Volume 036-3 - July 1982 (8 pages)

out an order to his tribesmen, following which a young Indian stepped out into the clearing with the body of Samuel Holt slung over his shoulder. Hearing a noise from the direction of his white friends, John Day quickly told them not to move. “It’s all right, boys—don’t shoot. I think he’s got Sam Holt, and it looks like he’s dead.” Anger was slowly replacing Day’s earlier fear. He had seen many corpses in Mexico, so the body did not shock him, and he did not grieve as a friend, for he had scarcely known the dead man. What gave rise to his outrage was his belief that a white American possessed of valuable skills had been wantonly murdered by worthless savages, the lowest of the race. Either through ignorance or meanness, he reasoned, these miserable creatures had destroyed a superior life. He willingly would have attacked the chief with his bare hands, but he recognized how slim were his own chances of surviving. With immense effort he restrained his fury and tried to elicit more information from Wema. After much effort on both sides, Wema was able to make Day understand that Holt had died because the whites had killed Indians, but the ex-soldier either could not or would not understand that Holt had been executed for stealing from the Indians. Eventually, Wema gave up trying. He turned his back to Day and walked into the woods, followed by the youth who had delivered Samuel Holt’s body. John Day picked up the lifeless form and carried it to the mill. IV It had been too late to head for Camp Far West, so they had eaten supper in Walsh and Wheeler’s cabin and were preparing to spend the night at the mill. Afterwards John Day and Zenas Wheeler had gone for a walk while Jim Walsh laboriously composed a letter to the military commander. The day had been warm, and now, in the cool of early evening, the men still could smell the sweet fragrance of wildflowers among the tall grass of the meadow. “Look at that sunset, Wheeler. It’s as bloody red as the day has been.” “Peculiar, isn’t it? Don’t usually get a sunset quite like that. Kind of like a sign, maybe.” “Maybe.” Day looked at the sky for a long time. “Tell me, Wheeler, which way is north? I’m a little confused.” “Why, it’s that way—you can line up with that big pine over there—see that real tall one, by itself?” “That’s what I guessed. So why is there a sunset to the southwest of here?” “Oh, Lord! It must be a fire!” “I think you’re right. It looks to me as if someone’s set fire to the Holt place.” “We'd better get down there and lend a hand!” “Forget it, Zenas. There’s nothing we can do. Do you want to chase around in the woods at night and have them Injuns lift your scalp?” “TI guess you’re right, John. Damn, but it makes me mad, though! We never did any harm to those redskins and look at the thanks we get. We treated ’em decent, let ’em come down and watch us. I figured we were friends.” “It’s no use trying to figure ’em, Zenas. Only thing to do is show ’em who’s boss, and if they won’t take orders, kill ’em or run ’em out. And that’s what we’re going to do!” In the morning, John Day and a companion rode to Camp Far West, where they delivered Walsh’s letter to Captain Hannibal S. Day. On the way they had stopped at the site of the Holt sawmill and found both it and the cabin burned to the ground. They transmitted this information along with the letter. To their dismay, Captain Day replied that he could spare no more than eight men, including Doctor Murray, the camp physician. Only two companies of the Second United States Infantry were stationed there at the time, and Day actually tried to convince the men that the miners were better able to deal with the Indians than the military. The commandant also hinted that they might even have caused their own problems. The disgusted miners had no choice but to go back to Wolf Creek in the company of five privates, one corporal, a lieutenant and the camp doctor. After George Holt’s wounds had been treated and the arrows removed, he was taken to the store at Stocking’s Flat. There were men nearby who called themselves physicians to look after him, now that the surgery was done. A hundred or so miners who had heard about the assault on Holt’s Mill rode down from Deer Creek and joined the platoon from Camp Far West. For two days the combined posse combed the countryside, but yin MSENAN CREMATION the villages were deserted and only one Indian could be found. On May 11 the soldiers went back to camp and Captain Day filed a report which pointed out that the death of Samuel Holt had been preceded by the killing of two Indians for the alleged theft of cattle. He noted that the cattle had later been found, unhurt, never having been stolen. It was Captain Day’s opinion that the attack on the Holt brothers was “purely in consequence of a lawless aggression of white men in the first instance.” He warned that, unless something were done quickly to change the situation, the Indians would seek revenge on any white man, guilty or not. Unlike Captain Day, California Governor Peter H. Burnett was not immune to pressure from the miners. As rumors of Indian attacks and raids traveled like wildfire through the mining camps, sales of guns and pistols increased; demand drove the price of Colt’s five-shot revolvers back up to seventy-five dollars after a decline in price during the winter. The miners demanded protection and the governor responded by telling State Senator Thomas Jefferson Green to organize two companies of volunteers to pursue the Indians and tame them. Green, who had earlier been named a Major General in the as yet non-existent First Division of the California State Militia, accepted the assignment with pleasure. First he hurried over to the town of Nicolaus and _ persuaded its recent founder, Nicolaus Allgeier, to raise one of the companies. At Oro, just above Nicolaus on the Feather River, a second company was being formed by Charles H. 19

