The Mission of San Fernando is situated on a small river called Las
Animas, a branch of the Los Martires. The convent is built at the neck
of a large plain, at the point of influx of the stream from the broken
spurs of the sierra. The savana is covered with luxuriant grass, kept
down, however, by the countless herds of cattle which pasture on it.
The banks of the creek are covered with a lofty growth of oak and
poplar, which near the Mission have been considerably thinned for the
purpose of affording fuel and building materials for the increasing
settlement. The convent stands in the midst of a grove of fruit-trees,
its rude tower and cross peeping above them, and contrasting
picturesquely with the wildness of the surrounding scenery. Gardens
and orchards lie immediately in front of the building, and a vineyard
stretches away to the upland ridge of the valley. The huts of the
Indians are scattered here and there, built of stone and adobe,
sometimes thatched with flags and boughs, but comfortable enough. The
convent itself is a substantial building, of the style of architecture
characterising monastic edifices in most parts of the world.
Loopholes peer from its plastered walls, and on a flat portion of the
roof a comically mounted gingall or wall-piece, carrying a two-pound
ball, threatens the assailant in time of war. At one end of the oblong
building, a rough irregular arch of sun-burned bricks is surmounted by
a rude cross, under which hangs a small but deep-toned bell—the wonder
of the Indian peones, and highly venerated by the frayles themselves,
who received it as a present from a certain venerable archbishop of
Old Spain, and who, whilst guarding it with reverential awe, tell
wondrous tales of its adventures on the road to its present abiding
place.
Of late years the number of the canonical inmates of the convent has
been much reduced—there being but four priests now to do the duties of
the eleven who formerly inhabited it: Fray Augustin, a Capuchin of due
capacity of paunch, being at the head of the holy quartette. Augustin
is the conventual name of the reverend father, who fails not to
impress upon such casual visitants to that _ultima Thule_ as he deems
likely to appreciate the information, that, but for his humility,
he might add the sonorous appellations of Ignacio Sabanal-Morales-y
Fuentes—his family being of the best blood of Old Castile, and known
there since the days of Ruy Gomez—el Campéador—possessing, moreover,
half the “vega” of the Ebro, &c., where, had fate been propitious, he
would now have been the sleek superior of a rich capuchin convent,
instead of vegetating, a leather-clad frayle, in the wilds of
California Alta.
Nevertheless, his lot is no bad one. With plenty of the best and
fattest meat to eat, whether of beef or venison, of bear or mountain
mutton; with good wine and brandy of home make, and plenty of it;
fruit of all climes in great abundance; wheaten or corn bread to suit
his palate; a tractable flock of natives to guide, and assisted in the
task by three brother shepherds; far from the strife of politics or
party—secure from hostile attack (not quite, by-the-by), and eating,
drinking, and sleeping away his time, one would think that Fray
Augustin Ignacio Sabanal-Morales-y Fuentes had little to trouble him,
and had no cause to regret even the vega of Castilian Ebro, held by
his family since the days of el Campéador.
One evening Fray Augustin sat upon an adobe bench, under the fig-tree
shadowing the porch of the Mission. He was dressed in a goat-skin
jerkin, softly and beautifully dressed, and descending to his hips,
under which his only covering—tell it not in Gath!—was a long linen
shirt, reaching to his knees, and lately procured from Puebla de los
Angeles, as a sacerdotal garment. Boots, stockings, or unmentionables,
he had none. A cigarito, of tobacco rolled in corn shuck, was
occasionally placed between his lips; whereupon huge clouds of smoke
rushed in columns from his mouth and nostrils. His face was of a
golden yellow colour, relieved by arched and very black eyebrows;
his shaven chin was of most respectable duplicity—his corporation
of orthodox dimensions. Several Indians and half-bred Mexican women
were pounding Indian corn on metates near at hand; whilst sundry
beef-fed urchins of whitey-brown complexion sported before the door,
exhibiting, as they passed Fray Augustin, a curious resemblance to the
strongly marked features of that worthy padre. They were probably his
nieces and nephews—a class of relations often possessed in numbers by
priests and monks.
The three remaining brothers were absent from the Mission; Fray
Bernardo, hunting elk in the sierra; Fray José, gallivanting at Puebla
de los Angeles, ten days' journey distant; Fray Cristoval, lassoing
colts upon the plain. Augustin, thus left to his own resources, had
just eaten his vespertine frijolitos and chile colorado, and was
enjoying a post-cœnal smoke of fragrant pouche under the shadow of his
own fig-tree.
Whilst thus employed, an Indian dressed in Mexican attire approached
him hat in hand, and, making a reverential bow, asked his directions
concerning domestic business of the Mission.
“Hola! friend José,” cried Fray Augustin in a thick guttural voice,
“pensaba yo—I was thinking that it was very nearly this time three
years ago when those 'malditos Americanos' came by here and ran off
with so many of our cavallada.”
“True, reverend father,” answered the administrador, “just three years
ago, all but fifteen days: I remember it well. _Malditos sean_—curse
them!”
“How many did we kill, José?”
“Quizas mōōchos—a great many, I dare say. But they did not fight
fairly—charged right upon us, and gave us no time to do any thing.
They don't know how to fight, these Mericanos; come right at you,
before you can swing a lasso, hallooing like Indios Bravos.”
“But, José, how many did they leave dead on the field?”
“Not one.”
“And we?”
“Valgame Dios! thirteen dead, and many more wounded.”
“That's it! Now if these savages come again (and the Chemeguaba,
who came in yesterday, says he saw a large trail), we must fight
adentro—within—outside is no go; for as you very properly say, José,
these Americans don't know how to fight, and kill us before—before we
can kill them! Vaya!”
