see him professionally last night, and found him very ill.”
“Then he is much better now; he is quite recovered, is he not, doctor?”
she exclaimed eagerly, springing to her feet.
“I regret to say that he is not better. In fact,” I replied, “Mr.
Peyton is--”
“My God, doctor!” she cried, “he is not dead?”
“Miss Morales, Hartley Peyton died at two o’clock this morning.” The
young woman buried her face in her hands, and fell back upon the
settee in a state of almost total collapse.
“Miss Morales,” I continued, “the point which mutually interests us
is that the circumstances surrounding Mr. Peyton’s death were very
peculiar and unusual, in fact, suspicious in the extreme. I will go
further and state that I have formed a very definite opinion of the
cause of his death.”
Thrown completely off her guard by fright, the poor girl moaned, “Oh,
doctor, you surely do not suspect that I--you surely do not believe
that I could ever have--”
“I am not at present expressing any views as to the peculiar agencies
which acted directly or indirectly in causing the unfortunate man’s
demise. I have merely stated to you the fact of his death, and that I
have arrived at a certain conclusion as to the cause of it.
“Miss Morales, you may place the most implicit confidence in me in
anything you may say to me. Any communications you may make shall be
held sacred. I have not as yet discussed the unfortunate affair with
any one but yourself. It may rest entirely with you as to whether or
not I do so hereafter.”
“What do you wish me to do--what am I to say?” she asked, faintly.
“Nothing here,” I replied. “Your present surroundings are by no means
favorable to discussion of topics of vital importance, least of all
to confidential communications. I shall therefore take the liberty of
asking you to come to my office”--I looked at my watch, and saw that my
office hours were long past due--“at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”
The girl suddenly dropped her hands from her face, straightened up in
her seat, and, with the gleam of battle in her wonderful eyes, said,
tensely,
“Why should I feel called upon to make an appointment with you, an
entire stranger, for the purpose of discussing a matter which, after
all, does not in the least concern me. Mr. Peyton’s death, and your
opinion of its cause are to me of no consequence whatever. Furthermore,
your presence here is in the highest degree impertinent and uncalled
for.”
“Miss Morales,” I said, quietly. “There are several reasons why you
should make and keep the appointment I have requested. In the first
place, it is optional with me as to whether or not the sudden death
of your friend, Mr. Peyton, shall be turned over to the coroner for
investigation. It may prove to be my duty to do so.”
“What do I care, whether the case is turned over to the coroner or
not?” she replied, her jaws setting combatively.
“Simply because there is no telling in what direction the investigation
may lead, nor to whom suspicion may be directed,” I retorted.
“Let it lead where it may, for aught I care,” she said, defiantly.
“Miss Morales, I will be more to the point. A letter was found
beneath Mr. Peyton’s pillow, which, should it fall into the coronor’s
hands, might suggest all sorts of foolish ideas to the minds of the
ignoramuses who compose the average coronor’s jury--minds to which
sentiment is an unknown quantity. The letter was signed, ‘Julie,’ a
signature that corresponds very accurately with one which is inscribed
on the back of a photograph of a certain young lady that was found on
the mantel in the dead man’s room.”
The poor girl sank limply back upon the settee, the picture of helpless
misery. I laid my hand gently upon her beautiful head, resting it there
for a brief moment, and then passed quietly out.
Being somewhat versed in matters psycho-logic, I had not the slightest
doubt that the fair Julie would keep the rather one sided appointment
made the afternoon before. I confess, however, that her promptness
surprised me a little.
The clock upon my office mantel was just striking the hour of ten, when
Miss Morales was announced. I directed my attendant to usher her in, at
the same time giving instructions that I was not to be disturbed until
further orders.
As my beautiful visitor took the seat I proffered her, I was struck by
her calm, composed demeanor. Her poise was perfect, and she showed not
the slightest trace of excitement, but responded to my polite “Good
morning,” as if her business were of the most matter of fact nature.
I leaned back in my chair, saying, “I am very glad you concluded to
call upon me, Miss Morales, and assure you that your confidence has
not been misplaced. There is hardly any need for preliminaries. Our
business together this morning is unpleasant at best, and the sooner
it is over the more agreeable it will be for us both, I am sure. You
doubtless have something to say to me apropos of our conversation of
yesterday. You will find me a good listener--and a sympathetic one.”