out an order to his tribesmen, following which a young Indian stepped out into the clearing with the body of Samuel Holt slung over his shoulder. Hearing a noise from the direction of his white friends, John Day quickly told them not to move. “It’s all right, boys—don’t shoot. I think he’s got Sam Holt, and it looks like he’s dead.” Anger was slowly replacing Day’s earlier fear. He had seen many corpses in Mexico, so the body did not shock him, and he did not grieve as a friend, for he had scarcely known the dead man. What gave rise to his outrage was his belief that a white American possessed of valuable skills had been wantonly murdered by worthless savages, the lowest of the race. Either through ignorance or meanness, he reasoned, these miserable creatures had destroyed a superior life. He willingly would have attacked the chief with his bare hands, but he recognized how slim were his own chances of surviving. With immense effort he restrained his fury and tried to elicit more information from Wema. After much effort on both sides, Wema was able to make Day understand that Holt had died because the whites had killed Indians, but the ex-soldier either could not or would not understand that Holt had been executed for stealing from the Indians. Eventually, Wema gave up trying. He turned his back to Day and walked into the woods, followed by the youth who had delivered Samuel Holt’s body. John Day picked up the lifeless form and carried it to the mill. IV It had been too late to head for Camp Far West, so they had eaten supper in Walsh and Wheeler’s cabin and were preparing to spend the night at the mill. Afterwards John Day and Zenas Wheeler had gone for a walk while Jim Walsh laboriously composed a letter to the military commander. The day had been warm, and now, in the cool of early evening, the men still could smell the sweet fragrance of wildflowers among the tall grass of the meadow. “Look at that sunset, Wheeler. It’s as bloody red as the day has been.” “Peculiar, isn’t it? Don’t usually get a sunset quite like that. Kind of like a sign, maybe.” “Maybe.” Day looked at the sky for a long time. “Tell me, Wheeler, which way is north? I’m a little confused.” “Why, it’s that way—you can line up with that big pine over there—see that real tall one, by itself?” “That’s what I guessed. So why is there a sunset to the southwest of here?” “Oh, Lord! It must be a fire!” “I think you’re right. It looks to me as if someone’s set fire to the Holt place.” “We'd better get down there and lend a hand!” “Forget it, Zenas. There’s nothing we can do. Do you want to chase around in the woods at night and have them Injuns lift your scalp?” “TI guess you’re right, John. Damn, but it makes me mad, though! We never did any harm to those redskins and look at the thanks we get. We treated ’em decent,

let ’em come down and watch us. I figured we were friends.” “It’s no use trying to figure ’em, Zenas. Only thing to do is show ’em who’s boss, and if they won’t take orders, kill ’em or run ’em out. And that’s what we’re going to do!” In the morning, John Day and a companion rode to Camp Far West, where they delivered Walsh’s letter to Captain Hannibal S. Day. On the way they had stopped at the site of the Holt sawmill and found both it and the cabin burned to the ground. They transmitted this information along with the letter. To their dismay, Captain Day replied that he could spare no more than eight men, including Doctor Murray, the camp physician. Only two companies of the Second United States Infantry were stationed there at the time, and Day actually tried to convince the men that the miners were better able to deal with the Indians than the military. The commandant also hinted that they might even have caused their own problems. The disgusted miners had no choice but to go back to Wolf Creek in the company of five privates, one corporal, a lieutenant and the camp doctor. After George Holt’s wounds had been treated and the arrows removed, he was taken to the store at Stocking’s Flat. There were men nearby who called themselves physicians to look after him, now that the surgery was done. A hundred or so miners who had heard about the assault on Holt’s Mill rode down from Deer Creek and joined the platoon from Camp Far West. For two days the combined posse combed the countryside, but yin MSENAN CREMATION the villages were deserted and only one Indian could be found. On May 11 the soldiers went back to camp and Captain Day filed a report which pointed out that the death of Samuel Holt had been preceded by the killing of two Indians for the alleged theft of cattle. He noted that the cattle had later been found, unhurt, never having been stolen. It was Captain Day’s opinion that the attack on the Holt brothers was “purely in consequence of a lawless aggression of white men in the first instance.” He warned that, unless something were done quickly to change the situation, the Indians would seek revenge on any white man, guilty or not. Unlike Captain Day, California Governor Peter H. Burnett was not immune to pressure from the miners. As rumors of Indian attacks and raids traveled like wildfire through the mining camps, sales of guns and pistols increased; demand drove the price of Colt’s five-shot revolvers back up to seventy-five dollars after a decline in price during the winter. The miners demanded protection and the governor responded by telling State Senator Thomas Jefferson Green to organize two companies of volunteers to pursue the Indians and tame them. Green, who had earlier been named a Major General in the as yet non-existent First Division of the California State Militia, accepted the assignment with pleasure. First he hurried over to the town of Nicolaus and _ persuaded its recent founder, Nicolaus Allgeier, to raise one of the companies. At Oro, just above Nicolaus on the Feather River, a second company was being formed by Charles H. 19