born with the faculty, and along comes the occasion, like the tap on
the test tube that induces crystallization. My friend had been several
things of no moment until he struck a thousand-dollar pocket in the
Lee District and came into his vocation. A pocket, you must know, is
a small body of rich ore occurring by itself, or in a vein of poorer
stuff. Nearly every mineral ledge contains such, if only one has the
luck to hit upon them without too much labor. The sensible thing for a
man to do who has found a good pocket is to buy himself into business
and keep away from the hills. The logical thing is to set out looking
for another one. My friend the Pocket Hunter had been looking twenty
years. His working outfit was a shovel, a pick, a gold pan which he
kept cleaner than his plate, and a pocket magnifier. When he came to a
watercourse he would pan out the gravel of its bed for “colors,” and
under the glass determine if they had come from far or near, and so
spying he would work up the stream until he found where the drift of
the gold-bearing outcrop fanned out into the creek; then up the side
of the cañon till he came to the proper vein. I think he said the best
indication of small pockets was an iron stain, but I could never get
the run of miner’s talk enough to feel instructed for pocket hunting.
He had another method in the waterless hills, where he would work
in and out of blind gullies and all windings of the manifold strata
that appeared not to have cooled since they had been heaved up. His
itinerary began with the east slope of the Sierras of the Snows, where
that range swings across to meet the coast hills, and all up that slope
to the Truckee River country, where the long cold forbade his progress
north. Then he worked back down one or another of the nearly parallel
ranges that lie out desertward, and so down to the sink of the Mojave
River, burrowing to oblivion in the sand,--a big mysterious land, a
lonely, inhospitable land, beautiful, terrible. But he came to no harm
in it; the land tolerated him as it might a gopher or a badger. Of all
its inhabitants it has the least concern for man.
[Illustration]
There are many strange sorts of humans bred in a mining country, each
sort despising the queernesses of the other, but of them all I found
the Pocket Hunter most acceptable for his clean, companionable talk.
There was more color to his reminiscences than the faded sandy old
miners “kyoteing,” that is, tunneling like a coyote (kyote in the
vernacular) in the core of a lonesome hill. Such a one has found,
perhaps, a body of tolerable ore in a poor lead,--remember that I can
never be depended on to get the terms right,--and followed it into the
heart of country rock to no profit, hoping, burrowing, and hoping.
These men go harmlessly mad in time, believing themselves just behind
the wall of fortune--most likable and simple men, for whom it is well
to do any kindly thing that occurs to you except lend them money. I
have known “grub stakers” too, those persuasive sinners to whom you
make allowances of flour and pork and coffee in consideration of the
ledges they are about to find; but none of these proved so much worth
while as the Pocket Hunter. He wanted nothing of you and maintained a
cheerful preference for his own way of life. It was an excellent way
if you had the constitution for it. The Pocket Hunter had gotten to
that point where he knew no bad weather, and all places were equally
happy so long as they were out of doors. I do not know just how long
it takes to become saturated with the elements so that one takes no
account of them. Myself can never get past the glow and exhilaration of
a storm, the wrestle of long dust-heavy winds, the play of live thunder
on the rocks, nor past the keen fret of fatigue when the storm outlasts
physical endurance. But prospectors and Indians get a kind of a weather
shell that remains on the body until death.
The Pocket Hunter had seen destruction by the violence of nature and
the violence of men, and felt himself in the grip of an All-wisdom
that killed men or spared them as seemed for their good; but of death
by sickness he knew nothing except that he believed he should never
suffer it. He had been in Grape-vine Cañon the year of storms that
changed the whole front of the mountain. All day he had come down
under the wing of the storm, hoping to win past it, but finding it
traveling with him until night. It kept on after that, he supposed, a
steady downpour, but could not with certainty say, being securely deep
in sleep. But the weather instinct does not sleep. In the night the
heavens behind the hill dissolved in rain, and the roar of the storm
was borne in and mixed with his dreaming, so that it moved him, still
asleep, to get up and out of the path of it. What finally woke him was
the crash of pine logs as they went down before the unbridled flood,
and the swirl of foam that lashed him where he clung in the tangle of
scrub while the wall of water went by. It went on against the cabin of
Bill Gerry and laid Bill stripped and broken on a sand bar at the mouth
of the Grape-vine, seven miles away. There, when the sun was up and the
wrath of the rain spent, the Pocket Hunter found and buried him; but he
never laid his own escape at any door but the unintelligible favor of
the Powers.
