The orange-tree, even at a great age, is not as large as one may have

expected. Even those of a hundred years in the mission garden are not

above two feet in diameter. It is gratifying to be at full liberty to

examine this attractive vegetation, known heretofore only in its tub in

the conservatory, or on the staircase at a ball. There seems but one

drawback to an orange-grove, and that is that it cannot have greensward

below to lie upon. It is very exacting—requires all the nourishment the

soil can give, and the soil must be kept loose and open around the roots.

It is irrigated about once a month, and the surface gone over with a

cultivator afterward, to prevent baking up in the sun.

The orange-grove is lovely at all times, mysterious when the long alleys

are dark against the red sunset, the fruit glimmering like a feast of

lanterns at twilight; and in the pleasant mornings sparkling among the

glossy leaves like little suns newly risen; while we catch the perfume

of blossoms heralding in a new crop, though the last still hangs upon

the bough. Here and there is an example of the enormous shaddock, which

resembles the orange in appearance but the lemon in character. The lemon

is less hardy to rear than the orange, and is not cultivated on as large

a scale. Chinamen, with ladders and baskets, gather the fruit, and

chatter to one another from the trees like magpies. It is irrigation-day,

and all at once the water is let on. Twisting and turning this way and

that, it runs out upon the thirsty soil, as if with an eager curiosity in

the embrace. Chinamen with hoes follow it, here throwing up little dams,

which it tries to evade; there, when it runs sluggishly, opening little

channels, and leading it where it should go. The whole orchard is soon

babbling musically with running water, and in process of being thoroughly

soaked.

XXIX.

_TO SAN DIEGO, AND THE MEXICAN FRONTIER._

I.

These and kindred scenes are to be met with in fifty, I know not how many

more, localities of a similar sort. San Fernando, Florence, Compton,

Downey City, Westminster, Orange, Tustin City, Centralia, Pomona, and

Artesia may be mentioned as leading examples. The “colony” government

is of a simple sort, and consists of a justice of the peace, constable,

water overseer, and school trustees. Anaheim, settled by Germans, was one

of the first established colonies, and has become a town of importance.

Santa Ana had a special bustle at present, as the terminus, for the time

being, of the railroad in process of building from Los Angeles to San

Diego.

Perhaps, however, the greatest general air of distinction is worn by

Riverside. This colony seems to have been sought to an exceptional degree

by persons in good circumstances. It is fifty-seven miles lower down

than Los Angeles, and reached by a drive of seven miles southward from

the Southern Pacific Railroad at Colton. Four miles north of Colton,

on the other hand, takes you to San Bernardino, an important place of

six thousand people, originally settled by Mormons. The regular Mormons

withdrew to Utah by order of Brigham Young on the threat of the coercive

war there in 1857, and only a few “Josephites” now remain, whose

practices do not differ greatly from those of other people.

[Illustration: A SYLVAN GLIMPSE AT RIVERSIDE.]

At Riverside is found a continuous belt of settlement and cultivation

twelve miles long, by two miles in average width. It will be twenty long

when all complete. The population is not large, but revels in a great

deal of room. The general situation is a valley of about forty miles

square, at an elevation of twelve hundred feet above the sea. The access

to this valley is by four several passes, one each on the north, south,

east, and west, as if so many doors had been providentially left open

in the encompassing mountain ranges. The settlement forms an oasis in

the midst of the desert, after the general plan. Its fresh greenness,

and canals of clear water, along which sylvan glimpses, almost English,

are met with, derive added charm and interest from the desert. The

rest of the high, quadrangular valley, capable, no doubt, of as great

development, if water can be brought upon it, remains in its natural

condition.

A lovely drive, called Magnolia Avenue, planted with double rows of

pepper and eucalyptus trees, extends through the length of the place

from north to south. It is bordered with homes, making pretensions to

much more than comfort. The best of these are at the division called

Arlington, four miles below the post-office of Riverside proper. The

native adobe, or sun-dried brick, supplemented with ornamental wood-work,

has been used as material with excellent effect. In the interiors are

found rugs, _portières_, Morris’s wall-papers, and all the paraphernalia

of the latest Eastern civilization; and there is an archery club and a

“German.”

Invalidism is heard of with considerable frequency as an excuse for the

migration hither. Certainly many advantages offer to the invalid. The

climate permits him to be almost constantly out-of-doors. The sky is

blue, the sun unclouded, nearly every day in the year, and he can go into

his orchard and concern himself about his Navel or Brazilian oranges,

his paper-rind St. Michaels, and his Tahiti seedlings, with little let

or hinderance. Orange culture affords him both a career and a revenue.

If the unchanging blue of the sky grow sometimes monotonous, there are

other distractions in the noble mountain ranges. Riverside has in this

resource a touch of the charm of Switzerland. Your entertainer points out

to you from his piazza the great peaks of Greylock, San Bernardino, and

San Jacinto, from ten to twelve thousand feet in height, and crowned with

snow for a considerable part of the year, just as the Jungfrau is pointed

out from Interlaken and Mont Blanc from Geneva.

[Illustration: ADOBE RESIDENCE AT RIVERSIDE.]

It is a description that applies to all of Southern California, that,

however great the heat by day—in midsummer often a hundred and five

in the shade—the nights are always cool and refreshing. Sunstroke is

not known. Nor are the violent thunder-storms with which Nature, with

us, endeavors to restore equilibrium after having exhausted its most

oppressive warmth. The great drawback here, as there must always be some

drawback, consists in occasional heavy “northers,” which gather up the

dust from the dry surface and produce painful dust-storms of two or three

days’ duration.

[Illustration: ADOBE RESIDENCE AT RIVERSIDE.]

In autumn and winter the temperature is chilly enough to make fires a

necessity morning and evening, and even all day long in apartments shut

off from the influence of the sun. I was astonished to find the air so

keen at these times, and a scum of ice forming upon water in the mornings

even as far down as San Diego. The cold has a penetrating quality beyond

its register by the thermometer. This, though usually overlooked, is

important, since fuel is very scarce and correspondingly dear. Fagots

of the prunings of the cottonwoods, sycamores, and mesquit-trees along

the beds of the streams are the principal resource. Such coal as can be

obtained is both costly and of poor quality.

The water for the irrigation of Riverside is taken from the swift little

stream of the Santa Ana River, which falls so rapidly within a short

compass that it is feasible to take out two separate canals with a

difference of thirty-five feet in their levels. On all sides lands are

held at $200 and $300 per acre, and when the orange-trees have come into

good bearing, at $1000, which but a few years ago were purchased at a

dollar and a quarter an acre.

All these places have their local rivalries, though Southern California

as a whole is ready to unite in vindicating its peculiar claims, against

the outside world. All have their pamphlets to distribute, containing

their tables of mean temperatures, altitudes, analyses of soils, and

claims to regard, as based upon nearness to, or absence from, some

particular natural feature. Thus the coast counties take leave to pride

themselves upon a genial average of temperature, owing to their proximity

to the sea. They are free, they say, from the extremes of heat and cold

afflicting those which are shut in behind the mountain barriers. The

inland counties, on the other hand, congratulate themselves that their

lot is cast where the mountains form an efficient defence against the raw

fogs and gusts which must necessarily afflict those directly exposed to

the chilly ocean.

These petty rivalries are a part of the history of all new countries, and

pass away with the development of population and trade. There seems no

need of jealousies, since there is encouragement enough for all in their

several ways. The Territories of Arizona and New Mexico have just been

opened to transportation by rail from this quarter. The lands suitable

for the cultivation of the “citrus fruits” are limited in extent. The

market is much more likely to improve than decline, even when production

shall have largely increased beyond its present rate. High railroad

freights were at one time a cause of alarm. The making of an “orange

wine” was proposed as a resource for using up the surplus crop of this

kind. The experiment was not a success, but it is not likely to be

needed. Freights have declined, and will decline more with the building

of projected new roads. Shipments of oranges have been successfully made

from this section as far away as Denver, Chicago, and St. Louis.

II.

Great things are predicted for Wilmington, a little port twenty-two miles

to the south-west of Los Angeles. The extensive works undertaken here

by the railroad and the United States government are still incomplete,

and it is but a dreary little place in its present condition. However,

great ports have never been selected primarily for picturesqueness, but

in accordance with such commercial necessities as short lines of transit,

easy grades, and convenience for shipping. Wilmington had few natural

conveniences to offer. There were originally but eighteen inches of water

on its bar. This has been increased to ten feet. An enormous jetty, 6700

feet long, extending out to what is called Dead Man’s Island, is under

construction. It is to force the tide itself to do the duty of scouring

out the bottom, so that a ship channel several miles long will eventually

be secured.