At this moment there issued from the door of the Mission Don Antonio
Velez Trueba, a Gachupin—that is, a native of Old Spain—a wizened old
hidalgo refugee, who had left the mother country on account of his
political opinions, which were stanchly Carlist, and had found his
way—how, he himself scarcely knew—from Mexico to San Francisco in
Upper California, where, having a most perfect contempt for every
thing Mexican, and hearing that in the Mission of San Fernando, far
away, were a couple of Spanish padres of “sangre regular,” he had
started into the wilderness to ferret them out; and having escaped
all dangers on the route (which, however, were hardly dangers to the
Don, who could not realise the idea of scalp-taking savages), had
arrived with a whole skin at the Mission. There he was received with
open arms by his countryman Fray Augustin, who made him welcome to
all the place afforded, and there he harmlessly smoked away his time;
his heart far away on the banks of the Genil and in the grape-bearing
vegas of his beloved Andalusia, his withered cuerpo in the sierras of
Upper California. Don Antonio was the walking essence of a Spaniard
of the _ancien régime_. His family dated from the Flood, and with
the exception of sundry refreshing jets of Moorish blood, injected
into the Truebas during the Moorish epoch, no strange shoot was ever
engrafted on their genealogical tree. The marriages of the family were
ever confined to the family itself—never looking to fresh blood in a
station immediately below it, which was not hidalgueño; nor above,
since any thing higher in rank than the Trueba y Trueba family, _no
habia_, there was not.
Thus, in the male and female scions of the house, were plainly visible
the ill effects of breeding “in and in.” The male Truebas were sadly
degenerate Dons, in body as in mind—compared to their ancestors of
Boabdil's day; and the señoritas of the name were all eyes, and eyes
alone, and hardly of such stamp as would have tempted that amorous
monarch to bestow a kingdom for a kiss, as ancient ballads tell.
“Dueña de la negra toca,
Por un beso de tu boca,
Diera un reyno, Boabdil;
Y yo por ello, Cristiana,
Te diera de buena gana
Mil cielos, si fueran mil.”
Come of such poor stock, and reared on tobacco smoke and “gazpacho,”
Don Antonio would not have shone, even amongst pigmy Mexicans, for
physical beauty. Five feet high, a framework of bones covered with a
skin of Andalusian tint, the Trueba stood erect and stiff in all the
consciousness of his “sangre regular.” His features were handsome,
but entirely devoid of flesh, his upper lip was covered with a
jet-black mustache mixed with gray, his chin was bearded “like the
pard.” Every one around him clad in deer and goat skin, our Don walked
conspicuous in shining suit of black—much the worse for wear, it must
be confessed—with beaver hat sadly battered, and round his body and
over his shoulder an unexceptionable “capa” of the amplest dimensions.
Asking, as he stepped over him, the pardon of an Indian urchin who
blocked the door, and bowing with punctilious politeness to the
sturdy mozas who were grinding corn, Don Antonio approached our friend
Augustin, who was discussing warlike matters with his administrador.
“Hola! Don Antonio, how do you find yourself, sir?”
“Perfectly well, and your very humble servant, reverend father; and
your worship also, I trust you are in good health?”
“_Sin novedad_—without novelty;” which, since it was one hour and a
half since our friends had separated to take their siestas, was not
impossible.
“Myself and the worthy José,” continued Fray Augustin, “were speaking
of the vile invasion of a band of North American robbers, who three
years since fiercely assaulted this peaceful Mission, killing many
of its inoffensive inhabitants, wounding many more, and carrying off
several of our finest colts and most promising mules to their dens and
caves in the Rocky Mountains. Not with impunity, however, did they
effect this atrocity. José informs me that many of the assailants were
killed by my brave Indians. How many said you, José?”
“Quizas mo-o-ochos,” answered the Indian.
“Yes, probably a great multitude,” continued the padre; “but, unwarned
by such well-merited castigation, it has been reported to me by a
Chemeguaba mansito, that a band of these audacious marauders are now
on the road to repeat the offence, numbering many thousands, well
mounted and armed; and to oppose these white barbarians it behoves us
to make every preparation of defence.”[30]
“There is no cause for alarm,” answered the Andaluz. “I (tapping
his breast) have served in three wars: in that glorious one 'de la
Independencia,' when our glorious patriots drove the French like sheep
across the Pyrenees; in that equally glorious one of 1821; and in the
late magnanimous struggle for the legitimate rights of his majesty
Charles V., king of Spain (doffing his hat), whom God preserve. With
that right arm,” cried the spirited Don, extending his shrivelled
member, “I have supported the throne of my kings—have fought for my
country, mowing down its enemies before me; and with it,” vehemently
exclaimed the Gachupin, working himself into a perfect frenzy, “I will
slay these Norte Americanos, should they dare to show their faces in
my front. Adios, Don Augustin Ignacio Sabanal-Morales-y Fuentes,” he
cried, doffing his hat with an earth-sweeping bow; “I go to grind my
sword. Till then adieu.”
“A countryman of mine!” said the frayle, admiringly, to the
administrador. “With him by our side we need not to fear: neither
Norte Americanos, nor the devil himself, can harm us when he is by.”
Whilst the Trueba sharpens his Tizona, and the priest puffs volumes
of smoke from his nose and mouth, let us introduce to the reader one
of the muchachitas, who knelt grinding corn on the metate, to make
tortillas for the evening meal. Juanita was a stout wench from Sonora,
of Mexican blood, hardly as dark as the other women who surrounded
her, and with a drop or two of the Old Spanish blood struggling with
the darker Indian tint to colour her plump cheeks. An enagua (a
short petticoat) of red serge was confined round her waist by a gay
band ornamented with beads, and a chemisette covered the upper part
of the body, permitting, however, a prodigal display of her charms.
