BATTLE OF LOST RIVER

Prologue

Tule Lake, California

1852

          "You're gonna kill 'em all, Ben?"  The grizzled man scratched his chin, then grinned broadly, showing a broken front tooth.  "Now ain't you the card!"

          Ben Wright puffed up his chest and looked around the southern shore of Tule Lake.  Waves lapped gently along the shoreline and a hesitant fawn darted from the woods to drink, fearfully looking around but thirstier than frightened.  Sated, the alert deer caught the men's scent and vanished into the thick undergrowth of tule and sagebrush, leaving behind only hoofprints in the muddy shore.  The soft wind blew through the pine forest at the base of the eastern Cascade Mountains, giving a false sense of serenity and warmth to the new day's reconciliation of old grievances.  Good.  Wright wanted everything to be peaceable-seeming when the murdering savages showed up.

          "Zeb," Wright said to his lieutenant, "bring up the wagons and get them unloaded.  Them Modoc will be here in an hour or two.  I want the cookin' to be 'bout finished then.  No need for 'em to steal our recipes."  Wright laughed at his own joke, one shared by his lieutenant.

          "You're gonna show 'em good, Ben.  Yes, sir.  I cain't wait."

          "Don't be too eager.  They are bloodthirsty murderers, and I don't want to scare 'em off."  Ben Wright looked into the shadows of the forest, trying to spot the fawn that had been drinking at lakeside.  The animal had vanished as if it had never existed, just like the Modoc when they were killing and scalping.  Wright's anger mounted.  The savages!

          They had attacked his and Emma's wagon train making their way along the Oregon Trail without warning.  He had tried to save her.  He had, but the memory of the Indian towering over her, bloody knife clutched in his hand, was forever burned in Wright's memory and soul as a monument to his failure.  The Oregon Indian Authority up in Salem had told him the attacking Indians might have been Klamath but Wright did not care.  Klamath.  Modoc.  Warm Springs.  They were all murderers, and his best efforts to stop their predations had come to naught.

          Until today.

          "I ain't gonna spook 'em, Ben.  Trust me," Zeb said.  "I got my own score to settle.  You know how they killed Little Zeb."

          "Your wife survived.  You can have more sons," Wright said, reliving the heartstopping second when his darling Emma had died with the wicked knife in her breast.  He shook himself out of the horrid reverie, resolve hardening.  Some in his band said what he planned to do was wrong.  How stopping the damned red niggers could ever be wrong eluded him.  No more would these Modoc loot villages, kill settlers and attack wagon trains.

          He was saving innocent women and children, women like his Emma and children like Little Zeb.

          "Here's the first of 'em comin' in already, Ben," Zeb called.

          "Treat 'em good," Wright said coldly.  Then he put on a false smile and walked from his camp, hand out to shake.  The Modoc approached hesitantly, a white flag on a wood stick showing their intention to parley.

          "You are Wright?" asked the older man beside the young boy carrying the truce flag.

          "I am.  You must be Schonchin John.  And who is this young lad?"  Wright looked at the boy, who insolently returned his stare without blinking his dark eyes once.  Wright felt a little uneasy at how the youth seemed to bore into his soul and see his real intentions.

          "Kintpuash," Schonchin John scolded.  "Do not be so bold."

          The boy averted his eyes, but his attitude remained.  Wright wanted to strangle the impudent little jackass with his own hands.  But he smiled and thrust his hand out a bit farther for Schonchin John.  The Modoc looked from the symbol of friendship to Wright, then shook hands hesitantly.

          "This is a good day," Schonchin John said, releasing Wright's grip.  "There is too much killing.  We can be friends.  We are already friends with white settlers."

          "Around Yreka," Wright said, the words bitter on his tongue.  Why those greedy fools tolerated the Indians was beyond him.  He suspected they traded with the Modoc and certainly treated them as equals.  Murderers.  The redskins were nothing but killers of innocent women.

          "Why do you want peace?" asked the boy Schonchin John had called Kintpuash.  "You are the one who kills my people, cutting off noses and ears."

          "And fingers," Wright said before he thought.  He caught himself before he said anything more.  He could not let this boy needle him.  "These kinds of attacks should be over, in the past, things we need to resolve."

          "It would be good taking your scalp," Kintpuash said, pointing to Ben Wright's long hair.  "But you dress funny."

          This took Wright aback.  He looked down at his ornate clothing.