She sat for a moment gazing out of the open window, through which the
glorious sun and balmy air of an ideal Spring morning were pouring,
then, turning and looking me squarely in the eyes, said, as calmly as
though entering upon a discussion of things common place:
“Since you left me, yesterday afternoon, doctor, I have passed through
mental and physical agonies which, were I the worst of criminals,
should have been sufficient expiation for anything I have ever done.
I now feel that nothing which could possibly happen would have any
terrors for me--that the worst must surely be over.”
I listened in the greatest astonishment. This was hardly the piteous
supplicant I had expected.
“Pray do not think that my sufferings have resulted from the operations
of a guilty conscience. I have not reproached myself for having taken
advantage of humanity’s inalienable right of self-defense. But I was
only a poor, weak woman after all, and the dread of punishment at
human hands, even though what I had done was justifiable before God,
terrified me.
“However, I lived through the ordeal of last night, and prospective
punishment has now no longer any terrors for me. Face it I will, if
face it I must.
“I have not come to offer any arguments in defense of any act I may
have committed, nor do I intend to beg for mercy at the hands of the
only person who, thus far, is in a position to accuse me of a crime.
Still less have I come here for the purpose of telling you my story,
for there is really nothing to add to what you already know or have
surmised, and it would not be fair to ask me to review the events the
culmination of which you witnessed night before last. My soul has been
harrowed enough. It has received its baptism of fire. I have come
merely to say to you that I do not wish you to compound any felonies
with your own conscience, or risk your reputation--or perhaps even your
liberty--by protecting one who is an absolute stranger to you, and not
entitled to the slightest consideration on your part.
“If, knowing the circumstances--and you must know them, after attending
Mr. Peyton professionally and having read a certain letter--you
believe it to be your duty to turn my case over to the proper
authorities, I am willing to have you do so, and shall abide by the
consequences. I do not say this as one who has no longer anything to
live for, but as one who has become reconciled to whatever fate has in
store for her.
“It may be incomprehensible to you, doctor, but life and liberty
are especially sweet to me--much sweeter to-day, than they were
prior--well, just prior to the events of the day before yesterday.
I am capable of forgetting the past and enjoying such happiness as
the future may have in store for me. For this much, and for the
circumstances which led to our acquaintance, I am indebted to the hot
Latin blood with which my father endowed me. Last night, the colder
elements of my heredity held full sway and I was afraid. To-day, sir,
I am a Morales. Had you known my father you would understand what that
means.
“Doctor, it is for you to do as your conscience dictates. If you decide
that it is your duty to relegate a certain matter to the authorities
for investigation I shall not blame you. Furthermore, I shall not
attempt to escape, as was my first impulse when you left me yesterday
afternoon. To merely escape punishment would not be enough; I must
remain free from suspicion, or life means nothing to me, absolutely
nothing!”
The young woman rose from her chair and stood in calm expectancy. Her
attitude was so entirely different from what I had anticipated from the
character of the letter which I had in my possession, and from what was
evidently an exceedingly emotional temperament, that I sat silently
gazing at her for some time. I finally rose to my feet and was about
to reply, when there came a sharp rap upon the door of my consultation
room. I opened the door and found my attendant standing there with a
yellow paper in his extended hand.
“Well, what do you want?” I asked, rather impatiently.
“Pardon me for disturbing you, sir, but there’s a man here from the
undertaker’s, with a certificate for you to sign, and he says it is
important, because the funeral is this afternoon, sir?”
I took the ominous yellow form from the man, closed the door and
returned to my desk. With the paper still in my hand I turned to my
fair visitor. She paled perceptibly, and I fancied, trembled a little,
but returned my gaze unflinchingly, although I was sure she knew.
“Game to the core!” I thought.
I turned slowly to my desk, picked up a pen and wrote--“Ptomaine
poisoning--Acute Gastritis,” then, without a twinge of conscience,
deliberately signed my name to the “yellow peril” and rang for my
attendant.
A LEGEND OF THE YOSEMITE
THE LOVE OF TIS-SA-ACK AND TU-TOCH-A-NU-LAH
“Ah-wi-yah--the Beautiful,” she was once justly called. And now that
the weight of many, many years bore heavily upon her, the warriors
of the tribe, recalling the traditions of the past, still called her
“The Beautiful.” But who would ever think that the bent and withered
old squaw was once the pride of her tribe? The scorching suns of many
summers, and the keen, chilling blasts of many cruel winters had indeed
made sad havoc in the beauty of Yosemite’s queen.
