Wigwam and War-path Or the Royal Chief in Chains Part 44

"We shall not be ready to attack them until the Warm Spring Indians come,"

replies the general, who a few days since thought "he could take the Modocs out with the loss of half-a-dozen men." Why did not Col. Mason follow up the Modocs who attacked Sherwood and Boyle? _Because he could not move without orders, and the orders were not given._

Three or four hors.e.m.e.n are waiting while a dozen pencils are rattling over paper. The burden of each despatch is the a.s.sa.s.sination. "Modoc treachery!

Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas killed; Meacham mortally wounded; Dyer and Riddle escape." How much these hasty lines will tell, and how many hearts will feel a dark shadow fall over them when the electric tongue of fire repeats this message to the world!

"Fifty dollars extra, if you get my despatch into the telegraph office ahead of the others," says Bill Dad, as he hands the paper to his courier.

Away goes the courier up the steep and rugged bluff.

"One hundred dollars if you get to the office in Y-re-ka, first," says another reporter, in a whisper, to his courier, who dashes off close behind the first.

Another rider is mounted and waiting for the word to start. Gen. Gilliam's adjutant hands this man a sealed envelope. It contains an official telegram for the authorities.

"Lose no time! Off with you!" says Adjutant Rockwell. And now three riders are urging their horses up the hill. Y-re-ka is eighty-three miles distant. A long race is before them. The evening is dark and gloomy, but the clouds pa.s.s away, and the moon shines on three men galloping together, mile after mile. Sunrise finds two of them still together. One of them, as they near a ranch, swings his hat and shouts. A man in shirt-sleeves runs to a stable and brings a fresh horse to the man who signalled him. The rider dismounts, and, while changing the saddle from his horse to the fresh one, tells the awful tidings. The other rider urges his horse on, on, for he, too, has a fresh horse but a few miles ahead. On he goes, and looking behind him sees his rival coming. He comes up and pa.s.ses, saying, "Good-by, George!"

Twenty minutes more and both are mounted on fresh horses, one leading, but now in sight of each other. One is casting an eye backwards over his shoulder; the other is pressing the sides of his horse. The gap closes up. Y-re-ka is now in sight, and they are galloping side by side. Both are sitting erect, and the music of jingling spurs is in harmony with the stride of the horses. One mile more, and somebody wins. It all depends on "bottom." The spurs cease to jingle. They are m.u.f.fled in the bleeding sides of the panting horses.

What a race! One is an iron-gray, the other a Pinto horse. The rider of the gray, reaching back with his spurs, rakes his horse from the flank forward, leaving a vermilion trail where the spurs have pa.s.sed. With extended head and neck, and lengthened stride, he goes ahead a few yards.

With another application of spurs, the switch of the horse's tail touches his rider's back.

"Ah, ha! I've got you now!" shouts the rider of the Pinto, as he comes up like the moving of a shadow, and leaves the gray and his rider behind. One hour more, and the lightnings of the heavens are repeating the messages, and sending them over mountains and plains, to almost the farthest ends of the earth.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

HARNESSED LIGHTNING CARRYING AWFUL TIDINGS--HE "MAKES IT"--A BROKEN FINGER WON'T DISFIGURE A CORPSE.

It is night, and in the solders' camp a wail of anguish is heard coming from the tent nearest Gen. Canby's late quarters. Grief weighs down the heart of Orderly Scott, who is giving vent to his anguish in stifled sobs and vows of vengeance on the perpetrators of the foul deed. He rises from his bed, and, with face half buried in his hands, looks again on the mangled form of his benefactor, and, in renewed paroxysms of grief, is borne away by his friends.

The sound of hammer and saw disturbs the midnight hour, while the carpenters are transforming the wooden gun-cases into coffins for the dead. Two are in progress, but the mechanics are economizing the rough boards, for the probabilities are that the _third_ will be needed on the morrow.

The steward is holding a lamp while Drs. Semig and Cabanis are dressing the wounds of the only patient in the hospital tent. He is unconscious, while the ugly, ragged wound in his face is being carefully bound, and the long crooked cut on the left side of the head is being closed with the silver threads, and his ear is being st.i.tched together. He flinches a little when the flexible silver probe is following the trail cut through his right arm made by the pistol ball that struck it outside of the wrist, and, pa.s.sing between the bones of the fore arms, came out on the inside, midway between the hand and elbow. The left hand is laid out on a board, and the wounded man is told that "the forefinger must come off."

"Make out the line of the cut, doctor," says Meacham.

"There, about this way," the doctor replies, while with his scalpel he traces a cut nearly to the wrist.

"I can't hold still while you do that, without chloroform," says Meacham.

The doctor feels his pulse, and says, "You have lost too much blood to take chloroform."

"Then let it stay until I am stronger," rejoins Meacham.

