# Life Amongst the Modocs: Unwritten History/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
BLOOD ON THE SNOW.
HERE was a tribe of Indians camped down on the rapid, rocky Elamat river a sullen, ugly set were they, too : at least so said The Forks. Never social, hardly seeming to notice the whites, who were now thick about them, below them, above them, on the river and all around them. Sometimes we would meet one on the narrow trail; he would gather his skins about him, hide his bow and arrows under their folds, and, without seeming to see any one, would move past us still as a shadow. I do not remember that I ever saw one of these Indians laugh, not even to smile. A hard-featured, half-starved set of savages, of whom the wise men of the camp prophesied no good.
The snow, unusually deep this winter, had driven them all down from the mountains, and they were compelled to camp on the river.
The game, too, had been driven down alo ​ng with
the Indians, but it was of but little use to them. Their bows and arrows did poor competition with the rifles of the whites in the killing of the game. The whites fairly filled the cabins with deer and elk, got all the lion s share, and left the Indians almost destitute.
Another thing that made it rather more hard on the Indians than anything else, was the utter failure of the annual run of salmon the summer before, on account of the muddy water. The Klamat, which had poured from the mountain lakes to the sea as clear as glass, was now made muddy and turbid from the miners washing for gold on its banks and its tributaries. The trout turned on their sides and died ; the salmon from the sea came in but rarely on account of this ; and what few did come were pretty safe from the spears of the Indians, because of the coloured water ; so that supply, which was more than all others their bread and their meat, was entirely cut off.
Mine? It was all a mystery to these Indians as long as they were permitted to live. Besides, there were some whites mining who made poor headway against hunger. I have seen them gather in groups on the bank above the mines and watch in silence for hours as if endeavouring to make it out ; at last they would shrug their shoulders, draw their skins closer about them, and stalk away no wiser than before.
Why we should tear up the earth, toil like gnomes from sun-up to sun-down, rain or sun, destroy the forests and pollute the rivers, was to them more than ​
a mystery it was a terror. I believe they accepted it as a curse, the work of evil spirits, and so bowed to it in sublime silence.
This loss of salmon was a greater loss than you would suppose. These fish in the spring-time pour up these streams from the sea in incalculable swarms. They fairly darken the water. On the head of the Sacramento, before that once beautiful river was changed from a silver sheet to a dirty yellow stream, I have seen between the Devil s Castle and Mount Shasta the stream so filled with salmon that it was impossible to force a horse across the current. Of course, this is not usual, and now can only be met with hard up at the heads of mountain streams where mining is not carried on, and where the advance of the fish is checked by falls on the head of the stream. The amount of salmon which the Indians would spear and dry in the sun, and hoard away for winter, under such circumstances, can be imagined; and I can now better understand their utter discomfiture at the loss of their fisheries than I did then.
A sharp, fierce winter was upon them ; for reasons above stated they had no store of provisions on hand, save, perhaps, a few dried roots and berries ; and the whites had swept away and swallowed up the game before them as fast as it had been driven by the winter from the mountains. Yet I do not know that any one thought of all this then. I am sure I did not ; and I do not remember hearing any allusion made to these things by the bearded men of the camp, old ​
enough, and wise enough too, to look at the heart of things. Perhaps it was because they were all so busy and intent on getting gold. I do remember distinctly, however, that there was a pretty general feeling against the Indians down on the river a general feeling of dislike and distrust.
What made matters worse, there was a set of men, low men, loafers, and of the lowest type, who would hang around those lodges at night, give the Indians whiskey of the vilest sort, debauch their women, and cheat the men out of their skins and bows and arrows. There was not a saloon, not a gambling den in camp that did not have a sheaf of feathered, flint-headed arrows in an otter quiver, and a yew bow hanging behind the bar.
Perhaps there was a grim sort of philosophy in the red man so disposing of his bow and arrows now that the game was gone and they were of no further use. Sold them for bread for his starving babes, maybe. How many tragedies are hidden here? How many tales of devotion, self-denial, and sacrifice, as true as the white man lived, as pure, and brave, and beau tiful as ever gave tongue to eloquence or pen to song, sleep here with the dust of these sad and silent people on the bank of the stormy river !