No one knew how old Ah-wi-yah was--no one knew when she first came to
the valley of Yosemite. There was none of all her people who could
recall the time when she was not already very, very old and wrinkled.
The most venerable sagamore of the tribe remembered that the old squaw
was regarded as the only living relic of an age of by-gone majesty,
when he was yet scarcely more than a small pappoose, boarded and
strapped with thongs to his mother’s back. He recalled that it was she
who smiled upon him, and patted his head approvingly on the glorious
and never to be forgotten day when his little hands and feeble arms
first drew a slender, feathered arrow to its barbed head, and from
a child’s bow sent it hurtling on its deadly flight at a startled
rabbit that traversed his path. He remembered too, that the venerable
Ah-wi-yah, standing erect before her lodge with fiery, flashing eyes,
led the wild, fierce shout of triumph when he, grown to the stature of
a brave, came home from the warpath with his first scalp. And it was
the old squaw who, with her own wrinkled hands, hung the still bleeding
trophy on his lodge pole, and foretold that the ghastly, gory emblem of
his valor would have many, many children.
Yes, Ah-wi-yah was very, very old--so old that she recalled the time
when the fair Po-ho-ho waterfall was but a silvery, gleaming ribbon no
larger than a stalk of maize--so old that she remembered the days when
the Mission Fathers had not yet come to the Land of the Golden Sunset.
White as the snows of the Sierran winter was the hair of Ah-wi-yah, but
her eye--so wondrous dark--was bright and piercing beneath her shaggy,
wrinkled brow, and her voice was sweet and flute-like; clear as a
wandering echo amid the towering, craggy hills of the smiling beautiful
valley wherein her tribe had lived and died for unnumbered ages.
Ah-wi-yah was often the counsellor of the chieftains of the tribe
for, squaw though she was, she alone knew the records of the more
glorious and war-like past of her fast diminishing kindred. The old
squaw lived not in the dull and spiritless present, though her aged
tongue was wise and crafty. She lived in the glorious olden days, that
wondrous, shadowy past that held for her such memories of long vanished
greatness--and who knows what sweet and tender romance?
When I, a curious tourist, wished to study the wonderful traditions of
the tribe, the warriors said: “Oh pale face, there is none left to tell
thee of our glorious and deathless past but Ah-wi-yah, the Beautiful.
In the vast storehouse of her unfailing memory there are many
marvellous and beautiful legends. Go to her--the wise old squaw--she
will tell them to thee, we doubt not gladly.”
And the white haired squaw with the flute-like voice told me many
thrilling, beautiful legends of the days when her tribe was strong
and mighty--the days when the Manitou never forgot his chosen people,
the children of the lustrous Sun. Of all the legends that Ah-wi-yah
told the wondering pale face, there was none so beautiful as the
love of Tis-sa-ack and Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. This I will relate just as
the wonderful story-teller, who has long since been gathered to her
fathers, and whose fragile bones are now mouldering in a dark and
gloomy canyon of the towering Sierras, told it me.
* * * * *
“The memory of man, O Pale Face, goeth not so far back into the distant
past as the happy days when the children of the glorious Sun first
built their blazing council fires in the beautiful, mountain locked
valley of the Yosemite. In that unremembered time the baleful glitter
of the white sails of the accursed, marauding pale face had not yet
defiled the pure blue waters of the broad Pacific. The Sierras were
illumined by the red glare of the watch-fires of a mighty, heroic race
of redmen, and the waters laughed and sang in joyful cadence with the
dancing of their light canoes.
“And in those joyous days the Manitou smiled upon his chosen people,
for they were as yet pure, and uncontaminated by the conflicting
creeds, multitudinous diseases, bad fire-water and worse morals of the
wicked white man. The Indian was a fearless, noble warrior and a man,
roaming the trackless woods and traversing the waters of his ancient
ancestral home as free as the wild birds of his native hills.
