Chapter 35

May 29–31, 1873

“I think we’ve been played the fool, Fairchild,” growled Major John Green.

O’Roarke glanced at the pocket watch Fairchild held in his palm. Seamus looked into the sky at the falling sun. Boston Charley had been gone for better than two hours.

“You think he could have done us wrong?” Fairchild asked of O’Roarke.

“Didn’t really figure him to, John.”

Green stood suddenly, his own frame taut with tension. “We’ll get something salvaged out of the day. Davis sent me here to end this war—and end it I will. McKay!”

The half-breed loped over. “Major.”

“Take a few of your men and see if you can advance into the village. Find out what happened to Boston Charley—if he’s played a hoax on us. I’m not waiting any longer to attack if he has.”

In a half an hour McKay was back—but coming in from the south, in the opposite direction of the camp.

“Didn’t you go looking for Boston as I ordered you?” Green snapped.

McKay’s dark face flushed with anger. “Charley not in the camp. He got to camp about the time your goddamned soldiers with Captain Hasbrouck showed up in the village on other side—coming from another direction. They captured Boston more than two hours ago after he left us here. They sent him down the valley with guards.”

“The fools!” Green yelped as if bit.

“Hasbrouck said he didn’t know any better—thought Charley was lying to him about going to get the others to come in and surrender to you.”

“Damn!” Green wheeled on Fairchild and O’Roarke. “Do you see what I’m saddled with at times? Hasbrouck captures what he thinks is an enemy warrior—and doesn’t even think to tell me. Had I known two hours ago … goddamn! I’d love to swear like a gut-cut sea swabby!”

The major whirled back on McKay suddenly. “All right—go back to Hasbrouck and tell him Boston Charley is to be released—to you. Bring that Modoc here so we can get the rest of these people with Jack induced to surrender.”

By the time Boston Charley reached Major Green and was again sent into Jack’s camp with the army’s message, most of the Modocs had flown.

“They don’t ever come back here,” Charley explained when he showed up at dusk, shadows grown long and the air more cold than it had been in many days.

“No one?” Green cried. “You can’t find a one of them?”

Boston shook his head. “Find some: squaws, children. Queen Mary too—she come to soldiers.”

“Queen Mary? Who’s this?” Green asked, turning to O’Roarke.

“The chief’s sister. Jack’s own family,” Ian answered. “It means something if she’s surrendering.”

“Likely they’re hungry, Major,” said Fairchild. “Cold too. Army blankets and hard crackers sound mighty good to them right about now.”

The major turned back to the Modoc bloodhound. “Go bring this Queen Mary in, Charley. With the rest. Tell them they can eat their fill tonight and sleep warm by our fires.”

*   *   *

Those who did not surrender that evening bolted north into the Langell Valley, intending to make it all the way to the Yainax Agency where Old Schonchin and his small band were still living in some safety. Although the various groups of them were all heading in the same general direction, with Steamboat Frank’s careless accident with the rifle, Captain Jack’s holdouts had gone the way of feathers tossed on the wind, scattering over the hills and ridges along Willow Creek in pairs and small groups—every one of them certain the soldiers had come to butcher them all.

If only they could make it back to Yainax alive …

Just past midday that thirtieth of May, Fairchild and O’Roarke crossed some fresh tracks cut through the soggy new snow. Six grueling miles later, after following a trail only a mountain goat could have made, they spotted three warriors who kept running and dodging, despite what assurances the civilians could holler across the distance. The warriors disappeared into another steep canyon cluttered with boulders and deadfall—impossible for a horse to follow.

An hour later Green’s footbound troops discovered still another small group of Modocs and drove them over the hills toward the civilians. Thirteen more warriors now disappeared into the narrow canyon.

The uncertain terrain took its toll on the soldiers, who repeatedly slipped and fell on the soggy ground and slick snow. While they all grumped for their horses, not one man among them failed to understand that there wasn’t a horse yet born could have followed the Modocs’ trail into the Langell Valley.

Green halted his command for a breather, calling up McKay.

“Take your best trackers and find out where those warriors have forted up,” the major ordered. “I want no bloodshed if we can help it. Don’t fight—just find them for me.”

