A la California - Chapters III-V



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CHARTER III. IN THE MISTS OF THE PACIFIC. 
Steele's Ranch.--The Model Dairy of California.--Captain Graham.--A Semi-
Tropical Garden.--Frightful Contest With a Grizzly.--Bear and for-Bear.--
The True King of Beasts.--The Model of Conservatism.--How the Hunters lay 
for Bruin.--A Foolhardy Feat.--An Adventure on the San Joaquin.--A Bear on 
a Spree.--Don't stand on Ceremony with a Bear.--How a California Bear 
entertained a Mexican Bull.--How Native Californians Lasso the Bear.--How 
a Yankee did it.--The Bear ahead.--Pebble Beach of Pescadero.--Cona.--The 
oldest Inhabitant.--Don Felipe Armas.--Don Salvador Mosquito.--The Man who 
was a Soldier.--A Hundred Years ago.--Catching Salmon Trout.--Shooting Sea-
Lions.--Wild Scene on the Sea-Shore. 

STEELE'S is one of the largest dairy ranches on the Pacific coast. It is 
owned and run by the brothers Steele, formerly of Delaware County, New 
York. General Steele, who served in the Union army during the war, and the 
deputy-sheriff of Delaware County, who was murdered by the "Anti-Renters," 
some years ago, were brothers of the proprietors. There are two fine two-
story frame houses on the ranch, a fourth of a mile apart, which, unlike 
the majority of houses on this part of the coast, are elegantly finished, 
surrounded with shade-trees and gardens, and provided with all the 
comforts of life. We found one of the Steeles at home. He told us that in 
the earlier part of the 

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season they milked between six and Seven hundred Cows; but as the feed 
grows Shorter with the advance of the dry season, the number gradually 
dwindles down twenty-five to fifty percent. As fast as the cows dry up 
they are sent to the mountains and allowed to remain until the rains 
commence, in November and December. The Steeles came here about nine years 
ago, and rented this ranch of seventeen thousand acres for six thousand 
dollars per annum, with the privilege of purchasing all south of the Gazos 
Creek for six dollars per acre. The ranch was granted under the Mexican 
Republic to old Captain Graham, a Cherokee Indian half-breed, formerly a 
Rocky Mountain trapper. He had no business tact, and old age and 
aguardiente combined had completely unfitted him for carrying on this 
estate, and the still larger and more valuable one known as Seyante, near 
Santa Cruz. Mortgages and lawsuits eat it all up, and it passed out of his 
hands for the beggarly sum of twenty thousand dollars. it was considered 
one of the most barren and unattractive localities on the coast, but the 
Steeles saw its capabilities, and settled upon it. They soon purchased 
seven thousand acres of the land in the vicinity of their present homes, 
and went into the dairy business on a large scale. Others imitated their 
success on a smaller scale, and there are now over fifteen hundred cows on 
the ranch. These are fed only on the native "wild oats," which in place of 
grass cover all the open country of California, but with proper effort 
vegetables could be raised, to double the milk-producing capacity of the 

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ranch. Alfalfa might flourish in some localities and thus largely increase 
the feed; but the long dry season, extending from the first of May to 
November or December, is too much for the tame grasses of the Atlantic 
States, and no improVement in that direction appears practicable. The 
natiVe wild oats, however, furnish both green feed and nourishing hay 
naturally, no cutting or housing being required. As the ground grows dry 
under the heat of the summer sun, the oats dry up and become of a bright 
golden color. All the nutritious properties are perfectly preserved, and 
so long as no rain falls upon this standing hay, it is eaten with avidity 
by the cattle and keeps them sleek and fat. When the first rain comes, the 
oats break down and fall upon the earth, and in a few weeks totally 
disappear, leaving nothing whatever for the cattle to feed upon until the 
seed, which during the summer has been sowing itself in the cracks and 
crevices of the earth formed by the drying up of the soil, and been 
trampled in and covered up by the hoofs of the animals, starts into new 
life and in a few days clothes all the hills in vivid green again. 

