("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.)
What is it you tell me, what is it you say,Old Modoc died like a hero to-day?Strange, very strange, I remember him wellThe tall, gaunt old Indian, tricky and queerWho used to come begging so often here,Hiding his coat in some wayside nookHe sought our warm kitchen on wintry daysShivering, coughing, trying to lookThe picture of virtuous suffering and want,Stretching his wrinkled old hands o'er the blazeActing the story he wanted to tellOf hardship, exposure and starvation gaunt,Old Modoc? yes, I remember him well.
Sometimes the quaint drama would take a new form,—Old Modoc would enter unnoticed, unheard,With benevolent smile and a great load of wood,He would labor unhired till weary and tiredThen sit down and eat without speaking a word;But this quaint, wordless drama was varied at timesBy strange, wild accountings of fire and of flood,With gesticulations and vehement tonesHe would picture the throes of disaster and crimes,Old Modoc, a wonderful orator stood,Stretched to his full height or bent low with the groansOf brothers who perished in flood or in flame,Or pointing away to the Heaven of the goodWhere their spirits still roamedWhile the earth held their bones,And the mixed, faulty dialect little expressedBut the powerful emotion which shook that old frameAnd no one among us could ever have guessedIf the tragical tale was of flood or of flame.
I remember him once when pretending to weepHe sat himself down in despair on the floor,Some request was refused him, his sorrow was deepAs 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 braveWho rushed through a fire-circled wigwam to saveA poor, sick, old Indian left on his bedWhen the thin straw-thatched roof took fire overhead?
And I think of one, shall I call him—man?O his skin is white, and some would sayThat 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 knownFor fear of a possible microbe germ!I'll forget about him if I can.