The journeyings of the Pocket Hunter led him often into that mysterious
country beyond Hot Creek where a hidden force works mischief,
mole-like, under the crust of the earth. Whatever agency is at work
in that neighborhood, and it is popularly supposed to be the devil,
it changes means and direction without time or season. It creeps up
whole hillsides with insidious heat, unguessed until one notes the
pine woods dying at the top, and having scorched out a good block of
timber returns to steam and spout in caked, forgotten crevices of years
before. It will break up sometimes blue-hot and bubbling, in the midst
of a clear creek, or make a sucking, scalding quicksand at the ford.
These outbreaks had the kind of morbid interest for the Pocket Hunter
that a house of unsavory reputation has in a respectable neighborhood,
but I always found the accounts he brought me more interesting than
his explanations, which were compounded of fag ends of miner’s talk
and superstition. He was a perfect gossip of the woods, this Pocket
Hunter, and when I could get him away from “leads” and “strikes” and
“contacts,” full of fascinating small talk about the ebb and flood of
creeks, the piñon crop on Black Mountain, and the wolves of Mesquite
Valley. I suppose he never knew how much he depended for the necessary
sense of home and companionship on the beasts and trees, meeting and
finding them in their wonted places,--the bear that used to come down
Pine Creek in the spring, pawing out trout from the shelters of sod
banks, the juniper at Lone Tree Spring, and the quail at Paddy Jack’s.
There is a place on Waban, south of White Mountain, where flat,
wind-tilted cedars make low tents and coves of shade and shelter,
where the wild sheep winter in the snow. Woodcutters and prospectors
had brought me word of that, but the Pocket Hunter was accessory to
the fact. About the opening of winter, when one looks for sudden big
storms, he had attempted a crossing by the nearest path, beginning the
ascent at noon. It grew cold, the snow came on thick and blinding, and
wiped out the trail in a white smudge; the storm drift blew in and cut
off landmarks, the early dark obscured the rising drifts. According to
the Pocket Hunter’s account, he knew where he was, but couldn’t exactly
say. Three days before he had been in the west arm of Death Valley on
a short water allowance, ankle deep in shifty sand; now he was on the
rise of Waban, knee-deep in sodden snow, and in both cases he did the
only allowable thing--he walked on. That is the only thing to do in a
snowstorm in any case. It might have been the creature instinct, which
in his way of life had room to grow, that led him to the cedar shelter;
at any rate he found it about four hours after dark, and heard the
heavy breathing of the flock. He said that if he thought at all at this
juncture he must have thought that he had stumbled on a storm-belated
shepherd with his silly sheep; but in fact he took no note of anything
but the warmth of packed fleeces, and snuggled in between them dead
with sleep. If the flock stirred in the night he stirred drowsily to
keep close and let the storm go by. That was all until morning woke him
shining on a white world. Then the very soul of him shook to see the
wild sheep of God stand up about him, nodding their great horns beneath
the cedar roof, looking out on the wonder of the snow. They had moved a
little away from him with the coming of the light, but paid him no more
heed. The light broadened and the white pavilions of the snow swam in
the heavenly blueness of the sea from which they rose. The cloud drift
scattered and broke billowing in the cañons. The leader stamped lightly
on the litter to put the flock in motion, suddenly they took the drifts
in those long light leaps that are nearest to flight, down and away
on the slopes of Waban. Think of that to happen to a Pocket Hunter!
But though he had fallen on many a wished-for hap, he was curiously
inapt at getting the truth about beasts in general. He believed in
the venom of toads, and charms for snake bites, and--for this I could
never forgive him--had all the miner’s prejudices against my friend the
coyote. Thief, sneak, and son of a thief were the friendliest words he
had for this little gray dog of the wilderness.
