horsemen making a long _détour_ round the station, disappearing finally
in the direction of Millerton. By my glass I could only make out that
they were men riding in single file on a sorrel and a gray horse; but
this, with the fact of the long _détour_, which finally brought them
back into the road again, convinced me that they were my enemies. The
uncomfortable probability of their raising a band, and returning to make
sure of my capture, filled me with disagreeable foreboding, and all day
long, whether my turn at sentinel duty or not, I did little else than
range my eye over the valley in all directions.
Twice during the day I led Kaweah out and paced him to and fro, for fear
his tremendous exertion would cause a stiffening of the legs; but each
time he followed close to my shoulder with the same firm, proud step,
and I gloried in him.
Shortly after dark I determined to mount and push forward to Millerton,
my friend, the station man, having given me careful directions as to its
position; and I knew from the topography of the country that, by
abandoning the road and travelling by the stars, I could not widely miss
my mark; so at about nine o’clock I saddled Kaweah, and, mounting, bade
good-by to my friend.
The air was bland, the heavens cloudless and starlit; in the west a low
arch of light, out of which had faded the last traces of sunset color;
in the east a silver dawn shone mild and pure above the Sierras,
brightening as the light in the west faded, till at last one jetty crag
was cut upon the disk of rising moon.
Upon the light gray tone of the plain every object might be seen, and as
I rode on the memory of danger passed away, leaving me in full enjoyment
of companionship with the hour and with my friend Kaweah, whose sturdy,
easy stride was in itself a delight. There is a charm peculiar to these
soft, dewless nights. It seems the perfection of darkness in which you
get all the rest of sleep while riding, or lying wide awake on your
blankets. Now and then an object, vague and unrecognized, loomed out of
dusky distance, arresting our attention, for Kaweah’s quick eye usually
found them first: dead carcases of starved cattle, a blanched skull, or
stump of aged oak, were the only things seen, and we gradually got
accustomed to these, passing with no more than a glance.
At last we approached a region of low, rolling sand-hills, where
Kaweah’s tread became muffled, and the silence so oppressive as to call
out from me a whistle. That instrument proved excellent in Traviata
solos; but, when I attempted some of Chopin, failed so painfully that I
was glad to be diverted by arriving at the summit of the zone of hills,
and looking out upon the wide, shallow valley of the San Joaquin, a
plain dotted with groves, and lighted here and there by open reaches of
moonlit river.
I looked up and down, searching for lights which should mark Millerton.
I had intended to strike the river above the settlement, and should now,
if my reckoning was correct, be within half a mile of it.
Riding down to the river-bank, I dismounted, and allowed Kaweah to
quench his thirst. The cool mountain water, fresh from the snow, was
delicious to him. He drank, stopped to breathe, and drank again and
again. I allowed him also to feed a half-moment on the grass by the
river-bank, and then, remounting, headed down the river, and rode slowly
along under the shadow of trees, following a broad, well-beaten trail,
which led, as I believed, to the village.
While in a grove of oaks, jingling spurs suddenly sounded ahead, and
directly I heard voices. I quickly turned Kaweah from the trail, and
tied him a few rods off, behind a thicket, then crawled back into a
bunch of buckeye bushes, disturbing some small birds, who took flight.
In a moment two horsemen, talking Spanish, neared, and as they passed I
recognized their horses, and then the men. The impulse to try a shot was
so strong that I got out my revolver, but upon second thought put it up.
As they rode on into the shadow, the younger, as I judged by his voice,
broke out into a delicious melody, one of those passionate Spanish songs
with a peculiar, throbbing cadence, which he emphasized by sharply
ringing his spurs.
These Californian scoundrels are invariably light-hearted; crime cannot
overshadow the exhilaration of outdoor life; remorse and gloom are
banished like clouds before this perennially sunny climate. They make
amusement out of killing you, and regard a successful plundering time as
a sort of pleasantry.
As the soft, full tones of my bandit died in distance, I went for
Kaweah, and rode rapidly westward in the opposite direction, bringing up
soon in the outskirts of Millerton, just as the last gamblers were
closing up their little games, and about the time the drunk were
conveying one another home. Kaweah being stabled, I went to the hotel,
an excellent and orderly establishment, where a colored man of mild
manners gave me supper and made me at home by gentle conversation,
promising at last to wake me early, and bidding me good-night at my room
door with the tones of an old friend. I think his soothing spirit may
partly account for the genuinely profound sleep into which I quickly
fell, and which held me fast bound, until his hand on my shoulder and
“Half-past four, sir,” called me back, and renewed the currents of
consciousness.