Whilst pounding sturdily at the corn, she laughed and joked with her
fellow-labourers upon the anticipated American attack, which appeared
to have but few terrors for her. “Que vengan,” she exclaimed—“let them
come; they are only men, and will not molest us women. Besides, I
have seen these white men before—in my own country, and they are fine
fellows, very tall, and as white as the snow on the sierras. Let them
come, say I!”
“Only hear the girl!” cried another: “if these savages come, then will
they kill Pedrillo, and what will Juanita say to lose her sweetheart?”
“Pedrillo!” sneered the latter; “what care I for Pedrillo? Soy
Mejicana, yo—a Mexican girl am I, I'd have you know, and don't demean
me to look at a wild Indian. Not I, indeed, by my salvation! What I
say is, let the Norte Americanos come.”
At this juncture Fray Augustin called for a glass of aguardiente,
which Juanita was despatched to bring, and, on presenting it, the
churchman facetiously inquired why she wished for the Americans,
adding, “Don't think they'll come here—no, no: here we are brave men,
and have Don Antonio with us, a noble fellow, well used to arms.” As
the words were on his lips, the clattering of a horse's hoofs was
heard rattling across the loose stones and pebbles in the bed of the
river, and presently an Indian herder galloped up to the door of the
Mission, his horse covered with foam, and its sides bleeding from
spur-wounds.
“Oh, padre mio!” he cried, as soon as he caught sight of his
reverence, “vienen los Americanos—the Americans, the Americans are
upon us. Ave Maria purissima!—more than ten thousand are at my heels!”
Up started the priest and shouted for the Don.
That hidalgo presently appeared, armed with the sword that had graced
his thigh in so many glorious encounters—the sword with which he
had mowed down the enemies of his country, and by whose aid he now
proposed to annihilate the American savages, should they dare to
appear before him.
The alarm was instantly given; peones, vagueros hurried from the
plains; and milpas, warned by the deep-toned bell, which soon rung out
its sonorous alarum. A score of mounted Indians, armed with gun and
lasso, dashed off to bring intelligence of the enemy. The old gingall
on the roof was crammed with powder and bullets to the very muzzle, by
the frayle's own hand. Arms were brought and piled in the sala, ready
for use. The padre exhorted, the women screamed, the men grew pale
and nervous, and thronged within the walls. Don Antonio, the fiery
Andaluz, alone remained outside, flourishing his whetted sabre, and
roaring to the padre, who stood on the roof with lighted match, by the
side of his formidable cannon, not to be affrighted. “That he, the
Trueba, was there, with his Tizona, ready to defeat the devil himself
should he come on.”
He was deaf to the entreaties of the priest to enter.
“Siempre en el frente—Ever in the van,” he said, “was the war-cry of
the Truebas.”
But now a cloud of dust was seen approaching from the plain, and
presently a score of horsemen dashed headlong towards the Mission.
“El enemigo,” shouted Fray Augustin; and, without waiting to aim, he
clapped his match to the touch-hole of the gun, harmlessly pointed to
the sky, and crying out “in el nombre de Dios”—in God's name—as he did
so, was instantly knocked over and over by the recoil of the piece,
then was as instantly seized by some of the Indian garrison, and
forced through the trap-door into the building; whilst the horsemen
(who were his own scouts) galloped up with the intelligence that the
enemy was at hand, and in overwhelming force.
Thereupon the men were all mounted, and formed in a body before the
building, to the amount of more than fifty, well armed with guns or
bows and arrows. Here the gallant Don harangued them, and infusing
into their hearts a little of his own courage, they eagerly demanded
to be led against the enemy. Fray Augustin re-appeared on the roof,
gave them his blessing, advised them to give no quarter, and, with
slight misgivings, saw them ride off to the conflict.
About a mile from the Mission, the plain gradually ascended to a ridge
of moderate elevation, on which was a growth of dwarf oak and ilex.
To this point the eyes of the remaining inmates of the convent were
earnestly directed, as here the enemy was first expected to make his
appearance. Presently a few figures were seen to crown the ridge,
clearly defined against the clear evening sky. Not more than a dozen
mounted men composed this party, which all imagined must be doubtless
the vanguard of the thousand invaders. On the summit of the ridge
they halted a few minutes, as if to reconnoitre; and by this time
the Californian horsemen were halted in the plain, midway between
the Mission and the ridge, and distant from the former less than
half-a-mile, so that all the operations were clearly visible to the
lookers-on.
The enemy wound slowly, in Indian file, down the broken ground of the
descent; but when the plain was reached, they formed into something
like a line, and trotted fearlessly towards the Californians. These
began to sit uneasily in their saddles; nevertheless they made a
forward movement, and even broke into a gallop, but soon halted, and
again huddled together. Then the mountaineers quickened their pace,
and their loud shout was heard as they dashed into the middle of the
faltering troop. The sharp cracks of the rifles followed, and the
duller reports of the smooth-bored pieces of the Californians; a cloud
of smoke and dust arose from the plain, and immediately half-a-dozen
horses, with empty saddles, broke from it, followed quickly by the
Californians, flying like mad across the level. The little steady line
of the mountaineers advanced, and puffs of smoke arose, as they loaded
and discharged their rifles at the flying horsemen. As the Americans
came on, however, one was seen to totter in his saddle, the rifle fell
from his grasp, and he tumbled headlong to the ground. For an instant
his companions surrounded the fallen man, but again forming, dashed
towards the Mission, shouting fierce war-whoops, and brandishing
aloft their long and heavy rifles. Of the defeated Californians some
jumped off their horses at the door of the Mission, and sought shelter
within; others galloped off towards the sierra in panic-stricken
plight. Before the gate, however, still paced valiantly the proud
hidalgo, encumbered with his cloak, and waving with difficulty his
sword above his head. To the priest and women, who implored him to
enter, he replied with cries of defiance, “Viva Carlos Quinto,” and
“Death or glory.” He shouted in vain to the flying crowd to halt;
but, seeing their panic was beyond hope, he clutched his weapon more
firmly as the Americans dashed at him, closed his teeth and his eyes,
thought once of the vega of his beloved Genil, and of Granada la
Florida, and gave himself up for lost. Those inside the Mission, when
they observed the flight of their cavalry, gave up the defence as
hopeless; and already the charging mountaineers were almost under the
walls, when they observed the curious figure of the little Don making
demonstrations of hostility.
