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

by Terry C. Johnston

  Then a cold shot of realization hit him.

  He looked at the fire-ring on the east side of the tent again to be sure. Then at the signal tower back up on the bluff.

  “They’ve moved the council area,” he whispered to Dyar.

  The agent looked up the hill. “Yes. If we sit where the Modocs want us to sit, the tent will hide us from view of the lookout tower.”

  Meacham nodded, lips pursed as he removed his overcoat and draped it over the saddle of his horse. As he bent to tie the reins where Winema had secured her horse to a small bush growing beside the tent, Meacham noticed Shacknasty Jim eyeing his horse.

  With a tug at his heart, Meacham decided he would not make it easy for any of the Modocs to get their hands on the animal. He let the reins fall to the ground.

  You’ll have your chance to run for it, girl, he thought as he straightened. I can help you no more than that.

  Casually he ran his fingers across the derringer in his suit pocket as he stepped up to the council circle.

  The Modocs set about jostling into position with such abandon that Meacham grew sure they were lining themselves up to shoot him and the rest. As if they had already chosen their targets and now needed to assure themselves of a clear shot at the white men. Meacham glanced at Dyar. They traded places, and watched four Modocs immediately switch places as well.

  Riddle inched in front of Winema. She touched his hand, then moved away slightly. He moved back in front of her protectively, following Hooker Jim’s gloating eyes as they followed his wife from the far side of the fire.

  Through all the movement, Canby and Thomas remained aloof to the unvarnished hatred coming to a boil. Tobacco smoke joined the greasewood smoke in obscuring the scene from time to time as another strong breeze gusted across the meadow. Canby finally squatted on a stump near the fire, directly across from Captain Jack.

  Meacham rose and circled the ring, followed by Shacknasty Jim. He got to the west side of the tent, where he stopped, hoping to somehow signal the soldiers in the lookout post.

  But Jim stepped in front of him, pointing back to the council fire, making strong gestures and babbling in Modoc.

  “He wants you back here so they can start talking,” Frank Riddle said.

  Meacham glanced across the meadow, hoping to catch the eye of one of the soldiers in the tower, or one of those soldiers and civilians squatting on the hillside far, far away to watch what they could of the proceedings. Jim suddenly tugged on Meacham’s coat, the right side.

  Afraid the Modoc would discover the derringer if he delayed any more, Meacham consented and returned to the fire. He settled just to the left of Canby. Schonchin John plopped down across from him as Winema came up and settled to the ground slightly in front of Meacham.

  He turned, finding Dyar content to remain standing by his horse a little south of the tent.

  He’s ready to bolt at the first wrong move, Meacham thought, without blaming Dyar in the least for his lack of temerity.

  A fussy man, Reverend Thomas carefully laid his overcoat over a thick clump of sagebrush to the left of Meacham. When he sat upon the seat he had prepared himself, Thomas was positioned slightly behind the head commissioner.

  Riddle finally came up to stand behind his wife, just as the Modocs became suddenly agitated. They chattered, pointing up the hill sloping toward the soldier camp.

  When Meacham turned, he saw a man walking along the high ground, silhouetted against the skyline. “Is he Modoc, Frank?”

  Riddle shook his head. “They think it’s a white man … maybe a soldier.”

  “Whoever it is—get rid of him, and now,” Canby ordered.

  “They’re afraid he’s a soldier and he’s armed,” Riddle said, translating some of the jabber from the warriors, his own voice edged with more nervous fear.

  “Dyar…” Meacham turned, finding the agent quite anxious beside his horse. “Go up there and find out what’s going on. Tell him this is a private meeting.”

  Dyar was in the saddle and up the hill before anything more was said. He spoke briefly to the stranger, and as the Klamath subagent turned away and headed back to the tent, the stranger disappeared over the hill in the direction of the soldier camp.

  Dyar slid from his saddle and held onto the reins as he explained, “A teamster … civilian from camp. Looking for a lost horse.”

  “You explained what was going on here?” Canby asked, straightening his blue tunic.

  “Yes. That’s why he skeedaddled so damned fast,” Dyar added without humor. “He wanted no part of anything to do with your talk with Captain Jack’s cutthroats.”