Time dragged by for soldiers forced to sit, unable to move about much at all. First one hour, then a second passed. And finally McKay showed up at the bottom of the valley, waving in greeting to the soldiers.

Green was pacing, slapping a glove against the side of his leg by the time the half-breed climbed the slope.

“You found them?”

“Fifteen of ’em. Not many more than that left, Major.”

“Lead me down there to them.”

“Your surgeon already talking to them.”

That brought the major up as if someone had yanked hard on the back of his hair. “My surgeon? Cabaniss?”

“He came down, alone,” McKay explained. “While we were talking to the Modocs.”

“You two actually talked to them?” asked Captain Hasbrouck.

“Yes. We talk some after they fire four shots over our heads.”

“You said over your heads,” Fairchild repeated. “You think they were avoiding hitting you and your men.”

McKay nodded. “They didn’t mean to hit us—just scare us off.”

“What were they telling Dr. Cabaniss?” Green asked.

“Scar-Faced Charley came down close to talk with the surgeon,” McKay declared. “He said they are hungry and tired of running now. They have nothing no more. Without food for many days. Charley and four others surrendered to doctor.”

“By God, that’s good news. We’re slowly whittling them down now!” The major was clearly exuberant.

“Scar-Faced Charley tell surgeon that Jack probably come in morning to see you.”

“See me in the morning?”

“Charley says so. But that wasn’t good enough for your surgeon.”

Green began pulling his glove on. “Where’s Cabaniss now?”

“He go with Scar-Faced Charley to talk with Jack himself.”

“He’s gone in to talk with Jack? I hope to hell he doesn’t botch this.”

Fairchild wagged his head. “Cabaniss can’t possibly do any worse than what your soldiers have done to botch things up the last few days, Major.”

*   *   *

“I’ve never seen them more anxious, uneasy—downright scared,” Dr. Cabaniss explained to those who had gathered at Major Green’s fire after the surgeon came into camp that mid-afternoon of the thirtieth, accompanied by one of Jack’s warriors, One-Eyed Mose.

“They damn well have reason to be afraid,” Green said. “We’re rounding them up at last. You did talk to Jack personally—see him yourself?”

“Yes, of course. His head was in his hands when I came up. He’s terribly despondent. More lonely than I’ve seen anyone in my life, Major. But we sat and had a good talk. Still, he doesn’t look like the man I knew before all this started. The toll this has taken on him.”

“He’s not the only one, Surgeon,” snapped Green. “Tell me when he’s going to surrender.”

Cabaniss sighed at the affront. “Jack wants to know what you’re going to do with him if he surrenders to you.”

Green hunched forward. “You didn’t tell him he was going to be hanged, did you?”

The doctor leaned back, staring at the fire. “I told him nothing, Major.”

“Good. Did the two of you discuss anything else?”

“That his people had been without food and warm clothing for many days. I promised him I would return with some.”

One of Green’s eyes flickered slightly. “You were sticking your neck out there, Doctor.”

“If you didn’t order the requisition—I was sure I could ride down and secure permission from Colonel Davis.”

Green rubbed his gloves atop his thighs, his turn to suffer an affront. “I’m sure you would have, Dr. Cabaniss. All right—you have my permission to draw foodstuffs, clothing and blankets from the quartermaster’s stores.” He stood. “And, in fact—you’ll return with something more. Tell Jack I’m going to pull my soldiers back a few miles before we bivouac for the night.”

“That will go a long way to easing some of the Modocs’ fears, Major. Thank you,” Cabaniss replied.

“Not at all, Doctor. It seems you’ve made some headway with Jack’s bunch—so I want you to continue to win their confidence. I won’t do a thing to spoil your hard work. You see, I’ve got this war almost in my palm. We don’t want anything to go wrong, do we?”

Green was good at his word. As Cabaniss and One-Eyed Mose took the food and supplies into the canyon, the major ordered his troops to move due west some five miles down the Langell Valley to the Wilson ranch, where they would establish a short-term outpost as the sun again fell from the sky.

As clear as it was after the recent storm, tonight would be even colder than expected.

It made a man shiver to watch the light bleed from that sky, wondering on the morrow.

*   *   *

“He what?”

“Jack slipped away on me, Major,” Cabaniss tried to explain with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I trusted him. Hell, I trusted you!”

