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Life Amongst the Modocs: Unwritten History

1984; University of Nebraska Press; Volume: 8; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.2307/1184211

1534-1828

Malcolm Margolin, Joaquin Miller,

the east beholds the snowy, solitary pillar from afar out on the arid sage-brush plains, and lifts his hands in silence as in answer to a sign.Column upon column of storm-stained tamarack, strong-tossing pines, and warlike-looking firs have rallied here.They stand with their backs against this mountain, frowning down dark-browed, and con fronting the face of the Saxon.They defy the ad vance of civilization into their ranks.What if these dark and splendid columns, a hundred miles in depth, should be the last to go down in America !What if this should be the old guard gathered here, mar shalled around their emperor in plumes and armour, that may die but not surrender !Ascend this mountain, stand against the snow above the upper belt of pines, and take a glance be low.Toward the sea nothing but the black and unbroken forest.Mountains, it is true, dip and divide and break the monotony as the waves break up the sea ; yet it is still the sea, still the unbroken forest, black and magnificent.To the south the landscape sinks and declines gradually, but still main tains its column of dark-plumed grenadiers, till the Sacramento Valley is reached, nearly a hundred miles away.Silver rivers run here, the sweetest in the world.They wind and wind among the rocks and mossy roots, with California lilies, and the yew with scarlet berries dipping in the water, and trout idling in the eddies and cool places by the basket ful.On the east, the forest still keeps up unbroken 1 SHADOWS OF SHASTA.3 rank till the Pit River valley is reached ; and even there it surrounds the valley, and locks it up tight in its black embrace.To the north, it is true, Shasta valley makes quite a dimple in the sable sea, and men plough there, and Mexicans drive mules or herd their mustang ponies on the open plain.But the valley is limited, surrounded by the forest, confined and imprisoned.Look intentlv down among the black and rolling hills, forty miles away to the west, and here and there you will see a haze of cloud or smoke hung up above the trees ; or, driven by the wind that is coming from the sea, it may drag and creep along as if tangled in the tops.These are mining camps.Men are there, down in these dreadful canons, out of sight of the sun, swal lowed up, buried in the impenetrable gloom of the forest, toiling for gold.Each one of these camps is a world in itself.History, romance, tragedy, poetry in every one of them.They are connected together, and reach the outer world only by a narrow little pack trail, stretching through the timber, stringing round the mountains, barely wide enough to admit of footmen and little Mexican mules with their apparajos, to pass in single file.We will descend into one of these camps by-and-by.I dwelt there a year, many and many a year ago.I shall picture that camp as it was, and describe events as they happened.Giants were there, great men were there.They were very strong, energetic and resolute, 4 SHADOWS OF SHASTA.and hence were neither gentle or sympathetic.They were honourable, noble, brave and generous, and yet they would have dragged a Trojan around the wall by the heels and thought nothing of it.Coming suddenly into the country with prejudices against and apprehensions of the Indians, of whom they knew nothing save through novels, they of course were in no mood to study their nature.Besides, they knew that they were in a way, trespassers if not invaders, that the Government had never treated for the land or offered any terms whatever to the Indians, and like most men who feel that they are somehow in the wrong, did not care to get on terms with their antagonists.They would have named the Indian a Trojan, and dragged him around, not only by the heels but by the scalp, rather than have taken time or trouble, as a rule, to get in the right of the matter.II say that the greatest, the grandest body of men that have ever been gathered together since the siege of Troy, was once here on the Pacific.I grant that they were rough enough sometimes.I admit that they took a peculiar delight in periodical six-shooter war dances, these wild-bearded, hairy- breasted men, and that they did a great deal of promiscuous killing among each other, but then they \ did it in such a manly sort of way !There is another race in these forests.I lived with them nearly five years.A great sin it was thought then, indeed.You do not see the smoke of 12 SHADOWS OF SHASTA.now looked upon the mountain in whose shadows so many tragedies were to be enacted ; the most comely and perfect snow peak in America.Nearly a hundred miles away, it seemed in the pure, clear atmosphere of the mountains to be almost at hand.Above the woods, above the clouds, almost above the snow, it looked like the first approach of land to