138 THE YUKI. 
savages did a thing which was little short of madness. They escaped up 
what is now called Bloody Rock, an isolated bowlder standing grandly 
out scores of feet on the face of the mountain, and only accessible by a 
rugged, narrow cleft in the rear, which one man could defend against a 
nation. Once mounted upon the summit the savages discovered they had 
committed a deplorable mistake and must prepare for death, since the rifles 
in the hands of the Californians could knock them off in detail. A truce 
was proclaimed by the whites, and a parley was called. Some one able 
to confer with the Indians advanced to the foot of the majestic rock, and 
told them they were wholly in the power of their pursuers, and that it was 
worse than useless to resist. He proffered them their choice of three alterna- 
tives: Either to continue to fight, and be picked off one after another, 
to continue the truce and perish from hunger, or to lock hands and leap down 
from the bowlder. The Indians were not long in choosing; they did not 
falter, or cry out, or whimper. They resolved to die like men. After con- 
sulting a little while they replied that they would lock hands and leap down 
from the rock. 
A little time was granted them wherein to make themselves ready. 
They advanced in a line to the brow of the mighty bowlder, joined their 
hands together, then commenced chanting their death-song, and the hoarse, 
deathly rattle floated far down to the ears of the waiting listeners. or the 
last time they were looking upon: their beloved valley of Eel River which 
lay far beneath them in the lilac distance, and upon those golden, oat-coy- 
ered and oak-dappled hills, where they had chased the deer in happy days 
forever gone. For the last time they beheld the sweet light of the sun 
shine down on the beautiful world, and for the last time the wail of his hap- 
less children ascended up to the ear of the Great One in heaven. As they 
ceased, and the weird, unearthly tones of the dirge were heard no more, 
there fell upon the little band of whites a breathless silence, for even the 
stout hearts of those hardy pioneers were appalled at the thing which was 
about to be done. The Indians hesitated only a moment. With one sharp 
ery of strong and grim human suffering—of the last bitter agony—which 
rang out strangely and sadly wild over the echoing mountains, they leaped 
down to their death. 