After we had had our breakfast, Kaweah and I forded the San Joaquin, and
I at once left the road, determined to follow a mountain trail which led
toward Mariposa. The trail proved a good one to travel, of smooth, soft
surface, and pleasant in its diversity of ups and downs, and with
rambling curves, which led through open regions of brown hills, whose
fern and grass were ripened to a common yellow-brown; then among
park-like slopes, crowned with fine oaks, and occasional pine woods, the
ground frequently covering itself with clumps of such shrubs as
chaparral, and the never-enough-admired manzanita. Yet I think I never
saw such facilities for an ambuscade. I imagined the path went out of
its way to thread every thicket, and the very trees grouped themselves
with a view to highway robbery.
I soon, though, got tired looking out for my Spaniards, and became
assured of having my ride to myself when I studied the trail, and found
that Kaweah’s were the first tracks of the day.
Riding thus in the late summer along the Sierra foot-hills, one is
constantly impressed with the climatic peculiarities of the region. With
us in the East, plant life seems to continue until it is at last put out
by cold, the trees appear to grow till the first frosts; but in the
Sierra foot-hills growth and active life culminate in June and early
July, and then follow long months of warm, stormless autumn, wherein the
hills grow slowly browner, and the whole air seems to ripen into a
fascinating repose,--a rich, dreamy quiet, with distance lost behind
pearly hazes, with warm, tranquil nights, dewless and silent. This
period is wealthy in yellows and russets and browns, in great,
overhanging masses of oak, whose olive hue is warmed into umber depth,
in groves of serious pines, red of bark, and cool in the dark greenness
of their spires. Nature wears an aspect of patient waiting for a great
change; ripeness, existence beyond the accomplishment of the purpose of
life, a long, pleasant, painless waiting for death,--these are the
conditions of the vegetation; and it is vegetation more than the
peculiar appearance of the air which impresses the strange character of
the season. It is as if our August should grow rich and ripe, through
cloudless days and glorious, warm nights, on till February, and then
wake as from sleep, to break out in the bloom of May.
I was delighted to ride thus alone, and expose myself, as one uncovers a
sensitized photographic plate, to be influenced; for this is a respite
from scientific work, when through months you hold yourself accountable
for seeing everything, for analyzing, for instituting perpetual
comparison, and, as it were, sharing in the administering of the
physical world. No tongue can tell the relief to simply withdraw
scientific observation, and let Nature impress you in the dear old way
with all her mystery and glory, with those vague, indescribable emotions
which tremble between wonder and sympathy.
Behind me in distance stretched the sere plain where Kaweah’s run saved
me. To the west, fading out into warm, blank distance, lay the great
valley of San Joaquin, into which, descending by sinking curves, were
rounded hills, with sunny, brown slopes softened as to detail by a low,
clinging bank of milky air. Now and then out of the haze to the east
indistinct rosy peaks, with dull, silvery snow-marblings, stood dimly up
against the sky, and higher yet a few sharp summits lifted into the
clearer heights seemed hung there floating. Quite in harmony with this
was the little group of Dutch settlements I passed, where an
antique-looking man and woman sat together on a veranda sunning their
white hair, and silently smoking old porcelain pipes.
Nor was there any element of incongruity at the rancheria where I
dismounted to rest shortly after noon. A few sleepy Indians lay on their
backs dreaming, the good-humored, stout squaws nursing pappooses, or
lying outstretched upon red blankets. The agreeable harmony was not
alone from the Indian summer in their blood, but in part as well from
the features of their dress and facial expression. Their clothes, of
Caucasian origin, quickly fade out into utter barbarism, toning down to
warm, dirty timbers, never failing to be relieved, here and there, by
ropes of blue and white beads, or head-band and girdle of scarlet cloth.