Santa Monica is another small port at the end of a branch railroad

from Los Angeles, sixteen miles directly west, and somewhat famed as

a sea-side resort. It has a hotel of considerable size, and a bold

situation on a pretty horseshoe bay. The beach is of fine, hard sand; and

the temperature admits of bathing, if one be inclined for it, all the

year round. The hopes which were at one time entertained by capitalists,

like Senator Jones, of Nevada, of making the place a great shipping

point, have been for the present abandoned. It was to have been the

Pacific terminus of a new through line from the East, coming by way

of the Cajon Pass. A wharf 1500 feet long was built, and a breakwater

proposed.

[Illustration: OLD MISSION AT SANTA BARBARA.]

From here, or from Wilmington, you sail up the coast to San Buenaventura

and Santa Barbara—favored by invalids. These places have as yet no

railroad, but must before long come into the general system. Both are

on that sheltered stretch of the coast which, from Point Conception,

makes a sharp turn to the eastward, and has direct southern exposure

and a view of the islands of Santa Barbara Channel. Santa Barbara, on

its practical side, has devoted more attention than most places to the

culture of the olive—an industry still much in its infancy. Some of the

cultivators have provided themselves with a machinery, which costs about

a thousand dollars, for expressing the oil. As a condiment the fruit is

not pickled green here, like the Spanish olive, but ripe and black. It

may be that a special education is needed for liking each variety of

olives, as it is for acquiring the taste in the beginning. Those here are

of a small variety, descending from the old mission times, and it is hard

not to find them either insipid or bitter. The leading shipment from San

Buenaventura is honey. A million pounds per annum from Ventura County, of

which it is the capital, is not an unusual product.

III.

I sailed from Wilmington to San Diego. I embarked in the evening in a

small tug, which steamed down the tortuous windings of the channel,

past black lighters that Whistler would have liked to etch, and past

Dead Man’s Island, and transferred us on board a coast steamer waiting

without. Next morning we were at our destination, a hundred miles below.

San Diego, rising on a gentle slope, makes a pretty appearance from the

water. A United States barracks (yellow), with a flag-staff rising in the

centre, is the most prominent object in front. You round an immensely

long, narrow sand-spit of a peninsula, which contributes to form the

excellent small harbor, and make fast to an immensely long mooring wharf.

It is a feature of all California ports to have immensely long wharves.

To the left is “Old Town,” its beach where Dana once loaded hides in his

famous “Two Years Before the Mast,” now the site of a Chinese fishing

village. To the right is brand-new “National City,” the location of the

shops and extensive depot grounds for the new railway. In the centre,

at about four miles from either, lies “New Town,” San Diego proper. All

together have a population of about five thousand.

[Illustration: PLAZA OF SAN DIEGO, OLD TOWN.]

As we came up to the wharf a locomotive, starting from National City on

the new track, made the circuit of the water-front, with one long, shrill

scream, which was taken up by the hills and echoed back. Gods and men

were no longer to remain ignorant that San Diego had at last caught up

with its future and had its railroad.

It was cruelly disappointed when it was to be the terminus of the

Texas Pacific, transcontinental, road. The panic of ’73 prevented the

capitalist “Tom Scott” from negotiating the foreign loan which was needed

for its completion. That enterprise was abandoned, and a half-mile of

graded road-bed alone remains as a sort of tumulus to the blighted

hopes and bitter memories of the time. The name of the unfortunate “Tom

Scott”—since defunct—remains also a byword and a reproach. Now, however,

the “California Southern” is actually at work, and under contract to

complete the one hundred and sixteen miles necessary to meet the Southern

Pacific, at a point near San Bernardino, within a short time. It is to

be a link in the new “Atlantic and Pacific,” which is to follow the

thirty-fifth parallel, and become a transcontinental road by means of

connection with the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fé.

The capital and management of the California Southern are largely

supplied by the same Boston company directing the Mexican Central, the

line to Guaymas from the Arizona frontier, and others. A farther road

is projected by them eastward from San Diego to Calabasas, passing

through Port Ysabel, at the head of the Gulf of California. This can be

more cheaply built below the Mexican frontier than on this side, owing

to special exemptions there to be had from taxation, and the lower rates

of labor. It is thought that the Southern Pacific will also be compelled

by competition to build across from Yuma. Hopes are still entertained

also of the derelict Texas Pacific. With all this in prospect, it will

be seen that San Diego has justification for making a good deal of stir.

It claims to be hundreds of miles nearer, than San Francisco, to New

Orleans and New York, on the one hand, and the Orient on the other, and

is correspondingly cheerful.

A hand-car on the long wharf conveyed our baggage into the town while

we walked beside it. The town, being reached, is found a place of loose

texture. It has a disproportionately large hotel, the Horton House, built

in anticipation of the rapid arrival of its future greatness, and a loss

to its original proprietor. The blue shades were down and the plate-glass

windows dusty also, with an expectant look, in much of the “Horton

Block,” opposite. After ’73 half the shutters in San Diego were put up.

They have come down now, however, and probably to stay.

There is a charming view of the harbor and blue ocean from the upper

slopes of the town. Part of the view is a group of bold Mexican islands,

the boldest of these, Coronado, a solid mass of red sandstone, which

Americans have tried to get for a quarry, without success. Yes, here is

Old Mexico once more; we have come back to it. The high, flat-topped peak

of Table Mountain marks it unmistakably. It is customary to drive down to

“the Monument,” set up on the dividing line of Baja (Lower) California,

but the excursion is without special interest.

[Illustration: OLD MISSION AT SAN DIEGO.]

The chronic condition of shutters in San Diego “Old Town” is to be “up,”

that is, so far as it can be said to have any shutters yet remaining.

It dates from 1769. Disadvantageously situated in regard to the bay, it

began to be deserted in favor of the newer site about ten years ago.

Nothing could seem more desolate than it is now. The usual old mission,

with a few palms and olives about it, stands in a valley, up the pretty

San Diego River, and the earth-works of Commodore Stockton, who threw

them up one night before the enemy knew he was ashore, are seen on a

hill. Rents should be cheap in Old Town, but, according to the gossips

who still sit around the decayed old plaza, they are not. The owners

hold them stiffly yet, on what theory Heaven only knows. The plaza has a

toppling flag-staff, a decayed music-stand, and vestiges of a number of

burned edifices, which have never been worth anybody’s while to build up

again. The “Merchants’ Exchange” will never supply cocktails to thirsty

soul again; the Cosmopolitan Hotel is without a guest; whole rows of

weather-beaten adobes—whole quarters—stand vacant. It should be a great

place for ghosts. But perhaps they do not care for one another’s society.

The children, coming from school—for there is, it seems, a school—amuse

themselves with knocking at and rattling the vacant doors; then they peer

in at the broken window-panes and shout, and run laughing away.

IV.

[Illustration: DON JUAN FORSTER.]

In leaving San Diego I traversed the surveyed line of the new railroad

almost due northward. A thirty-mile section of the railroad was already

built. The rest of the journey was made by wagon, with an occasional

half-day’s pedestrianism, for which the dry, smooth surface of the ground

is well adapted. It afforded opportunity of making the acquaintance

in a leisurely way of some of the ranchmen, small and great, of the

old school. The principal one of these was Don Juan Forster (deceased

since this visit), well known in his section. He was English by birth,

but sailed with his father in a trading vessel, and became a Mexican

subject and resident of California long before the American conquest.

It was so long before that he had well-nigh forgotten his English, and

had to learn it over again when the Americans arrived. The Señora, a

sister of Governor Pio Pico, never learned it at all, any more than her

conservative brother.

[Illustration: SEÑORA FORSTER.]

Don Juan’s estate, the Santa Margarita Ranch, comprised an area of

twenty-seven miles by fourteen, or one hundred and forty-five thousand

acres of land. There was one fence seventeen miles in length, and another

ten. The owner had made two distinct efforts to colonize a portion of his

land, without great success. He had offered in London to give forty acres

and the use of three cows and two horses to whoever would put upon the

land improvements, in the shape of houses, vineyards, etc., to the amount

of $1000.