Six years ago the Steeles made, from one day's milk of their own cows, a 
cheese of the richest description, weighing within a fraction of four 
thousand pounds (two tons), which they presented to the Sanitary 
Commission. It was exhibited in San Francisco until it had produced 
several thousands of dollars, and then cut up and sold at one dollar in 
gold per pound for the benefit of the cause. A cousin of the family, who 
lives with them, enjoys the 

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rare distinction of being the only man in California elected, in 1869, to 
the Legislature fairly and squarely on the Fifteenth Amendment issue. They 
find their business so profitable that they have bought another ranch of 
only forty-five thousand acres in San Luis Obispo County, which they were 
then stocking. They intend to carry on both dairies, but the business of 
each will be kept separate, and the style of the firms will be "Steele 
Brothers of San Mateo," and "Steele Brothers of San Luis Obispo." For the 
prices realized for their butter and cheese--they are too far from the 
city to sell their milk--see the market quotations in the San Francisco 
dailies. Yet California imports immense quantities of butter and cheese 
annually, while there are still millions of acres of cheap, unoccupied 
grazing lands scattered all through the State, from San Diego to Del 
Norte, and from the coast to the far recesses of the Sierra Nevada. 

Mr. Steele asked us to walk back into the garden, and see what could be 
done in six years in the way of fruit-raising on land which had, until 
quite recently, been supposed fit only to raise jackass-rabbits and long-
horned, worthless, and savage Spanish cattle. A little "arroyo" comes down 
from the capon in the mountains near the house, and makes a bend around 
the ground selected for the garden. Along the bank of this "arroyo" 
willows and other trees were planted to aid the large, scattered live-oaks 
which stood there in breaking the winds. Thus sheltered, the apple, pear, 
fig, plum, apricot, peach, soft-shelled almond, and other trees, grew up 
like weeds, and 

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soon were loaded with luscious fruit. From one apple-tree, the second year 
after it was planted out, Mr. Steele picked two bushels of the finest 
apples. The pear-trees I found had every branch propped up separately, and 
on some the fruit would weigh at least four times as much as the entire 
tree, roots, trunk, branches, and leaves. The figs were covered with the 
second crop of the season, nearly ripe, and the plums were like great 
yellow balls of sugar and butter. All the fruit is perfect; even the 
grapes, which flourish best in the hot, sunny valleys, being large and 
delicious. Every variety of vegetable seemed to flourish; golden squashes 
and pumpkins covered the ground, and luscious melons lay ripening in the 
sun. Among the curiosities we noticed a bed of peanuts. These pets of the 
Bowery patrons grow luxuriantly in California, being largely cultivated by 
the Chinese in Sacramento Valley, and are larger and better than any 
imported; the tops look something like alfalfa. All this without 
irrigation or other cultivation than spading and hoeing, in the most 
inhospitable climate found in California below the snow-belt of the Sierra 
Nevada. 

The grizzly bear still prowls in the redwoods, and occasionally comes down 
to levy tribute on the rancheros. My friend showed me where two huge 
grizzlies were seen lying in an arroyo sunning themselves only a few days 
before. The party who saw them had lost no cattle of that description, and 
he, in the expressive language of California, "got up and dusted" in the 
opposite direction as fast as his horse could carry him. And well he 
might. Mr 

[image caption: LASSOING A GRIZZLY.]

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Steele pointed out where a fearful scene was enacted just above his garden 
in 1867. An old she-bear came down with her two cubs in the day-time and 
seized a hog. Two men employed on the ranch, both Portuguese, started to 
rescue the hog. One had a gun, the other only a garden mattock. They found 
her by the fence eating the hog, and yelled at her to drive her away. She 
accepted the challenge, and with a growl dashed over the fence and after 
them. The man with the gun pointed it full-cocked at her head, but, as he 
afterward admitted, when he felt her hot breath in his face, became 
demoralized, dropped the weapon and jumped over the fence. His companion 
followed his example, and they jumped back and forth for some minutes with 
the enraged brute in close pursuit. At length the man who had the mattock 
started to run across the field toward the house; but the bear caught him, 
threw him down, bit him through the thigh, and then started after the 
other assailant. Had the wounded man feigned death he would have been 
saved; but not understanding grizzly fighting, he jumped up and began 
shouting for help. At this she turned upon him more infuriated than ever, 
and, seizing him by the side, literally tore him in pieces, killing him 
instantly. The other man escaped. The next morning the bear, bear-like, 
returned to finish the hog, and was shot by a party lying in wait for her. 

