defeat. It is rarely done, but an
Indian is greatly honoured who goes to this extreme,
and when he goes out to battle the women sit on

[ILLUSTRATION]

KLAMAT'S PROPHECY

[Description: 645EAF. Illustration page. To the left, a Black man stands with his right hand raised, pointing his finger towards the heavens. He holds a gun in his left hand and there is a dagger in his belt. He is looking at a white man. The white man is holding a gun which has its butt on the ground, and has his right hand slightly raised. ]

the hills above the war-path and sing a battle song
with his name in a kind of chorus, calling their deity
to witness his valour to defend him in battle, and
bring him back victorious.

I was standing down by the river alone, waiting
and looking in the water, when he came and laid his
hand upon my shoulder. He had his rifle in his
other hand and his knife, tomahawk, and pistol in his
belt. He looked wild and fierce. He scarcely spoke
above a whisper.

“I will not come back,” he began, “I have seen the
signs, and I shall not come back. It is all right, I
am going to die like a chief. To-morrow I will be
with my people on the other side of darkness.
They will meet me on my way, for I have had their
revenge.”

He looked at me sharp and sudden, and his black
eyes shot fire. He lifted his hand high above his
head and twirled it around as if shaping a beaver
hat. His eyes danced with a fierce delight as he
hissed between his teeth,

“The Judge! Spades!”

He struck out savagely, as if striking with a knife;
as if these men stood before him, and then laid his
hand upon his own breast.

Great Heavens! I said to myself, as he shouldered
his rifle and joined his comrades, and it was this boy
that killed them. The Doctor and the Prince had

understood this all the time and could not trust me
with the secret. They had borne the peril and reproach
that they might save these two and bring
them back beyond the reach of the white man. I
never till that moment knew how great and noble
were the two men whose lives mine had touched,
spoken to, and parted from as ships that meet and
part upon the seas.

We had to fight a mixed body of soldiers and
settlers, and a short, but for the Indians bloody,
battle took place.

The chief of the Pit River Indians fell, and many
of his best warriors around him. Early in the fight
I received an ugly cut on the forehead, which bled
profusely and so blinded me that I could do nothing
further for my unhappy allies. It was a hopeless
case. While the fight waxed hot I stole off up a
canon with a number of the Shasta Indians and
escaped. I came upon an old wounded warrior
leaning on his bow by the trail. The old man said
“Klamat!” bowed his head and pointed to the
ground.

The prophecy had been fulfilled.

Do not imagine these were great battles. Other
events had the ears of the world then, and they
were probably hardly heard of beyond the lines
of the State. Half armed, and wholly untrained, the
Indians could not or did not make a single respectable

stand. The losses were almost always wholly on
their side.

Had they been able to make one or two bold
advances against the whites, then negotiations would
have been opened, terms offered, opinions exchanged,
rights and wrongs discussed, and the Indians would
at least have had a hearing. But so long as the
troops had it their own way, the only terms were the
Reservation, or annihilation.

The few remaining Modoc warriors now returned
to their sage-brush plains and tule lakes to the east;
the Shastas withdrew to the head-waters of the
McCloud, thus abandoning lands that it would take
you days of journey to encompass; and the Pit
River Indians, now almost starving, with an approaching
winter to confront, sent in their remaining women
and children in sign of submission. They were
sadly reduced in numbers, and perhaps less than a
thousand were taken to the Reservation. To-day
the tribe is nearly extinct.

And why did the Government insist to the bitter
end that the Indians should leave this the richest
and finest valley of northern California? Because
the white settlers wanted it. Voters wanted it, and
no aspirant for office dared say a word for the Indian.
So it goes.

The last fight was a sort of Waterloo. There was
now no hope. My plans for the little Republic were

utterly overthrown. I could now only bring ruin
upon the Indians and destruction upon myself by
remaining. I resolved to go.

At last a thought like this began to take shape. I
will descend into the active world. I will go down
from my snowy island into the strong sea of people,
and try my fortunes for only a few short years.
With this mountain at my back, this forest to retreat
to if I am worsted, I can feel strong and brave; and
if by chance I win the fight, I will here return and
rest.

My presence there, instead of being a protection, was
only a peril now to the Indians. I told Warrottetot,
the old warrior, frankly that I wished to go, that it
was best I should, for the white men could not
understand why I was there, except it was to incite
them to battle or plunder.

I sat down with him by the river, and with a stick
marked out the world in the sand, showed him how
narrow were his possessions now, and told him where
all his wars must end. He gave me permission to go,
and said nothing more. He seemed bewildered.

The old chief, the day before my departure, rode
down with me from the high mountains to the beautiful
Now-aw-aw valley, where I had built a cabin
years before. We stopped on a hill overlooking the
valley and dismounted; he took fragments of lava
and built a little monument. He pointed out high

landmarks away below the valley embracing almost
as much land as you could journey around in a day's
travel.

“This is yours. All this valley is yours; I give
it to you with my own hand.” He went down the
hill a little way, and taking up some of the earth
brought it to me and sprinkled it upon and before
my feet.

“It is all yours,” he said, “you have done all you
could do, and deserve it; besides, I have no one to
leave it to now but you.”

“You will go on your way, will win a place among
your own people, and when you return you will have
lands, a home and hunting-grounds. These you will
find here when you return, but you will not find me,
nor one of my children, nor one of my tribe.”

The poor old Indian, battle-worn, wounded and
broken in spirit, was all heart, all tenderness and
truth and devotion. He could not understand why
that land should not be wholly mine. He had not
the shadow of a doubt that this gift of his made the
little valley as surely and wholly mine as if a thousand
deeds had testified to the inheritance. He could
not understand why he was not the lord and owner
of the land which had been handed down to him
through a thousand generations, that had been fought
for and defended from a time as old, perhaps, as the
history of the invader.

Under the madronos my horse stood saddled for a
long, hard ride. Good-byes were said, I led my
steed a little way, and an Indian woman walked at
my side.

Some things shall be sacred. Recital is sometimes
profanity.

It was a sudden impulse that made me set my
horse back on his haunches as he bounded away, unwind
my red silk sash, wave a farewell with it, toss
it to her, and bid her keep it till my return. In less
than forty days, I rested beneath the palms of Nicaragua.