  “Let’s proceed,” Canby instructed, turning back to Meacham.

  He cleared his throat, unable to put things off any longer. Meacham began by making the sort of speech that was expected of a white man desiring to make peace with Indians. At the end of explaining their desire to forge a lasting peace with the Modocs, Meacham asked why Jack had requested this meeting with the commissioners.

  “We want the soldiers to leave the Lava Beds,” Jack replied.

  Meacham waited a moment for more, impatient and growing more anxious with the foot-dragging. “You have said that before, Jack. For once, let us talk like men now—and not like children. Don’t you have anything new to say to us that we might make peace between us here today?”

  “The women and children are afraid of the soldiers.”

  He thought on it a moment. None of the other commissioners spoke up. Meacham felt alone as he answered. “The soldiers can protect your women and children—to keep other people away, to keep them from harming your families. If you wish, they can stay in safety at Fairchild’s ranch while we decide on a reservation to your liking.”

  Meacham shifted on his perch. He did not like the way Hooker Jim paced back and forth behind the others—still studying the rocks and the rise of land that separated the meadow from the soldier camp. He caught Hooker’s eyes for a moment. The Modoc lingered there a moment, then smiled as he went back to watching the distance.

  “What will become of our men? My warriors?” Jack asked.

  “If you wish, your men can stay in the Lava Beds until you have decided and we have agreed upon where you will live out your days.” Meacham placed a hand on Schonchin John’s shoulder to show some sincerity. The warrior shrugged the hand off and backed away slightly.

  “Why don’t you shut up, old man!” Schonchin snapped.

  Hooker Jim stopped pacing at that moment, then turned and inched past Meacham, striding purposefully toward the head commissioner’s horse.

  “We won’t live anywhere without our women and children,” Jack said, shaking his head.

  Turning on his stump as he listened to the Modoc chief, Meacham watched Hooker Jim tie the horse to some brush, knotting the rein close to the ground. The warrior called the horse by name.

  “You know this horse, Jim?” Meacham asked.

  Hooker nodded, that crooked smile growing. “Fairchild’s horse, no? Yes, I know this horse. A good mare. A fine mare.”

  Jim then stepped alongside the saddle, where he removed Meacham’s overcoat. Making a grand show of it for his fellow warriors, Jim slipped on the coat as if he were selecting it from a mercantile over in Yreka. All talk stopped as Jim buttoned up the coat from bottom to neck, then strutted back to the council ring.

  “Bogus Charley—you think me look like old man Mee-Cham now?”

  The Modocs all had a good laugh as Jim strutted like a proud cock in a wide circle. “Me old man Mee-Cham now!”

  Meacham glanced at Thomas and Canby. They grinned and clapped with the Modocs, as if this were some childish show. In his bowels, Meacham knew different. Perhaps they were trying to provoke something—only that. But, knowing that, perhaps he could keep the warriors off-balance by joking along with them.

  He took his wide-brimmed pinch hat from his head and stood, handing the hat to a surprised Hooker Jim. “Here. Take my hat too. Then you can be Meacham.”


  A smile grew on Jim’s face. The eyes lit with a sinister fire. “I will have hat … by and by. Don’t hurry me, old man.”

  Dyar moved behind his horse, acting as if he were adjusting a stirrup. Realizing Dyar must think the time for shooting had arrived, Meacham watched Riddle inch back behind Winema’s horse. Seated all this time on the ground in front of Thomas, Toby now stretched out on the ground as if relaxing, pantomiming a wide yawn. It appeared she was hopeful the bullets she expected at any moment might pass over her when the gunfire erupted.

  Meacham attempted to catch Canby’s eye, but the general appeared intent on pursuing the council. Unperturbed by others’ fears, the soldier plunged ahead with his own speech to Captain Jack, while black and gray storm clouds scudded in off the lake.