Three or four years ago a San Franciscan staying at the Forest Home, on 
the mountains between Santa Cruz and San Jos, a few miles east of this 
place, was one day digging up a honeysuckle bush 

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near the house, when he saw something stir in the bushes and gave it a 
poke with the hoe. A moment later the ladies saw him vault over the fence 
into the door-yard, with a grizzly at his heels. He managed to escape, but 
left a portion of his pantaloons behind as a keepsake. That night the 
family slept in the second story of the house with the windows fastened 
down. 

Almost every schoolboy in America is familiar with stories of the savage 
ferocity and immense strength of the grizzly bear of California. As a rule 
as I think I may have intimated elsewhere, hunters stories may safely be 
taken with some grains of allowance. The lion has generally been 
represented as the "King of Beasts," and numberless are the stories of his 
courage, strength, and ferocity. The truth is, the lion is nothing but a 
great overgrown cat, and his courage is just that of the cat on a large 
scale, and nothing more. A cat will fight when cornered, from sheer excess 
of cowardice, but she always prefers running. Find the weight of a cat and 
that of a lion, and just so many times as the lion is heavier than the 
cat, just so much more fight and courage of the same character exactly you 
will find in him. But the stories of the dangerous character of the 
grizzly, unlike those relating to the lion, are not and cannot be 
exaggerated. I know from observation that the oldest hunters are the most 
afraid of a contest with the grizzly, and take the greatest pains to avoid 
one. It is always the young, inexperienced hunter who sallies out half 
armed and alone to fight a grizzly; and one dose 

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is generally found quite enough to cure him of such folly. 

The-plain truth is, that the grizzly is much better entitled to the title 
of King of Beasts than the lion. He fears neither man nor beast, and, 
instead of waiting to be attacked, will, if hungry or in any way out of 
humor, invariably become the attacking party whatever the odds against 
him. A lucky shot penetrating the heart, breaking the vertebra, or 
entering the brain, will sometimes cause almost instant death; but in 
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the first shot only enrages and 
infuriates him, and renders him the most dangerous animal on earth to fall 
into the clutches of 

The bear, like the hog, is "set in his ways," obstinate, and inclined to 
adhere, with unflinching pertinacity, to established customs and habits. 
He never goes back on the traditions of his race. He is the true natural 
conservative, believes to the utmost in the wisdom of his ancestors, and 
hates innovation. He forgets nothing, and learns nothing from experience. 
You can always count on his doing a certain thing in a certain 
contingency; as they say out west, "he averages well." He invariably 
buries his prey where he kills it, and returns at night to feed upon it. 
The knowledge of this fact has before now saved many a hunter's life. The 
man who has the courage and nerve to lie still as if dead, and never 
cringe when he is lifted by the bear's teeth, stands a chance of being 
buried under a pile of loose leaves and rubbish, and left for hours or 
until night; but woe to him if he moves so much a finger before 

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he knows that the bear is out of sight; his fate is then certain. 
Rancheros who are annoyed by the killing of their stock by grizzlies take 
advantage of this habit of the bear, and, on discovering where one has 
buried a steer, hog, or sheep, construct a platform high up on a large 
tree, if one is convenient, or dig a pit if no tree is near, and on the 
platform or in the pit await the bear's return at night, prepared to give 
him a volley from the largest and most formidable guns obtainable. I have 
often seen these platforms in the Sierra Nevada and Coast Range, and 
listened to the stories of the hunters who "went for" the grizzlies there. 

