In the southern part of the Mojave Desert a low hill stands somewhat
apart from the foot-hills beyond, and back of it. Although not more
than two hundred feet above the surrounding plateau, on account of its
peculiar location, a commanding view may be had from its top. In front,
toward the south, and extending all the way from east to west, the plain
stretches off for many miles, until it approaches the distant horizon,
where it is merged into lofty mountains, forming a tumultuous, serrated
sky-line. Midway between the hill and the distant mountains, lie the
beds, sharply defined, of three dry lakes. In the garish light of day
they show for what they are, the light yellow hard-baked soil of the
desert, without even the ordinary sage brush; but in early morning and,
less frequently, toward evening, these lakes take on a semblance of
their former state, sometimes (so strong is the mirage) almost deceiving
those best acquainted with the region. Years ago--how many it would
be difficult to say--these dry lakes were veritable bodies of water;
indeed, at an earlier period than that, they were, without doubt, and
including a large extent of the surrounding desert, one vast lake. But
that was centuries ago, maybe, and with time the lake dried up, leaving,
at last, only these three light spots in the view, which, in their
turn, are growing smaller with the passing years, until they, too, will
vanish, obliterated by the encroaching vegetation.
Back of the eminence from which this extended view is had, the mountains
come close, not as high as those toward the south, but still respectable
heights, snow-covered in winter. They array themselves in fantastic
shapes, with colors changing from hour to hour. One thinks of the
desert as a barren sandy waste, minus water, trees and other vegetation,
clouds, and all the color and beauty of nature of more favored
districts. Not so. Water is scarce, it is true, and springs few and far
between, and the vegetation is in proportion; for what little there
is is mostly dependent on the annual rainfall, never excessive, at the
best, yet always sufficient for the brush covering the ground, and
the yuccas towering up many feet here and there. But color, beautiful,
brilliant, magnificent color, is here any and every day of the year, and
from earliest dawn until the last traces of the evening sun have faded
away, only to give place to moonlight unsurpassed anywhere in the world.
Truly, the desert is far from being the dry, desolate, uninteresting
region it is commonly pictured.
More than a century and a quarter ago, there stood on the side of this
hill, and not far from its top, an Indian hut, or wickiup. It was built
after the manner of the Indian tribes of Southern California--a circular
space of about fifteen feet in diameter enclosed by brush-work, and
roofed by a low dome of the same material. At the side was an opening,
too small to permit one to enter without stooping low. This doorway, if
it may be so called, being window and chimney as well, fronted toward
the south, facing the dry lakes and the mountains beyond. Close by,
at the left, was a heap of bones, which, on a nearer view, disclosed
themselves to be those of rabbits, coyotes and quail, while three or
four larger bones in the pile might inform the zoologist that the
fierce mountain-lion was not unknown to this region. To the right of the
doorway, some ten feet from it, were two large flat stones, set facing
each other, a few inches apart; between them lay a handful of ashes,
betokening the kitchen of the family living here. Close by the stones
lay a number of smooth, rounded stones of use and value to the people
of the hut. Back of the wickiup, a few paces up the hill, a tiny spring
issued from the ground, affording a never-failing, though scanty, supply
of water.
The location of this solitary hut, remote from all other signs of
humanity, so far as the eye could judge, was a singular one; for the
Indian loves his kind, and it is rare that one wanders deliberately away
to make his home in loneliness, far from the rest of the tribe to which
he belongs. In the case of this hut, however, its solitariness was
more apparent than real; for although out of sight of any habitation
whatever, the tribe to which its inmates belonged was distant not more
than two miles, but on the other face of the hill, and hidden far in the
recesses of a small canyon. Here, on the site of a beautiful source of
precious water, was a cluster of Indian houses of brush, built like the
one on the hillside. Each had its fireplace on one side, as well as
the accompanying heap of bones of animals killed in the chase. Near
the centre of the group of huts stood the temescal--an institution with
nearly every Southern California tribe of Indians--where those who were
ill subjected themselves to the heroic treatment of parboiling over a
fire, until in a profuse perspiration, to be followed, on crawling out,
by a plunge into the icy water of the stream. It was truly a case of
kill or cure.