Toward the late afternoon, trotting down a gentle forest slope, I came
in sight of a number of ranch buildings grouped about a central open
space. A small stream flowed by the outbuildings, and wound among
chaparral-covered spurs below. Considerable crops of grain had been
gathered into a corral, and a number of horses were quietly straying
about. Yet with all the evidences of considerable possessions the whole
place had an air of suspicious mock-sleepiness. Riding into the open
square, I saw that one of the buildings was a store, and to this I rode,
tying Kaweah to the piazza post.
I thought the whole world slumbered when I beheld the sole occupant of
this country store, a red-faced man in pantaloons and shirt, who lay on
his back upon a counter fast asleep, the handle of a revolver grasped in
his right hand. It seemed to me if I were to wake him up a little too
suddenly he might misunderstand my presence and do some accidental
damage; so I stepped back and poked Kaweah, making him jump and clatter
his hoofs, and at once the proprietor sprang to the door, looking
flustered and uneasy.
I asked him if he could accommodate me for the afternoon and night, and
take care of my horse; to which he replied, in a very leisurely manner,
that there was a bed, and something to eat, and hay, and that if I was
inclined to take the chances I might stay.
Being in mind to take the chances, I did stay, and my host walked out
with me to the corral, and showed me where to get Kaweah’s hay and
grain.
I loafed about for an hour or two, finding that a Chinese cook was the
only other human being in sight, and then concluded to pump the
landlord. A half-hour’s trial thoroughly disgusted me, and I gave it up
as a bad job. I did, however, learn that he was a man of Southern birth,
of considerable education, which a brutal life and depraved mind had not
been able to fully obliterate. He seemed to care very little for his
business, which indeed was small enough, for during the time I spent
there not a single customer made his appearance. The stock of goods I
observed on examination to be chiefly fire-arms, every manner of
gambling apparatus, and liquors; the few pieces of stuffs, barrels, and
boxes of groceries appeared to be disposed rather as ornaments than for
actual sale.
From each of the man’s trousers’ pockets protruded the handle of a
derringer, and behind his counter were arranged in convenient position
two or three double-barrelled shot-guns.
I remarked to him that he seemed to have a handily arranged arsenal, at
which he regarded me with a cool, quiet stare, polished the handle of
one of his derringers upon his trousers, examined the percussion-cap
with great deliberation, and then, with a nod of the head intended to
convey great force, said, “You don’t live in these parts,”--a fact for
which I felt not unthankful.
The man drank brandy freely and often, and at intervals of about half an
hour called to his side a plethoric old cat named “Gospel,” stroked her
with nervous rapidity, swearing at the same time in so _distrait_ and
unconscious a manner that he seemed mechanically talking to himself.
Whoever has travelled on the West Coast has not failed to notice the
fearful volleys of oaths which the oxen-drivers hurl at their teams, but
for ingenious flights of fancy profanity I have never met the equal of
my host. With the most perfect good-nature and in unmoved continuance he
uttered florid blasphemies, which, I think, must have taken hours to
invent. I was glad, when bedtime came, to be relieved of his presence,
and especially pleased when he took me to the little separate building
in which was a narrow, single bed. Next this building on the left was
the cook-house and dining-room, and upon the right lay his own sleeping
apartment. Directly across the square, and not more than sixty feet off,
was the gate of the corral, which creaked on its rusty hinges, when
moved, in the most dismal manner.
As I lay upon my bed I could hear Kaweah occasionally stamp; the snoring
of the Chinaman on one side, and the low, mumbled conversation of my
host and his squaw on the other. I felt no inclination to sleep, but lay
there in half-doze, quite conscious, yet withdrawn from the present.
I think it must have been about eleven o’clock when I heard the clatter
of a couple of horsemen, who galloped up to my host’s building and
sprang to the ground, their Spanish spurs ringing on the stone. I sat up
in bed, grasped my pistol, and listened. The peach-tree next my window
rustled. The horses moved about so restlessly that I heard but little of
the conversation, but that little I found of personal interest to
myself.
I give as nearly as I can remember the fragments of dialogue between my
host and the man whom I recognized as the older of my two robbers.
“When did he come?”
“Wall, the sun might have been about four hours.”
“Has his horse give out?”
I failed to hear the answer, but was tempted to shout out “No!”
“Gray coat, buckskin breeches.” (My dress.)
“Going to Mariposa at seven in the morning.”
“I guess I wouldn’t round here.”
