Poems (Hoffman)/Old Modoc
OLD MODOC
("UKIAH, Cal, Aug. 20.—A fire occurred at the Yokayo Indian reservation last night which resulted in the death of two Indians and the practical destruction of the entire village. The rancheria is situated about six miles south of this city, and at the time the conflagration started the major portion of the population was at work in the various hopfields in this valley.
An old and infirm Indian was confined by illness in one of the straw-thatched huts, and in some manner a spark from a slumbering fire was blown to the roof of the cabin. In almost an instant the flimsy structure was in flames.
It chanced at this time that a Modoc Indian named Will-TiMo had returned to the village on an errand, and as soon as he discovered the cabin of the old Indian on fire he rushed to the rescue. The intense heat drove him back at first, but he no sooner recovered his breath than he rushed through the door and into the blazing cabin. He seized the old Indian by the hair and started to drag him out. By the time he reached the door his clothes were on fire and he fell back into the cabin. A moment later the roof of the hut fell in and the blazing mass covered the two Indians.
The flames by this time had practically destroyed the house and help came in time to remove the two dying men from the glowing embers. Will-Ti-Mo, the Modoc brave, was burned almost to a crisp, but he was still living when taken from the glowing building. The other Indian was dead. All night long the death song of the Indians could be heard. The hopfields were deserted and Yokayos, Sanels and a few Klamaths gathered around the charred bodies to mourn."—Ukiah Press.)
Old Modoc died like a hero to-day?
Strange, very strange, I remember him well
The tall, gaunt old Indian, tricky and queer
Who used to come begging so often here,
Hiding his coat in some wayside nook
He sought our warm kitchen on wintry days
Shivering, coughing, trying to look
The picture of virtuous suffering and want,
Stretching his wrinkled old hands o'er the blaze
Acting the story he wanted to tell
Of hardship, exposure and starvation gaunt,
Old Modoc? yes, I remember him well.
Old Modoc would enter unnoticed, unheard,
With benevolent smile and a great load of wood,
He would labor unhired till weary and tired
Then sit down and eat without speaking a word;
But this quaint, wordless drama was varied at times
By strange, wild accountings of fire and of flood,
With gesticulations and vehement tones
He would picture the throes of disaster and crimes,
Old Modoc, a wonderful orator stood,
Stretched to his full height or bent low with the groans
Of brothers who perished in flood or in flame,
Or pointing away to the Heaven of the good
Where their spirits still roamed
While the earth held their bones,
And the mixed, faulty dialect little expressed
But the powerful emotion which shook that old frame
And no one among us could ever have guessed
If the tragical tale was of flood or of flame.
He sat himself down in despair on the floor,
Some request was refused him, his sorrow was deep
As he wiped his wet eyes on the mat at the door,
A comedy laughing in Memory yet,
One of the lost pictures we do not forget;
And this the same Modoc you speak of to-day
"Wil-ti-Mo," the new hero, the old Modoc brave
Who rushed through a fire-circled wigwam to save
A poor, sick, old Indian left on his bed
When the thin straw-thatched roof took fire overhead?
O his skin is white, and some would say
That his features were pleasing to look upon,
They are only hateful to me to-day,
Old Modoc a hero and he a worm,
For he left to suffer alone, alone,
The truest friend that his life had known
For fear of a possible microbe germ!
I'll forget about him if I can.