          "Why, folks tell me I'm a real spiffy dresser.  What's wrong with the way I dress?"

          "You look funny," Kintpuash repeated.  He dodged the blow as Schonchin John tried to cuff him for his impertinence.

          "He is young.  He will learn."  Schonchin John glared at the boy.

          "Then let's learn together over a fine meal me and my boys have fixed to celebrate this truce.  We got ourselves a fine chance to bury the hatchet."

          Schonchin John nodded brusquely, then turned and motioned.  From the woods came forty-four more Modoc.  Ben Wright blinked at the sight.  He had not expected them to be this close and waiting unseen.  No wonder the murdering bastards had been so hard for him to find.  They were more like ghosts than real people.

          "Come on and let's chow down," Wright greeted, putting his arm around Schonchin John's shoulders.  The Modoc chief edged away slightly.  Kintpuash followed close behind, the truce flag dragging in the dirt as he went.

          "These times have been real terrible for us all," Wright said, sitting in a chair set up at the head of a crude table already brimming with food.  Wright glanced in Zeb's direction.  The man smiled, showing his broken tooth and nodded.

          Wright rested his hand on the pistol tucked into his belt when he saw Kintpuash's attention focused on the huge stewpots and the way the cooks stirred the savory contents.  Motioning to Zeb, Wright turned and whispered to the man, "You put the strychnine in?"

          "Enough to kill all them rats," Zeb said.

          "Good."  Wright turned back to the table and beckoned to the Modoc standing around, looking hungrily at the food already on the table.  "Come on, my good men.  Sit, eat, enjoy our bounty.  It's my grand pleasure to welcome you all to break bread."

          Kintpuash sat beside Schonchin John on a long bench to Wright's left.  The boy sniffed, his nose wrinkling.  Wright felt an irrational urge to whip out his thick-bladed knife and cut it off the twitching nose to add to his collection.  He restrained himself.  Better to get them all than to give in to a moment's temptation.

          The boy sniffed again when a plate of stew was dropped in front of him, then he said something in Modoc to Schonchin John.  The older man shook his head.  Kintpuash was not to be denied.  He spoke loudly, so all the Indians heard.  Several pushed back from their plates of food.

          "Eat hearty," Wright said.  "Eat up or I'll be offended you're not acceptin' my hospitality."

          Several of the Modoc began eating, slowly at first and then with greater hunger, stuffing potatoes into their mouths and mopping up the stew with bread.

          Kintpuash spoke again.

          "Boy, if you want to talk, do it in lingo I can understand," Wright snapped.  "It's not polite to yammer on so's your host can't understand."

          Kintpuash thrust out his chin and asked, "Why aren't your men eating, too?"

          "Not polite for the host to eat 'fore his guests.  I'd've thought even a sprout like you'd know that."

          "There's something in the food," Kintpuash said to Schonchin John.

          This time all forty-six of the Modoc stopped eating.  A few who had eaten the fastest belched and clutched at their bellies.

          "Kill 'em, shoot 'em down like animals!" cried Wright, pushing back from the table and whipping out his pistol.  Schonchin John lurched forward, caught Wright's wrist and shoved the pistol away so it discharged harmlessly.  Then Wright dropped the empty gun and grabbed for his knife.

          Ben Wright swung the knife, opening a long bloody cut on Schonchin John's chest.  Kintpuash tripped him, giving the older man a chance to escape.  All through the camp echoed the sharp reports of pistols and muskets firing and Indians crying out as they died.  It was music to Ben Wright's ears.  But he wanted a trophy or two of his own.

          He'd lost the chief but the young boy's ears would make fine trophies.  Wright grabbed Kintpuash's wrist and jerked the boy around, only to lose his grip.  Blood turned the boy's arm slippery.  Wright regained his balance, roared and tried to impale Kintpuash.  He barely missed as the boy agilely slipped away.  Then Wright found himself grappling with a Modoc warrior closer to his size.

          He felt a surge of delight as his knife cut into the Indian's belly and angled up into his heart.  But by the time Wright shoved the body away, Kintpuash and Schonchin John had disappeared into the sheltering forest, joining the fawn.

          "Kill 'em, kill 'em all!" Wright cried.

          Ben Wright and his men killed forty-one of the forty-six Modoc.  His only regret was how badly he had failed in his attempt at poisoning.  He would have enjoyed watching the Indians puke out their guts before they died.

Copyright © 2001Robert E. Vardeman