would be shot down wherever found with a gun in their hands.
About sunset on the 22d the cry was heard in camp, "Here they come! Here they are!" Every man started to his feet, and every camp sound was hushed. In front of the procession rode Blair, the superintendent of Fairchild's farm, who sharply eyed the strolling soldiers. Fifty yards behind him rode Fairchild; behind him the Modoc warriors, followed by the women and children, all mounted, or rather piled, upon a few gaunt ponies, who fairly staggered under them. All the men wore portions of the United States uniform, and all the women a motley assortment of garments gathered up about the settlements, or plundered from the houses pillaged in the beginning of the war. Both men and women had their faces daubed with pitch, in sign of mourning, giving them a hideous appearance. Among them were the lame, halt, and blind, the scum of the tribe. Slowly and silently they filed into camp, not a word being uttered by any one. Davis went forward a little way to meet them, when twelve warriors laid down their Springfield rifles at his feet, these being but about a third of the fighting strength of this band. Among them, however, were Bogus Charley, Curlyheaded Doctor, Steamboat Frank, and Shacknasty Jim, four notorious villains. When asked where were Boston Charley and Hooker Jim, Bogus answered that Boston was dead, and Hooker Jim was searching for his body, neither of which stories was true. Conscious of his deserts, Hooker was skulking outside the guard, afraid to come in, but perceiving that the others were unharmed, he finally presented himself at camp by running at the top of his speed past the soldiers and throwing himself on the floor of Davis's tent. The surrendered band numbered sixty-five in all.
The captive Modocs now endeavored by their humility and obedience to deserve the confidence of the commander, and if possible to secure immunity from