[Illustration: FORSTER’S RANCH.]

The Santa Margarita ranch-house is of adobe, very thick-walled, with

a terrace in front, and an interior court. The waiting at table was

by a broad-faced Indian woman in calico. All the domestic service was

performed by mission Indians, except the cooking, for which a Chinaman

had lately been secured, with the view of having meals on time. The

manner of living on these great places was found comfortable, but without

the “princely” features attributed to it in some of the highly colored

narratives of former travellers.

The greater part of the available land in the section was devoted to

pasture. The cereals were cultivated, but not much fruit. Barley is the

favorite cereal, as less liable to “rust” and spoil than wheat. Hay

is made, not of grass, but of wheat and barley straw, cut green, with

the milk still in it. Bee-culture is an important industry. A number

of varieties of wild sage, wild buckwheat and sumac, furnish the bees

exceptionally good provender. Rows of the square hives, painted in

colors, were often seen districted into little streets on the hill-side,

or at the mouth of some small cañon, like a miniature city.

Before reaching Don Juan Forster’s the old mission of San Luis Rey is

encountered, in the hamlet of the same name. It is almost Venetian

in aspect. The whole exterior was at one time faced with a diagonal

pattern recalling that of the Ducal Palace. The pile was ruined by a

Mormon contingent of the American forces engaged in the conquest of the

State. Parts of the heavy adobe walls and buttresses have fallen in, and

resolved themselves back into their original element as mere earth-heaps.

The images have been shot and hacked down, and a yawning cavern was

excavated behind the main altar in search of fancied treasure. Upon

a floor strewn with such _débris_ and with fragments of red tiles the

daylight falls curiously, through holes in the broken roof and dome.

[Illustration: SAN LUIS REY.]

The railroad traverses some striking natural scenery. Most notable is the

Temecula Cañon, a gorge of a wild and grand description, ten miles in

length, through the Coast Range. A brawling stream runs down its centre.

The gorge was filled with a busy force, as we passed, terracing up the

track along its sides, sometimes on the natural rock, sometimes on a

cyclopean retaining-wall of immense bowlders. Toward evening every day

the firing of heavy blasts reverberated up the defile like a cannonade.

The main part of the laboring force consisted of Chinamen. They had

utilized the shelving ledges and random nooks by the stream for their

tents and cooking-ovens with great ingenuity. The Mexicans and Indians,

who formed the contingent next in importance, were in every way less

provident. The surveyors were found pleasant and hospitable fellows,

as surveyors at the scene of their labors are apt to be. Compactness

and convenience had been reduced to the lowest terms, but a pleasant

existence seemed possible in their small tents. A Chinese cook was

attached to each camp, and the provisions and fare were excellent.

[Illustration: A TICHBORNE CLAIMANT.]

While coming up in the construction-train over the section of already

completed road we had the distinction of being waited on by a servant of

rather uncommon pretensions. This was a certain “Charley,” a shock-headed

boy of fourteen, son of a later Tichborne claimant, who had strangely

arisen at San Diego just then, and announced his purpose of again

contesting the title. Though serving in a menial capacity—while his

father, who claimed to have good and sufficient reason for having kept

quiet till now, was taking the necessary steps to secure the long-lost

title and fortune—“Charley” was deaf to all banter on the subject. He was

supercilious and firm in the faith that he too was a Tichborne.

“And don’t you forget it,” he threw out to us by way of a parting

injunction.

Out of the cañon, at the van of the construction work, we were on the

Temecula Plains, a part of the Upper Santa Ana Valley. The course of

the road was marked henceforth only by an occasional surveyor’s stake.

We rode over fifty miles of absolutely treeless, verdureless desert.

It was desert, however, with a certain fascination in its sterility.

It had a distinct beauty of coloring. The brown, drab, and blackish

waste, catching sparkles of light on its flinty surface, shimmered in

the sunshine. The heat was tempered by a gentle breeze. Crags of black,

water-worn rock, which had once been reefs in an inland sea, rose in

bold, fantastic shapes, and noble mountain ranges stood up along the

distant horizons, their rugged harshness softened into blues and purples

by a delicious veiling atmosphere.

Half-way across we fell in with a single sign of human life, in the shape

of an abandoned pine shanty. On going around to the rear the boards

were found to have been knocked off, probably to be used for fuel. Some

former travellers, halting here like ourselves, had occupied a part of

their leisure with writing inscriptions in lead-pencil. One had written a

direction about drinkable water in the neighborhood. Another, apparently

finding this erroneous, had inscribed below it, with much more vigor than

regard for adopted usages in spelling, “Lyor!!”

The sole piece of furniture remaining was a rusted cooking-stove,

standing on three legs. It had a certain almost diabolic, knowing air.

You suspected it of having lost its other leg in waltzing about and

holding high carnival, as no doubt it did, with the coyotes, gophers,

tarantulas, and lizards who dropped in to pay it visits.

XXX.

_ACROSS ARIZONA._

I.

If there be anything politically disrupting in mere topography, the

section cut off by the range below the Los Angeles and Riverside country

should also be made a separate State. It should clamor at any rate to be

joined to Arizona, since it is Arizona that it follows in climate, and

not California. South-east of the low San Gorgonio Pass the seasons are

the same as those of Mexico; that is to say, the rains fall in summer,

while northward they fall in the winter and spring. Thunder-storms on

each side of the mountains may be plainly visible from the other, but do

not pass the limit.

I myself saw, from the Arizona side, in December, in hot, clear sunshine

at the time, murky clouds billowing above the range, and the lightnings

playing in them, and, on returning to Los Angeles, found it drenched in

its first showers of the season.

There is one excellent reason why the inhabitants of the section do

not raise such a clamor, which is, that there are no inhabitants worth

mentioning. For a hundred and fifty miles, from the pass, to the Arizona

frontier at Yuma, the railroad hardly knows any local traffic. Its

route is over the celebrated “Colorado Desert,” in comparison with

which previous deserts are of small importance. There are various

stopping-places, with designations on the map, but these are rarely more

than signal-stations where the locomotive, like the passengers, stops to

slake its thirst at a series of artesian wells.

The plain is not of great extent laterally. Black and purplish mountains

are always in sight, and spurs cross the track. Bowlders and pebbles are

scattered thickly on the surface at first, among patches of bunch-grass.

Then, near Seven Palms, the jaws of the black and purple mountains open

and receive us into the genuine desert. It is strewn with bowlders still,

but is itself a waste of drifting white sand, with large dunes and hills

of sand. One might be riding on the shores of Coney Island or Long Branch.

A singular depression below the level of the sea for a hundred miles,

and at its lowest point nearly three hundred feet, is traversed. At Dos

Palmas, in the very bottom of it, a board shanty, covered with signs in

amateurish lettering, indicating that it is a saloon, stands entirely

alone. Surely the bar-keeper must consume his own drinks, and lead

an existence unprecedented among his kind. No; a horseman in Mexican

accoutrements dashes across the plain—though where he should dash from,

and how he should ride anything, here in the bottom of the sea, but the

skeleton, say, of a dolphin or a sea-horse, is a mystery—pulls up, and

enters.

And it appears, on a better acquaintance with Dos Palmas, that a stage

starts every other day for points on the Colorado River, and Prescott,

the capital of Arizona Territory, and that this is but a faint survival

of bustle which once reigned here before the advent of the railroad. The

route of the Southern Overland Mail then came this way, and long trains

of immigrant and freight wagons, carrying water in casks for two and

three days’ supply, were passing continually over these wastes.

Nothing, on general principles, would appear more depressing than such

a country, but as a matter-of-fact it is a stimulus to the curiosity,

and furnishes real entertainment. One would not wish to be abandoned

there without resources, it is true, but he does not tire of looking

at it from the car-window. Its blazing dryness is disinfectant and

preservative. There can never exist the last extreme of sadness where the

element of decay by damp and mould is not present. Chemical processes

are those which are principally going on. Wonders of almost any sort may

be expected, and you almost look for phantoms not of earth among the

shifting mirages.

A considerable part of Arizona, as well, is of the same character, but it

is estimated by competent authority that with irrigation thirty-seven per

cent. of that Territory can be redeemed for agriculture, and sixty per

cent. as pasturage. It will be called to mind that even the apparently

hopeless Colorado Desert, which is below the level of the sea, is also

below the level of the Colorado River, from which water might perhaps be

spread over it with comparative ease.