“Wagh!” exclaimed the leading hunter (no other than our friend La
Bonté), “here's a little crittur as means to do all the fighting;”
and seizing his rifle by the barrel, he poked at the Don with the
butt-end, who parried the blow, and with such a sturdy stroke, as
nearly severed the stock in two. Another mountaineer rode up, and,
swinging his lasso overhead, threw the noose dexterously over the
Spaniard's head, and as it fell over his shoulders, drew it taut, thus
securing the arms of the pugnacious Don as in a vice.
“Quartel!” cried the latter; “por Dios, quartel!”
“Quarter be d——!” exclaimed one of the whites, who understood
Spanish; “who's agoin' to hurt you, you little crittur?”
By this time Fray Augustin was waving a white flag from the roof, in
token of surrender; and soon after he appeared trembling at the door,
beseeching the victors to be merciful and to spare the lives of the
vanquished, when all and every thing in the Mission would be freely
placed at their disposal.
“What does the niggur say!” asked old Walker, the leader of the
mountaineers, of the interpreter.
“Well, he talks so queer, this hos can't rightly make it out.”
“Tell the old coon then to quit that, and make them darned greasers
clear out of the lodge, and pock some corn and shucks here for the
animals, for they're nigh give out.”
This being conveyed to him in mountain Spanish, which fear alone made
him understand, the padre gave orders to the men to leave the Mission,
advising them, moreover, not to recommence hostilities, as himself was
kept as hostage, and if a finger was lifted against the mountaineers,
he would be killed at once, and the Mission burned to the ground. Once
inside, the hunters had no fear of attack, they could have kept the
building against all California; so, leaving a guard of two outside
the gate, and first seeing their worn-out animals supplied with piles
of corn and shucks, they made themselves at home, and soon were paying
attention to the hot tortillas, meat, and chile colorado which were
quickly placed before them, washing down the hot-spiced viands with
deep draughts of wine and brandy. It would have been amusing to have
seen the faces of these rough fellows as they gravely pledged each
other in the grateful liquor, and looked askance at the piles of fruit
served by the attendant Hebes. These came in for no little share of
attention, it may be imagined; but the utmost respect was paid to
them, for your mountaineer, rough and bear-like though he be, never,
by word or deed, offends the modesty of a woman, although sometimes
obliged to use a compulsory wooing, when time is not allowed for
regular courtship, and not unfrequently known to jerk a New Mexican
or Californian beauty behind his saddle, should the obdurate parents
refuse consent to their immediate union. It tickled the Americans not
a little to have all their wants supplied, and to be thus waited upon,
by what they considered the houris of paradise; and after their long
journey, and the many hardships and privations they had suffered,
their present luxurious situation seemed scarcely real.
The hidalgo, released from the durance vile of the lasso, assisted at
the entertainment; his sense of what was due to the “sangre regular”
which ran in his veins being appeased by the fact, that he sat _above_
the wild uncouth mountaineers, these preferring to squat cross-legged
on the floor in their own fashion, to the uncomfortable and novel
luxury of a chair. Killbuck, indeed, seemed to have quite forgotten
the use of such pieces of furniture. On Fray Augustin offering him
one, and begging him, with many protestations, to be seated, that
old mountain worthy looked at it, and then at the padre, turned it
round, and at length comprehending the intention, essayed to sit.
This he effected at last, and sat grimly for some moments, when,
seizing the chair by the back, he hurled it out of the open door,
exclaiming,—“Wagh! this coon aint hamshot anyhow, and don't want such
fixins, he don't;” and gathering his legs under his body, reclined in
the manner customary to him. There was a prodigious quantity of liquor
consumed that night, the hunters making up for their many banyans;
but as it was the pure juice of the grape, it had little or no effect
upon their hard heads. They had not much to fear from attacks on the
part of the Californians; but, to provide against all emergencies, the
padre and the Gachupin were “hobbled,” and confined in an inner room,
to which there was no ingress nor egress save through the door which
opened into the apartment where the mountaineers lay sleeping, two of
the number keeping watch. A fandango with the Indian girls had been
proposed by some of them, but Walker placed a decided veto on this.
He said “they had need of sleep now, for there was no knowing what
to-morrow might bring forth; that they had a long journey before them,
and winter was coming on; they would have to 'streak' it night and
day, and sleep when their journey was over, which would not be until
Pike's Peak was left behind them. It was now October, and the way
they'd have to hump it back to the mountains would take the gristle
off a painter's tail.”
Young Ned Wooton was not to the fore when the roll was called. He
was courting the Sonora wench Juanita, and to some purpose, for we
may at once observe, that the maiden accompanied the mountaineer to
his distant home, and at the present moment is sharing his lodge on
Hard-scrabble creek of the upper Arkansa, having been duly and legally
married by Fray Augustin before their departure.