In this condition of things, about mid-winter, when the snow was deep and crusted stiff, and all nature seemed dead and buried in a ruffled shroud, there was a murder. The Indians had broken out ! The pro phesied massacre had begun ! Killed by the Indians ! ​
It swept like a telegram through the camp. Con fused and incoherent, it is true, but it gathered force and form as the tale flew on from tongue to tongue, until it assumed a frightful shape.
A man had been killed by the Indians down at the rancheria. Not much of a man, it is true. A u capper ;" sort of tool and hanger-on about the lowest gambling dens. Killed, too, down in the Indian camp when he should have been in bed, or at home, or at least in company with his kind.
All this made the miners hesitate a bit as they hurriedly gathered in at The Forks, with their long Kentucky rifles, their pistols capped and primed, and bowie knives in their belts.
But as the gathering storm that was to sweep the Indians from the earth took shape and form, these honest men stood out in little knots, leaning on their rifles in the streets, and gravely questioned whether, all things considered, the death of the u Chicken," for that was the dead man s name, was sufficient cause for interference.
To their eternal credit these men mainly decided that it was not, and two by two they turned away, went back to their cabins, hung their rifles up on the rack, and turned their thoughts to their own affairs.
But the hangers-on about the town were terribly enraged. " A man has been killed ! " they pro claimed aloud. u A man has been murdered by the savages ! ! We shall all be massacred ! butchered ! ​burnt!!"
In one of the saloons where men were wont to meet at night, have stag-dances, and drink lightning, a short, important man, with the print of a glass- tumbler cut above his eye, arose and made a speech.
" Fellow- miners (he had never touched a pick in his life), I am ready to die for me country! (He was an Irishman sent out to Sydney at the Crown s expense.) What have I to live for? (Nothing whatever, as far as anyone could tell.) Fellow- miners, a man has been kilt by the treacherous savages kilt in cold blood! Fellow-miners, let us advance upon the inemy. Let us let us fellow- miners, let us take a drink and advance upon the inemy."
This man had borrowed a pistol, and held or flourished it in his hand as he talked to the crowd of idlers, rum-dealers, and desperadoes to all of whom any diversion from the monotony of camp -life, or excitement, seemed a blessing.
" Range around me. Rally to the bar and take a drink, every man of you, at me own ixpense." The bar-keeper, who was also proprietor of the place, a man not much above the type of the speaker, ventured a mild remonstrance at this wholesale generosity ; but the pistol, flourished in a very sug gestive way, settled the matter, and, with something of a groan, he set his decanters to the crowd, and became a bankrupt.
This was the beginning ; they passed from saloon to saloon, or, rather, from door to door; t ​he short,
stout Irishman making speeches and the mob gathering force and arms as it went, and then, wild with drink and excitement, moving down upon the Indians, some miles away on the bank of the river.
u Come," said the Prince to me, as they passed out of town, cc let us see this through. Here will be blood. We will see from the hill overlooking the camp. I hope the Indians are c on it hope to God they are heeled, and that they will receive the wretches warmly as they deserve." The Prince was black with passion.
Maybe his own wretchedness had something to do with his wrath ; but I think not. I should rather say that had he been in strength and spirits, and had his pistols, which had long since been disposed of for bread, he had met this mob face to face, and sent them back to town or to the place where they belonged.
We followed not far behind the crowd of fifty or sixty men armed with pistols, rifles, knives, and hatchets.
The trail led to a little point overlooking the bar on which the Indian huts were huddled.
The river made a bend about there. It ground and boiled in a crescent blocked with running ice and snow. They were out in the extreme curve of a horse-shoe made by the river, and we advanced from without. They were in a net. They had only a choice of deaths ; death by drowning, or death at the hands of their here ​ditary foe.