The truly patriotic Arizonian in their neighborhood is not ashamed of

his encompassing deserts, but rather proud of them, and with a certain

reason. The desert is in reality a laboratory of useful products. Paper

is made from the yucca, or Spanish-bayonet, which abounds in parts of it.

There are tracts of salt, borax, gypsum, sulphur, asbestos, and kaolin,

and quarries of pumice-stone, only waiting shipment. It is maintained,

also, that it has deposits of the same precious metals which, mined in

places where water is more accessible, have given the Territory most of

its present fame.

Our train runs out upon a long wooden drawbridge, across the Colorado

River, and we arrive at Yuma. The company has placed here the first of

its series of hotels of uniform pattern. It is both station and hotel.

Such provision on an equal scale of comfort would hardly have been

judicious yet as an investment for private persons. These structures

therefore become not only a typical feature of the scenery, but an

indication of the extent to which the railroad has had to, and has been

able to, by reason of its ample resources, take this bare new country

into its own hands. They are of the usual reddish-brown, two stories in

height, and surrounded by piazzas of generous width—an indispensable

adjunct under the dazzling light and heat of the country.

II.

The heat of Yuma is proverbial. The thermometer ranges up to 127° in the

shade. There is an old story of a soldier who died at the fort and went

to the place which Bob Ingersoll says does not exist, and, finding it

chilly there by comparison, sent back after his blankets.

Great heat, nevertheless, is not equally formidable everywhere. It is

well attested that there is no sunstroke here, and no such suffering as

from a much lower temperature in moister climates. Distinct sanitary

properties are even claimed for this well-baked air. So near the

sea-level, it is said to be less rarefied, and to comprise, therefore,

a greater quantity of oxygen to a given bulk, than that of mountain

districts, which, in purity and dryness, it resembles. It is thought to

be beneficial in lung troubles. Yuma, among its arid sand-hills, has

aspirations to be a sanitarium. Civilized people also may yet resort

there to engage in a sensible sun-worship, basking in the genial heat,

and then plunging into the river, after the fashion of the resident

Indians, who make of it in this way a kind of natural Turkish bath.

[Illustration: THE COLORADO RIVER AT YUMA.]

A transition state may have disadvantages, even when a step toward

something better. Yuma has now its railroad, and is to have a

shipping-port of its own, by the construction of another to Port Ysabel,

on the Gulf of California. Still, it laments a greater activity it once

enjoyed, as chief distributing point for the mines and upper river towns.

It expects the Port Ysabel Railroad to have the effect of doubling its

population in two years. It will not be a very stupendous population even

then, as it is but fifteen hundred at present.

The town is a collection of inferior adobe houses, a few of the very

best being altered from the natural mud-color by a coating of whitewash.

The ordinary part of it resembles more the poor tropical hamlets on the

trail to Acapulco than even the ordinary villages of Mexico. The houses

consist of a framework of cottonwood or ocotilla wattles, plastered with

mud inside and out, making a wall two or three inches thick. The roof is

thatched, the floor is the bare ground. Around them are generally high

palisades of ocotilla sticks, and corrals of the same adjoining.

The waiters in a Yuma hotel are of a highly miscellaneous character.

You are served, in the same dining-room, by Mexicans, Chinamen, Irish,

Americans, and a tame Apache Indian. One and all had a certain astounded

air, ending in something like confirmed depression, on finding that we

were to remain, would dine at our leisure, and did not wish to have the

dishes shot at us as if out of a catapult, after the practice with the

ordinary traveller pausing here his allotted half-hour. One does not

expect too much of his waiter in Arizona, however. There are reported

instances in which he makes you eat your steak with his hand on his

pistol-pocket, and the threat of wearing it out on you if you object.

The Colorado at Yuma makes about the same impression as to width as the

Sacramento at Sacramento, the Ohio at Pittsburg, or the Connecticut at

Hartford. It is a turbulent yellow stream. It cuts into high sand bluffs

on the Arizona side, and spreads out their contents in wide bars on the

California side. It is without wharves. The light-draught, high-decked

steamboats, or barges, that ply up and down its interminable reaches tie

up when necessary to the banks.

Mountains of a jagged, eccentric formation follow its general course

northward. Peaks impressively counterfeiting human work, Castle Dome,

Chimney Peaks, Picacho, and Cargo Muchacho, loom up along the horizon, a

fitting prelude to the marvels of Arizona.

It was at the close of an Indian war that this visit was made. It had

been said, in rumors much exaggerated, that the whole white civilization

of the Territory was in danger by the outbreak, and troops—but now on

their return—had been hurried thither from all sides. The first view

of Indians, therefore, at Yuma was of a double interest. They were not

Apaches, it is true, but a subsequent acquaintance with the general

field proved them to be even more picturesque. They are of that highly

satisfactory style of savages who wear but little clothing, and none of

it European. They are to be seen in numbers about the railway-station by

the most casual passenger. The railroad is still new to them, and they

have not satiated their curiosity. They bring friends from a distance to

see it, and are observed describing to these visitors how the drawbridge

swings, and how the cars are switched from one track to another.

They are met with coming across this bridge from the patch of

river-bottom near the fort on the California side, where their principal

settlement is. The young men run or stride at great speed, so as to

throw out behind them a long red sash or band, depending from the

breech-cloth, which is, in summer, the principal part of their attire. To

this is added, in winter, a close-fitting gray or crimson under-shirt.

They wear their thick, coal-black hair “banged” low on their foreheads,

and bushy about their necks. The effect at a little distance is not

unlike that of the Florentine period, when the young gallants wore

jerkins and trunk hose fitting them like their skins, and just such bushy

locks, which they crowned, however, instead of going bare-headed, with

jaunty velvet caps.

[Illustration: PASQUAL, CHIEF OF THE YUMAS.]

The fort is without guns, other than a howitzer for firing salutes, and

has no strength, as it no longer needs to have, except from its position

on a commanding bluff. The military policy of the government now is to

station its troops along a railroad or other easy line of communication,

where they can be quickly massed for mutual support. All the Arizona

posts, such as Camp Lowell, with its grassy parade and fine avenue of

cottonwoods; Camp Grant, on its table-land; and Camp Apache, at the

junction of two charming trout streams, in the White River Cañon; and the

others, have only this strategic importance, and no intrinsic strength.

The barracks at Yuma consist of a series of comfortable, large, adobe

houses, plastered, and painted green, around an oblong plaza. They have

in front a peculiar screen-work of green blinds, which shuts out the

glare arising from the yellow ground, and makes both a cool promenade and

comfortable sleeping apartments for the summer.

[Illustration: YUMA INDIANS AT HOME.]

The chief of the Yumas, on whose settlement the fort looks down, chooses

his sub-chiefs, but is himself appointed by the military commandant. The

last investiture was made as long ago as 1852, by General, then Major,

Heintzelman. He conferred it upon the now wrinkled and decrepit Pasqual,

described at the time as “a tall, fine-looking man, of an agreeable

disposition.”

Pasqual’s people cultivate little patches of vegetables and hay in

the river-bottom, fertilized by the annual overflow. Their principal

sustenance, however, is the sweet bean of the mesquit-tree. This they

pound, in mortars, into a kind of flour. Sometimes, when on the move, the

Indians float their hay across the river on rafts, which they push before

them, swimming. They propel the small children in the same way, placing

them in their large, Egyptian-looking _ollas_, or water-jars.

The crop of mesquit beans was so large one year as to be beyond their

unaided capacity to consume, and they hospitably invited in their

friends, the Pimas, to aid them. Old Pasqual describes with graphic

gestures how haggard and lank were these visitors on their arrival, and

what an unctuous corpulence they had attained in the end, when, after

nearly eating their hosts out of house and home, they were only got rid

of at last by force.

III.

Few things are more curious at this time of day than to look back at

the old maps of our Western possessions previous to the annexation of

Texas. Texas was not then ours; nor were a considerable part of Indian

Territory, Kansas, half of Colorado, all of Utah, Nevada, California,

Arizona, and New Mexico. All of this belonged to our sister republic of

Mexico, which, as I have said, was within an ace as large as ourselves,

and, except for its internal dissensions, could by no means be considered

a puny antagonist.

