stories each night were the same even though the tellers varied. The same, but never so in the details. Just in the outline: the settlers had come in peace; they had suffered across the plains and the deserts; the Indians had learned to covet their goods -- or their women. The massacre had happened, now here, now there according to the stories. The women and children included in the slaughter; the daughters taken away into slavery, taken away as wives. Until they were driven to suicide or were murdered by the jealous squaws. Over there, to the west of where he was sitting, it had been the turn of the Modoc women. At the outcroppings, it was said, by what was now the Dorris’s ranch. But the settlers in these stories, determined, always pushed on if they survived. He had heard the tale every night of his journey. At the end of the telling, everyone fell silent, but they were thinking. And every time he had wondered if they were thinking what he was, and whether he was the only one who doubted.
Red Indians; White Indians. It really didn’t matter. What lived was the story.
Anyhow, he couldn’t see Bloody Point. Not from there.
He had just kicked his horse into a canter to catch up to the others when he realized they had stopped. As he overtook them he could see the four Indians. Drawn shoulder to shoulder, they had the track entirely blocked. Knapp and McKay sat looking back along the trail, impatient for him, as he rode up.
#17
He said turn them back, said he wouldn’t see them then. But maybe they didn’t listen. There, in the depth of his house, Keintpoos stood looking up the ladder to the roof opening, listening to the commotion outside. He heard the horses running back along the trail, heard them heave to a halt, heard footsteps race up the roof.
“They’re coming!” the look-out shouted down to him through the smoke-hole. “They wouldn’t hear me. They’re many.”
Keintpoos turned to John Schonchin who sat with the kiuks Euchoaks and some others next to the fire. In the dusk of the sleeping areas of the families, the women stopped what they were doing and fell silent, shushing the children.
“Hear that?” Keintpoos asked, and John Schonchin nodded yes.
“Who are they?” Keintpoos demanded of the messenger.
“Some of our women and their Klamath men, the ones who came before to see you. McKay. A red-whiskered man. Another in town clothes, black. He must be the one.” The messenger looked down the ladder, impatient for Keintpoos’ answer. “Frank Nurse’s come with them, too, I think, and Horn. McKay said they must see ‘Captain Jack.’ He used that name, not ‘Keintpoos.’”
“Soldiers?” John Schonchin asked.
“No brass buttons. Only these.”
“I told you to say I wouldn’t see them. I don’t wish to speak to them now. When I want to, I’ll send a messenger.”
“I said that, but the one in black shoved past us. We couldn’t stop him. He’s here. Now. I’ll tell him again.”
The lookout withdrew, and outside there was turmoil. Keintpoos could hear the raised voices, the high keening sound of women off at a distance. His own women picked it up, began chattering. He looked again at the men by the fire. The kiuks stared before him, but John Schonchin nodded his head. “You’re going to have to hear them,” he said.
“I’ll see one!” Keintpoos shouted to the watchman. “Tell them I’ll say when that one should come!”
The messenger looked back down the ladder, then withdrew, crying out in broken English to those outside, “Keintpoos see one only. One only come alone! You all others leave now. Go on b…!” He could not finish his words, though, because the black-clad figure had knocked him away and had slid without stopping, sprawling at the bottom of the ladder in a cloud of roof-dirt and of dust kicked up from the floor mats.
He cried out some Boston words as he got up. He dropped his parfleche at his feet to pull back his coat, show his white shirt, the belt and trousers. Keintpoos could see for himself there was no gun, unless in a pocket. But the man was coming forward as if he knew the thought. He was saying in his own tongue -- something. Scarfaced Charley took the words from him and made them into Modoc:
“‘I have no weapons,’ he says. ‘You must look. And I come in peace. I am Superintendent Meacham. Who of you is Captain Jack?’”
#18
This was the Meacham he had heard of. If Keintpoos couldn’t understand all the words, he could see how the man moved his hands, pick out the names. Toby had told him, and so had others who had been to the reservation to visit or gamble. This was the one who took away Lindsay Applegate -- a man you could at least talk to because he knew your way almost as you did. This was the one who came from the Boston tyees, you could tell by his dress. Like the men in the streets of Yreka sometimes, who had come by the stage from far places. Black pants, and a white shirt that ended in the pointed neckband. And a black ribbon tied there, again like the strangers. Not the strong clothing of the trail. Keintpoos felt at the torn kerchief around his own neck.
He felt, too, a triumph and an anger. Keintpoos had sent word that he would not go again to any Linkville or to the agency. This Salem tyee had heard him and had made no second demand. Instead, he had done as Keintpoos had said. He had come a distance, proof enough he understood Keintpoos was not to be called like some dog. Here was a cause for satisfaction. But also he came against Keintpoos’ wishes. Not here, to Lost River, but into the heart of his house, unbidden. This Meacham was a brave man, but foolish to push in here as if the place were his. Because he and the Boston tyees had said this and this was Klamath reservation land, because the cowardly Klamaths agreed to be on it, because Old Schonchin stayed with his band of Modocs along the Sprague River, those were not reasons to think that Keintpoos’ own home was lessened. He would be the one to decide who could come down his ladder.
Not one of his men made a move. After a glance, Euchoaks turned back to the fire as if this person were nothing. The shaman motioned with his head for Keintpoos to join him. But the man in black stood as he had before, his hand thrust out, unmoving.
“I have come to talk with you. I don’t know if you understand me.” He repeated: “I am Superintendent Meacham.”
Keintpoos brushed past him. He ignored the hand and returned to the fire, gave this ‘Superintendent’ a chance to leave. But the man didn’t know shame, and he followed, turning the gesture into a quest for heat. He put both hands before him over the flames, as if Keintpoos had invited him.
#19
Meacham tried to see his quarry in the dismal light, but it was hard to without looking directly at him. He had the impression of smooth, well-balanced features, a broad mouth pulled into a thin, clenched line, a jaw set in displeasure, a man his own age, maybe some younger. The eyes did not look at him but into some middle distance, a veil of resentment over them. He could read the checked anger in the set of the head, the shoulders. Meacham felt his own heart banging