“In that far distant time happiness hovered like a golden cloud over
the lodges of the redman, for within all was peace, and comfort, and
plenty. Neither cold nor hunger came like an evil spirit to bring
woe to the redman’s bosom. The forests were alive with mighty game,
and he was a poor and lowly hunter indeed, who could not show that
acknowledged badge of fearless courage, a necklace made of the cruel
claws of the fierce grizzly bear. The lakes and streams were teeming
with glittering fish, in number like the falling leaves of the yellow
autumn, many-hued and brilliant as the rainbow.
“For him who fain would seek for glory, there was many a gory scalp
lock to be fairly and hazardously earned in fierce, relentless battle,
while for the feeble, timid spirit who shrank from the hardships and
dangers of war, the warm and fertile soil promised the husbandman rich
rewards of nutritious maize.
“On the green-verdured slopes and in the broad, smiling valleys gleamed
many a comfortable wigwam of poles and dried skins of wild beasts,
wrought with the weird hieroglyphs of the tribe--strange, ancient
characters and picture-writing, unintelligible even to the Indian of
to-day. The smoke of a thousand lodges rose and mingled with the snowy
vapor--the fleeces of the sky--mingled with the billowy flocks and
herds of the Manitou.
“The valley of the sparkling Yosemite--that wonderful stream of liquid
silver whose mystic source is in the clouds, far, far beyond any trail
of man--was the earthly paradise of the redman of the mountains. To say
that the great ineffable Beyond--the land of Manitou the Mighty--was
fairer than the beauteous valley of the Yosemite, was the utmost limit
of the Indian’s faith in heaven--those Happy Hunting Grounds to which
death alone could transport him. Aye, it was the farthest limit of the
redman’s imagination.
* * * * *
“Chief among the sachems of his tribe, was Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. Tall was
he, like the towering redwood; strong were his limbs like those of a
mighty oak; rugged were his broad shoulders as the frowning, beetling
cliffs of the mountain locked home of his people. There was none so
bold and so brave as he--the mightiest hunter and most daring warrior
of all his tribe. Within his lodge there hung the scalps of countless
enemies, and the claws of many a savage bear of the mountains. Brave?
Had he not slain by a single blow with his keen hunting knife the
terrible panther--alone and single-handed had he not slain him? And
where was the lodge that was large enough to hold the wide, branching
horns of the kingly elk he had brought panting to the earth with his
deadly, slender-shafted arrows? Straight was his handsome form as the
ashen spear-shaft, and elastic as the bow of hickory; swifter was his
moccasined foot than the red deer’s; lighter his step than the mountain
lion’s; bright was his piercing eye as the first beams of the rising
sun; keen was his vision as that of the king of birds--the great war
eagle. There was not among all the Sun’s brave children a chief so
nobly grand as he.
“Far up on the side of a steep, wooded mountain was the home lodge of
Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. Here, like an eagle in his cloud-kissed eyrie, he
watched over the welfare of his people as became a wise and mighty
sachem who loved them and was well beloved by them.
“Beloved by them? Aye, and passing well, for he was their loyal,
ever-ready champion, their benefactor and protector, and they--being
red, not white--were grateful.
“Ranging over the fertile upper plains, the mighty sachem herded droves
on droves of the graceful red deer, that his people might choose the
best and fattest for the feast. High up amid the rocks were his flocks
of big-horned mountain sheep--the picturesque and shaggy cimarron. The
savage bear he gave not peace, for he drove him forth from his rocky
lair that the braves of the tribe might win laurels in the hunt.
“Sometimes, when the skies had been unkind and the Sun Father had
scorched the delicate leaves and fragrant blossoms and shrivelled the
tender stalks of the young maize for many days, the wise and thoughtful
sachem brought forth the magic red pipe he had fashioned in the far
off land of the fierce Dacotahs. As he silently sat and smoked the
sweetly pungent killikinnic, the billowy clouds of sweet incense were
gently wafted to the sapphire skies and kissed them, so tenderly and
lovingly that they wept for very joy. And those blissful tears fell
as a soothing, gentle rain upon the drooping maize, and trees and
flowers, until they raised their fainting, almost dying heads in joy
and gladness. Then the vast choirs of brilliant-hued singing birds
awoke once more the musical echoes of the sighing forest, and sweetly
sang the praises, of the mighty Tu-toch-a-nu-lah, bravest and most
tender-hearted of his race--greatest of all the proud and haughty
Yosemite.