Let us return to the hillside hut, and make the acquaintance of its
inmates. Passing through the humble opening, the interior is disclosed
to the curious eye at one glance. The ground embraced within the circle
of the wickiup had been dug away so as to make an even, hard floor two
or three feet below the surface of the earth outside. To the right,
standing on the floor, were two large, round baskets, each one with a
capacity of half a dozen gallons. They were made in conformity to the
general type of basket of the Southern California aborigine, but with
the distinctive marks peculiar to the tribe to which belonged the
dwellers within, and woven so tightly as to hold water without
permitting a drop to pass through. In the bottom of one of these baskets
was scattered a little ground meal of the acorn, a staple article of
food with all the Indians of California. The other basket, similar to
the first in shape and size, but of rougher weave, and lined on the
inside with bitumen, was nearly full of water; for though the
finely woven baskets of the Southern California Indians were really
water-tight, they were not generally used for liquids. Any one,
acquainted with the customs of these Indians, would understand the
meaning of the little heap of stones by the fireside without: they were
used in warming the water in the basket, which was done by heating them
in the embers of the fire, then, when hot, throwing them into the water,
in this way bringing it almost to a boil. Afterward, the stones having
been taken out, some meal was thrown in and, in this manner, cooked.
Beyond the baskets, and nearly opposite the entrance, against the wall,
was a heap of fine brush, covered with the tawny skin of an immense
mountain-lion--a giant specimen of his species, and a formidable animal,
truly, for an Indian to encounter with only bow and arrow.
On this bed of brush was the gaunt, emaciated form of a woman lying
stretched out at full length. At first glance, one might have mistaken
her for a mummy, so still and lifeless she lay; her face, too, carried
out the resemblance startlingly, for it was furrowed and seamed with
countless wrinkles, the skin appearing like parchment in its dry,
leathery texture. Only the eyes gave assurance that this was no mummy,
but a living, sentient body--eyes large, full-orbed and black as
midnight, arched by heavy brows that frowned with great purpose, as if
the soul behind and beyond were seeking, powerless, to relieve itself of
some weighty message. These were not the eyes of age, yet they belonged
to a countenance that gave token of having lived through a great many
years; for the woman lying there so deathly still had experienced
all the varied joys and sufferings of near four score years, each one
leaving its indelible mark on the tell-tale face. She was clothed in a
loose dress made from rabbit skins, sewn together coarsely, sleeveless,
and so short as to leave her feet and ankles bare.
To the left of the entrance crouched a young Indian woman. She was an
unusually good-looking specimen of the desert tribes: a tall well-shaped
form; a head and face of much beauty and character, with a pair of eyes
that, at first glance, betrayed a close relation to the woman lying
on the bed. They were of the same size, color and brilliance; but the
tense, powerful expression that was seen in those of the aged woman,
here was softened to a mild, yet piercing glance, which had, at the same
time, a touch of sadness. She appeared to be not more than twenty-five
years old, although her face, in spite of its gentle, youthful
expression, showed the traces of more than her full quota of hardships;
for the life of the desert Indian is never an easy one at the best, and
here had been a greater struggle for existence than is usual among
the aborigines. As she crouched by the doorway, she seemed almost as
lifeless as the old Indian woman on the bed, her gaze fixed absently on
the extended view of plain and mountain stretching out before her, the
only sign of life being the slow, even rise and fall of her bosom with
each succeeding breath. Her dress was similar to that of the other
woman, but was shorter, reaching only to the knees.