But now the snow on the ridge of the Sierra Madre, and the nightly
frosts; the angular flights of geese and ducks constantly passing
overhead; the sober tints of the foliage, and the dead leaves that
strew the ground; the withering grass on the plain, and the cold
gusts, sometimes laden with snow and sleet, that sweep from the
distant snow-clad mountains;—all these signs warn us to linger no
longer in the tempting valley of San Fernando, but at once to pack our
mules to cross the dreary and desert plains and inhospitable sierras;
and to seek with our booty one of the sheltered bayous of the Rocky
Mountains.
On the third day after their arrival, behold our mountaineers
again upon the march, driving before them—with the assistance of
half-a-dozen Indians, impressed for the first few days of the journey
until the cavallada get accustomed to travel without confusion—a band
of four hundred head of mules and horses, themselves mounted on the
strongest and fleetest they could select from at least a thousand.
Fray Augustin and the Hidalgo, from the house-top, watched them
depart: the former glad to get rid of such unscrupulous guests at any
cost, the latter rather loath to part with his boon companions, with
whom he had quaffed many a quartillo of Californian wine. Great was
the grief, and violent the sobbing, when all the girls in the Mission
surrounded Juanita to bid her adieu; as she, seated en cavalier on
an easy pacing mule, bequeathed her late companions to the keeping
of every saint in the calendar, and particularly to the great St
Ferdinand himself, under whose especial tutelage all those in the
Mission were supposed to live. Pedrillo, poor forsaken Pedrillo, a
sullen sulky half-breed, was overcome, not with grief, but with anger
at the slight put upon him, and vowed revenge. He of the “sangre
regular,” having not a particle of enmity in his heart, waved his
arm—that arm with which he had mowed down the enemies of Carlos
Quinto—and requested the mountaineers, if ever fate should carry them
to Spain, not to fail to visit his quinta in the vega of Genil, which,
with all in it, he placed at their worships' disposal—con muchissima
franqueza.
Fat Fray Augustin likewise waved his arm, but groaned in spirit as he
beheld the noble band of mules and horses, throwing back clouds of
dust on the plain where they had been bred. One noble roan stallion
seemed averse to leave his accustomed pasture, and again and again
broke away from the band. Luckily old Walker had taken the precaution
to secure the “_bell-mare_” of the herd, and mounted on her rode
ahead, the animals all following their well-known leader. As the roan
galloped back, the padre was in ecstasy. It was a favourite steed, and
one he would have gladly ransomed at any price.
“Ya viene, ya viene!” he cried out, “now, now it's coming! hurra
for the roan!” but, under the rifle of a mountaineer, one of the
Californians dashed at it, a lasso whirling round his head, and
turning and twisting like a doubling hare, as the horse tried to avoid
him, at last threw the open coil over the animal's head, and led him
back in triumph to the band.
“Maldito sea aquel Indio—curse that Indian!” quoth the padre, and
turned away.
And now our sturdy band—less two who had gone under—were fairly on
their way. They passed the body of their comrade who had been killed
in the fight before the Mission; the wolves, or Indian dogs, had
picked it to the bones; but a mound near by, surrounded by a rude
cross, showed where the Californians (seven of whom were killed) had
been interred—the pile of stones at the foot of the cross testifying
that many an _ave maria_ had already been said by the poor Indians,
to save the souls of their slaughtered companions from the pangs of
purgatory.
For the first few days progress was slow and tedious. The confusion
attendant upon driving so large a number of animals over a country
without trail or track of any description, was sufficient to prevent
speedy travelling; and the mountaineers, desirous of improving the
pace, resolved to pursue a course more easterly, and to endeavour to
strike the great SPANISH TRAIL, which is the route followed by the
New Mexicans in their journeys to and from the towns of Puebla de
los Angeles and Santa Fé. This road, however, crosses a long stretch
of desert country, destitute alike of grass and water, save at a few
points, the regular halting-places of the caravans; and as but little
pasture is to be found at these places at any time, there was great
reason to doubt, if the Santa Fé traders had passed this season, that
there would not be sufficient grass to support the numerous cavallada,
after the herbage had been laid under contribution by the traders'
animals. However, a great saving of time would be effected by taking
this trail, although it wound a considerable distance out of the way
to avoid the impassable chain of the Sierra Nevada—the gap in those
mountains through which the Americans had come being far to the
southward, and at this late season probably obstructed by the snow.
Urged by threats and bribes, one of the Indians agreed to guide the
cavallada to the trail, which he declared was not more than five
days' distant. As they advanced, the country became wilder and more
sterile,—the valleys, through which several small streams coursed,
alone being capable of supporting so large a number of animals. No
time was lost in hunting for game; the poorest of the mules and horses
were killed for provisions, and the diet was improved by a little
venison when a deer casually presented itself near the camping ground.
Of Indians they had seen not one; but they now approached the country
of the Diggers, who infest the district through which the Spanish
trail passes, laying contributions on the caravans of traders, and who
have been, not inaptly, termed the “Arabs of the American desert.” The
Californian guide now earnestly entreated permission to retrace his
steps, saying, that he should lose his life if he attempted to pass
the Digger country alone on his return. He pointed to a snow-covered
peak, at the foot of which the trail passed; and leave being accorded,
he turned his horse's head towards the Mission of San Fernando.
Although the cavallada travelled, by this time, with much less
confusion than at first, still, from the want of a track to follow,
great trouble and exertion were required to keep the proper direction.