  “Since I don’t have the authority to take the soldiers away, I want the Modocs to understand I do wish peace with them. These soldiers are here for the protection of whites and the Modocs. This commission makes no promises it cannot keep to your people. I have always been a friend to the Indian. You have no reason to distrust my word. My soldiers are not here to harm your women and children. When I was a young soldier myself—I helped move a band of Indians to a new home. Their hearts were bad for me at first—but they soon came to call me ‘Friend-of-the-Indian.’ I want to be a trusted friend of the Modoc too.”

  When he had completed his remarks, Canby gestured to Thomas. The reverend held up his Bible as he moved off his perch, so that he was now on his knees, as if praying. It was a fervent, heart-felt sermon he delivered: asking the Modocs to renounce their heathen ways and return to a belief in Christ Jesus, their only savior. He ended by saying how long he had known the other commissioners, that they were righteous, God-fearing men, with the welfare of the Modocs high in their hearts.

  “None of these men wants to see any more blood shed on this ground. We are your friends. God asks us to be brothers and to care for one another. Help us help you, Jack. Let God’s will be done in this land.”

  The chief snorted audibly as Toby translated the minister’s words. Meacham watched the others, noticing now that they too watched Jack, as if distrustful of him.

  “If the soldiers go away, we can talk about the Modocs leaving the Lava Beds,” Jack repeated the old demand, wringing his hands anxiously as he turned to Canby. “This is your last chance, soldier chief. Give us what we want—now.” He stood, backing away a moment.

  Meacham sensed that urgency in the chief’s voice, somewhere inside him knowing what must surely come next. He leaned to the right, whispering to Canby.

  “In the name of God, Canby—tell them you’ll give them what they want!”

  The general shook his head, irritated. “I cannot bear false trust with these men.”

  Into Jack’s spot leaped Schonchin John, who suddenly announced, “We want the valley south of Cottonwood Creek.”

  Meacham was surprised by this unexpected news. “That’s—no … that’s John Fairchild’s land.”

  “Give us the valley,” Schonchin repeated, leaning forward with unmasked hostility and not slowing to allow Toby Riddle time to translate. “Move Fairchild out and we can live there in peace. Take your soldiers far away and we can be happy hunting and fishing again.”

  “We … why, we can’t give you another man’s land,” Meacham said.

  “It is not his land,” Jack said, rubbing his palms across his thighs nervously. “It was Modoc land. He is only there because we let him stay there.”

  “No. I have no right to give you that land.”

  Jack turned to Canby. “Will soldier chief give us Fairchild’s land? This is soldier chief’s chance—last chance.”

  Canby waited for the translation from Winema. “Tell them I have no right to give them land. Only the commission can decide on a new reservation for the Modocs.”

  “You give us the land we want,” Schonchin growled, holding a fist before Meacham’s face. “Take away your soldiers—give us Fairchild’s land—or we talk no more. We’re tired. No more talk!”

  Toby was not yet finished with translating the warrior’s words into English when Jack bolted to his feet.

  “I go now to wet the bushes.”

  “Wet the bushes?” Thomas asked.

  “He’s going to take a damn piss,” Meacham growled, not sure what this turn of events meant. “Indians are damned direct, preacher. Best get used to that.”

  If we live to get used to anything, he thought to himself as Jack moved away from the council fire.

  Chapter 22

  April 11, 1873

  On the east side of the Modocs’ Stronghold in the Lava Beds, Major E. C. Mason’s men, who were camped near Hospital Rock, had established a series of outposts at the top of the broken ridges overlooking the Indian camp.

  Private Charles Hardin was on picket duty that morning when young Lieutenant William Sherwood showed up with good news.

  “Good morning, private,” Sherwood said buoyantly. “This will be the last day of the bloody war, don’t you know?”

  “Those red devils in there really going to make peace today, sir?”

  “Just received a heliograph from Gillem’s camp. The peace commissioners headed down to their council tent a few minutes ago. We’re to be on the lookout for any Modocs who might want to come in to surrender to our camp.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll keep my eyes open,” Hardin replied, watching the lieutenant salute and walk off into the brush and rocks, heading back toward camp.

  Spare minutes later, Private Hardin spotted a white flag being waved by a pair of Indians standing some four hundred yards away. He turned and flung his voice back at the soldier camp.

  “Lieutenant! I’ve spotted some warriors want to talk!”