This young Indian was the granddaughter of the older woman. On the death
of her parents (her father’s following that of her mother, the daughter
of the aged Indian, after an interval of a few months), when she was
little more than an infant, her grandmother had taken sole charge of
her, treating her, as she became older, with the closest intimacy, more
as a sister than a grandchild; and notwithstanding the diversity in age,
this, feeling was reciprocated on the part of the child.
It was after her father’s death, but before she herself was old enough
to see more than the surface of action, that her grandmother took up her
abode in the lone hut on the brow of the hill, apart from the rest of
the tribe of which she was a member, with the child her only companion.
At first, the little girl noticed not the difference between their mode
of living and that of the rest of the tribe, all the other members of
which lived together, surrounding the spring of water, their life and
mainstay; but very quickly, as the child grew older, she saw, only too
plainly, that her grandmother was looked upon as different from the
others: and the Indian regards all those of his kin, no matter how near,
who display any peculiar form of mentality, either with reverence, as
something of the divine, or with cruel hatred, when he believes the
unfortunate individual possessed with the evil spirit. She saw, in
the brief and infrequent visits the two made to the tribe, that her
grandmother was regarded with distrust; that glances of aversion were
cast at her from the doorways of the huts as they passed, and, once or
twice, a mischievous boy had slyly thrown a stone at the two, wending
their way to their lonely home.
Long the child cogitated over the situation, but, as is the Indian’s
habit, without a word to her grand parent of what was occupying her
mind. The old woman saw she was absorbed in some mental problem, and,
with the shrewdness of the aborigine, guessed the subject, and sought
to divert her thoughts into other channels. It was in vain, for one
evening, after their simple meal of herbs, the girl, gathering courage,
in the increasing dusk, asked abruptly, after a long silence:
“Grandmother, why do we live here alone, far from the others in the
canyon? Why do we--?” she paused, frightened at her temerity.
The old woman started slightly. She had been sitting with hands folded
quietly in her lap, thinking, possibly, of the absent ones of her
family, gone to be with Ouiot in the everlasting home. Turning to her
granddaughter, she answered, slowly and solemnly:
“My child, I am grieved to have this come upon you now, for I had hoped
you would escape it until, after I am gone to the eternal life beyond.
Then it would not have been to you a burden, only a sorrow, softened
by the thought that I had borne bravely the punishment dealt out to me,
without a word of reproach. I have seen that you had something on your
mind, and guessed this was it, and now that you have asked me, I think
it best to tell you, although you are still but a child. For you would,
I know, brood over it in your heart. Listen, then, while I tell you my
life story.”
“My childhood and youth were passed in a manner no different from that
of the other children of our tribe; I worked and played, careless of
everything but the present, until I was a big girl. I was happy in my
ignorance, for why should I be singled out from all the rest to bear the
honor that was to be thrust upon me? I knew not what was in store for
me.”
“One night, when I was about fifteen years old, I dreamed that the
spring, near which our kindred live, dried up, and forced us to move
to another spring where we had to stay for two months. When I came to
myself (for it was not so much like sleep as a trance), I wondered;
but this passed away after a time, and I had almost forgotten the
occurrence, when one day, about a month later, we were startled by
hearing there was no water in the spring. The winter before had been
very dry, with almost no rain, and fears had been expressed that the
spring would fail us, a thing which had not occurred for more than three
generations. My dream flashed through my mind, only for an instant, but
long enough to imprint the coincidence on my memory. I thought no more
of it, however, until some six months later, after our return to the
spring; for, as I saw it in my dream, we had been forced to depart, and
to be absent from our beloved dwelling-place for two months. Again I
saw, as in a dream (but this time it was full day, and I knew I was not
asleep), our entire tribe in mourning for our chief who was lying dead
and surrounded by all the elders. It was like a flash of lightning,
leaving me, once more, broad awake, yet I had not been asleep. This time
I was frightened, for I knew there had been members of our tribe who
could foretell the future. Was I to be one of them? I dared not tell
any one of my dream, and waited trembling, from day to day, hoping and
praying that it might not come true. But the future had been revealed to
me, and a few weeks later our chief fell in a battle with our enemies
to the east. When I heard of it I swooned, and my mother found me lying
senseless by the fire. After she had revived me, she asked me the cause
of my fainting, and, weakened from the shock, I told her all.”