“He was there in camp when I went to sleep. It was late. This morning at sunrise he was gone. Up before me.”

“You know where?”

Cabaniss shook his head. It was more from sympathizing with the hunted chief than from his own grave error in trusting Jack. “He told the other warriors he was leaving early to find a new campsite where they would be safer from the soldiers. But the others knew.”

“Knew what?” Green demanded, seething.

“They knew that was just an excuse.”

“An excuse?”

“Jack could not bear to surrender himself—knowing you’re going to hang him.”

“How does he know that? Did you tell him, Doctor?”

Cabaniss shook his head. “No one had to tell him. Jack knows the white man needs to hang someone for all the civilian and soldier deaths. So, he still doesn’t think surrender is the end for him.”

“No—a bullet will be, by God!”

O’Roarke and Fairchild inched up on Cabaniss. Ian spoke first. “He couldn’t bear to watch the others surrender either, could he?”

The surgeon nodded. “That’s right. He left his people so they would not have to go on fighting and running. Mostly running.”

“There’s something to admire in the man even yet,” Seamus said quietly.

“So, what about these others who want to surrender?” Green asked, tossing a twig into the fire at his feet. It sent sparks into the air as it plopped among the red, writhing coals.

“They’ll be along shortly.”

“You’re positive about this, Cabaniss?”

“As sure as I am that you’ll hunt Jack down until he no longer has any strength left in his legs to run.”

“By damned—you might be starting to understand me, Doctor.”

They didn’t have to wait long that Saturday, the thirty-first day of May, for the first weary warrior to make his appearance on the hillside overlooking the Wilson ranch.

“That’s Scar-Faced Charley,” O’Roarke told his nephew.

“I’ve seen him before,” Seamus replied quietly, his mind digging at it the way a child would dig at a muddy creek bottom with his bare toes. He was sure he had seen the warrior someplace before.

“Charley does all his fighting out in the open—like a man, Seamus,” said John Fairchild. “He’s not one of them murderers like the others.”

It came clear for Donegan of a sudden, like a gust of wind blowing fog from the creek bottom. “He directed the attack on Captain Thomas’s patrol up at the Black Ledge. I saw him, standing up on the ridge. It was a bloody fight, but no way was it murder. And—Charley—he called it off before the rest of us were all killed.”

Ian turned, amazement written on his face. “You never told me that, Seamus.”

“I know. Seeing him now, I’ll never forget that long scar down the whole side of his face … making me remember some pieces of it now—how he hollered down at those of us who were still alive. Laying in that brush, afraid of dying. He could see us down in that hollow—every man bleeding and unable to defend himself if they truly wanted to wipe us out.”

“But he called off the attack?” Fairchild asked.

“That’s right,” Seamus said as the warrior drew closer, holding his rifle up in one hand, the other open, palm out and empty. “I suppose … this man might be a little grateful to that Injin for sparing my life.”

Ten more warriors came in, each one walking the same path out of the hills that Scar-Faced Charley had taken. Each one came alone. One by one they laid their weapons down at the feet of Major Green, then went with an escort to the Wilson barn, where they were kept under guard.

The twelfth warrior to give up came in knowing for certain what he was to face at the hands of the white man.

“Schonchin John.” Fairchild said it like a curse. “The old Yainax chief’s younger brother.”

“Meacham said he was one of the murderers at the peace tent,” Seamus reflected.

“It will go hard on Schonchin,” O’Roarke replied. “In a way, you’ve got to admire him too. Coming in—giving up—knowing what faces him now.”

Dr. Cabaniss walked up to their group a few minutes later. “Scar-Faced Charley said it was hard to leave his friend Jack.”

“He knows where Jack is?”

The surgeon nodded. “Up there, doing what’s hardest: watching his warriors surrender.”

“Will he?” O’Roarke asked. “Or will he force the army to shoot him in the end?”

“Charley told me Jack wants to see me,” Cabaniss said quietly. “Jack wants to surrender in the morning.”

“You still believe him—after what he pulled on you?” Fairchild asked.

The surgeon finally said, “Yes. I still believe Jack. None of us can imagine—we have no idea what agony it must be for him—knowing what faces him now. Not one of us can truly understand what it means to stand in his place at this moment: knowing that to give up means certain death.”