The Squaw Spy: The Rangers of the Lava-beds
9781465672520
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
“Where’s McKay?” “Still absent with his Warm Springers. I do not expect him before midnight.” “And Artena?” “Dead or alive, she is somewhere among the Indians. She promised to be here against sunset, and see, that hour is with us now.” The first speaker glanced toward the west, and remained silent for a minute. The handsome military man at his side quietly adjusted his field-glass, which he brought to bear upon a dark ridge against the horizon. “General, this has been a bloody day,” said the rough borderman, venturing to disturb the officer in the midst of his observations. “We’ve lost as good boys as ever lived.” Down came the field-glass, and General Gillem sighed as he turned to his companion. “A disastrous day for us truly, Kit,” he said. “No nobler fellows than Thomas, Howe and Wright. Now shall the war be pushed with vigor. This day’s massacre has heated my blood till it tingles through my veins. The fiends expect no quarter, as none they give. By Heavens, none they shall have! If we could but get the master-spirit of this war—the Napoleon of these red Arabs.” “Captain Jack, General?” “Captain Jack or Mouseh, as his people call him. I want to see the murderer of Canby swing. But, why does not Artena come?” “Perhaps she has got in trouble,” said the Oregonian. “If so—there! somebody is coming now.” General Gillem raised his field-glass, but could distinguish nothing, for the shadows of night were gathering and the smoke of savage fires hung heavily over the ground where so many brave soldiers had lately fallen before three score of Modoc rifles. “I heard hoofs,” said the ranger. “Tis Artena at last, General.” As he uttered the last words, the dark figure of a horse came in view and presently the animal halted before the twain. Gillem started forward. “Artena!” he cried, recognizing the womanish figure seated on the Indian saddle. “White war-man good; he wait for Artena,” said the woman. “But who with him?” “Kit, Artena,” said the ranger quickly, starting forward. “I’ve been here since the bloody fight of this morning.” Artena bent forward eagerly. “Kit in fight?” she asked anxiously. “Yes; Kit South never throws away a chance to draw trigger on a Modoc.” “Did Kit see Indian with cavalry hat on?” asked the squaw. “He have white feather in cap.” “I think I did get a glimpse of such a devil,” answered the Oregonian. “In fact, I know I did, girl—but why do you ask?” “That Indian Baltimore Bob.” Kit South started. “Talk to the General now, Artena,” he said, a moment later. “Tell him the news, and when you have done, I want a few words with you.” Then Gillem put numerous questions to the Modoc girl, from whom he learned much concerning the present whereabouts of the Modoc chief, and something about his plans for future operations. It was the night of the 26th April 1873—a day long to be remembered in the annals of Indian warfare. For upon the morning of that eventful day, a reconnoitering party under command of the gallant Captain Evan Thomas, of Battery H, Fourth Artillery, left General Gillem’s camp and proceeded in the direction of the Modoc stronghold. The little command reached the foot of the high bluffs south of the lava-bed stronghold without molestation, and were preparing to feel their way further, when the Modocs opened upon them a severe fire under cover of the basaltic rocks. The history of that brief and bloody engagement is too well known to be recounted here. Armed with Spencer carbines and breech-loading muskets, and sheltered by the rocks, the red rebels dropped such men as Thomas, Howe, and Wright, and, in the end, inflicted a signal defeat upon the troops. Donald McKay and his Warm Spring Indians, of whom much hereafter, participated in the engagement; but remained among the rocks hunting, at the same time, for additional scalps and information. “Artena,” said Gillem, after conversing some time with the spy, “I trust that you will not run your head into danger. We can not afford to lose you.”