“‘Daughter,’ she said, after a long pause, ‘you are destined for a great
work, for Ouiot speaks through you.’ And, a few days later, after the
burial of the dead, she told the chief men of the tribe what I had seen.
And then ended my happiness: from that day I lived a life of sorrow,
for the burden I had to bear was a heavy one: not only when I foretold
disaster and suffering to our people, but when I had joyful news for
them, even then the dread of knowing the future was terrible. Sometimes
a half-year would pass without communication from above, and I would
begin to hope that the awful gift was taken from me; but always it would
manifest itself again. My husband (for I had been married not long after
my first dream) left me just before your mother was born, but I did
not want, for I was provided with everything by the entire tribe. Your
mother, also, when she grew to be a woman, left me to be married to your
father; but when he died, he asked me to take care of his only child,
and that is why you and I have lived together all these years.”
The old woman paused, and several minutes passed silently in the
gathering dusk, while the little girl waited wonderingly, afraid to
speak. Presently the Indian stirred, as if waking from a slumber, and,
after a slight shiver, resumed her tale:
“And thus I lived for many years, prophesying as the Great Spirit
revealed the future to me, and my prophecies always came true. I
foretold poor harvests, and the issues of our wars. Only once before the
last prophecy I made was my word doubted, and then unbelief was born in
the minds of many of the men. I spoke the words of truth then, but when
I said we should, in time, vanish from this country, I was treated with
scorn. But I was right. Are we greater in numbers than our traditions
tell us were our fathers many generations ago? Is it not more difficult
to live now than it was in former days? Where are the quail, the
rabbits, that our ancestors used to kill so plentifully? Are not they
growing less all the time? And the water! Look--” and the old woman,
with arm extended, pointed with her forefinger toward the three dry
lakes in the distance, only one of which showed any signs of moisture,
a small spot in the centre, covered with, perhaps, a foot of
water--“look,” she repeated, “what were those lakes years ago? Our
fathers tell us that long, long ages past, those three lakes were
one large body of water. Where is it now? Have not I seen, in my own
lifetime, the last one slowly drying up? Where will our game go when it
has quite disappeared? And they laughed at me for telling them. It needs
no gift of prophecy to see that. But they heeded me not. What cared they
for anything so far in the future as that?
“But,” continued the woman, after a pause, dropping her arm in her lap,
and speaking in a low, sad voice, “the last time came, and I prophesied,
and this time I told wrongly, for Ouiot did not speak through me. We
were at war with the southern tribe, and it was revealed to me that our
men should conquer. When I told them, a shout went up, and at once they
set off for our enemies. It was four days before they came back, but I
felt no foreboding, for never before had I been deceived, and why should
I be this time? So I waited, confident of the result. Alas! On the
fourth day came a messenger with news of the defeat of our army, and the
massacre of more than half of the men. For the second time in my life I
fainted. When the men returned, they sought me out, and, with cries and
curses, drove me from my home, and told me never to come back. But, on
account of the position I had held, they gave me this hut by the spring
for a dwelling-place, and suffered me to keep you with me. If I had
belonged to one of the fierce tribes of Indians to the far east, I think
they would have killed me, but we are a milder--people. And here we have
lived ever since. After a time I was permitted to visit my kindred, but
always I am greeted with looks of hatred.”
As she crouched in the doorway of the hut, and gazed absently over
the distant view, the young woman was thinking of that day when her
grandmother had told her past history. Well she remembered, that night,
and the inspired look on her grandmother’s face as she spoke of the
future of their people. It was the first time she had ever seen her in
that psychic condition, and it was almost terrifying. Since that day,
although at rare intervals, her grandmother had given proof of her
former power, and in instances touching the welfare of the tribe; but no
one save the young woman knew of it.
