ng of the
spring, from starvation and disease and disaster, had become thinned and dispirited.
A council was held that night, and the few warriors, scared, wounded, and worn-out, talked themselves and their friends again into heart, and preparations were made to go still further, and assist the Pit Rivers against the white soldiers to their uttermost.
Little Klamat, now a man, and a man of authority, was already in the front. That fierce boy, burning with a memory that possessed him utterly, and made him silent, sullen, and desperate, cared not where he fought or for whom he fought, only so that he fought the common enemy. Paquita was also with the Pit Eiver Indians. What was she doing? Moulding bullets? Grinding bread? Shaping arrow-heads and stringing bows? Maybe she was a sort of Puritan mother fighting the British for home and hearthstone in the Revolution. Maybe she was a Florence Nightingale nursing the British soldiers in the Crimea. No! the world will not believe it. No good deed can be done by an Indian. Why attempt to re count it?
We went down to the camp, where Klamat, Paquita, and about one hundred warriors, with a few women who were nursing their wounded, were preparing for another brush with the soldiery. Here we waited till the Modocs came down, and the three tribes joined their thinned forces, and made common cause.
In a few days we advanced, and fell in with a company of cavalry scouring the country for prisoners