It was nearly night ; cold and sharp the wind blew up the river and the snow flew around like feathers. Not an Indian to be seen. The thin blue smoke came slowly up, as if afraid to leave the wigwams, and the traditional, ever watchful and wakeful Indian dog was not to be seen or heard. The men hurried down upon the camp, spreading out upon the horse-shoe as they advanced in a run.
" Stop here," said the Prince ; and we stood from the wind behind a boulder that stood, tall as a cabin, upon the bar. The crowd advanced to within half a pistol shot, and gave a shout as they drew and levelled their arms. Old squaws came out bang! bang ! bang ! shot after shot, and they were pierced and fell, or turned to run.
Some men sprung up, wounded, but fell the instant; for the whites, yelling, howling, screaming, were among the lodges, shooting down at arm s length man, woman, or child. Some attempted the river, I should say, for I afterwards saw streams of blood upon the ice, but not one escaped ; nor was a hand raised in defence. It was all done in a little time* Instantly as the shots and shouts began we two advanced, we rushed into the camp, and when we reached the spot only now and then a shot was heard within a lodge, dispatching a wounded man or woman. The few surviving children for nearly all had been starved to death had taken refuge under skins and under lodges overthrown, hidden away as little kittens will hide just old enough to spit and ​
hiss, and hide when they first see the face of man. These were now dragged forth and shot. Not all these men who made this mob, bad as they were, did this only a few ; but enough to leave, as far as they could, no living thing. Christ! it was pitiful! The babies did not scream. Not a wail, not a sound. The murdered men and women, in the few minutes that the breath took leave, did not even groan.
As we came up a man named u Shon" at least, that was all the name I knew for him held up a baby by the leg, a naked, bony little thing, which he had dragged from under a lodge held it up with one hand, and with the other blew its head to pieces with his pistol.
I must stop here to say that this man Shon soon left camp, and was afterwards hung by the Vigilance Committee at Lewis ton, Idaho Territory ; that he whined for his life like a puppy, and died like a coward as he was. I chronicle this fact with a feeling of perfect delight.
He was a tall, spare man, with small, grey eyes, a weak, wicked mouth, colourless and treacherous, that was for ever smiling and smirking in your face.
Shun a man like that. A man who always smiles is a treacherous-natured, contemptible coward.
He knows, himself, how villainous and contemp tible he is, and he feels that you know it too, and so tries to smile his way into your favour. Turn away from the man who smiles and smiles, and rubs his ​
H
hands as if he felt, and all men knew, that they were really dirty.
You can put more souls of such men as that inside of a single grain of sand than there are dimes in the national debt.
This man threw down the body of the child among the dead, and rushed across to where a pair of ruffians had dragged up another, a little girl, naked, bony, thin as a shadow, starved into a ghost. He caught her by the hair with a howl of delight, placed the pistol to her head and turned around as if to point the muzzle out of range of his companions who stood around on the other side.
The child did not cry she did not even flinch. Perhaps she did not know what it meant; but I should rather believe she had seen so much of death there, so much misery, the steady, silent work of the monster famine through the village day after day, that she did not care. I saw her face : it did not even wince. Her lips were thin and fixed, and firm as iron.
The villain, having turned her around, now lifted his arm, cocked the pistol, and
u Stop that, you infernal scoundrel ! Stop that r or die ! You damned assassin, let go that child, or I will pitch you neck and crop into the Klamat."
The Prince had him by the throat with one hand, and with the other he wrested the pistol from his grasp and threw it into the river. The Prince had not even so much as a knife. The man did not ​know
this, nor did the Prince care, or he had not thrown away the weapon he wrung from his hand. The Prince pushed the child behind him, and advanced towards the short, fat Sydney convict, who had now turned, pistol in hand, in his direction.
u Keep your distance, you Sydney duck, keep your distance, or I will send you to hell across lots in a second."
There are some hard names given on the Pacific ; but when you call a man a " Sydney duck " it is well understood that you mean blood. If you call a man a liar to his face you must prepare to knock him down on the spot, or he will perform that office for you. If he does not, or does not attempt it, he is counted a coward and is in disgrace.
