on the other side of the street one of his young people -- Whim, he thought -- stuck his head out of a doorway, then pulled it back in quick when he saw them. Keintpoos knew there were a bunch more of them here in town, having a time of it. He and Charley had come up on a young woman on foot that morning, her whole face below her eyes shiny black, a new goose quill shoved through the septum of her nose, a pretty new skull cap she had woven on her head, her baby lashed up on her back in his fine beaded basket, bright as the new day. The two men had been able to follow the tracks of the unshod ponies of many others all the way from the cutoff at Shasta. They hadn’t waited but a few days, his boys and the bunch of young women, before they found their way back over. Yreka would draw them, he knew, pull them in like a noose. By morning, if he tried to, when the light came again, he could find them by the corners of the buildings and in the little alleyways, tied up by the whisky like roped calves. They would drift back home a day or two later, too many dollars in their pockets or not enough; vague about how that money had gotten there -- or where it might have gone. He told his boys to stay away from the saloons, told his women not to run around like she-dogs in heat. But he could see by the way they listened none of them were paying attention. Maybe he was going to have to beat some again.
But they would have to take care of themselves today. He wanted to get back with the others quick as he could. There was just the glimmer he caught in what the judge said, Rosborough, and Steele -- if Scarfaced had translated it right. As he had listened, he had caught a hold of the idea, and now, as they tightened the cinches on their saddles and loosened the horses’ halters, he turned over in his mind what Charley had said they had said:
“Ask him how come the squatters can come there to Lost River and all around and we can’t,” he had said to Scarfaced Charley as they stood in the law office. And he had listened while the two men talked, half to them, half to each other.
“They say those ‘squatters’ aren’t squatters,” Charley said. “They say they’re ‘settlers.’”
“They look like squatters to me. What’s the difference? They’re squattin’ on our land.”
“They say they aren’t. They say those people are on government land now. Because of the treaty.”
“But I don’t have my name on that treaty any more. I called it back.”
“They say you can’t do that. You gave over the land to the government and the government gave it over to them.”
“Why’d it do that?” Keintpoos demanded. He listened as Scarfaced said the words, then waited while he had the answer told to him over and over again until he nodded his head when he finally got it.
“Steele says they got the land because they gave the government some money and they paid ‘taxes.’ ‘Taxes’ is money for that; you give it to the government to get something. Every one of the settlers on our land paid taxes and gave money for it; that’s how they got to be on the ‘land lists.’ That’s how come they get to be there.”
“Then tell them we’ll give some money and pay taxes, too. Tell them that.”
He watched as Scarfaced translated. The two Bostons looked at each other, arched their eyebrows, and shrugged. He could read the gesture. It said they didn’t know what to say.
“Ask them where we can get some taxes to give to the government.”
“They say you tell people to pay so much for each thing they got, a little bit from each one. Then you get it together in one piece and give it to the government.”
It reminded him, this getting money for something somebody’s got, of what he had learned from the Hot Creeks. They got money from ‘rent.’ Fairchild gave it to them, for doing nothing. For letting him run his cattle where the Hot Creeks had always lived. They used it for saddles and traps and stuff, or for other things from Yreka. Even for drinking, if they wanted.
“Ask them, if we bring some rent and some taxes to the government, can we get to be on those land lists and get our land from the government.”
“They say that’s funny: Miller was just in here doing business a bit ago. About some more land he wants. He asked Steele and Rosborough the same thing for us.”
“And what did they tell him?
“They said they didn’t think so, but maybe,” Scarfaced said.
“How come not?” he insisted.
“They say because we’re Indians. We’d have to stop having a tribe, pay these taxes, and fix up the land.”
“Then tell Tyee Steele he can write papers for us, like he does to give me this pass.” Keintpoos held the paper on which Steele had written the words in front of him. “He can write to the Big Tyee in Washington about how we can be ‘settlers.’ The Big Tyee can have our money for our land, these taxes. Then we can do the same as the ‘squatters.’” He listened to be sure Scarfaced used that word. “Tell these men they’ve been my friends now for a long time; tell them this writing is how they can help me.”
He watched the men sigh. Rosborough got up and went over to pour himself some water. Steele squinted at them and shook his head; then he blew his breath out between his lips and said something.
“He said he doesn’t guess so, but maybe it would work. Said he’ll think about trying it.”
#55
“I don’t know what he’s up to. Danged if I can tell. He sends Bogus Charley -- my Indian, mind you, one of my Hot Creeks -- with this letter. And the stupid Indian stands there like he expects me to do something!”
John Fairchild sank down in the chair facing Elijah Steele. He leaned forward and moved a stack of official-looking papers off the corner of the desk, then stretched out his long legs and lifted his feet there. Hunkered down in the seat, his hand cradling his chin, he was the picture of sullen dejection. Elijah let the rancher sit, knowing more was coming.
“I’m supposed to call off the soldiers? That’s what Bogus thinks! But then I’m also supposed to help sic the soldiers on the Modocs? That’s what Ivan thinks! His letter says he would appreciate … ! Appreciate me telling the army to come collect my Hot Creeks and return them to the reservation. And all the while I’m reading it, the dumb Indian stands there holding his hat, interrupting me to say how Ivan’s the Indian’s friend. How Ivan’s this and that.”
“And that surprises you, I guess.”
“Well, yes. It does, as a matter of fact!”
“Maybe you just don’t like getting caught in the middle.”
“It isn’t just me who’s caught,” Fairchild insisted. “You can count yourself in on it. Bogus -- and all the other Modocs, too, no doubt -- think you and Rosborough and Dorris could get it fixed for them to stay at their old homes. They’re as bad as Ivan, but in a different direction. They think we could make it all right by explaining things to the army for them, too.”
“Did you see them since they got back?” Fairchild asked. “They look like hell.” He got up from his chair and crossed to window. “Come have a look.”
The two men stood peering down into the packed dirt of Miner street, dry now, in winter a river of mud. Flat-front buildings lined the roadway, every other one a saloon. There was the dry goods shop, the butcher’s, the hardware, the feed store. Opposite the Bella Union Hotel, a barber pole of sorts, really nothing but a barked log, painted and set nearly upright, staked Yreka’s claim to sartorial leadership for Siskiyou County, California. It announced the shaving saloon and bathhouse. All the things one could need for mining or hunting or setting up housekeeping of a rudimentary type were here on the main street. Tall flagpoles kept watch, some from the second stories of buildings, three -- the