Then she traveled over in thought the following years, until she became
a woman, and was wooed by one of the young men of the tribe, a few
months before the date of our story. There had been much opposition to
this on the part of her grandmother and of the elders of the tribe; but
the young people won the day, and her husband had since made his home
with her at the hut. But his marriage with her, in a measure, cut him
off from the rest of the tribe; and gradually, as time went on, he had
found himself refused the company of his former associates in the
hunt, and was forced to make his livelihood, and that of the two women,
without the aid of numbers. Until his marriage, the two women had
been provided with food by the tribe, but one of the conditions of his
wedding the young woman was that all assistance in that line should
cease. Henceforward they were to live as though utterly alone. This they
had done, and a hard struggle it had been at times, when game was scarce
and hard to find. But, though suffering hunger and hardship, they had
stayed at the spring, dreading to leave their dwelling-place, and seek
other and better hunting-grounds, as is the custom of the Indians when
sore pressed for food.
At this particular moment, her husband was absent on one of his hunting
trips, which generally kept him away for several days. This time,
however, he had been from home longer than usual, and the young wife was
looking anxiously for his return, for there was nothing to eat save the
remnant of meal in the bottom of the basket, and to-day her grandmother
appeared to be worse. The old woman was dying slowly of old age, aided
by the peculiar hardship of her long life; she had not left her bed for
some time, and the young woman could see that her aged grandparent was
not long for this world. During her illness (which, however, was more a
gradual breaking down and dying of her strength than actual illness;
for her mind seemed to be as clear as ever) she had given evidences of
having something in her thought, some instruction or advice she desired
to impart to her children, but which, so feeble was she, was beyond her
strength to utter. Thus she had lain for three days, motionless, but for
the restless turning of the head, and the burning, gleaming eyes seeming
to take the place of her voice, and cry out the message her lips refused
to speak.
Suddenly the young woman gave a start, and a look of joy passed swiftly
across her face, for she saw her husband come around the brow of the
hill far below. She rose quickly and hastened to meet him. As she neared
him, she saw he was bearing on his back the carcass of a young deer,
under the weight of which he staggered up the hill toward her. Running
to him she cried:
“Itatli! Oh, you are come in time! You have been away so long! But I see
you have had good luck this time in your hunting. How tired and thin you
look! Have you been far?” and as she spoke, she took the deer from him,
and laid it upon her own strong shoulder.
“Mota, it is a long way I have been, and I am sorely tired. Let me rest
and have something to eat, and tonight I will tell you where I have been
and what I have seen. How is the grandmother?”
“She is dying, Itatli. She has grown worse every day, and now cannot sit
up, and she lies all day so still--all but her eyes. She tries to speak,
and I am sure she has something on her mind that she wants to tell us.
She will not live long.”
Slowly they climbed the hill, with an occasional sentence now and then.
Arrived at the hut, the Indian entered, leaned his bow against the wall,
near the baskets, and stood regarding the inanimate figure, a sombre
expression stealing over his face as he gazed. The woman’s eyes were
closed, and she seemed to be asleep, nothing but her short, quick
breathing showing she was still alive. For some minutes the man stood
thus, then turned and strode out of the hut, picking up his bow as he
passed it, and carrying it with him. Without a word to his wife, who had
begun to cook a piece of the deer meat, and was busily at work over the
out-door fire, he occupied himself with his bow and arrows, testing
the strength of the cord, made of the intestines of a wild-cat, and
examining closely the arrow-heads, tipped with poison, taken from the
rattlesnake; but all in an intermittent way, for every few moments he
raised his head and gazed long and steadily over the plain to the far
distant hills on the southern horizon.