The bell-mare led the van, carrying Walker, who was better acquainted
with the country than the others; another hunter, of considerable
distinction in the band, on a large mule, rode by his side. Then
followed the cavallada, jumping and frisking with each other, stopping
whenever a blade of grass showed, and constantly endeavouring to
break away to green patches which sometimes presented themselves in
the plains. Behind the troop, urging them on by dint of loud cries
and objurgations, rode six mountaineers, keeping as much as possible
in a line. Two others were on each flank to repress all attempts to
wander, and keep the herd in a compact body. In this order the caravan
had been crossing a broken country, up and down ridges, all day,
the animals giving infinite trouble to their drivers, when a loud
shout from the advanced guard put them all upon the _qui-vive_. Old
Walker was seen to brandish the rifle over his head and point before
him, and presently the cry of “The trail! the trail!” gladdened all
hearts with the anticipation of a respite from the harassing labour
of mule-driving. Descending a broken ridge, they at once struck into
a distinct and tolerably well-worn track, into which the cavallada
turned as easily and instinctively as if they had all their lives
been accustomed to travel on beaten roads. Along this they travelled
merrily—their delight being, however, alloyed by frequent indications
that hunger and thirst had done their work on the mules and horses of
the caravans which had preceded them on the trail. They happened to
strike it in the centre of a long stretch of desert, extending sixty
miles without either water or pasture; and many animals had perished
here, leaving their bones to bleach upon the plain. The soil was
sandy, but rocks and stones covered the surface, disabling the feet of
many of the young horses and mules; several of which, at this early
stage of the journey, were already abandoned. Traces of the wretched
Diggers became very frequent; these abject creatures resorting to the
sandy plains for the purpose of feeding upon the lizards which there
abound. As yet they did not show; only at night they prowled around
the camp, waiting a favourable opportunity to run the animals. In the
present instance, however, many of the horses having been left on the
road, the Diggers found so plentiful a supply of meat as to render
unnecessary any attack upon the formidable mountaineers.
One evening the Americans had encamped, earlier than usual, on a creek
well-timbered with willow and quaking-ash, and affording tolerable
pasture; and although it was still rather early, they determined to
stop here, and give the animals an opportunity to fill themselves.
Several deer had jumped out of the bottom as they entered it; and
La Bonté and Killbuck had sallied from the camp with their rifles,
to hunt and endeavour to procure some venison for supper. Along the
river banks, herds of deer were feeding in every direction, within
shot of the belt of timber; and the two hunters had no difficulty in
approaching and knocking over two fine bucks within a few paces of
the thicket. They were engaged in butchering the animals, when La
Bonté, looking up from his work, saw half-a-dozen Indians dodging
among the trees, within a few yards of himself and Killbuck. At the
same instant two arrows _thudded_ into the carcass of the deer over
which he knelt, passing but a few inches from his head. Hollowing to
his companion, La Bonté immediately seized the deer, and, lifting it
with main strength, held it as a shield before him, but not before
an arrow had struck him in the shoulder. Rising from the ground he
retreated behind cover, yelling loudly to alarm the camp, which was
not five hundred yards' distant on the other side of the stream.
Killbuck, when apprised of the danger, ran bodily into the plain,
and, keeping out of shot of the timber, joined La Bonté, who now, out
of arrow-shot, threw down his shield of venison and fired his rifle
at the assailants. The Indians appeared at first afraid to leave
the cover; but three or four more joining them, one a chief, they
advanced into the plain, with drawn bows, scattering wide apart, and
running swiftly towards the whites, in a zigzag course, in order not
to present a steady mark to their unerring rifles. The latter were
too cautious to discharge their pieces, but kept a steady front,
with rifle at shoulder. The Indians evidently disliked to approach
nearer; but the chief, an old grizzled man, incited them by word and
gesture—running in advance, and calling upon the others to follow him.
“Ho, boy!” exclaimed Killbuck to his companion, “that old coon must go
under, or we'll get rubbed out by these darned critturs.”
La Bonté understood him. Squatting on the ground, he planted his
wiping-stick firmly at the extent of his left arm, and resting the
long barrel of his rifle on his left hand, which was supported by the
stick, he took a steady aim and fired. The Indian, throwing out his
arms, staggered and let fall his bow—tried hard to recover himself,
and then fell forward on his face. The others, seeing the death
of their chief, turned and made again for the cover. “You darned
critturs,” roared Killbuck, “take that!” and fired his rifle at the
last one, tumbling him over as dead as a stone. The camp had also been
alarmed. Five of them waded across the creek and took the Indians in
rear; their rifles cracked within the timber, several more Indians
fell, and the rest quickly beat a retreat. The venison, however, was
not forgotten; the two deer were packed into camp, and did the duty of
mule-meat that night.
This lesson had a seasonable effect upon the Diggers, who made no
attempt on the cavallada that night or the next; for the camp remained
two days to recruit the animals.