On the 14th of March, 1871, George W. Teel, a youth of seventeen years, 
employed as a stock-herder on the foothills of the Mount St. Helena range, 
only five miles from Calistoga, discovered the track of a grizzly near his 
camp, and, boy-like, determined to lay for him. Six hundred yards from 
camp he dug a hole in the ground deep enough to wholly hide him, then hung 
a piece of venison on a tree near by, loaded his double-barreled gun with 
all the powder he dared place in it, and two-ounce slugs, and commenced 
his nightly vigil. About two o'clock in the morning he heard the snorting 
of a grizzly, and on looking up, he beheld, about eight feet off, two 
glaring eyes in the head of a large-sized bear. It was quite dark and 
foggy. The young man leveled his gun, took aim, and as he saw the bear 
raise his head, he fired, and the ball entered the animal's neck, breaking 
it, the slug ranging along the back and lodging under the skin. The 

[image caption: A CHANGE OF BASE.]

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bear was so close that the powder singed the hair on its breast. The 
grizzly had grasped in its teeth an oak bush, and in one leap fell dead at 
the feet of its captor. 

Young Teel, having been successful, retired to his camp contented. At 
daybreak he left his couch and went to the place where he had killed the 
animal, and to his surprise found he had killed a grizzly of the size of 
an ox, weighing fully eight hundred pounds. He was in luck. 

About the same time an experienced hunter in Southern California met with 
a terrible adventure, with more serious results. The affair is related by 
the Los Angeles Star, of February 19th, 1871 "John Searles, well known in 
this section of the State as an expert miner, left Soledad Caon a few days 
ago, with a couple of friends, on a hunting expedition into the mountains 
north and east of La Liebre Rancho, which abound in deer and bear. 
Wednesday evening, the party encamped at the foot of a large caon, and, 
leaving his friends, Mr. Searles took his rifle, a Spencer, and went up 
the caon hunting; about a mile from camp, he killed and dressed a grizzly. 
Judging from the fresh sign that bear was plenty, he went on up the caon, 
looking for a good place for a hunting camp. Half a mile from where he 
left his horse, in very thick brush, he came suddenly upon a large 
grizzly, breaking down the chemisal, in a thicket. After waiting in the 
trail a few minutes, with his gun ready, the bear emerged from the bush 
and made a rush at him. A ball from the Spencer knocked it down; but, 
almost immediately 

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rising, the bear--one of the largest kind--closed with him. The Spencer 
missing fire three times, a terrible hand-to-hand combat ensued, the man 
fighting for life with his fists, and the bear fighting for death with 
teeth and claws. The unequal conflict was not prolonged. The bear, 
weakened by loss of blood which poured from the rifle-ball wound, left the 
man for dead, and crawling into the brush, bled to death. After the bear 
left, Mr. Searles, who had feigned death, arose and examined his wounds. A 
bite from the bear had broken his lower jaw in several places, one of his 
arms were broken, and terrible wounds in the breast and side were bleeding 
fast. In this condition he crawled to his horse, mounted and rode to camp. 
He was brought to this city last night, by his friends, and best surgical 
aid summoned to his assistance, although it is feared that his injuries 
are fatal." 

"If you play with the bear, you must take bear's play," is a common 
saying, but its full force and significance can only be appreciated by one 
who has had a tussle with a California grizzly. 

The Stockton Republican of March 14th, 1871--the very day on which both 
the last related affairs occurred--gave the following account of a grizzly 
fight which occurred in the Valley of the San Joaquin a few days 
previously: "W. D Fowler and George Day were out hunting in the hills near 
Oristemba Creek, on the west side of San Joaquin River, in Stanislaus 
county, and came upon a large female grizzly bear, which they commenced 
firing at. The bear retreated slowly, and finally went to her lair 

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in some underbrush. The men kept up a steady fire at her at long range, 
the bear fighting desperately, tearing the brush and breaking limbs, but 
refusing to leave her position. After awhile, they noticed her carry off, 
one at a time, two small cubs and hide them in the bush. Finding their 
range too long to be effective, the hunters undertook to reach a position 
nearer the bear by going around a hill, and just when they were ascending 
the knoll to get a sight of her, she suddenly came over the brow and 
dashed at them in the most ferocious manner When discovered, she was so 
near them that escape was impossible, and the men stood their ground. On 
she came, tearing up the bushes and biting the shrubs. When within ten 
feet of Fowler he fired, and the shot broke her neck. She fell, and a shot 
from Day's rifle passed through her heart. It was a narrow escape. The 
hunters captured the two cubs the mother had hid in the brush, and 
another, which still remained in the nest. The two cubs hidden in the 
brush were colored precisely alike, while the one remaining in the nest 
was somewhat darker, from which the hunters concluded that the old bear 
they killed had only secreted her own young, and that the one remaining in 
the nest belonged to another bear and another family." 