At last his wife called to him that the meal was ready. He went over to
the fire and began to eat, while the woman took some of the broth,
which she had made out of the meat, put it into a small earthen pot,
and carried it to her grandmother, in the hope that she might be able to
force a little of it down her throat. It was of no use: the dying woman
was insensible to all help from food, and lay as in a stupor, from which
it was impossible to rouse her. Mota returned sadly to the fire where
her husband was eating as only a hungry man can eat.
They finished their meal in silence, and after the wife had put away the
remains of the food, she came over to where her husband was sitting
in the opening of the hut, and crouched by his side. There, in the
gathering gloom of the night, he told of the experiences of his search
for food.
“It was a long, long distance I went, Mota,” he began. “I journeyed on
and on to the far south, until I reached a river that flows across the
plains toward the sea. It was nearing evening of the second day after I
came to the river, when suddenly I heard a queer sound as of the steps
of a small army of some kind of hard-footed animals. It was far in
the distance when first I heard it; for the air was still as though
listening to the voice of the Great Spirit, its master; and I listened,
rooted to the spot where I stood. What could it be? Never had I heard
the tread of so many animals at one time. Nearer they came, and soon I
heard the voices of men, speaking to each other, but not in any Indian
language I am familiar with, and I know several. But if they were men
I must hide, for they would take me prisoner, if they did not kill me,
should I be seen. So I ran to the rushes growing on the bank of the
river, and sank down among their thickly-growing shoots. The army came
nearer steadily, and, in a few moments, I could see them climbing down
the steep bank of the river a little way above me. I took one peep, and
my breath almost left my body, for what I thought were men before I saw
them, now that they came in sight, I knew to be celestial beings.”
“But that could not have been, Itatli,” exclaimed his wife, “for such a
sight would have blinded, if not killed, you.”
“I know not about that,” answered the man, “but if they were not from
above, whence came they? They were like me in shape, stature, and all
else but in color and dress. They were white, nearly as white as, the
snow on the distant mountains, and their bodies were completely covered
with their clothes, excepting only their faces and hands. Their clothes
were not made of skins, but were something different from anything I
had ever seen; it was more like fine basketwork than anything I know of.
They had no bows and arrows, such as ours, but straight, long, bright
weapons which glittered in the sun. It may have been a strange kind of
bow, but I could see no arrows, and they did not shoot with them while
near me. On their heads, they wore a large round covering, which shaded
them from the hot sun, and on their feet they had queer clothes, shaped
like their feet, and these it was which had made me think the sound I
heard was that made by animals. But among them were a few who were like
us, and they may have been Indians, although they had on clothes like
the others; so, perhaps, after all, the white beings were not gods, for
the Indians were in their company and lived.”
The man had talked in low, earnest tones; but as he advanced in his
tale, his voice, though still low, had taken on a penetrating, vibrating
quality that thrilled his wife, and reached the ears of the old woman on
the couch, seeming to rouse her from her lethargy like a voice from
the grave. She had stirred restlessly two or three times, striving ever
harder to break the thrall of her weakness: it would have moved the
heart of any one beholding her efforts to make herself heard, but she
lay unnoticed, for the man was deep in his wonderful narrative, and his
wife listening intently, drinking in every word. At last she attracted
the attention of the two, for her strenuous efforts to speak resulted in
a hoarse, guttural sound deep in her throat. They sprang to their feet,
and stepped quickly to the couch. There they saw a surprising change in
the countenance of the old woman: her eyes, bright and unclouded as they
had been before, now looked at them recognisingly, although they still
bore the weighty, thoughtful expression; her mouth, now partly open, was
full of resolve, and the lips were just shaping the words she was about
to speak, as the two approached:
“Itatli, I heard the words you have spoken this evening, and I, alone,
understand them. You know not what manner of men were those you saw; you
know not, indeed, whether they be men or angels. I will tell you. They
are men like ourselves, but they come from afar. Listen, my children,”
she continued, her voice growing in power and volume, “I will disclose
to you what I have never revealed to any one of our people. About two
seasons of rain after I had foretold the future of our tribe, when the
last lake should have become entirely dry, I had a revelation of what
was to befall all the Indians of this great land, that far surpassed
anything I had ever before prophesied. I saw, as in a vision, the great
blue sea sparkling in the sun, the little waves rolling softly to the
shore, to break into lines of white foam on the sands of the beach at my
feet. I was alone, but was not afraid, although I had never before seen
the sea, either in my visions or in real life; yet I knew at once what
it was. While I gazed at the water, and watched the waves rushing up to
my feet, I felt, all at once, as though an unseen power was impelling me
to look up. I raised my head and gazed out over the water, and there I
saw, far away, a great white object that looked like an immense bird. I
knew, as I know all things that occur in my visions, this was a ship.