“When the drought was over and the parched and thirsty soil was once
more moist, the fragrant smoke billows of the magic pipe floated
blithely, airily up to the fiercely glaring sun and brought down
millions of warm, yet softened rays through the clear blue air that
soon ripened the luxuriant crops into gold--gold that the joyful women
should gather with singing and merry making in the harvest-time to be.
“When the mighty sachem was happy, and laughed, the Yosemite danced and
sparkled in the sunlight as though rejoicing with him, its winding way
rippling into pleasant, cheery smiles. When he sighed, the soughing
wind wailed mournfully through the cone-laden boughs of the tall bread
pines, or howled dismally down the dark and gloomy canyons like the
spirit of some tortured brave. When he spake, his voice was sometimes
like the soft, gentle cooing of the ring-dove, at others like the deep,
sonorous voice of the cataract. But when he raging smote to death the
giant grizzly, or fiercely tore the scalp lock from the skull of an
enemy, his fearful war whoop rang out among the crags and gorges of the
Sierras like the loud mutterings of the thunder, aye, like the awful
rumbling and crashing of the earthquake.
“None there was in his tribe so learned as Tu-toch-a-nu-lah, for the
smoke of his pipe oft brought him wonderful visions that the eye of
none other ever saw. Through the blue, odorous haze of the burning
killikinnic the Manitou had many a time spoken words of wisdom to his
favorite child.
“And the noble sachem had travelled much. The soft tread of his
moccasined feet had been felt by all the land from Oregon to the gulf,
north and south, and from the Father of Waters to the blue Pacific,
east and west. The broad prints of his snow shoes were upon the eternal
snows of every land in the ice bound north. He had been in the far off
Northland where, on a throne of glittering ice, robed in a mantle of
ermine frost, sits the Queen of the Heavens. And he had seen crouching
at her feet the great White Rabbit--with his own eyes had he seen it.
There he had walked through the valley of peace and plenty, in the land
where the year is but a night and a day. He had passed reverently among
the graves of his ancestors, who lay there sleeping beneath the green
mantle that the eternal snows could not chill. He had communed with
that sleeping race of giant redmen and had heard them whisper of the
day when time shall be no more, when the enemies of his race shall have
passed and those mighty warriors shall arise to claim their long lost
birthright.
“And Tu-toch-a-nu-lah knew the message of the north wind as it whistled
among the mountains. To him spake the giant redwoods, as they battled
with the gales of winter. And they spake of battles won in other days,
for within those forest monarchs were imprisoned the souls of his
forefathers, those red kings of aforetime. To him sang the robin in the
springtime, and he heard and understood the twitter of the snowbird,
in the days when Winter had laid his frosty fingers upon the verdant
valley. For him the pines and cedars gave forth their balmy breath and
fragrant balsam. He was Nature’s best beloved child and his mother was
kind to the sachem.
“He it was who taught the boys of his tribe to catch the fish with
hooks of bone in summer, and to kill them with the spear through the
icy coverings of the streams in winter. ’Twas he who taught them how
to make the bow and the barbed and feathered ashen shafts that should
slay the grizzly and their foes among the redmen. And when the bows and
shafts were done ’twas Tu-toch-a-nu-lah who led them into the sombre,
fragrant woods and taught them to stalk and slay the deer. He was the
children’s best friend and wisest counsellor.
“Yes, he was a brave and mighty warrior, and a wise one.
“Tender hearted and loving though he was, the great heart of
Tu-toch-a-nu-lah had never been touched, be it ever so lightly, by love
of woman. Strong and tireless in the chase, brave in battle, wiser than
the wisest at the council fires of his people, kind and loving to all,
the mighty warrior knew not yet the burning, all consuming glow of the
most sacred fire that burns on human altars--he knew not the fire of
passion. Of all the dark-eyed maidens and comely squaws of his tribe,
there was none whose bright and longing eyes had ever aroused in his
bosom the glorious and all-responsive thrill that might have bid her
hope. Gaze upon him as yearningly and tenderly as she might, there was
not one who could say that she was the woman whom fate had set apart
for him.
“No, the handsome sachem had never known the love of woman--and yet the
star of human destiny was ever hovering over his beloved head, and was
soon to illumine with its fiery darts the utmost depth of the still,
dark waters of romance that lay hidden within his soul.
* * * * *