In the spring of 1869, a grizzly of the largest size "ranched" in the San 
Andreas Valley, near the new reservoir of the Spring Valley Water 
Company,--from which San Francisco is supplied,--within fifteen miles of 
the Golden City, for several weeks. Nobody about there had lost any bears, 
and nobody 

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went after him, so he fattened on the luxuriant clover and wild oats until 
the range began to give out, and then leisurely departed for the 
mountains. No one asked him to come, and nobody cared to delay his 
departure. 

The grizzly is susceptible of domestication, but his moods are varied even 
then. A few years ago, while a museum was being moved from one part of San 
Francisco to another, old Samson--who chawed up "Grizzly Adams" once upon 
a time and rendered him beautiful for life--got out of his cage and took 
possession of the lower part of the city. A crowd of excited men and boys 
were soon at his heels, endeavoring to corral him, but for a long time 
without success. At length, tired of picking up damaged fruit from the 
gutters, upsetting ash-barrels and swill-barrels, and frightening all the 
women and children on the street out of their seven senses, he took refuge 
in a livery stable, where he was speedily surrounded and cornered. A 
number of men formed a hollow square around him with pitchforks, and an 
Irishman with a rope formed into a noose crawled up within reach of the 
beleaguered animal, and would have lassoed him, but for the fact that he 
was afraid to attempt it. "Why don't you slip it over his nose so that he 
can't bite?" shouted a bystander to him. "Well, you see I would, but thin 
I ain't acquainted with him jist!" was the hesitating reply. "Oh, never 
mind being acquainted with him; don't stand on ceremony with a bear. Just 
take off your hat and introduce yourself!" was the jeering rejoinder; and 
a roar of laughter from the entire 

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crowd testified to their keen appreciation of the joke. In January, 1870, 
I saw that same bear in the Plaza de Toros, in the city of Vera Cruz, 
Mexico, dig a hole large enough to hold an elephant, take a bull which had 
been set to fight him in his paws as if he were an infant, carry him to 
the pit, hurl him into it head foremost, slap him on the side with his 
tremendous paws until his breath was half knocked out of his body, and 
then hold him down with one paw while he deliberately buried him alive by 
raking the earth down upon him with the other. Samson had not a tooth to 
bite with at that time, they having been in the course of years and many 
fights worn down to the gums; but his strength was that of an elephant, 
and his claws, eight inches in length, curved like a rainbow and sharp as 
a knife would enable him to tear open anything made of flesh and blood as 
you or I would tear open a banana. 

I am satisfied that an average grizzly could at any time whip the 
strongest African lion in a fair stand-up fight, while a full-grown bull 
is no more to him than a rat is to the largest house-cat. 

The grizzly is becoming scarce in some parts of the State, but he is still 
found in great numbers in the Coast Range Mountains, from San Diego to Del 
Norte. 

The Mexican or native Californian vaqueros in Santa Barbara and 
neighboring counties, riding out three or four together on their fleet, 
well-trained caballos, will without fear attack a grizzly, lasso him from 
different directions, and not only conquer him, 

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but actually so tie him up and entangle him as to eventually tire him out, 
and bring him into the town an unresisting prisoner. 