“Presently, the unseen power, as though whispering in my ear, revealed
to me that the ship was full of men from a far country, coming to settle
in our land, and that they would subdue the Indians, killing many,
taking others captive, and making them work for their masters; and that,
later, after many years, the Indians would vanish from the land which
had been theirs since the time when Ouiot was on this earth. Then the
vision faded slowly from my sight, and I seemed to enter a luminous mist
as I felt myself impelled to walk. After what, in my trance, seemed many
hours, I came out of the mist on to a level stretch of land, through
which flowed a large river. There were mountains on the north, reaching
for many miles, and from the west, which was lowland as far as the eye
could see, came the cool afternoon sea wind. In the middle of the plain
was a great tall house, white with a red roof, and at one end hung some
bells in openings made for them in the wall. All around were a great
many houses of brush, much like this we are in, and outside and in were
crowds of Indians working like bees, at all kinds of toil, doing many
things, too, that we never do, such as planting fields with seeds, and
gathering the harvest when it was ripe; making cloth for clothes, such
as you, my son, saw those strange men wearing. Then they were making
jars and dishes of clay, and weaving baskets, such as we use.”
“Suddenly, a little time before sunset, while they were at their
busiest, the bells in the big white house began to ring. Every one
stopped working and stood facing the building. Then, as the bells were
ringing, they bowed their heads. At this moment, I heard, again, the
voice which yet was not a voice, revealing to me the meaning of the
scene before my eyes. ‘Behold,’ I seemed to hear, ‘the final end of the
Indians of this, land! See the fate which is awaiting them! All these
peoples and tribes, and others far to the north and south of here, will
be brought together into places like unto this. They will be made to
work at these white men’s tasks; give up their own wild, free life in
the open country; give up their old customs; give up their own god,
even, to pray to the God of their masters. And thus will it be for many
years, until the Indians disappear forever; for, after a time, they will
grow fewer and fewer until not one shall be left in the whole land which
once they owned.’ Then what seemed a deep sleep fell upon me, and when
I awoke, I was in my own home. I was greatly frightened, but dared not
tell any one of my visions; for I knew they would laugh me to scorn,
perhaps drive me away, as they did at the last.”
As the old woman described this picture of the future revealed to her,
her agitation increased. She raised herself on an arm, and with the
other stretched out, she swept her hand along the horizon, from the
south to the north, saying, as she did so:
“This is the land of the Indians; this Ouiot gave to our fathers, and
they gave it to us. While the sun has been traveling over his path
in the sky for many hundred years, we, and our fathers before us, for
generations, have lived in this land. But now the end is come. We must
give way before a people stronger than we; give up our land to them and
vanish.”
Her voice increased in volume as she spoke, until, at the close, it was
as powerful as in former days. When she had ceased speaking, she paused,
with arm still outstretched, as though transfixed. She gazed steadily
across the level plain to the distant mountains, motionless and rigid,
while the two young Indians waited, awed and afraid, minute after
minute, for they knew not what.