An impressive vagueness attended the delineation of most things west

of the Mississippi. There were great tracts hardly more known than the

centre of Africa. The upper regions of Mexico were distinguished as

Interna; New Mexico and Arizona were simply Apacheria—Apache Land. Our

frontier ran along the line of the Sabine River to the Red, from the Red

to the Arkansas, and from the Arkansas, on the 42d Parallel of latitude,

straight west to the Pacific Ocean. By the peace of Guadalupe Hidalgo our

frontier became the Rio Grande and Gila instead, and the line had dropped

from Parallel 40° to Parallel 32°.

I have called this territory heretofore, by way of figure of speech,

an Alsace-Lorraine of Mexico, though it is not probable, vacant as it

was, and Americanized as it now is, that a serious grudge is still borne

us for it, or that there will ever be momentous wars for its recovery.

However this may be, it has been the making of us. We should be in

but sorry shape indeed had we to go back to the limits of the thirteen

original British Colonies, or even to these with Florida, purchased from

the Spaniards, and Louisiana, purchased from the French, added. The

Mexican acquisition gave us one-third of our domain—that which is now

most open to the teeming millions of Europe and that which avails us our

repute for essential Americanism abroad. It gave us the field of the Bret

Harte school in literature, our chief marvels and wonders, our mines of

the precious metals, and the command of the Pacific Ocean.

The lower belt of Arizona was not even comprised in this. An area of

460 miles by 130, below the Gila River, was not obtained till “the

Gadsden Purchase,” in 1853. By the payment of the sum of $10,000,000

under this treaty we obtained a number of decided advantages. We

rectified our boundary line, confused through the inaccuracy of the map

of one Dwinelle, on which it was based. We got rid of an embarrassing

engagement, of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, to protect the Mexican

frontier from Apaches—leaving them to regulate this service for

themselves. We secured the right of way for a railroad across the Isthmus

of Tehuantepec, which was thought desirable for speedier communication

with our new possessions of California.

But above all we acquired, in the easy levels below the Gila, the natural

route for a Southern Pacific transcontinental railway. The files of

the Congressional _Globe_ of that date are full of the necessity of

binding our Pacific acquisitions securely to the rest of the country,

and the most effectual of all the means proposed was considered to be a

transcontinental railway.

Well, we are bowling at last along that now actually constructed Southern

Pacific Railroad, once discussed in musty debates of the Congressional

_Globe_. It increases our respect for predecessors to whom we may not

have given any great consideration heretofore to find how sagacious

they were. We reach Stanwix, with its lava beds; Painted Rock, named

from huge, mysteriously-decorated bowlders; Casa Grande, from its

architectural ruins of the Toltecs; and Tucson.

Adopting the policy of leaving Tucson to be examined on the return, let

us push on to the extreme end of the Territory—to the eccentrically-named

Tombstone. Benson, the point of departure, from the railroad, for

Tombstone, is 1024 miles from San Francisco, and probably 2500 from New

York.

XXXI.

_TOMBSTONE._

I.

Tombstone is the very latest and liveliest of those mushroom

civilizations which so often gather around a “find” of the precious

metals. They live at a headlong pace; draw to them wild and lawless

spirits; confer great fortunes here, the grave of the drunkard, the

suicide, or the victim of violence elsewhere. A school of literature,

with Bret Harte as its exponent, has arisen to celebrate their doings.

At the present rate of advance of population and conventional usages

westward they must shortly disappear as effectually as the dodo of

tradition. While things go well with them the prices of commodities are

hardly considered. Nobody haggles. The most expensive of everything is

what is most wanted.

“Diamonds—two-hundred-dollar watches and chains—Lord! we couldn’t hand

’em out fast enough,” says an ex-jeweller, describing his experience at

one of the camps in its palmy days. “Champagne wasn’t good enough for me

then,” says a seedy customer, recalling his doings after the discovery

and sale of a rich mine. He sighed for a repetition of the event, not to

make provision for his old age, which sadly needed it, but that he might

have “one more glorious spree” before he died.

Oftentimes this rush of life departs as quickly as it came. Some fine day

the “lead” is exhausted, there is found to be no more treasure in the

mines. The heterogeneous elements scatter, and the town, be it never so

well built, is left as desolate as Tadmor of the Wilderness. In a certain

Nevada mining town, which once numbered some thousands of inhabitants,

Indians are living in rows of good brick houses, having adapted them to

their peculiar conditions by taking out doors and windows and knocking

holes in the roof.

A six-horse Concord coach carried us, not too speedily, over the

twenty-five miles of dusty road to Tombstone. It was called the “Grand

Central,” after one of the prosperous silver mines of the place. A rival

line was named the “Sandy Bob,” from its proprietor; who preferred to

be himself thus known, instead of by a conventional family appellation

such as anybody might have. We should certainly have taken the “Sandy Bob

Line” for its greater suggestiveness, except that it seemed to be coming

down when we wanted to go up, and always coming up when we wanted to go

down.

Our own proved to have plenty of suggestiveness too. A guard got up with

a Winchester rifle, and posted himself by the Wells-Fargo Express box,

and the driver began almost at once to relate robber stories. His stage

had been stopped and “gone through” twice within the past six months. The

affair had been enlivened on the one occasion by a runaway and turnover,

and on the other by the shooting and killing of the driver. Of this last

item his successor spoke with a natural disgust. If the line could not be

drawn at drivers, he said, things had indeed come to a pretty pass. He

respected a man who took to the road and robbed those who could afford

it. At least, he considered it more honorable than borrowing money of

a friend which you knew you could never repay, or than gobbling up the

earnings of the poor, like a large firm lately suspended in Pima County.

But as to shooting a driver, even in mistake for somebody else, he had no

words to express his sense of its meanness.

[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF TOMBSTONE.]

He threw stones at his horses, as in Mexico, that is, at the leaders,

beyond the reach of his long lash. The same stone was made to “carom”

from one to the other, such was his skill, and startle them both.

Long string-teams of mules or Texas steers, sixteen to a team, with

ore-wagons, were met with along the road. Mexican-looking drivers trudged

beside them in the deep, yellow dust, cracking their animals lustily with

huge “black-snakes.” Mesquit-bushes, and long grass dried to hay—not as

good as it looked—covered portions of the surface; the rest was bare and

stony.

We rode for a certain distance beside the branch railroad in course

of construction between Benson and Tombstone. A series of lateral

valleys along the tributaries of the Gila, north and south, as the Santa

Cruz, Salt River, San Carlos, San Pedro, and San Simon Valleys, afford

excellent stock ranges, promise of a flourishing agriculture, and easy

routes for tributary railways. They have already begun to be utilized.

The San Pedro has the Southern Pacific branch above mentioned, and the

Santa Cruz will have the Arizona Southern, connecting the centre of

the Territory at Florence, on the Atlantic and Pacific, with Mexico at

Calabasas. The transcontinental road—or roads, when the Atlantic and

Pacific shall have been built—will draw through these tributary valleys,

as the Gila draws its waters, a trade from Northern Mexico, where mining

enterprises in particular, in the hands of Americans, are making great

headway.

The route began to be very much up-hill. We changed horses and lunched at

Contention City. One naturally expected a certain belligerency in such

a place, but none appeared on the surface during our stay. There were

plenty of saloons—the “Dew-drop,” the “Head-light,” and others—and at the

door of one of them a Spanish señorita smoked a cigarette and showed her

white teeth.

Contention City is the seat of stamp-mills for crushing ore, which is

brought to it from Tombstone. The latter place is without an efficient

water-power. The stamps are rows of heavy beams, which drop upon the

mineral, on the mortar and pestle plan, with a continuous dull roar, by

night as well as day.

“That’s the music I like to hear,” said our driver, gathering up his

reins, “poundin’ out the gold and silver. There ain’t no brass bands

ekils it.”

The route grew steeper yet. On the few wayside fences that exist were

painted flaring announcements, as “Go To Bangley and Schlagenstein’s At

Tombstone. They Are The Bosses, You Bet.”

Then over the edge of bare hills appeared Tombstone itself, a large,

circular water-tank, big enough for a fort, painted with advertisements,

the most conspicuous object in the foreground.

II.

At the beginning of the year 1878 there was not so much as a tent

at Tombstone. One “Ed” Schieffelin and his brother started thither

prospecting. It was supposed to be an adventure full of dangers. At the

Santa Rita silver mines, in the Santa Cruz Valley, for instance, nothing

like so far away, three superintendents had been murdered by Indians in

rapid succession.

His friends therefore said to Ed, “Better take your coffin with you; you

will find your tombstone there, and nothing else.”