another world.Away across a grey sea of clouds that arose from the Klamat and Shasta rivers, the mountain stood, a solitary island ; white and flashing like a pyramid of silver!solemn, majestic and sublime!Lonely and cold and white.A cloud or two about his brow, sometimes resting there, then wreathed and coiled about, then blown like banners streaming in the wind.I had lifted my hands to Mount Hood, uncovered my head, bowed down and felt unutterable things, loved, admired, adored, with all the strength of an impulsive and passionate young heart.But he who loves and worships naturally and freely, as all strong, true souls must and will do, loves that which is most EL VAQVERO.We pushed far up the valley in the direction of Yreka, and there pitched camp, for the old man wished to recruit his horses on the rich meadows of wild grass before driving them to town for market.We camped against a high spur of a long timbered hill, that terminated abruptly at the edge of the valley.A clear stream of water full of trout, with willow-lined banks, wound through the length of the narrow valley, entirely hidden in the long grass and leaning willows.The Pit River Indians did not visit us here, neither did the Modocs, and we began to hope we were entirely hidden, in the deep narrow little valley, from all Indians, both friendly and unfriendly, until one evening some young men, calling themselves Shastas, came into the camp.They were very friendly, how ever, were splendid horsemen, and assisted to bring in and corral the horses like old vaqueros.Our force was very small, in fact we had then less than half-a-dozen men ; and the old man, for a day or two, employed two of these young fellows to attend and keep watch about the horses.One morning three of our vaqueros mounted and rode off, cursing my sour old master for some real or fancied wrong, and then he had but one white person with him beside myself, so that the two young Indians had to be retained.Some weeks wore on pleasantly enough, when we began to prepare to strike camp for Yreka.Thus far we had not seen the sign of a Modoc Indian.be stiller than an Indian camp when stillness is re quired, I do not know where it is.Here was a camp made up mostly of children, and what is usually called the most garrulous half of mankind, and yet all was so still that the deer often walked stately and un conscious into our midst.No mention was made of my going away or re maining.I was permitted as far as the Indians were concerned to forget my existence, and so I dreamed along for a month or two and began to get strong and active in mind and body.I had dreamed a long dream, and now began to waken and think of active life.I began to hunt and take part with the Indians, and enter into their de lights and their sorrows.Did the world ever stop to consider how an Indian who has no theatre, no saloon, no whisky shop, no parties, no newspaper, not one of all our hundreds of ways and means of amusement, spends his evening ?Think of this !He is a human being, full of passion and of poetry.His soul must find some expression ; his heart some utterance.The long, long nights of darkness, without any lighted city to walk about in, or books to read.Think of that!Well, all this mind, or thought, or soul, or whatever it may be, which we scatter in so many directions, and on so many things, they centre on one or two.What if I told you that they talk more of the future and know more of the unknown than the Christian ?That would shock you.Truth is a great galvanic battery.After we had gone on in silence for some time r on turning a point in the trail we saw a man approach ing from the other direction.A strong, fine-looking man was this also, mounted on a sleek, well-fed mule with his long ears set sharply forward ; a sure sign that he was on good terms with his rider.The mule brayed lustily, and then pointed his two ears keenly at us as if they were opera-glasses, and we a sort of travelling theatre.The man was richly dressed, for the mountains ; sported a moustache, top-boots, fur vest, cloth coat,, a broad palm hat, and had diamonds in the bosom of his shirt.A costly cloak on his shoulders, yellow buckskin gauntlets, a rich, red sash around his waist, where swung a pair of Colt s new patent, and a great gold chain made up by linking speci mens of native gold together, made up this man s attire.His great hat sheltered him like a palm. CHAPTER IV.HIGH, LOW, JACK AND THE GAME.HE man did not notice me, but made straight up to my companion until his mule s opera-glasses nearly touched the tall man s nose, who was now in a little trail at my side.Then the man under the palm-leaf let go the reins, leaned back as the mule stopped, put his two hands on the saddle pommel, and slowly, emphati cally, and with the most evident surprise, as he raised one hand and pushed back the palm-leaf clear off his eyes to get a good square look at my com panion, said : u Well blast my sister s cat s-tail to the bone !Is this you, Prince Hal, or is it Hamlet