After a long silence, the aged sibyl let fall her arm, and dropped back
suddenly on to the couch. The fire of prophecy in her eyes was still
undimmed; but turning toward the two waiting ones, she spoke again, yet
as if coming back to the present:
“Mota, Itatli, I am going to the distant home of our people, where all
are happy. It will be but a few hours before I shall leave you. Do you,
my son, after I am dead, go to the village, and tell the chief men
all that I have revealed to you to-night. Tell them that, with my last
breath, I spoke the truth revealed to me by the gods above. Tell them
that the only safety for them, and their children after them, is to live
with the strange white men who are come to our land; that they must
be at peace with the strangers, live with them, and do all that is
commanded them; that this is the only way they can put off the evil day
when they shall disappear forever. And it is for a time only at best;
but it is better to do that than to resist them, for they are too strong
to be driven back. But I fear they will not listen to my words which you
shall speak. And if so, you, my children, must leave here and go to the
south, through the pass in the mountains, then toward the setting sun
until you come to the river; and there you will find the strange men,
as in my vision. Put yourselves under their care, and perhaps Ouiot will
spare you, and the others there before you, from the fate of the rest of
the tribes in this land.”
Her voice sank to a whisper, so that it was with difficulty they made
out her last words. Closing her eyes, she lay gasping for some minutes;
after this, she fell into a comatose state, from which she did not
revive again. Hour after hour passed, the two watchers crouching
motionless, without a word, regarding the fleeting breath of the dying
woman. Shortly before the dawn began to lighten the horizon, a tremor
passed through the body of the sufferer; a long, feeble sigh issued from
her lips, and the aged, distrusted seer was no more.
The young woman, on seeing this, broke out into bitter wailing, swaying
slowly forward and backward, while her husband sat with his head bowed
on his knees. Their first thought was of utter bereavement, for to these
two lonely ones, and especially to the woman, the grandparent had been
not only the sole member of their tribe they had known for years, but
she had proved to them a help, at times through her singular gift. On
several occasions, in seasons of little game, had she told the man in
which direction, to go for the best results. Once, at her instance, they
had migrated to a distant spring she had known in her youth, where the
three were safe from the murderous designs of the warlike tribe coming
to their country from the north.
Finally the man bethought himself of the last behest of the dead woman.
“I go to the village, Mota,” he said hoarsely, and without another word
left the hut and set off down the hill.
The woman moved not, but remained as before, near the bed of her
grandmother. There she sat, on the earthen floor, without taking her
eyes from the face of the dead, until her husband returned, nearly three
hours later.
“It was no use,” he exclaimed sadly, “they would not listen, but told me
to go back and bury the grandmother; they would not come with me.”
Mota replied not.
That night, as the sun was setting, the two lone creatures made a grave
on the hill a few feet from the hut, and there they buried the mortal
remains of the old Indian woman. It was a sad, silent rite; both felt
deeply the absence of all their friends and kindred; the lack of all
the customary wailing proper to the solemn service of burial; but, above
all, the want of belief in the dead woman’s prophecy. That gave the
poignant touch to their sorrow. Sadly and silently, as they had buried
the dead, they returned to their hut in the gathering shades of night.
The next morning, these two bereaved ones, packing up their few simple
belongings, stole sorrowfully away from their home. They knew not what
was before them, scarcely anything of the country whither they were
bound; but such was their faith in the dead woman’s word, that they did
not falter in their resolution to fulfill her admonition.
The hut, and all belonging to it, is long passed away; and the spring,
also, has disappeared, drying up till merely a stony furrow in the
ground shows where it once had its course. Only the lonely grave on the
hillside remains to mark the ancient Indian habitation here, and that,
today, is almost obliterated. As for the village beyond in the canyon,
that, too, is no more; hardly a vestige can now be found to tell us
that here, long ago, was a thriving Indian settlement. All is silent
and deserted. Truly, as the aged Indian prophetess foretold, has the
aborigine vanished from the land.