A low, muttered soliloquy in Spanish wound up with a growl.
“No, Antone, not within a mile of the place. ‘Sta buen.’”
Out of the compressed jumble of the final sentence I got but the one
word, “buckshot.”
The Spaniards mounted and the sound of their spurs and horses’ hoofs
soon died away in the north, and I lay for half an hour revolving all
sorts of plans. The safest course seemed to be to slip out in the
darkness and fly on foot to the mountains, abandoning my good Kaweah;
but I thought of his noble run, and it seemed to me so wrong to turn my
back on him that I resolved to unite our fate. I rose cautiously, and,
holding my watch up to the moon, found that twelve o’clock had just
passed, then taking from my pocket a five-dollar gold piece, I laid it
upon the stand by my bed, and in my stocking feet, with my clothes in my
hand, started noiselessly for the corral. A fierce bull-dog, which had
shown no disposition to make friends with me, bounded from the open door
of the proprietor to my side. Instead of tearing me, as I had expected,
he licked my hands and fawned about my feet.
Reaching the corral gate, I dreaded opening it at once, remembering the
rusty hinges, so I hung my clothes upon an upper bar of the fence, and,
cautiously lifting the latch, began to push back the gate, inch by inch,
an operation which required eight or ten minutes; then I walked up to
Kaweah and patted him. His manger was empty; he had picked up the last
kernel of barley. The creature’s manner was full of curiosity, as if he
had never been approached in the night before. Suppressing his ordinary
whinnying, he preserved a motionless, statue-like silence. I was in
terror lest by a neigh, or some nervous movement, he should waken the
sleeping proprietor and expose my plan.
The corral and the open square were half covered with loose stones, and
when I thought of the clatter of Kaweah’s shoes I experienced a feeling
of trouble, and again meditated running off on foot, until the idea
struck me of muffling the iron feet. Ordinarily Kaweah would not allow
me to lift his forefeet at all. The two blacksmiths who shod him had
done so at the peril of their lives, and whenever I had attempted to
pick up his hind feet he had warned me away by dangerous stamps; so I
approached him very timidly, and was surprised to find that he allowed
me to lift all four of his feet without the slightest objection. As I
stooped down he nosed me over, and nibbled playfully at my hat. In
constant dread lest he should make some noise, I hurried to muffle his
forefeet with my trousers and shirt, and then, with rather more care,
to tie upon his hind feet my coat and drawers.
Knowing nothing of the country ahead of me, and fearing that I might
again have to run for it, I determined at all cost to water him. Groping
about the corral and barn, and at last finding a bucket, and descending
through the darkness to the stream, I brought him a full draught, which
he swallowed eagerly, when I tied my shoes on the saddle pommel, and led
the horse slowly out of the corral gate, holding him firmly by the bit,
and feeling his nervous breath pour out upon my hand.
When we had walked perhaps a quarter of a mile, I stopped and listened.
All was quiet, the landscape lying bright and distinct in full
moonlight. I unbound the wrappings, shook from them as much dust as
possible, dressed myself, and then, mounting, started northward on the
Mariposa trail with cocked pistol.
In the soft dust we travelled noiselessly for a mile or so, passing from
open country into groves of oak and thickets of chaparral.
Without warning, I suddenly came upon a smouldering fire close by the
trail, and in the shadow descried two sleeping forms, one stretched on
his back, snoring heavily, the other lying upon his face, pillowing his
head upon folded arms.
I held my pistol aimed at one of the wretches, and rode by without
wakening them, guiding Kaweah in the thickest dust.
It keyed me up to a high pitch. I turned around in the saddle, leaving
Kaweah to follow the trail, and kept my eyes riveted on the sleeping
forms, until they were lost in distance, and then I felt safe.
We galloped over many miles of trail, enjoying a sunrise, and came at
last to Mariposa, where I deposited my gold, and then went to bed and
made up my lost sleep.
VII
AROUND YOSEMITE WALLS
1864
Late in the afternoon of October 5, 1864, a party of us reached the edge
of Yosemite, and, looking down into the valley, saw that the summer haze
had been banished from the region by autumnal frosts and wind. We looked
in the gulf through air as clear as a vacuum, discerning small objects
upon valley-floor and cliff-front. That splendid afternoon shadow which
divides the face of El Capitan was projected far up and across the
valley, cutting it in halves,--one a mosaic of russets and yellows with
dark pine and glimpse of white river; the other a cobalt-blue zone, in
which the familiar groves and meadows were suffused with shadow-tones.