For once doctors agree, one of them saying, "The finger would not disfigure a corpse very much."

"Please ask Gen. Gilliam to send to Linkville for my wife's brother, Capt.

Ferree," comes from the bloodless lips of the wounded man.

"My dear fellow," replies the kind-hearted doctor, "the general sent a courier for him hours ago."

This thoughtful act of kindness, on the part of Gen. Gilliam, has touched the heart of the sufferer. When he awakes again Capt. Ferree was bending over him and remarking, "He will be blind if he recovers, won't he, doctor?"

"He won't be very handsome, that's a fact," says the nurse.

In the Modoc camp, when the murderous bands arrive with their scanty plunder, a general quarrel ensues, and bitter reproaches are heard against Hooker Jim for not securing Mr. Dyer, and against Curly Jack and Curly-haired Doctor, for the escape of Maj. Boyle, and on account of the clothing taken from the murdered men. Captain Jack claims the uniform of Gen. Canby. Bogus and Boston divide the clothing taken from Dr. Thomas, and Shacknasty Jim, Hooker Jim and old Schonchin are awarded the clothing and effects of Meacham.

Preparations are making for defence, as the Indians do not doubt that an attack will be made immediately. Many bitter recriminations are uttered; but it is war, war to the last man! They hush all their quarrels in the necessity for united action. They pledge themselves to fight until the _last man_ is dead. The Curly-haired Doctor calls his a.s.sistants around him and begins the _Great Medicine Dance_. All night long the sound of drum and song is heard. The Modocs expect every moment to hear the signal of their sentinel on the outposts announcing the "soldiers!" No sleep comes to this camp to-night.

The morning comes, but no blue-coats are seen among the rocks. The army of one thousand men _are not ready yet_.

The Modocs exult; they are jubilant; they have _scared_ the Government.

"_It is afraid. It will grant us, now, all we ask._" Captain Jack and Scar-face Charley do not a.s.sent to this unreasonable view of the situation.

"The soldiers will come. Our victory is not complete. We must fight now until all are dead. The Modoc heart says 'We must fight!'" Captain Jack affirms.

Sat.u.r.day morning, April 13th, finds the three camps side by side, and each on the lookout for an attack.

Strong hands are bearing two rough-looking boxes up the steep bluff. In the foremost one is the body of Gen. Canby; in the other, all that is mortal of Dr. Thomas. Slowly they mount the rugged hill. They reach the waiting ambulances. The bodies are each a.s.signed an escort. Sitting beside Gen. Canby's coffin are his adjutant, Anderson, and the faithful Scott.

How changed the scene! a few hours since all were hopeful. Now, all are in despair, crushed under the affliction of the hour. While they move cautiously under escort, the terrible news is flashing along thousands of miles of telegraph lines, over mountains, under rivers and oceans. Before the sun sets the hearts of millions of people are beating in sympathy with the bereaved. Extras and bulletins are flying from a thousand presses. The newsboys of America are shouting the burden of the terrible telegram. The Indians along a thousand miles of the frontier have already learned that something of dreadful import has happened.

About the middle of the afternoon of this day a woman sitting in her room on State street, Salem, Oregon, raises her eyes, turning them towards the street. Perhaps the sound of steps on the wooden pavement attracts her attention. She sees two familiar faces turned towards her window. "Oh, see her! How pale she is!" She drops her work, and runs hastily to meet the two gentlemen.

"Is he dead? Is he dead? Tell me! Has my husband been killed by the Modocs?" the woman cries.

The gentlemen are speechless for the moment, while the lady pleads. They dare not speak the truth too plainly, now; she cannot bear it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DOCTOR THOMAS.]

One of them replies, "Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas have been killed by the Modocs, and Mr. Meacham is sli--" "mortally wounded!" shrieks the lady sinking to the floor.

Three young persons are coming home. The eldest is a young lady of eighteen. The lad that walks beside her is her brother of sixteen; and the other is an auburn-haired girl of fourteen. There is something in her appearance that connects our thoughts with the mutilated, almost bloodless man who is lying in the hospital in the Lava Beds.

They turn the corner leading out of the Plaza and in sight of home. They see men and women hurrying across the front yard.

"Has father been killed by the Modocs?" bursts from their lips as they fly.

Dr. Hall meets them and says, "Your father is slightly wounded. He is not dead."

The three frightened children gather around the _tearless_, pale-faced mother, who says, "Don't deceive me. I am strong now. I can bear it. Tell me the worst."

The friends exchanged glances. Dr. Hall shakes his head, slightly motioning towards the elder girl, whose face is buried in the bosom of Mrs. Dr. Smith.

"George, run to the telegraph office and bring the despatch," says the mother to her son. "I must know the truth."

The boy bounds away towards the office, and is met by Prof. Powell, who says, "Come back, George. I will go home with you, and tell your mother all about it."