But Ed Schieffelin—a young man yet, who has not discarded a picturesque

way of dressing of which he was fond, nor greatly altered his habits

otherwise—found instead the Tough Nut and Contention Mines. He made a

great fortune out of them, and was so pleased at the difference between

the prediction and the result that he gave the name of Tombstone to the

town itself.

One of two well-printed daily papers has assumed the corresponding

title of the _Epitaph_. The unreliability of epitaphs—if the remark may

be safely ventured even at this distance—is proverbial. Nevertheless,

they may occasionally tell the truth. From appearances it would seem

that this was one of the occasions. Almost any eulogy of its subject

by the _Epitaph_ would seem justified. The city, but two years old

at this date, had attained to a population of 2000, and a property

valuation, apart from that of the mines, of $1,050,980. A desirable

lot of 30 by 80 feet, on Allen Street, between Fourth and Sixth—such

was the business-like nomenclature used already in this settlement of

yesterday—was worth $6000. A shanty that cost $50 to build rented for $15

a month. A nucleus of many blocks at the centre consisted of substantial,

large-sized buildings, hotels, banks—Schieffelin Hall, for meetings

and amusements—and stores stocked with goods of more than the average

excellence in many older and larger towns.

[Illustration: “ED” SCHIEFFELIN.]

The mining claims run under the city itself. From the roof of the Grand

Hotel you look down at the shafts, hoist-works, and heaps of extracted

ore of the Vizina, the Gilded Age (close to the Palace Lodging-house),

the Mountain Maid, and other mines, opening strangely in the very midst

of the buildings. This circumstance has given rise to disputes of

ownership, so that whoever would be safe purchases all the conflicting

titles, both above ground and below. On a commanding hill close by, to

the southward, are the Tough Nut and Contention, and above them many

others later discovered. The larger mines had extensive buildings, of

wood, and in handsome draughting and assay rooms within were regularly

educated scientists, ex-college professors and the like, in charge. The

lesser mines put up in the beginning with commoner sheds and poorer

appliances of every kind. About them all lie heaps of a blackish

material, resembling inferior coal and slate, the silver ore in its

native condition. A laborer above-ground earned $3.50, and below-ground

$4, for a “shift” of eight hours, and the work went on night and day,

Sundays and all.

I leave to others to estimate the bulk of treasure in the place. I was

told that it was “the biggest thing since the Comstock,” and there

were forty million dollars in sight. I was offered, daily, fractional

interests in mines, now by a young surveyor who was going to be married

and needed money for his wedding outfit; now by new friends who were

straitened for assessment funds to carry out the provisions of the

law; and again by others who would kindly make any sacrifice for the

pleasure of associating a traveller from a distance with the interests

of the place; and yet it will be well for the novice to be wary of these

seductive openings at Tombstone, as elsewhere.

This I know, however, that I descended four hundred feet or so into

the Contention Mine, and found great chambers hollowed out, from which

mineral had been taken, showing a generous width in the vein. The yield,

from its discovery up to March, 1881, had been $2,000,000. The Tough Nut,

with the Lucky Cuss, Good Enough, Owl’s Nest, and Owl’s Last Hoot—the

racy vernacular of their names will be observed—had yielded $1,000,000.

The outskirts of Tombstone consisted still of huts and tents. A burly

miner could be seen stretched upon his cot in a windowless cabin,

barely large enough to contain him. There were some tents provided with

wooden doors and adobe chimneys. New as it was, the business portion

of the place had been once swept out of existence by a devastating

fire, which originated from a characteristic incident—the explosion of

a whiskey-barrel in the Oriental Saloon. Within fourteen days all was

rebuilt far better than before.

I took the pains to count the number of establishments in a single short

block of Allen Street at which intoxicating liquors were sold. There were

the bar-rooms of two hotels, the Eagle Brewery, the Cancan Chop-house,

the French Rôtisserie, the Alhambra, Maison Doré, City of Paris, Brown’s

Saloon, Fashion Saloon, Miners’ Home, Kelly’s Wine-house, the Grotto,

the Tivoli, and two saloons apparently unnamed. At these places gambling

also went on without let or hinderance. The absence of savings-banks or

other opportunity for depositing money, in these wild communities, and

the temptation arising from having it always under the eye, no doubt

has something to do with the general passion for gambling. Whiskey and

cold lead are named as the leading diseases at Tombstone. What with the

leisure that seems to prevail, the constant drinking and gambling at the

saloons, and the universal practice of carrying deadly weapons, there is

but one source of astonishment, and that is that the cold-lead disease

should claim so few victims. Casualties are, after all, infrequent,

considering the amount of vaporish talk indulged in, and the imminent

risks that are run. The small cemetery, over toward Contention Hill,

so far from being glutted with the slaughtered, is still comparatively

virgin ground.

III.

A farther element in addition to that of the miners is to be cited as

having a good deal to do with the exceptional liveliness of Tombstone—the

“Cow-boys.”

The term cow-boy, once applied to all those in the cattle business

indiscriminately, while still including some honest persons, has been

narrowed down to be chiefly a term of reproach for a class of stealers

of cattle, over the Mexican frontier, and elsewhere, who are a terror in

their day and generation. Exceptional desperadoes of this class, such

as “Billy the Kid,” “Curly Bill,” and “Russian George,” have been the

scourges of whole districts in Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, and

have had their memories embalmed in yellow-covered literature.

I bought on the train, on leaving, a pamphlet purporting to be an account

of the exploits of Billy the Kid. He had committed, it appeared, at

least a score of horrid murders, but “so many cities have claimed the

honor of giving him birth,” said my pamphlet, “that it is difficult to

locate with any accuracy the locality where he passed his youth.” It

was finally determined, however, in favor of New York. “It was on the

Bowery,” said the author, whose ideas of morality were peculiar even for

a sensationalist, “that his mates learned to love him for his daring and

prowess, and delighted to refer to him as Billy the Kid.”

This promising life was cut off at the early age of twenty-two. “Curly

Bill,” also died young, and so did “Man-killer Johnson.” I remarked upon

this peculiarity, of their youth, to a philosopher of the region itself.

“Yes,” he said, “they _don’t_ seem to live to be very old; that’s so.”

The recipe for a long life in this country was described as being very

quick and getting “the drop” on an antagonist; that is to say, being

ready to shoot first. Unless this can be done, it is the custom even

to put up with some ignominious abuse at the time, and await a more

favorable opportunity.

The cow-boys frequenting Tombstone were generally from the ranches in the

San Pedro and San Simon valleys. There were said to be strongholds in the

San Simon Valley where they concealed stolen cattle until re-branded and

sent to market, and where no officer of the law ever dared to venture.

They looked upon the running off of stock from Mexico, as far as that was

concerned, only as a more dashing form of smuggling, though it was marked

by frequent bloody tragedies on both sides.

Not to fix upon all the misdeeds of but a few, no doubt there were on

the streets of Tombstone plenty of cow-boys of a legitimate sort, whose

only faults were occasional boisterousness and too free lavishing of

their money. There appeared to be something of a standing feud between

the miners and the cow-boys, and there was besides a faction of “town

cow-boys” organized against the “country cow-boys.”

The leading cattle-men had a Southern cut and accent, and hailed

originally from Missouri or Texas. Some appeared in full black

broadcloth, accompanied by the usual wide sombrero. The landlord of our

hotel described them as “perfect gentlemen,” some of them good at the bar

for as high as $20 or $25 a day.

The great object in life of the various factions, or of individuals who

arose from time to time in search of notoriety, was to “run the town.”

This consisted largely in the privilege of blustering in the saloons,

whooping and firing occasional pistol-shots, if thought good, in the

streets, and having a moderate security from arrest, inspired by dread of

their prowess.

This was necessarily a very insecure preëminence. New aspirants and

rebels were continually piqued into appearing against it whenever it

seemed fairly attained. Our visit happened upon the heels of a conflict

making the most tragic page yet written in the annals of Tombstone.

Opinions seemed divided about it—even official opinions. The sheriff

extended his sympathy to one side, the city marshal, who was, in fact,

its leader, to the other.

City Marshal Earp, with his two brothers, and one “Doc Holliday,” a

gambler, had come down the street, armed with rifles, and opened fire on

two Clanton brothers and two McLowry brothers. The latter party had been

practically first disarmed by the sheriff, who feared such a meeting, and

meant to disarm the others as well. Three of the assailed men fell, and

died. “Ike” Clanton alone escaped.