But it is not every man who can do that little trick. The natives relate 
with pardonable exultation the story of a Yankee who came to California in 
early days, and soon acquired the trick of throwing the lasso with 
considerable dexterity. Hearing others talk of lassoing the grizzly, he 
started out full of confidence, to show them that he could do what any 
other man could do in that line. He soon raised a bear, threw the lasso 
with unerring aim, and reined back his trembling steed to give the brute 
an astonisher; when the rieta --which is attached always to the pommel of 
the saddle--came up taut Judge of his astonishment, my little friends, 
when that bear quietly assumed a sitting position, took hold of the rieta, 
and commenced to draw it in, hand over hand! The hapless descendant of the 
Pilgrim Fathers stuck to the horse and saddle until he saw the slack all 
drawn in, and the bear id horse coming rapidly together,--with what result 
could not be for a moment doubted,--then hastily descended and hunted a 
tree, abandoning the horse to the underwriters. He had learned only half 
of the trick. Two skillful men, operating from opposite sides, can master 
a, bear and choke him between them; but with only one man, one horse, and 
one bear, it is "bear and for bear" all the time. 

Returning from the Steele Brothers' dairy at Point Ao Nuevo, we passed the 
famed "Pebble Beach of Pescadero," a great resort, especially for 

[image caption: THE PULL ON THE WRONG SIDE.]

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ladies and children, in the summer season. Two ledges of sharp, jagged 
rocks jut out into the ocean about two hundred and fifty yards apart. 
Between them extends a sandstone bluff some thirty feet in height, in 
front of which stretches the beach some twenty to fifty feet in width at 
high or low tide. The beach is composed wholly of pebbles, from the size 
of a grain of wheat to that of a good-sized walnut. They are of all 
colors--white, red, brown, yellow, green, and variegated. Those of a 
beautiful opaline hue are most plentiful, and all are highly polished by 
attrition. Plain agates, moss-agates, cornelians and greenstones abound; 
and it is claimed that the more precious stones, including diamonds and 
rubies, are sometimes met with. The wife of Francisco Garcia, a well-known 
saloon-keeper on Montgomery Street, in San Francisco, has a genuine 
diamond which she found here, but I am not certain that it was placed 
there by purely natural agencies Hundreds of tons of the pebbles are 
washed up by every storm, and it is supposed that there is a layer or 
stratum of soft rock or clay in which they are imbedded, extending out 
into the sea from beneath the sandstone. Every day, in summer, many ladies 
and children go down to this beach pebble-hunting, carrying their lunch-
baskets with them. They lie down at full length upon their faces on the 
drifts of polished pebbles, and with a stick dig down into the mass in 
search of special beauties. A quart of fine ones is a good day's work, and 
a lady of unusually fastidious taste will frequently work all day for a 
cupfull. Collections of these pebbles may be seen 

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in most of the better class of houses in San Francisco, and along the 
coast, though they cannot be considered as of any great value. I walked 
along the beach, but did not see any diamonds, and filled my pockets at 
random. Some of the moss-agate and similar stones make really handsome 
jewelry when cut and set in gold. Santa Cruz, lower down the coast, has 
also a pebble beach, but it is not equal to this at Pescadero. 

At the beach I saw one of the characters of the locality--Cona, an immense 
Newfoundland dog. One day a little girl picking pebbles was caught by a 
huge roller from the Pacific, and carried out into the roaring Surf. Cona 
dashed in, caught her by the hair, and, after a stout struggle, brought 
her ashore alive. Of course Cona became a hero at once, and was duly 
lionized and spoiled. He enjoyed his dignity for some time, but 
eventually, finding himself neglected, he determined, by a bold stroke, to 
regain his popularity. Starting off for the beach, he saw a lady out 
swimming. He at once rushed in, seized her by the hair, and, in spite of 
her frantic resistance, landed her on the beach. He has become a necessary 
nuisance, and now insists on rescuing every man, woman, and child whom he 
catches swimming. He was looking for somebody to rescue when we came along 
there--but looked in vain; it was not a good day for rescuing, and he was 
sad at heart and dejected of mien. 