Of course with so much seeking he came occasionally upon pockets of
more or less value, otherwise he could not have kept up his way of
life; but he had as much luck in missing great ledges as in finding
small ones. He had been all over the Tonopah country, and brought away
float without happening upon anything that gave promise of what that
district was to become in a few years. He claimed to have chipped
bits off the very outcrop of the California Rand, without finding it
worth while to bring away, but none of these things put him out of
countenance.
[Illustration]
It was once in roving weather, when we found him shifting pack on a
steep trail, that I observed certain of his belongings done up in green
canvas bags, the veritable “green bag” of English novels. It seemed
so incongruous a reminder in this untenanted West that I dropped
down beside the trail overlooking the vast dim valley, to hear about
the green canvas. He had gotten it, he said, in London years before,
and that was the first I had known of his having been abroad. It was
after one of his “big strikes” that he had made the Grand Tour, and
had brought nothing away from it but the green canvas bags, which he
conceived would fit his needs, and an ambition. This last was nothing
less than to strike it rich and set himself up among the eminently
bourgeois of London. It seemed that the situation of the wealthy
English middle class, with just enough gentility above to aspire to,
and sufficient smaller fry to bully and patronize, appealed to his
imagination, though of course he did not put it so crudely as that.
[Illustration]
It was no news to me then, two or three years after, to learn that he
had taken ten thousand dollars from an abandoned claim, just the sort
of luck to have pleased him, and gone to London to spend it. The land
seemed not to miss him any more than it had minded him, but I missed
him and could not forget the trick of expecting him in least likely
situations. Therefore it was with a pricking sense of the familiar that
I followed a twilight trail of smoke, a year or two later, to the swale
of a dripping spring, and came upon a man by the fire with a coffee-pot
and frying-pan. I was not surprised to find it was the Pocket Hunter.
No man can be stronger than his destiny.
[Illustration]
SHOSHONE LAND
[Illustration]
It is true I have been in Shoshone Land, but before that, long
before, I had seen it through the eyes of Winnenap´ in a rosy mist of
reminiscence, and must always see it with a sense of intimacy in the
light that never was. Sitting on the golden slope at the campoodie,
looking across the Bitter Lake to the purple tops of Mutarango, the
medicine-man drew up its happy places one by one, like little blessed
islands in a sea of talk. For he was born a Shoshone, was Winnenap´;
and though his name, his wife, his children, and his tribal relations
were of the Paiutes, his thoughts turned homesickly toward Shoshone
Land. Once a Shoshone always a Shoshone. Winnenap´ lived gingerly
among the Paiutes and in his heart despised them. But he could speak
a tolerable English when he would, and he always would if it were of
Shoshone Land.
[Illustration]
He had come into the keeping of the Paiutes as a hostage for the long
peace which the authority of the whites made interminable, and, though
there was now no order in the tribe, nor any power that could have
lawfully restrained him, kept on in the old usage, to save his honor
and the word of his vanished kin. He had seen his children’s children
in the borders of the Paiutes, but loved best his own miles of sand
and rainbow-painted hills. Professedly he had not seen them since the
beginning of his hostage; but every year about the end of the rains and
before the strength of the sun had come upon us from the south, the
medicine-man went apart on the mountains to gather herbs, and when he
came again I knew by the new fortitude of his countenance and the new
color of his reminiscences that he had been alone and unspied upon in
Shoshone Land.
To reach that country from the campoodie, one goes south and south,
within hearing of the lip-lip-lapping of the great tideless lake,
and south by east over a high rolling district, miles and miles of
sage and nothing else. So one comes to the country of the painted
hills,--old red cones of craters, wasteful beds of mineral earths, hot,
acrid springs, and steam jets issuing from a leprous soil. After the
hills the black rock, after the craters the spewed lava, ash strewn,
of incredible thickness, and full of sharp, winding rifts. There are
picture writings carved deep in the face of the cliffs to mark the way
for those who do not know it. On the very edge of the black rock the
earth falls away in a wide sweeping hollow, which is Shoshone Land.
South the land rises in very blue hills, blue because thickly wooded
with ceanothus and manzanita, the haunt of deer and the border of the
Shoshones. Eastward the land goes very far by broken ranges, narrow
valleys of pure desertness, and huge mesas uplifted to the sky-line,
east and east, and no man knows the end of it.
