# Life Amongst the Modocs: Unwritten History/Chapter 27

CHAPTER XXVII.
BRADLEY AND HIRST.

## RADLEY the officer recovered so far,

after nearly a year, as to be able to get about, and when the mines of the north were discovered, pushed out into that country.
I was there before him. I was engaged in trans porting gold and letters for the miners in the mountains to and from the settlements, and doing a large and prosperous business.
I was in my express office in Wallawalla one day, when one of my friends entered with some agitation to tell me that Bradley was in town.
I reflected a moment, and then sent word that I should like to see him at my office. He soon came limping through the door and looking about for the man whom he had last met face to face in such bloody combat.
I stood behind the counter and he came forward. I gave him my hand, while with the left I held my
THE ​
TJHIVBESIT7
little bulldog Derringer at full-cock in my pocket. He took my hand hastily, spoke kindly, and when I looked fairly in his face and saw the goodnature and pure manhood of the man, I let go my pistol, ashamed of my suspicion, and we went out through the town together.
He had my ugly bullet, which had been cut from his thigh, in his pocket, showed me the wound at his room, and we became sworn friends.
He opened business in Florence and nourished. Once he did me an infinite service. The country was full of robbers, and, strange to tell, many of these men were my acquaintances, and, in some cases, friends.
I always rode alone with as much gold as my horse could well carry, and that at the time was required, in the fierce opposition we were then running to Wells, Fargo and Co. s Express, for I could not afford to employ men and horses to constitute a guard, even if I could have found men who could endure the long, hard rides I was compelled to make. " Dave English and his party," said Bradley, " is going to rob you; one of his pigeons has told me this, and there is no doubt of its truth."
I knew English well. I wrote him a letter at once ; told him I knew his plan in detail, that it was known to my friends, and that he would be held responsible. This singular man came boldly into my office, shook hands with me, and said I should ​not be touched.
English had five well-known followers : Scott, Peoples, Romain, and two others whose names I. withhold because of their relatives, who are of most aristocratic and respectable standing in the Atlantic States.
I was not disturbed ; but shortly after this, English, Scott, and Peoples robbed some packers of a large amount of gold-dust on the highway, and were arrested.
At Lewiston the vigilantes broke into the tem porary prison, improvised from a big log saloon then but partly built, overpowered the guard, and told the prisoners to prepare to die.
They were given ten minutes to invoke their Maker. At the end of that time, the only rope the vigilantes had was thrown over a beam, and they approached Scott, who was on his knees.
u No, no," cried English, u hang me first, and let him pray."
They left Scott, fastened the rope round the neck of English, and mounted him on a keg.
Then English turned to Scott, and said, " Scottie, pray for me a little, can t you ? Damned if I can pray ! " Then he laughed a low, strange chuckle, and they kicked away the keg.
He hung till dead, and then the noose reached for another victim. Peoples died without a word, but when they came to Scott, he pleaded with all his might for his life, and offered large sums of gold, which he said he had buried, but f ​inding them
inexorable, he took off his necktie, strung his finger rings on it, and saying, "Send these to my wife," died as the others.
The other three of the band were arrested soon after for the murder of McGruder, and died by the civil law in the same reckless manner as their leader. All six lie together on the hill overlooking Lewiston, and the earthworks thrown up by Lewis and Clark in their expedition of 1802-3.
Bradley more than once winged his man ; made and lost several fortunes in the mountains, and is now in Arazona, one of my truest and best friends.
Hirst was a singular man. He used to say that if he got through a week without a fight it ruined his digestion.
I think his digestion did not suffer.
No one cared, so long as he fought with men who "came from the shoulder," or were on the u cut and shoot;" but he once fell upon an inoffensive man, nearly took his life, and so left camp at the sugges tion of his friends (?) and drifted north.
It is but justice to this man to state that he really had lost a horse, taken by the Indians under my order for them to procure horses. Yet I had not even suspected this at the time of our encounter, or I could not have borne myself as I did.
Fate, to my dismay, threw us together at Canon City, Oregon. I led the settlers and miners in a long and disastrous campaign against the Indians there, and Hirst was as brave and reckless th ​ere as else-
where. Afterwards I began the practice of law, and my first client was a boy of fifteen, on trial for shooting with attempt to murder.
The court-house here was a saloon, and crowded to the utmost. A vigilance committee had been organized, and strange as it seems, Hirst was one of the leaders.
When my case had fairly opened, Hirst entered with a brace of pistols sticking loosely in his belt in front, and striding through the yielding crowd, came up and took position only a few feet from me, over looking me, and looking straight into the face of the timid magistrate. Of course I could not remon strate. I faltered through the case, but managed somehow to get the boy off with a nominal bail.
The energetic little rascal went into a neighbour ing camp and with another boy stole some horses. They were followed by the sheriff, Haddock, and his deputy, Hart, and a desperate fight took place, in which the deputy and my client s companion were killed and Haddock left for dead.
Hy client was tried for life, but his youth saved his neck, and after five years in the Oregon state prison was pardoned out by the kind-hearted Governor, now Governor of Utah.
I last year saw my first client, a fine-looking young man, working gaily away at a country black smith s shop, on a roadside of the Willamette. Hay good angels keep my first client to his work !
Afterwards, Hirst appeared in the criminal court ​
