On June 28, the expeditionary force finally left Fort Klamath and headed southeast. The force consisted of forty-seven men from Company C of the First Oregon Cavalry Militia under the command of Captain Kelly. The cavalry unit also had a surgeon and several civilian employees, including a guide, a blacksmith, three teamsters, and two Indian scouts.
Two teams of Army mules pulled two wagons and a hired team pulled a third wagon. In addition, fourteen civilian packers, including Joel, Jonah, and Will, handled eighty-six pack mules. Sergeant Geisy and his cavalry squad guarded the packers, as they had on the supply runs.
June 28 was the first time the entire company traveled together. Despite several days of preparation, Will was appalled at the lack of organization. He’d thought the military always moved in aligned ranks, but Captain Kelly let the men spread out along the trail, most of the cavalry in front and packers next. The wagons brought up the rear, except for a small cavalry guard behind them.
The mules all carried between four hundred and four hundred twenty-five pounds. In addition, the three wagons were filled to the brim. The supplies needed for so many men headed into rough country amazed Will. “Why do we need all this stuff?” he asked Joel, gesturing at the long line of mules and wagons. “And how will we get it through the mountains?”
“Some of it’s your food,” Joel said. “Wagons also carry blacksmith tools, ammunition, medical supplies, whatever Sergeant Crockett thinks we might need. Just do your job like a man. And keep your mouth shut.”
Captain Kelly led the company almost due south toward a marsh at the north end of Upper Klamath Lake, then they traveled east up a ridge on the far rim of the Klamath basin and north to a ford on the Williamson River. Tall pine forests blanketed much of the land, with occasional clusters of fir trees and cedars. The ground beneath the trees was rocky once they passed the marsh.
They only traveled nine miles that day, which annoyed Will. “How are we going to reconnoiter anything if we only go nine miles a day?” he asked Joel. “Even Jonah and I traveled twice that far most days coming south.”
Joel grimaced. “What’d I tell you? Hold your tongue. It takes a while for a group to get a rhythm.” He chuckled. “Our first day on the trail in forty-seven, Pa was fit to be tied. One family had to stop and repack everything an hour out of Independence, or their wagon would’ve capsized.”
“And we almost made a circle today,” Jonah complained. “South, then east, then north again.”
“You know better,” Joel chastised his younger brother. “Wagons can’t move well in the marsh. Nor over big rocks. We had to detour where the scouts took us. That’s the way it’s gonna be, so get used to it.”
Will unloaded his mules and made camp with Joel and Jonah. He was crawling into his bedroll when Joel tapped his leg with the toe of his boot. “You got first watch. You can’t rest till midnight.”
Will sighed and moved off.
“Don’t forget your rifle,” Joel reminded him.
They made better distance the next day, traveling seventeen miles from the Williamson River to the Sprague. Peaks of the Cascades rose on all sides as they rode through low gravelly hills patchworked with grassy glades. Joel pointed out Mount Shasta to the south in California, as well as smaller Mount McLaughlin to their west.
Once they reached the Sprague River, they traveled along its north bank through undulating hills. A spur of the Cascades reached down from the north, and the river wound through the foothills. Again, they meandered through rises and gullies, as the scouts tried to find an easy path for the wagons. Will and the other packers simply followed behind the soldiers, pulling their mule strings.
They camped their second night out along the bubbling Sprague, a lively stream lined with cottonwood and aspen. They set up camp about six miles from where the Sprague flowed into the Williamson.
June 29, 1864. Two days out from Klamath. Camping on the Sprague River. Country is pretty. I have the last watch tonight. I hope I sleep well until then.
As Will finished his journal entry, a rider trotted into their camp and dismounted. Will wandered over to see who the newcomer was.
“Have I found a cavalry unit?” the stranger asked breathlessly. “Who’s in charge?”
“I am.” Captain Kelly came out of his tent. “Captain William Kelly. And who are you?”
“Richardson,” the man said. “I’m leading a wagon train from California north to The Dalles. Indians attacked us a few days ago. We didn’t have enough men or rifles to fend them off. And another wagon train joined us, led by a man named Allen.”
Captain Kelly took Richardson into his tent, and Will didn’t hear any more of their exchange. Before the men went to bed, however, Captain Kelly passed the word. “Extra guards tonight. We’ll stay here until Colonel Drew reaches us.”
Will had the early morning watch that night. After tossing restlessly, wondering if tribes were about to attack, he got up bleary-eyed and took his rifle to his post. The packer he relieved was Felix Bagley, the old man who only pulled four mules like Will and Jonah. “Damn savages,” the crotchety packer said, spitting tobacco juice. “Cain’t leave decent Christians alone.”
Mac had often told Will white men violated many of the treaties they made with the Indians, pushing the tribes farther into remote and desolate lands. “We deserve a lot of the injury the Indians heap on us,” Mac said. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch out for them. Their ways are not ours. But if we leave them alone, most of the tribesmen won’t bother us.”
Will spent his watch pondering whether Mac or the old packer was right about Indians—when he wasn’t looking over his shoulder every time a twig cracked.
As Will came off watch and headed toward the quartermaster’s wagon for breakfast, Captain Kelly called the men together. Will grabbed a plate of eggs and ham and stood at the back of the gathering to listen while he ate.
“We learned last night of an attack on eight wagons near Silver Lake,” Captain Kelly informed the group. “Mr. Richardson, who arrived here last night, has sought our militia’s protection. The attack happened several days ago. A war party of Klamath or Modoc Indians—they don’t know which—wounded two white men, stole cattle, and destroyed most of their provisions. Their wagons and those of another train from Jacksonville with nine wagons are now camped at the John Day’s ford on the Sprague River.”
Murmurs rose from the men, and one soldier shouted, “Are we gonna kill them red bastards?”
“I am awaiting instructions from Colonel Drew,” Kelly replied. “As good cavalrymen, I know you want to avenge the wrongs done to innocent settlers. But we have our own reconnaissance mission, and I cannot abandon that without approval from my superiors. We will wait here for Colonel Drew.”
The rumblings among the soldiers continued. Will finished his breakfast and returned to his tent. Joel and Jonah were there, and Will asked the older Pershing, “What’s this mean for us?”
Joel finished rolling a cigarette and licked the paper closed. Then he said, “Means we might find ourselves in a real war. Not just a surveying trek.”
“An Indian fight?” Jonah said with a grin.
Joel lit the cigarette and took a draw. “Nothin’s gonna happen today. Today we take it easy.”
Since Will didn’t have to load his mules, he lay on his bedroll. Although Mac said Indians wouldn’t bother whites, it sounded as if tribesmen had assaulted this wagon train without provocation. Surely, the Richardson party wasn’t to blame for the violence against them.
He wondered how long it would be before Lt. Col. Drew caught up with them. For the time being, however, Captain Kelly seemed content to wait. At least they were in a pleasant camp.
