The next
day I rode to Jacksonville, and the day following the balance of
the crowd came in from the fort. Among them were the three
reporters, all well pleased with the time their bearers had made
in carrying their dispatches, and that night we all had what in
those days we used to term "a-way-up time."
The balance of the Indians who were taken prisoners in this Modoc
war were afterwards taken to Florida and placed on a small
reservation, which, I presume, was done on account of the bitter
feeling that existed among the people of that section of the
country toward this tribe on account of the assassination of Gen.
Canby, Col. Thomas and George Meeks, the interpreter, as well as
the many other people that were murdered on Lost river and Tule
Lake.
While at Jacksonville a man came to me named Martin, who was a
merchant and resided in Oakland, Cal., who wanted to hire me to go
out in the mountains some twenty miles from Jacksonville and look
after a man named McMahon, saying: "There must be something wrong
with McMahon, for he is the most punctual man I ever dealt with;
he promised to be here three weeks ago to pay a certain party
fifty dollars, but has not been seen nor heard from since."
McMahon owned a band of sheep and was ranging them out in the
mountains. Mr. Martin gave me directions, and the next morning I
started out for the sheep ranch.
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