The slayers were imprisoned, but released on bail. The Grand Jury was

now in session, hearing evidence in the case. It was rumored that the

town party—the Earps—would command a sufficient personal influence to

go free of indictment. The cow-boys were flocking into town to await

the result, and on a certain quiet Sunday wore an ominous look. It was

said that, should justice fail to be done them, the resolute-looking men

conferring together darkly at the edges of the sidewalk would take the

matter into their own hands. The jury, I have since learned, did not find

an indictment, and the remaining parties to the affair, with many others,

I believe, have since died with their boots on in the same cause. If

anything could reconcile us to the untimely taking-off of these paladins,

it would be partly their own contemptuous indifference to it.

It would seem that we ought to have at least half a dozen lives apiece,

to account for such an indifference, but to be ready to toss away

the only one on any and every pretext or no pretext is not at all so

intelligible. It is certainly not the desperation of poverty by which it

is occasioned. Many of them are in very good circumstances. The younger

McLowry, a boy under twenty, had $3000 in his pocket, the proceeds of a

sale of cattle, the day he fell.

The elder Clanton had played cards most of the night before with two

of his deadly enemies, both parties keeping a hand on their pistols

meanwhile. When “Billy” Clanton, a boy, like McLowry, lay prone on the

ground in the fight, dying of his mortal wound, he still managed to get

out a pistol, steadied it on a shattered arm, and fired once more at “Doc

Holliday,” saying,

“I’ll get one of you, any way.”

“You are a daisy if you do,” replied Doc Holliday, continuing to advance

as coolly as if at target practice, and emptying another barrel of his

own into him.

And the last words of Billy Clanton, in the Nibelungen-like contest—which

I am quite aware will not be quoted, in school-readers, with those

of Lawrence, Nelson, and Montcalm, since there was no sense at all in

this frenzied display of pluck and tenacity—were: “For God’s sake more

cartridges!”

[Illustration: A TOMBSTONE SHERIFF AND CONSTITUENTS.]

Meantime the whistles of the mining works were shrieking notes of alarm,

the miners pouring forth from underground, and the reputable citizens,

who might have exclaimed, “A plague o’ both your houses!” arming

themselves in hot haste, and coming to their doors, to prevent the spread

of general anarchy.

There is a grimly humorous element in it all. It seems such an excellent

joke to idly snuff out the most precious of human possessions. A cow-boy

shoots a tumbler from the hand of another, just raised to his lips,

saying, “When you drink with me I will teach you to take whiskey plain,

and no mixtures.”

A group of others sit around in a saloon where lies a fresh-made corpse.

An officer of the law enters, and says, “Who claims this man?” whereupon

all jump to their feet to dispute the honor.

There is a large supply of these amusing stories. To kill your man seems

a way of winning your spurs, as it were, and establishing yourself on

a proper footing in the community. Even the defunct, in various cases,

could he be heard from, would probably find no great fault with the

manner of his taking off, but only with the “luck” of it which had gone

against him.

XXXII.

_CAMP LOWELL, TUCSON, AND SAN XAVIER DEL BAC._

I.

The night journey returning by stage to Benson was enlivened by more

shooting stories. I heard, among others, of the doings of the late

Brazelton of Tucson, and at Tucson I bought his photograph, taken, after

death, in his mask and other paraphernalia of his craft. He robbed stages

for years while apparently working quietly as a hostler in a corral. He

was finally tracked to his fate through some peculiar marks of the horse

he rode.

One of our passengers had just recovered from wounds received in a fight

over cards with a Mexican, whom he had killed, and was now able, with the

aid of morphine, to pursue his journey toward his home in New Mexico. The

train men at Benson were chary of carrying their lanterns about the depot

yard, a habit having arisen, it seemed, among the cow-boys of trying to

snuff out these moving targets with revolvers from a distance.

There seemed a certain tameness even in the Apaches after this wild

product of the higher civilization of the whites. The principal group of

prisoners taken after the attempted massacre of General Carr’s command

was found in confinement at Camp Lowell, nine miles north of Tucson.

There were forty-two of them, with Sanchez, their chief. They were of

fairly regular features, and their expression, with the war-paint washed

off, not unamiable. They were handcuffed together in couples, their legs

also manacled, and now wore gray army under-shirts and cotton drawers,

the rags in which they had come having been taken from them. Their long

black hair hung about their ears, not frowzy, like that of the Yumas, but

smoothly parted in the middle, and brushed back. A number wore red bands

or kerchiefs around their heads.

[Illustration: APACHE PRISONERS AT CAMP LOWELL.]

Seen obscurely in the chief prison-room by side-light from a grated

window, they had a certain resemblance to Greek insurgents, or the _sans

culottes_ of 1793, or, again, the wild Vendean peasants who fought with

Rochejaquelein and Jean Chouan for religion and the king.

They were taken out for an airing in the mornings, and allowed to squat

in the sun at the edge of the pleasant parade-ground, flanked by its

well-shaded row of officers’ dwellings. The recent rising had been the

result of a fanatical delusion. A medicine-man persuaded them that he

had received a revelation to drive all the whites from the land. As soon

as the corn was ripe, he said, their dead brethren would arise and take

arms to aid them in carrying out the decree of Heaven. He had, as many

prophets have not, the courage of his convictions. Though taken in charge

himself by the troops, he gave a signal agreed upon for the massacre of

these to begin, calling to his people not to be concerned about his fate,

as he would come to life and join them again in three days.

The bluff Arizonians are apt to indulge in a derisive way of talking

of the army and its relation to the savages. They would make but short

work of these latter, they say, if they took the matter into their

own hands. They imply that the army does not wish to kill off, or

even wholly put down, the Indians, but rather to preserve them, as a

gentle stimulus to public dread, to hasten promotions, and also to

furnish occasion for profitable supply-contracts. However this may be,

it would seem that after the repression of this revolt, and the rapid

penetration of railroads into the Territory, Indians need no longer be a

deterring influence of great moment with the intending settler. This old

historic source of apprehension seems as good as abolished from its last

stronghold.

Eight miles to the north brings us to a ranch called Fuller’s Hot

Springs. This is one of the few places where a beginning of systematic

cultivation has been made, and interesting besides as a typical Arizona

summer resort. There was a young orchard of twenty-five acres, sheltered

by a wind-break of three rows of ash-trees, doing very well in an alkali

soil. The buildings consisted of a number of unpainted adobe houses, each

of a single large, comfortable room, roofed with strips of cactus.

[Illustration: AN ARIZONA WATERING-PLACE.]

There was a “summer dining-room” made of ocotilla sticks, the intervals

open; and a “winter dining-room,” with tight walls, and a fireplace, in

which a wood-fire was burned mornings and evenings. The hot spring, a

clear, pleasant water, said to resemble English Harrogate, ran out from

below a bath-house, consisting of a patched canvas tent. It became,

below, a pretty brook, a pond for the cattle, and source of supply

for irrigating the orchard. The mountains behind the place, the Santa

Catalinas, are like the Sierra Madres behind Los Angeles. They are of

the same sharp fracture, but higher and grander, jutting up here and

there into as perfect castles as those of Harlech, the Trostberg, or

Rheinstein. Forests of pine of large dimensions crown a part of their

summits. South and south-west, across the wide plain, appear the Rincons

and silver-bearing Santa Ritas.

There was a fascination in being able to examine at leisure the strange

growths of the plain, and not merely to know them in glimpses from the

car-windows. I made haste especially to cut down for inspection an

example of the enormous saguara, the organ-cactus. Taller than that on

the hill-sides of Guerrero along the Acapulco trail, it often rises to a

height of sixty feet, bristles over the landscape like masts or columns,

or, again, like the seven-branched candlestick of the Mosaic law. Inside

it consists of a white, juicy pulp, imbedding a bundle of fibres in the

form of long wands, which, when dried, serve a number of useful purposes.

It has a palatable fruit, which the Indians collect from its top in

August with forked sticks.

[Illustration: CACTUS GROWTHS OF THE DESERT.]

The ocotilla is simply a shrub growing as a wattle of sticks, fifteen or

twenty together, only waiting to be cut down and turned into palings.