It is the country of the bighorn, the wapiti, and the wolf, nesting
place of buzzards, land of cloud-nourished trees and wild things that
live without drink. Above all, it is the land of the creosote and the
mesquite. The mesquite is God’s best thought in all this desertness. It
grows in the open, is thorny, stocky, close grown, and iron-rooted.
Long winds move in the draughty valleys, blown sand fills and fills
about the lower branches, piling pyramidal dunes, from the top of which
the mesquite twigs flourish greenly. Fifteen or twenty feet under the
drift, where it seems no rain could penetrate, the main trunk grows,
attaining often a yard’s thickness, resistant as oak. In Shoshone Land
one digs for large timber; that is in the southerly, sandy exposures.
Higher on the table-topped ranges low trees of juniper and piñon stand
each apart, rounded and spreading heaps of greenness. Between them, but
each to itself in smooth clear spaces, tufts of tall feathered grass.
This is the sense of the desert hills, that there is room enough and
time enough. Trees grow to consummate domes; every plant has its
perfect work. Noxious weeds such as come up thickly in crowded fields
do not flourish in the free spaces. Live long enough with an Indian,
and he or the wild things will show you a use for everything that grows
in these borders.
The manner of the country makes the usage of life there, and the land
will not be lived in except in its own fashion. The Shoshones live
like their trees, with great spaces between, and in pairs and in
family groups they set up wattled huts by the infrequent springs. More
wickiups than two make a very great number. Their shelters are lightly
built, for they travel much and far, following where deer feed and
seeds ripen, but they are not more lonely than other creatures that
inhabit there.
The year’s round is somewhat in this fashion. After the piñon
harvest the clans foregather on a warm southward slope for the
annual adjustment of tribal difficulties and the medicine dance, for
marriage and mourning and vengeance, and the exchange of serviceable
information; if, for example, the deer have shifted their feeding
ground, if the wild sheep have come back to Waban, or certain springs
run full or dry. Here the Shoshones winter flockwise, weaving baskets
and hunting big game driven down from the country of the deep snow.
And this brief intercourse is all the use they have of their kind, for
now there are no wars, and many of their ancient crafts have fallen
into disuse. The solitariness of the life breeds in the men, as in the
plants, a certain well-roundedness and sufficiency to its own ends.
Any Shoshone family has in itself the man-seed, power to multiply
and replenish, potentialities for food and clothing and shelter, for
healing and beautifying.
When the rain is over and gone they are stirred by the instinct of
those that journeyed eastward from Eden, and go up each with his mate
and young brood, like birds to old nesting places. The beginning of
spring in Shoshone Land--oh the soft wonder of it!--is a mistiness
as of incense smoke, a veil of greenness over the whitish stubby
shrubs, a web of color on the silver sanded soil. No counting covers
the multitude of rayed blossoms that break suddenly underfoot in the
brief season of the winter rains, with silky furred or prickly viscid
foliage, or no foliage at all. They are morning and evening bloomers
chiefly, and strong seeders. Years of scant rains they lie shut and
safe in the winnowed sands, so that some species appear to be extinct.
Years of long storms they break so thickly into bloom that no horse
treads without crushing them. These years the gullies of the hills are
rank with fern and a great tangle of climbing vines.
Just as the mesa twilights have their vocal note in the love call of
the burrowing owl, so the desert spring is voiced by the mourning
doves. Welcome and sweet they sound in the smoky mornings before
breeding time, and where they frequent in any great numbers water is
confidently looked for. Still by the springs one finds the cunning
brush shelters from which the Shoshones shot arrows at them when the
doves came to drink.
Now as to these same Shoshones there are some who claim that they
have no right to the name, which belongs to a more northerly tribe;
but that is the word they will be called by, and there is no greater
offense than to call an Indian out of his name. According to their
traditions and all proper evidence, they were a great people occupying
far north and east of their present bounds, driven thence by the
Paiutes. Between the two tribes is the residuum of old hostilities.