as defendant, and I was employed as counsel. His crime was the trifling offence of snatching a curly- headed Jew from behind his counter by his curly hair, and then dragging him by his curly hair into the street.
My bold client was convicted, but the judgment was entered so awkwardly, that I had it set aside on review, and he escaped punishment.
Soon after this he married an amiable immigrant girl, and settled down as the most docile of men. But this was not to last.
One day he came to town in a perfect fury, pistol in hand, in search of the deputy sheriff Berry, who he claimed had offended his wife.
Berry was on the alert. About dusk the two men suddenly met face to face on turning a corner and the ball opened. Hirst was a very tall man, and always did things with a sort of flourish. Although quick as a trap whenever he drew his pistol, or raised it to fire, he always raised it in the air and fired as the muzzle descended.
There are two ways of firing a pistol in hand-to- hand combat, and only two. One is to fire as you raise, and the other is to raise and then fire as you fall. Every advantage, it seems to me, is with the former mode, particularly when time means every thing. You can cock a pistol easier, it is true, by raising the muzzle and at the same time raising the hammer, but if strong in the thumb you should by all means cock as you draw, and fire the moment the ​
muzzle is in range. Some men in the moment of danger go about with the pistol on cock. This is madness. At the critical instant you find yourself fumbling and feeling for the hammer which is already raised; besides, you are about as liable to shoot yourself as your enemy. There is still a worse practice than this, and that is in carrying the pistol in the belt on half-cock, where it is neither one thing nor the other. On half-cock, however, is the correct way to carry a little Derringer loose in your pocket, but never a Colt s.
Hirst raised his pistol, flourished it, let fall and fired, blowing Berry s hat to atoms, filling his face and eyes with powder, and carrying away a part of his scalp.
But he was too late. Berry cocked his revolver as he drew it, and fired the instant he got the muzzle in range.
Hirst was reaching across his breast with his left hand for his bowie knife, which hung at his right side, as Berry fired. The ball tore through the bones of the wrist that reached across his breast and entered the body squarely just below the breast bone.
Both men fell, but Berry was soon able to stand on his feet.
u Ah, boys, this is the last of old Hirst," the wounded man said, as they bore him to the surgeon s close at hand. He sent for his wife, gently and kindly bade his friends good-bye, and became ​insen-
sible. I saw him just before midnight, and he scarcely breathed. They said he was dying, and preparations began to be made for the burial. I took the right hand in mine that terrible right hand so helpless now, so pale and thin and pulseless, kissed it gently the kiss of forgiveness in the dimly- lighted room, when no one observed me, and went home.
The next morning, however, Hirst was not dead. He lay as he lay through the night, and the sur geons said dissolution was only a question of time. The camp was in suspense. Was it possible that this man, who for ten years had been the terror of Oregon and northern California, could still live with a navy bullet through his body fired at two feet distance !
Another day, and the man opened his eyes and began to talk to his poor, patient little wife, who never left his side.
Hard as it may seem on the camp, I am bound to say it did not like this at all. The camp had thoroughly, and very . cheerfully too, made up its mind that Hirst was a dead man, and it did not like to be disappointed.
Three days more and the surgeons announced the possibility of recovery. The camp was disgusted.
In less than forty days Hirst was walking about the claim with his arm in a sling, quietly giving directions to his labourers.
One day a man came rushing to ​town for the
surgeons. A little battle had been fought across the street of a little town down the creek, and half a dozen men were in need of help.
Women in the case again, and Hirst had led the fight.
His antagonists were men who claimed to be on the side of law and order. They were led by a man named Hank Rice, one of the County Commissioners, who afterwards testified that he fired at least fifty shots that day in his attempt to keep the peace.
Only able to use one arm, Hirst had, with his fol lowers, converted the little town into a sort of minia ture Paris, with barricades, fire-brands, and all the modern improvements. At last, when attempting to cross the street and drive his enemy from shelter, he received the contents of a double-barrelled shot-gun full in the breast and fell. This ended the fight.
Hirst still refused to die. He was therefore arrested on five different and very grave charges, and lodged in prison.
After he was able to be about an examination was had. I was his advocate. Bail was allowed after some delay, but it was fixed so high as to be almost beyond our reach. We tried "straw" bail, but the prosecuting attorney was too rigorous, and it was only by getting that officer out into the country to attend a case we had arranged for the occasion that we got our bail accepted.
Hirst left the country that night, his brave, faith ful little wife soon followed, and I never ​met him
again. After many and similar fortunes we find him at Winemuca, on the line of the Pacific Railroad. Here some one killed him, though only for a time, by shooting him in the head with a Derringer. He recovered, but with the loss of one of his eyes and all his ferocity, says report.
I have written of him in the past tense, because he is said to now be a new man. He was a year or so ago though the shifting fortunes of the country may have left him by this time on other ground a man of wealth.
In all the experience of my life spent mostly among the most lawless and reckless, I know of no history so remarkable as his. How he so con tinually escaped death will never cease to be a marvel among the men of that country. It must be remem bered, however, that while he survived, perhaps a thousand of his class perished.
Through all his stirring and bloody career, let this be said, he was generous and open-hearted, kind to most men, industrious, and certainly as brave as Caesar.