We will not follow the party through all the difficulties and perils
of the desert route, nor detail the various devilries of the Diggers,
who constantly sought opportunities to stampede the animals, or,
approaching them in the night as they grazed, fired their arrows
indiscriminately at the herd, trusting that dead or disabled ones
would be left behind, and afford them a good supply of meat. In the
month of December the mountaineers crossed the great dividing ridge
of the Rocky Mountains, making their way through the snowy barrier
with the utmost difficulty, and losing many mules and horses in the
attempt. On passing the ridge, they at once struck the head-springs
of the Arkansa river, and turned into the Bayou Salade. Here they
found a village of Arapahos, and were in no little fear of leaving
their cavallada with these dexterous horse-thieves. Fortunately, the
chief in command was friendly to the whites, and restrained his young
men; and a present of three horses insured his good offices. Still,
the near neighbourhood of these Indians being hardly desirable, after
a few days' halt, the Americans were again on their way, and halted
finally at the juncture of the Fontaine-qui-bout with the Arkansa,
where they determined to construct a winter camp. They now considered
themselves at home, and at once set about building a log-shanty
capable of containing them all, and a large corral for securing the
animals at night, or in case of Indian alarms. This they effected by
felling several large cottonwoods, and throwing them in the form of
a horse-shoe: the entrance, however, being narrower than in that
figure, and secured by upright logs, between which poles were fixed
to be withdrawn at pleasure. The house, or “fort”—as any thing in the
shape of a house is called in these parts, where, indeed, every man
must make his house a castle—was loopholed on all sides, and boasted
a turf chimney of rather primitive construction; but which answered
the purpose of drawing the smoke from the interior. Game was plentiful
all around;—bands of buffalo were constantly passing the Arkansa; and
there were always deer and antelope within sight of the fort. The
pasture, too, was good and abundant—being the rich grama or buffalo
grass, which, although rather dry at this season, still retains its
fattening qualities; and the animals soon began to improve wonderfully
in condition and strength.
Of the four hundred head of mules and horses with which they had
started from California, but one-half reached the Arkansa. Many had
been killed for food (indeed they had furnished the only provisions
during the journey), many had been stolen by the Indians, or shot by
them at night; and many had strayed off and not been recovered. We
have omitted to mention that the Sonora girl, Juanita, and her spouse,
Ned Wooton, remained behind at Roubideau's fort and rendezvous on the
Uintah, which our band had passed on the other side of the mountains,
whence they proceeded with a party to Taos in New Mexico, and resided
there for some years, blessed with a fine family, &c. &c. &c., as the
novels end.
As soon as the animals were fat and strong, they were taken down the
Arkansa to Bent's Indian trading fort, about sixty miles below the
mouth of Fontaine-qui-bout. Here a ready sale was found for them,
mules being at that time in great demand on the frontier of the United
States, and every season the Bents carried across the plains to
Independence a considerable number collected in the Indian country,
and in the upper settlements of New Mexico. While the mountaineers
were descending the Arkansa, a little incident occurred, and some of
the party very unexpectedly encountered an old friend. Killbuck and
La Bonté, who were generally compañeros, were riding some distance
ahead of the cavallada, passing at the time the mouth of the Huerfano
or Orphan Creek, when, at a long distance before them, they saw the
figure of a horseman, followed by two loose animals, descending the
bluff into the timbered bottom of the river. Judging the stranger to
be Indian, they spurred their horses and galloped in pursuit, but the
figure ahead suddenly disappeared. However, they quickly followed the
track, which was plain enough in the sandy bottom, that of a horse
and two mules. Killbuck scrutinised the “sign,” and puzzled over it a
considerable time; and at last exclaimed—“Wagh! this sign's as plain
as mon beaver to me; look at that hos-track, boy; did ye ever see that
afore?”
“_Well_, I have!” answered La Bonté, peering down at it: “that ar
shuffle-toe seems handy to me now, I _tell_ you.”
“The man as used to ride that hos is long gone under, but the hos,
darn the old crittur, is old Bill Williams's, I'll swar by hook.”
“Well, it aint nothin else,” continued La Bonté, satisfying himself
by a long look; “it's the old boy's hos as shure as shootin: and them
Rapahos has rubbed him out at last, and raised his animals. Ho, boy!
let's lift their hair.”
“Agreed,” answered Killbuck; and away they started in pursuit,
determined to avenge the death of their old comrade.
They followed the track through the bottom and into the stream, which
it crossed, and, passing a few yards up the bank, entered the water
again, when they could see nothing more of it. Puzzled at this,
they sought on each side the river, but in vain; and, not wishing
to lose more time in the search, they proceeded through the timber
on the banks to find a good camping-place for the night, which had
been their object in riding in advance of the cavallada. On the left
bank, a short distance before them, was a heavy growth of timber,
and the river ran in one place close to a high bluff, between which
and the water was an almost impervious thicket of plum and cherry
trees. The grove of timber ended before it reached this point, and
but few scattered trees grew in the little glade which intervened,
and which was covered with tolerable grass. This being fixed upon
as an excellent camp, the two mountaineers rode into the glade, and
dismounted close to the plum and cherry thicket, which formed almost a
wall before them, and an excellent shelter from the wind. Jumping off
their horses, they were in the act of removing the saddles from their
backs, when a shrill neigh burst from the thicket not two yards behind
them; a rustling in the bushes followed, and presently a man dressed
in buckskin, and rifle in hand, burst out of the tangled brush,
exclaiming in an angry voice—
“Do'ee hy'ar now? I was nigh upon gut-shootin some of e'e—I was now;
thought e'e was darned Rapahos, I did, and câched right off.”
“Ho, Bill! what, old hos! not gone under yet?” cried both the hunters.
“Give us your paw.”
“Do'ee now, if hy'ar ar'nt them boys as was rubbed out on Lodge Pole
(creek) a time ago. Do'ee hyar? if this aint 'some' now, I would'nt
say so.”