It is hard to conceive a more pointed contrast than this same view in
October and June. Then, through a slumberous yet transparent atmosphere,
you look down upon emerald freshness of green, upon arrowy rush of
swollen river, and here and there, along pearly cliffs, as from the
clouds, tumbles white, silver dust of cataracts. The voice of full, soft
winds swells up over rustling leaves, and, pulsating, throbs like the
beating of far-off surf. All stern sublimity, all geological
terribleness, are veiled away behind magic curtains of cloud-shadow and
broken light. Misty brightness, glow of cliff and sparkle of foam,
wealth of beautiful details, the charm of pearl and emerald, cool gulfs
of violet shade stretching back in deep recesses of the walls,--these
are the features which lie under the June sky.
Now all that has gone. The shattered fronts of walls stand out sharp and
terrible, sweeping down in broken crag and cliff to a valley whereon the
shadow of autumnal death has left its solemnity. There is no longer an
air of beauty. In this cold, naked strength, one has crowded on him the
geological record of mountain work, of granite plateau suddenly rent
asunder, of the slow, imperfect manner in which Nature has vainly
striven to smooth her rough work and bury the ruins with thousands of
years’ accumulation of soil and _débris_.
Already late, we hurried to descend the trail, and were still following
it when darkness overtook us; but ourselves and the animals were so well
acquainted with every turn that we found no difficulty in continuing our
way to Longhurst’s house, and here we camped for the night.
By an act of Congress the Yosemite Valley had been segregated from the
public domain, and given--“donated,” as they call it--to the State of
California, to be held inalienable for all time as a public
pleasure-ground. The Commission into whose hands this trust devolved had
sent Mr. Gardiner and myself to make a survey defining the boundaries
of the new grant. It was necessary to execute this work before the
Legislature should meet in December, and we undertook it, knowing very
well that we must use the utmost haste in order to escape a three
months’ imprisonment,--for in early winter the immense Sierra snow-falls
would close the doors of mountain trails, and we should be unable to
reach the lowlands until the following spring.
The party consisted of my companion, Mr. Gardiner; Mr. Frederick A.
Clark, who had been detailed from the service of the Mariposa Company to
assist us; Longhurst, an _habitué_ of the valley,--a weather-beaten
round-the-worlder, whose function in the party was to tell yarns, sing
songs, and feed the inner man; Cotter and Wilmer, chainmen; and two
mules,--one which was blind, and the other which, I aver, would have
discharged his duty very much better without eyes.
We had chosen as the head-quarters of the survey two little cabins under
the pine-trees near Black’s Hotel. They were central; they offered a
shelter; and from their doors, which opened almost upon the Merced
itself, we obtained a most delightful sunrise view of the Yosemite.
Next morning, in spite of early outcries from Longhurst, and a warning
solo of his performed with spoon and fry-pan, we lay in our comfortable
blankets pretending to enjoy the effect of sunrise light upon the
Yosemite cliff and fall, all of us unwilling to own that we were tired
out and needed rest. Breakfast had waited an hour or more when we got a
little weary of beds and yielded to the temptation of appetite.
A family of Indians, consisting of two huge girls and their parents, sat
silently waiting for us to commence, and, after we had begun, watched
every mouthful from the moment we got it successfully impaled upon the
camp forks, a cloud darkening their faces as it disappeared forever down
our throats.
But we quite lost our spectators when Longhurst came upon the boards as
a flapjack-frier,--a _rôle_ to which he bent his whole intelligence, and
with entire success. Scorning such vulgar accomplishment as turning the
cake over in mid-air, he slung it boldly up, turning it three
times,--ostentatiously greasing the pan with a fine, centrifugal
movement, and catching the flapjack as it fluttered down,--and spanked
it upon the hot coals with a touch at once graceful and masterly.
I failed to enjoy these products, feeling as if I were breakfasting in
sacrilege upon works of art. Not so our Indian friends, who wrestled
affectionately for frequent unfortunate cakes which would dodge
Longhurst and fall into the ashes.