Winnenap´, whose memory ran to the time when the boundary of the Paiute
country was a dead-line to Shoshones, told me once how himself and
another lad, in an unforgotten spring, discovered a nesting place of
buzzards a bit of a way beyond the borders. And they two burned to
rob those nests. Oh, for no purpose at all except as boys rob nests
immemorially, for the fun of it, to have and handle and show to other
lads as an exceeding treasure, and afterwards discard. So, not quite
meaning to, but breathless with daring, they crept up a gully, across
a sage brush flat and through a waste of boulders, to the rugged pines
where their sharp eyes had made out the buzzards settling.
The medicine-man told me, always with a quaking relish at this point,
that while they, grown bold by success, were still in the tree, they
sighted a Paiute hunting party crossing between them and their own
land. That was mid-morning, and all day on into the dark the boys crept
and crawled and slid, from boulder to bush, and bush to boulder, in
cactus scrub and on naked sand, always in a sweat of fear, until the
dust caked in the nostrils and the breath sobbed in the body, around
and away many a mile until they came to their own land again. And all
the time Winnenap´ carried those buzzard’s eggs in the slack of his
single buckskin garment! Young Shoshones are like young quail, knowing
without teaching about feeding and hiding, and learning what civilized
children never learn, to be still and to keep on being still, at the
first hint of danger or strangeness.
As for food, that appears to be chiefly a matter of being willing.
Desert Indians all eat chuck-wallas, big black and white lizards that
have delicate white flesh savored like chicken. Both the Shoshones and
the coyotes are fond of the flesh of _Gopherus agassizii_, the turtle
that by feeding on buds, going without drink, and burrowing in the sand
through the winter, contrives to live a known period of twenty-five
years. It seems that most seeds are foodful in the arid regions, most
berries edible, and many shrubs good for firewood with the sap in
them. The mesquite bean, whether the screw or straight pod, pounded to
a meal, boiled to a kind of mush, and dried in cakes, sulphur-colored
and needing an axe to cut it, is an excellent food for long journeys.
Fermented in water with wild honey and the honeycomb, it makes a
pleasant, mildly intoxicating drink.
[Illustration]
Next to spring, the best time to visit Shoshone Land is when the
deer-star hangs low and white like a torch over the morning hills. Go
up past Winnedumah and down Saline and up again to the rim of Mesquite
Valley. Take no tent, but if you will, have an Indian build you a
wickiup, willows planted in a circle, drawn over to an arch, and bound
cunningly with withes, all the leaves on, and chinks to count the stars
through. But there was never any but Winnenap´ who could tell and make
it worth telling about Shoshone Land.
And Winnenap´ will not any more. He died, as do most medicine-men of
the Paiutes.
Where the lot falls when the campoodie chooses a medicine-man there
it rests. It is an honor a man seldom seeks but must wear, an honor
with a condition. When three patients die under his ministrations, the
medicine-man must yield his life and his office. Wounds do not count;
broken bones and bullet holes the Indian can understand, but measles,
pneumonia, and smallpox are witchcraft. Winnenap´ was medicine-man for
fifteen years. Besides considerable skill in healing herbs, he used his
prerogatives cunningly. It is permitted the medicine-man to decline the
case when the patient has had treatment from any other, say the white
doctor, whom many of the younger generation consult. Or, if before
having seen the patient, he can definitely refer his disorder to some
supernatural cause wholly out of the medicine-man’s jurisdiction, say
to the spite of an evil spirit going about in the form of a coyote,
and states the case convincingly, he may avoid the penalty. But this
must not be pushed too far. All else failing, he can hide. Winnenap´
did this the time of the measles epidemic. Returning from his yearly
herb gathering, he heard of it at Black Rock, and turning aside, he was
not to be found, nor did he return to his own place until the disease
had spent itself, and half the children of the campoodie were in their
shallow graves with beads sprinkled over them.
It is possible the tale of Winnenap´’s patients had not been strictly
kept. There had not been a medicine-man killed in the valley for twelve
years, and for that the perpetrators had been severely punished by the
whites. The winter of the Big Snow an epidemic of pneumonia carried off
the Indians with scarcely a warning; from the lake northward to the
lava flats they died in the sweat-houses, and under the hands of the
medicine-men. Even the drugs of the white physician had no power.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE EXECUTIONERS]