Leaving old Bill Williams and our two friends to exchange their rough
but hearty greetings, we will glance at that old worthy's history
since the time when we left him caching in the fire and smoke on the
Indian battle-ground in the Rocky Mountains. He had escaped fire
and smoke, or he would not have been here on Arkansa with his old
grizzled Nez-percé steed. On that occasion, the veteran mountaineer
had lost his two pack-animals and all his beaver. He was not the man,
however, to want a horse or mule as long as an Indian village was
near at hand. Skulking, therefore, by day in cañons and deep gorges
of the mountains, and travelling by night, he followed closely on the
trail of the victorious savages, bided his time, struck his “coup,”
and recovered a pair of pack-horses, which was all he required. Ever
since, he had been trapping alone in all parts of the mountains; had
visited the rendezvous but twice for short periods, and then with full
packs of beaver; and was now on his way to Bent's Fort, to dispose of
his present loads of peltry, enjoy one good carouse on Taos whisky,
and then return to some hole or corner in the mountains which he
knew of, to follow in the spring his solitary avocation. He too had
had his share of troubles, and had many Indian scrapes, but passed
safely through all, and scarcely cared to talk of what he had done,
so matter-of-fact to him were the most extraordinary of his perilous
adventures.
Arrived at Bent's Fort, the party disposed of their cavallada, and
then—respect for the pardonable weaknesses of our mountain friends
prompts us to draw a veil over the furious orgies that ensued. A
number of hunters and trappers were “in” from their hunting-grounds,
and a village of Shians and some lodges of Kioways were camped round
the fort. As long as the liquor lasted, and there was good store of
alcohol as well as of Taos whisky, the Arkansa resounded with furious
mirth—not unmixed with graver scenes; for your mountaineer, ever
quarrelsome in his cups, is quick to give and take offence, when
rifles alone can settle the difference, and much blood is spilt upon
the prairie in his wild and frequent quarrels.
Bent's Fort is situated on the left or northern bank of the river
Arkansa, about one hundred miles from the foot of the Rocky
Mountains—on a low and level bluff of the prairie which here slopes
gradually to the water's-edge. The walls are built entirely of
adobes—or sun-burned bricks—in the form of a hollow square, at two
corners of which are circular flanking towers of the same material.
The entrance is by a large gateway into the square, round which are
the rooms occupied by the traders and employés of the host. These are
small in size, with walls coloured by a white-wash made of clay found
in the prairie. Their flat roofs are defended along the exterior by
parapets of adobe, to serve as a cover to marksmen firing from the
top; and along the coping grow plants of cactus of all the varieties
common in the plains. In the centre of the square is the press for
packing the furs; and there are three large rooms, one used as a store
and magazine, another as a council-room, where the Indians assemble
for their “talks,” whilst the third is the common dining-hall, where
the traders, trappers, and hunters, and all employés, feast upon the
best provender the game-covered country affords. Over the culinary
department presided of late years a fair lady of colour, Charlotte
by name, who was, as she loved to say, “de onlee lady in de dam Injun
country,” and who moreover was celebrated from Long's Peak to the
Cumbres Espanolás for slapjacks and pumpkin pies.
Here congregate at certain seasons the merchants of the plains and
mountains, with their stocks of peltry. Chiefs of the Shian, the
Kioway, and Arapaho, sit in solemn conclave with the head traders,
and smoke the “calumet” over their real and imaginary grievances. Now
O-cun-no-whurst, the Yellow Wolf, grand chief of the Shian, complains
of certain grave offences against the dignity of his nation! A trader
from the “big lodge” (the fort) has been in his village, and before
the trade was opened, in laying the customary chief's gift “on the
prairie”[31] has not “opened his hand,” but “squeezed out his present
between his fingers,” grudgingly, and with too sparing measure. This
was hard to bear, but the Yellow Wolf would say no more!
Tah-kai-buhl, or, “he who jumps,” is deputed from the Kioway to
warn the white traders not to proceed to the Canadian to trade with
the Comanche. That nation is mad—a “heap mad” with the whites, and
has “dug up the hatchet” to “rub out” all who enter its country.
The Kioway loves the paleface, and gives him warning (and “he who
jumps” looks as if he deserves something “on the prairie” for his
information).
Shawh-noh-qua-mish, “the peeled lodge-pole,” is there to excuse his
Arapaho braves, who lately made free with a band of horses belonging
to the fort. He promises the like shall never happen again, and he,
Shawh-noh-qua-mish, speaks with a “single tongue.” Over clouds of
tobacco and kinnik-kinnik, these grave affairs are settled and terms
arranged.
In the corral, groups of leather-clad mountaineers, with “decks” of
“euker” and “seven up,” gamble away their hard-earned peltries. The
employés—mostly St Louis Frenchmen and Canadian voyageurs—are pressing
packs of buffalo skins, beating robes, or engaged in other duties
of a trading fort. Indian squaws, the wives of mountaineers, strut
about in all the pride of beads and fofarrow, jingling with bells and
bugles, and happy as paint can make them. Hunters drop in with animals
packed with deer or buffalo meat to supply the fort; Indian dogs look
anxiously in at the gateway, fearing to enter and encounter their
natural enemies, the whites: and outside the fort, at any hour of the
day or night, one may safely wager to see a dozen cayeutes or prairie
wolves loping round, or seated on their haunches, and looking gravely
on, waiting patiently for some chance offal to be cast outside.
Against the walls, groups of Indians, too proud to enter without an
invitation, lean, wrapped in their buffalo robes, sulky and evidently
ill at ease to be so near the whites without a chance of fingering
their scalp-locks; their white lodges shining in the sun, at a little
distance from the river-banks; their horses feeding in the plain
beyond.
The appearance of the fort is very striking, standing as it does
hundreds of miles from any settlement, on the vast and lifeless
prairie, surrounded by hordes of hostile Indians, and far out of reach
of intercourse with civilised man; its mud-built walls inclosing a
little garrison of a dozen hardy men, sufficient to hold in check the
numerous tribes of savages ever thirsting for their blood. Yet the
solitary stranger passing this lone fort, feels proudly secure when he
comes within sight of the “stars and stripes” which float above the
walls.