August 1871
General E.R.S. Canby
Commander, District of the Columbia
Sir:
Responding to your query of 4 Aug: There is no imminent danger of an Indian outbreak. They may be insolent beggars, but no one has been hurt, robbed or seriously threatened. Only Ivan Applegate has made complaints regarding them, and that was to arrest Captain Jack....
Jesse Applegate’s charge that a “petition” of settlers…”for protection” being disregarded by the military is untrue. No such petition was made to me, nor to my predecessor. I didn’t even know these Indians were troublesome until Ivan’s arrest request.
The reports regarding these Indians are very conflicting. Captain Jack carries letters attesting to his character. Many settlers in his district “where he roams” are against his being molested. There has never been a proposal to raise a force of settlers for his suppression, nor have inhabitants thought of taking “their defense into their own hands.”
Herewith I append John Meacham’s report. I assure you my small military force is large enough “to wipe out” this remnant of a tribe, should it become necessary.
James Jackson,
Capt 1st Cav.
#79
The thing about Tichnor was that he was persistent. You would have to be that to run a stage company through this country. Because the roads tore things apart. Took the rims off wheels, busted the spokes out of the hubs, snapped the pins. It was well enough that he ran his advertisements in the paper indicating to the hour when the stage would come in -- after a two or so day journey, but everybody knew that was wishful thinking. Everybody, that is, except H.C. Tichnor. For him, what he listed was the reality. The actualities were just random deviations from it.
“See,” he said to Elijah Steele as they were putting out their bedrolls, “with the new road open, I can take seven and one half hours off the running time from here to Yreka.”
The two men were headed home from Surprise Valley, over on the Nevada border, going due west for Yreka. They had hit the southeast corner of Tule Lake, down near Scorpion Point, and H.C. had been eager to go on straight along the new road he had almost finished. But the dark had overtaken them, to Elijah Steele’s relief. He knew trying the nearly completed new road would mean bushwhacking the last few miles, and he really didn’t need the experience. Better far, he thought, to wait until he could take it at his leisure in one of H.C.’s disintegrating stages a few weeks hence.
“That’s good, H.C.,” Steele said. “I can’t hardly wait. But I think I’ll do that. Let you show it to me when it’s finished.”
H.C.’s voice was disappointed: “Seven and one half hours, Elijah,” he said. “We could save most of that tomorrow. Only have to slow down for the last few miles.”
“Thank you,” Steele said, “but I think I’ll postpone the pleasure.”
The two of them stretched out in their blankets, their feet toward the fire. Elijah sat up for a moment and pounded a lumpish spot out of the sand for his shoulder. The ground was little chips of quartz and bits of lava, an unyielding mix that would leave you stiff as a board in the morning, even if you got it scooped out strategically. Right now, he wished for another blanket. Autumn was in the air for certain. The day might have been hot, but at night the heat radiated away into the glittering black sky, and you had to pull the cover over your nose and ears or you would never be able to fall asleep.
Save seven and a half hours. Go straight through to Yreka. Tichnor’s toll road would get him just about enough money to pay for repairing his coaches.
Next morning before sunrise, when he awoke, H.C. was already up and surveying the dusky distance off in the direction of Yreka.
“Seems a pity,” he said, “to turn north here instead of just going straight.”
“Right. But north is where this road goes. Besides. It goes by Miller’s. And Miller’s means breakfast. Unless you’ve got some surprise for me packed up in your kit.”
Ten miles later, just as the sun was getting well above the southeastern ridges and the cold was finally working its way out of Steele’s bony shoulders, they turned into John Miller’s place. They were sorry to see no smoke from the chimney.
“Hey, John!” they called out. “Miller!” But there was no answer.
“That beats it,” H.C. said. “I was tasting bacon.”
Steele unhinged himself from his horse and stomped loudly up onto the porch, thinking to awaken Miller. He pounded his fist on the door, calling to him, then listening for a response. There was nothing but silence, so he rattled the door knob, expecting to find it locked. But it surprised him and turned, and the door swung open.
“No one’s home,” Steele shouted.
He crossed the room into the practical kitchen. No womanly nonsense here: a plank table and a chair. A sink-board with a bucket. A rope stretched across the room for drying things. Hung from it, a frayed piece of canvas that must have served for a towel -- for John and the few chipped dishes, no doubt.
There were shelves, plenty well-stocked. Tinned meat. Beans. Sacks of flour. Canned fruit from some generous lady somewhere. A dried slab of bacon hung from a hay hook on the wall.
“Well, at least he won’t starve,” H.C. said behind him, “but I was looking forward to a little hospitality.”
“And you’ll have it if you keep your pants on!” the gruff voice said from outside. “Just button your britches!”
It was John Miller, ducking to get in the low doorway, his arms filled with parcels. He threw them onto his bunk and in minutes had a fire going, the coffee pot on it, and the the makings of bisquits dumped into a bowl. He reached the bacon from its hook and began slicing away at it.
“Lucky you didn’t show up a day earlier,” Miller said. “You’d have missed my home-cooking! But I guess you would fend for yourselves!” He rummaged through the array of stuff on the sink-board and came up with a long-bladed knife, which he examined thoughtfully, then wiped off on his pants leg. He began paring strips from the bacon and tossing them into the only frying pan, after he had peered into it and satisfied himself it was good enough. “Guess that’s not going to walk off,” he said. “Anyway, it’ll be cooked.”
“Where you been?” Steele asked. “Door was opened, so we came on in. I figured that meant you were here somewhere.”
“Didn’t mean that,” Miller said. “I just rode down from Linkville this morning. Got an early start.”
“And you left the place open?”
“Sure. Never know when you might stop by. Right?”
“Right,” Steele said. “But I’ve never been here.”
“So it’s been open for a while,” Miller said, firing up the bacon and reaching for the coffee kettle.
“Aren’t you afraid the house will walk off while you’re gone?” Tichnor said. “Indians?”
“Hasn’t happened yet,” Miller replied. “Open day and night for six or seven years now, except for that while I moved off. Even then, I come back, it was all here, just like I left it. Don’t know what they’re waiting for. Course I wouldn’t mind if they’d come in and clean it up!”
Breakfast was good. Steele sat on the bed, there being one chair too few, and blew the steam off his last cup of coffee. He listened as Tichnor went on about his new road, inviting Miller -- as he had invited him -- to sign up for the subscription to