The age attained by the native Spanish-American and usually part Indian-
inhabitants of this coast is truly marvelous. I never knew but one of them 

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to die, and he might have lived to a green old age had he not been knocked 
down and run over by a runaway flour-mill truck team, on Pine street, in 
San Francisco, in I He was one hundred and four years old when he was thus 
prematurely cut off. It is an undoubted fact that Cimon Avilos, now or 
recently living at Todos Santos Bay, Lower California, was one of the 
military guard who presented arms when Padre Junipero Serra raised the 
cross at the Mission San Diego, in July, in the year of our Lord and 
Master 1769. This old conquistador had been a soldier in the Spanish army 
several years before that event, so that his age to-day can be hardly less 
than one hundred and twenty-five years. I have half a notion to go down 
there some day and get the jovial young fellow to come up to San 
Francisco, and take a little pasear over the Pacific Rail road. At 
Pescadero the claim to being "the oldest inhabitant" is at issue between 
Don Salvador Mosquito, a Mission Indian, and Seor Don Felipe Armas, a 
Californian of Spanish parentage. Armas remembers that when King 
Kamehameha I., of Hawaii, found that the cattle which had grown up wild on 
his islands had become an unbearable nuisance, and sent over to this 
country for vaqueros to kill them off--a historical fact--he, Armas, was 
selected as one of the party. He was then said to be thirty-five years of 
age, but so many years have since elapsed that he "has lost the run of 
them entirely." The number of his immediate descendants is still 
increasing at the rate of one yearly. Salvador Mosquito was baptized under 
another 

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name, but the stout-built Mission in which the ceremony was performed has 
long since crumbled into dust, and the vaqueros, who, under the direction 
of the Holy Fathers (also dead), went out to lasso him and bring him in 
for the glory of God, have for many a year been hunting ethereal cattle on 
phantom steeds over the ranchos of the blessed. I saw him the other day. 
He came down to the grocery to get a bottle of whisky, to which he is very 
partial when he cannot get milk, which is usually the case. This 
antidiluvian joker is always as dry as a fish. They trust him at the 
grocery until his bill amounts to two or three dollars, and then demand 
the coin. Lifting his hands, with the expression of a dying saint, the old 
rascal ejaculates, "Yo muy pobre, seor! Yo tengo nada, nada, nada!
seor!" with solemn earnestness and every appearance of perfect honesty. 
But the clerk invariably goes for him in the most business-like manner 
Placing his elbow against the venerable patriarch's windpipe, he pushes 
him back against the wall, and, bringing the pressure up to about the 
point of one hundred and sixty pounds to the square inch, gradually cuts 
off his supply of breath and consequent power of resistance; then running 
the other hand into his pocket produces a more or less well-filled purse, 
from which he repays the establishment and squares the account. Then Don 
Salvador denounces the act as a "damned Yankee trick," goes out in front 
of the store, spits in the dust, mixes up a little mud, in which he dips 
his finger, and making crosses and other cabalistic signs upon the door, 
and windows, and walls, calls down the 

[image caption: THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL.]

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vengeance of an offended Heaven on the accursed tienda and everything 
therein. "May its walls fall out, its roof cave in its contents be ground 
to powder, and its site be given over, as a last crowning curse, to the 
everlasting habitation and proprietorship of the worthy descendants of the 
chief robber, son of a priest and a woman without virtue, who now occupies 
it!" Then he goes home with a heart full of wrath and righteous 
bitterness. Next morning he returns to see the ruins, is duly astonished 
at seeing the place stand unharmed, goes in and commences a new account. 
Mosquito appears to be a man of strong but transitory prejudices. His 
tribe many years ago dwindled down to some forty or fifty, who, under the 
command of the chief, Pomponio, made their headquarters in the redwood 
forest above Pescadero, near to the source of the stream now bearing his 
name. From thence they made periodical forays on the ranchos below; but as 
the good Fathers had caught and "converted" all their female friends, they 
finally went down to the old Mission Santa Clara or San Jose--I am not 
certain which--and, breaking into the corral one night. carried off a 
"mahala" apiece from under the very noses of their pious guardians. For 
this daring act of sacrilege they were pursued by the Spanish soldiers to 
their mountain fastness and exterminated. Mosquito not being big enough 
for slaughter was not killed, but was caught and baptized. He is a buen 
Christiano, especially when about half-full of whisky. I have calculated 
the number of red peppers he must have eaten since that time, and the 

Page 72

aggregate is something more bulky than Mount Diablo, and it would take 
more figures to express it than are required in the annual exhibit of our 
national debt. 