  Sherwood trotted up in a matter of moments, stopping to catch his breath, and staring squint-eyed at the distant pair beneath their waving flag. He patted Hardin on the shoulder.

  “By God—peace is really happening, private!” he gushed. “We’ve never seen them show the white flag before. I’m going down there and see what those two want.”

  Hardin dug a toe in the damp ground. “I wouldn’t go if I was you, Lieutenant.”

  “It’ll be just fine. Keep me covered with that Sharps of yours.”

  Hardin gulped, watching Sherwood head down the rocky slope. The lieutenant came loping back after a few minutes.

  “They want to talk with the little tyee—the major. In just a little bit—around noon. I’m going to fetch him.”

  Sherwood could not convince Mason to come for that impromptu parley with the Modoc warriors, but Sherwood did convince a friend of his to join him in the conference: Lieutenant Boyle. A few curious soldiers climbed atop Hospital Rock to watch the meeting with Hardin while the two lieutenants strode into open ground.

  They watched the officers stop when a single Indian came out from the group of a half-dozen warriors now gathered around the white flag. There was much gesturing, but no voices could be heard … when both officers turned suddenly and began walking away briskly.

  The lone warrior signaled. Riflemen hidden in the rocks appeared, their weapons raising smoky puffs on the chill midday air before the loud reports echoed all the way to Hospital Rock.

  With the first shot, Sherwood was winged in the arm. He was running when another shot clipped him through the leg, causing him to stumble. Boyle was still on his feet, turning back to help Sherwood. Together they hurried as fast as they could toward the rocks, disappearing from view behind a low ridge of lava.

  “They’ll be butchered, we don’t get down there!” Hardin shouted, already on foot and leading the rest down the slope.

  “I’ll lead this command, private!” hollered an officer Hardin did not know. “Follow me, men!”

  Hardin stopped, shook his head and yelled at the officer’s back. “Sir—you’re going in the wrong direction!”

  The rest of the soldiers followed the officer off into the maze of lava flow. Hardin followe
d for a few minutes, slowly dropping farther and farther behind. When he could no longer be seen by the officer hurrying ahead to his own destination, Hardin quickly ducked behind the hogback of lava where he figured he could find the lieutenants forted up.

  By the time he made it over the sharp, slashing rocks, Hardin found Boyle already disappearing up the slope to Hospital Rock, making his own way back to camp. The wounded Sherwood lay hiding in a crevice, bleeding from his two wounds. He tried to rise when Hardin came close.

  “Get down, Lieutenant!” he shouted, taking cover. “Are you hurt badly?”

  Sherwood answered after a moment, “Afraid I am, Hardin.”

  When the private crawled to Sherwood’s side, he looked over the wounds then tore a bandanna from his neck, tying it around the man’s leg wound.

  Hardin stood, scanning the far ground. Off to the right along the hogback he caught sight of the rest of the soldiers still tromping behind their confused commander.

  “Here! Over here!” Hardin shouted, and waved. His voice echoed loudly off the black rocks.

  Most of the soldiers stopped, trying to locate Hardin among the labyrinth. He waved his hat now, which caused them to abandon their commander and start down toward the crevice where he and Sherwood huddled.

  “I’m still bleeding, private. Badly,” the lieutenant said bravely, watching the bandanna grow dark and shiny.

  “You rest, sir. We’ll get you back to a surgeon right off.”

  Sherwood gripped Hardin’s arm, whispering harshly. “You gotta let ’em know!”

  “Who, sir?”

  “The other camp!”

  “Why, Lieutenant?”

  Sherwood’s head sank back, his eyes beginning to roll into sweet oblivion. “They’ll murder them too.”

  At that very moment the commissioners and their interpreters were sitting in stunned silence while Jack moved off several yards and urinated, loudly spraying the hard, rocky ground.

  When he turned back to the council ring, the Modoc chief shouted toward the nearby rocks.

  With growing alarm, Meacham saw two warriors rise from hiding, weighed down with rifles cradled across their arms as they hurried into the meadow. A third, who Meacham recognized as Steamboat Frank, appeared from another direction.