The bisnaga is a thorny cactus like an immense watermelon growing on

end. One need never die of thirst where it is found. The cholla is a

mass of spines, which are even barbed, on the fish-hook principle. It is

considered funny to hear of somebody’s falling into a cholla, and nothing

could better represent the traditional “bramble-bush” in which the man

who was so wondrous wise met with the famous adventure of scratching out

his eyes. The “deer-brush” somewhat resembles the horns of the animal.

The palo verde—green stick—grows as large as an apple-tree, with the

texture of a mammoth sea-weed. The “grease-wood” is a large bush, said

to burn just as well when green as dry. Most of this vegetation is

leafless, or rather the plant seems a leaf itself, since coarse bark is

lacking, and the green of chlorophyll and the tenderness of structure

seem equally distributed throughout.

There are homely legends and superstitions about these plants of the

desert. A certain one, for instance, poisons any white spot on a horse,

but not one of any other color. Another, eaten by horses, makes them lazy

and imbecile. The loco, or rattle-weed, on the other hand, drives them

raving crazy, and they try to run themselves to death. I do not know

whether this last be wholly a superstition, for I rode in California a

horse whose eccentric proceedings could hardly be accounted for on any

other basis.

Tucson, from a distance, in early morning or late afternoon, is level,

low, square, and brown, with a mellow light upon it and the castellated

mountains behind it. In the foreground you see lazy ox-wains, a

prospector, perhaps, with his pots and kettles, and a mounted Mexican

towing by a lariat a bull, which ducks its head in vain resistance. From

a distance it is thoroughly foreign, and of attractive promise. There is

something of the Dead Sea apple in the realization of this promise. If

Ruskin be right in holding that a house should be of the general color

of the soil on which it stands, Tucson may lay claim to great artistic

merit. It is entirely of adobe brick of the natural mud-color. Violent

rainstorms occur, to the detriment of paint and kalsomine, on such a

friable surface, and their use becomes a serious question of economy.

[Illustration: STREET VIEW IN TUCSON.]

Tucson has great antiquity as a mere corporate existence. It was founded

by one of the early Spanish expeditions that came up the Santa Cruz

Valley in quest of the reputed treasure of the Aztecs in the fabled “land

of Cibola,” but retains no visible trace of age. If there were ever

any monuments of importance, they have effectually vanished. Even the

church is new. Such foreignness as there is consists of a very provincial

Mexican squalor.

The considerations of interest about it are of a purely utilitarian

character, as: how it is to be paved, drained, lighted, provided with an

adequate water supply, so as not to have to pay four cents a bucket for

it, as at present; and how it is to get rid of its malarial fevers and

shabby rookeries.

A writer in one of the papers one day paid a glowing eulogy to its

peculiar situation, in the desert. He held that this was a matter not

only of those material products which I have mentioned, but also of

the highest moral and intellectual advantages. It was apropos of the

establishment of a public library. No great idea has ever been evolved

in the usual scenes of human habitation (so the argument ran), and that

there is no place for study and contemplation like the desert. Christ,

Mahomet, Zoroaster, and Confucius all formulated their creeds in the

desert. I gathered that we are to expect from Arizona, at the proper

time, some new prophet or sage, to sway again the destinies of men in the

same way.

The correspondent was satisfied, at any rate, that, with a public

library, Tucson could shortly become another Alexandria of the desert,

“a seat of learning and fountain-head of ideas, to be sought by students

from Mexico, from the Pacific Islands, from China and Japan, and the

mountains and valleys of the Rio Grande,” and I for one shall be very

glad to see it so.

[Illustration: EXTERIOR OF MISSION CHURCH OF SAN XAVIER DEL BAC.]

It is the commercial centre of the important Southern mining district,

and has an eligible situation for future development. It has derived in

its time considerable profit from furnishing supplies to the army, and

from a smuggling trade with Mexico. The goods for this latter were taken

out in teams, then “packed” over the mountain passes, on donkeys, to the

objective points of Altar and Magdalena, in cactus-grown, arid Sonora.

The traders at Tucson, again, are largely Jewish. A certain kind of

“life” prevails freely, as at Tombstone. Roulette, faro, and other games

of chance are played in a large way in the leading saloons, while the

poor Mexicans gamble for small stakes at _fondas_ of their own, where

some wretched lithograph of Hidalgo or Zaragoza looks down on them from

the walls. There is lacking, however, the choleric and dangerous air of

Tombstone. People make way for you to pass if you wish, and do not seem

exclusively occupied with looking about for somebody to tread on the

tails of their coats.

If Tucson be without historic remains of its own, it has one of the

loveliest possible in its vicinity, the old mission church of San Xavier

del Bac.

San Xavier is on the reservation of the Christianized Papago Indians, in

the Santa Cruz Valley, ten miles to the southward. It is a new sensation

even for one from Mexico who may have flattered himself that he knew the

style completely. This ancient landmark of a frontier civilization which,

since its destruction, has not been even faintly approached in its kind,

is not surpassed either in Mexico or out of it for the quaintness, the

qualities of form and color, and the gentle sentiment of melancholy that

appeal to the artistic sense. Old Father Time has trodden with heavy step

on green wooden balconies in its front, broken out their floors, and

left parts of them dangling free. The original sweet-toned bronze bells

still hang in one of the towers. The space, terminating in a scrolled

gable, between the towers is enriched with escutcheons and rampant

lions, wreathed in foliage. Niches hold grotesque broken statues, and

complicated pilasters flank the entrance door-way, the whole formed in

stucco upon a basis of moulded bricks. Where a portion has fallen away it

can be seen that the pilasters are constructed upon or held together by a

centre consisting of a stick of timber.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CHURCH OF SAN XAVIER DEL BAC.]

The designer, whoever he may have been, was inspired by

Venetian-Byzantine traditions. It is roofed with numerous simple

domes and half-domes. The interior of these, frescoed with angels and

evangelists, the chancel walls, almost covered with gilding, but stained

and battered, and the painted and gilded lions on the chancel rails,

recall to the least observant Saint Mark’s at Venice. The style is not

quite consistently carried out, however. A later rococo decoration, as

exuberant as the vagaries of East Indian work, mingles with and at places

overrides it. A Henri II. candlestick will give a certain idea of the

pattern of the columns.

The date has disappeared from the façade, but it is believed to be about

1768, and the present edifice was built on the ruins of a former one,

going back much nearer to 1654, when the mission to the Papagos was

first begun. Large angels, with bannerets, their draperies formed of

_papier-maché_ or gummed muslin, are attached to the main chancel piers;

and a painted and gilded Virgin, with a long face, and hair brushed up

from a high forehead, as in the sculptures of Jean Goujon, looks down

from a high altar niche.

All within is of a mediæval richness and obscurity. All without is broad

sunshine falling upon the peaceful Papago village. A few old men trudge

about, concerning themselves with their bake-ovens and some water-jars

and strings of dried squashes, and women pass by with tall loads of hay

and other produce carried in the _kijo_, a singular hamper of sticks and

netting, on their backs. Nobody concerns himself about visitors, except a

foolishly smiling boy, one Domingo, who has brought us the key.

To have come from that spasm of aggressive modernism, Tombstone, and to

be at ancient San Xavier del Bac—it seemed to me that contrast could

little farther go.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Detailed figures of our trade with Mexico, and other useful matters,

will be found in the “Border States of Mexico,” by Leonidas Hamilton.

Chicago, 1882.

[2] Brocklehurst’s “Mexico To-day.” John Murray: London, 1883.

[3]

“Si á lo lid contra hueste enemiga

Nos convoca la trompa guerrera,

De Iturbide la sacra bandera,

Mexicanos valientes, seguid!”

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Narrative of Researches and Excavations during Ten Years’ Residence

in that Island. By L. P. DI CESNOLA. With Portrait, Maps, and 400

Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, Extra, Gilt Tops and Uncut Edges, $7 50.

TENNYSON’S COMPLETE POEMS. The Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson. With

numerous Illustrations by Eminent Artists, and Three Characteristic

Portraits. 8vo, Paper, $1 00; Cloth, $1 50.

VAN-LENNEP’S BIBLE LANDS. Bible Lands: their Modern Customs and Manners

Illustrative of Scripture. By HENRY J. VAN-LENNEP, D.D. 350 Engravings

and 2 Colored Maps. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00; Sheep, $6 00; Half Morocco or Half

Calf, $8 00.

GROTE’S HISTORY OF GREECE. 12 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $18 00; Sheep, $22 80;

Half Calf, $39 00.