When you call a man a " Sydney duck," however, something more than blows are meant; that means blood. There is but one expression, a vile one, that cannot well be named, that means so much, or carries so much disgrace as this.
The man turned away cowed and baffled. He had looked in the Prince s face, and saw that he was born his master.
As for myself, I was not only helpless, but, as was always the case on similar occasions, stupid, awkward, speechless. I went up to the little girl, however, got a robe out of one of the lodges for they had not yet set fire to the village and put it around her naked little body. After that, as I moved about among the dead, or stepped aside to the ri ​ver to see
the streams of blood on the snow and ice, she followed close as a shadow behind me, but said nothing.
Suddenly there was a sharp yell, a volley of oaths, exclamations, a scuffle and blows.
u Scalp him ! Scalp him ! the little savage ! Scalp him and throw him in the river !"
From out the piles of dead somewhere, no one could tell exactly where or when, an apparition had sprung up a naked little Indian boy, that might have been all the way from twelve to twenty, armed with a knotted war-club, and fallen upon his foes like a fury.
The poor little hero, starved into a shadow, stood little show there, though he had been a very Hercules in courage. He was felled almost instantly by kicks and blows ; and the very number of his enemies saved his life, for they could neither shoot nor stab him with safety, as they crowded and crushed around him.
How or why he was finally spared, was always a marvel. Quite likely the example of the Prince had moved some of the men to more humanity. As for Shon and Sydney, they had sauntered off with some others towards town at this time, which also, maybe, contributed to the Indian boy s chance for life.
When the crowd that had formed a knot about him had broken up, and I first got sight of him, he was sitting on a stone with his hands between his naked legs, and blood dripping from his long hair, which fell down in strings over his drooping foreh ​ead. He
had been stunned by a grazing shot, no doubt, and had fallen among the first. He came up to his work, though, like a man, when his senses returned, and without counting the chances, lifted his two hands to do with all his might the thing he had been taught.
Valour, such valour as that, is not a cheap or com mon thing. It is rare enough to be respected even by the worst of men. It is only the coward that affects to despise such courage. He is moved to this alto gether by the lowest kind of jealousy. A coward knows how entirely contemptible he is, and can hardly bear to see another dignified with that noble attribute which he for ever feels is no part of his nature.
So this boy sat there on the stone as the village burned, the smoke from burning skins, the wild-rye straw, willow-baskets and Indian robes, ascended, and a smell of burning bodies went up to the Indians God and the God of us all, and no one said nay, and no one approached him ; the men looked at him from under their slouched hats as they moved around, but said nothing.
I pitied him. God knows I pitied him. I clasped my hands together in grief. I was a boy myself, alone, helpless, in an army of strong and unsympa thetic men. I would have gone up and put my arms about the wild and splendid little savage, bloody and desperate as he was, so lonely now, so intimate with death, so pitiful ! if I had dared, dared the reproach of men-brutes. ​
But besides that there was a sort of nobility about him; his recklessness, his desire to die, lifting his little arms against an army of strong and reckless men, his proud and defiant courage, that made me feel at once that he was above me, stronger, somehow better, than I. Still, he was a boy and I was a boy the only boys in the camp ; and my heart went out, strong and true, towards him. The work of destruc tion was now too complete. There was not found another living thing nothing but two or three Indians that had been shot and shot, and yet seemed determined never to die, that lay in the bloody snow down towards the rim of the river. Naked nearly, they were, and only skeletons, with the longest and blackest hair tangled and tossed, and blown in strips and strings, or in clouds out on the white and the blood-red snow, or down their tawny backs, or over their hairy breasts, about their dusky forms, fierce and uiiconquered, with the bloodless lips set close, and blue, and cold, and firm, like steel.
The dead lay around us, piled up in places, limbs twisted with limbs in the wrestle with death; a mother embracing her boy here; an arm thrown around a neck there ; as if these wild people could love as well as die.