PROOF

At daybreak a large tule float stands out from the high, pointed cliff

forming the southern extremity of Potrero San Pablo, and heads straight

for Brooks Island. In a moment the swiftly paddled float is gone from

sight. It carries all the men who were in the council lodge except one.

Wixi is not there. The float left Akalan while the night was yet black,

and the paddlers were obliged to feel their way along the shore as far

as the pointed cliff, and to wait there until the island became faintly

visible. Fortunately, this happened before they themselves could be

observed from the home village, for their mission to Old-Old Akalan is

secret.

The skiff slips behind a large outlying rock and the next moment grates

on a low, narrow, curving sand bar connecting the rock with the island

proper. As the men step ashore, they see emerging out of the dim north

a small float bearing one paddler. The solitary boatman lands on the

opposite side of the sand bar, a few yards nearer to the island. It is

Wixi. He draws his float across the ridge to the south slope of the

bar, to lie with the other float. It is a precaution, lest sharp eyes

at Akalan or Kawina discover that visitors are on the island.

With the War Chief in the lead, the men proceed a few rods to the

northwest corner of the island, which slopes conveniently to the

beach. Bearing onward to the north shore, they walk eastward across

a noticeable rise of ground toward a number of buckeye trees. Tall

grasses and weeds cover the place. It is the mound left by the people

of Old-Old Akalan. Here rest the bones of the oldest ancestors of the

Mutsunes.

Having passed over the summit, the War Chief sights a line in the

direction of the two oldest buckeye trees, and stations Wixi on the

line. The older men he directs to sit down. He himself walks briskly to

the nearest of the two trees, and returns again with steady, measured

steps straight toward Wixi. As he walks, he counts the steps on his

fingers. At a point half-way down the east slope of the mound, he

suddenly comes to a halt and with a significant nod of his head motions

every one toward him. From one of the men he takes a digging-stick,

draws a rough circle around his standing place and says, “This is the

place. Dig!”

The men drop to their knees, partly to keep hidden in the tall grasses,

and none dares to stand up again for it is now almost sunrise. Some

take to loosening up the earth with digging-sticks, and others scoop up

the loosened portions with large abalone shells. In this way they make

a hole several feet in diameter. Presently, at a depth of about two

feet, they uncover the bones of a full-grown person with arms and legs

doubled up tightly against the body. All exclaim under their breath.

From the presence, next the skeleton, of a mortar and pestle, as well

as certain bone awls and needles, the old men know that these are

the remains of a woman. The spirit of the implements which the woman

used in daily life, had gone, they would say, with the spirit of the

departed to her new dwelling place in the far West.

Deeper down, perhaps five or six feet, the workers come to another

skeleton. On the breast of the body, they uncover a large, beautifully

shaped obsidian blade. Close to the shoulder are found a number of

arrow points, just as they were left when the wooden shafts decayed

away. Near one hand lie, side by side, two highly polished, steatite

tobacco pipes. On either side of the skull is a disk-shaped ear pendant

of iridescent abalone shell, and all about the neck and shoulders are

many beads of clamshell. The workers are agreed that these are the

remains of a great man and the War Chief emphatically declares them

to be those of the ancient Peace Chief Walen, himself. All the old

men demur to this, however, contending that Walen, according to the

traditions, was buried, not in the black refuse material left by the

inhabitants of Old-Old Akalan, but lower down in virgin soil.

All through the day the digging continues, and skeleton after skeleton

is taken up—men, women, and children. Each was originally buried

beneath the floor of the hut in which he or she died, and in the course

of time, as shells and ashes accumulated above their bones, a new hut

was built, again to be destroyed with the succeeding death.

As the men dig deeper and deeper, the paraphernalia of the dead become

fewer and fewer, and even where anything at all is present, the object

is crude and unfinished. There are no more pipes, no beautiful obsidian

blades, and no fine, ivory-like awls or needles. What can it mean?

Did the ancestors of early days not possess these things? Some such

thoughts are surely passing through the mind of some of the workers,

certainly of the War Chief, for he suddenly declares his belief that

they are not digging in the right place. But the old men only smile and

work on.

At last, shortly before dark, there are signs of bottom to the mound

material. Real earth is beginning to appear, and before long human

bones are turned up. Very soon the complete skeleton is laid bare. No

implements have been found, but every one’s attention is centred on a

bright red spot near the extended right hand of the skeleton. It is a

quantity of paint powder, such as has been noticed to accompany several

of the men skeletons. The War Chief, now visibly excited, grasps a

sharp-edged abalone shell and eagerly cuts into the red substance.

The next moment the shell drops from his hand. He, with the rest, is

staring blankly at seven large, beautifully clear quartz crystals—the

whole of Walen’s treasure!...

It is morning. The remains of the dead have been replaced and all

obvious traces of disturbance removed. Let the “Old People” of Old-Old

Akalan rest until the sea removes them! Wixi has labored hard and is

weary in body, but in spirit he is a new man. Has he not had proof from

the graves? Knows he not for a certainty that the life of the Mutsunes

has not stood still in the past, and is he not determined that it shall

unfold and develop in the future?...

The old men are sleeping after their arduous work, continued far into

the night. Wixi alone has watched restlessly for the dawn, and when

the cliff across the Mutsun channel is distinctly visible, he puts off

with his featherweight skiff. He is scudding along with swift, sure

strokes and is already near enough to the opposite shore to see a woman

waving to him from the top of the bluff. It is Mahúdah, who has watched

for his return since the evening before. The sun’s first rays are just

beginning to play around her as she stands there on high, and Wixi

is raising his paddle in the air to wave recognition. At that moment

Mahúdah utters a loud, piercing scream and turns to run from the edge

of the precipice. Portions of rock and earth fall to the beach, and a

rising cloud of dust obscures the figure of the fleeing woman. A moment

later Wixi is raised on the crest of a tremendous wave, which carries

him with the speed of a swooping eagle directly against the face of the

cliff.

The old men of Akalan, awakened by the first tremors of the earth,

witness the whole scene. Most of them simply shake their heads. But the

War Chief, affecting solemnity, announces: “Chakalli has struck! The

old order remains.”