"Pescadero" is the Spanish for "fishery," and the name is indicative. The 
creeks which come down from the mountains all along this coast swarm with 
the spotted trout of California, and afford fine sport in the early part 
of the season. In places along their banks, the honeysuckle bushes and 
other shrubs and vines form a chapparal so dense that you must wade for 
miles to whip the stream; but one hundred, two hundred, or even three 
hundred trout are often basketed in a single day's fishing by one 
individual. It does not rain here from April until the last of November or 
December; but as the days become shorter, and the sun's rays less 
powerful, the evaporation which caused the streams to dwindle to mere 
strings of detached ponds decreases, and all over the State, especially in 
the Coast Range, the rivers commence to rise. Thompson, a hospitable 
landlord, took me down to the mouth of the Pescadero for a little sport. 
We sent a Mexican after worms for bait. The Mexican sent a negro, and we 
sent a Chinaman after the negro, and got them all at last. The row down 
the creek was short. We saw hundreds of mallards and teal, which we could 
not shoot, because the law forbids it--very properly--until the 15th of 
the month, and large flocks of long-billed curlew and other birds, such as 
crows, buzzards, gulls, etc., etc., which we did not want to kill. There 
is a bar at, the mouth of the 

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creek, and we chained our boat to a high rock inside it and walked down to 
the ocean. The shores were lined with drift, trunks of great pine and 
redwood trees, timbers of wrecked ships, etc., etc., and the scenery was 
wildly romantic. We passed the festering carcasses of half a dozen great 
sea lions, which had been killed by a fishing party with Henry rifles some 
weeks before. The fish come into the creek with the tide, and bite best 
before the ebb commences. If the sea lions who cover the rocks just 
outside, follow them into the creek, the fish all run out--and there is no 
more sport that day. So the fishermen shoot some of the sea-lions to make 
the rest leave. Before we reached the mouth we saw two wolves on the 
opposite shore, running around by the edge of the breakers and playing 
like dogs. One ran off when he saw us, and the other lifted up his nose 
and voice, and treated us to the most vivid illustration imaginable of 

The wolf's lone howl on Onalaska's shore," 

and then followed his companion. As we rounded the bluff we saw some rocks 
just off shore covered with sea-lions. It was low tide, and we could run 
out to within fifty yards of them. I had a large-sized Smith & Wesson 
revolver, a capital weapon for such use, and as they threw up their heads 
to look at us, I sent a bullet into the side of a big spotted fellow who 
was lying high up and presented a good mark. The ball struck him with a 
dull thud, and as he rolled off into the waves the whole herd went 
splashing after him. Half a dozen of them 

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swam down in a line to within twenty or thirty yards of us, and looked at 
us with their great lustrous brown eyes, whether in sorrow or in anger we 
could not tell, until I hit one on his head, and as the bullet glanced 
off, he disappeared with a grunt and porpoise-like plunge. Thompson took 
the pistol, and as one rose again fired and hit him squarely in the mouth. 
He shook his head from side to side, as if blind with pain, and then went 
down, leaving great dark spots in the water. They all started oK' then 
southward, and I was not sorry. Inveterate sportsman that I have been from 
my youth up, I cannot get over the feeling that the killing of defenseless 
creatures like these, and allowing their bodies to rot on the beach, is 
something akin to murder. 

The rocks we stood on, and which are covered at high tide were incrusted 
with mussels of immense Size. Some of them measure twelve inches in length,
and Thompson tells me that he has seen them fifteen inches long. They are 
fat and luscious, and a few epicures come down to the coast every season 
to indulge in clam-bakes and mussel-roasts; but this species of shell-fish 
is so common, and consequently cheap, that not one in ten of the people of 
California ever eat them. In holes in the rocks, filled with pure sea-
water, we saw curious things like great sunflowers with bright-green 
petals. These we could not detach from the rocks, and at one touch they 
would curl up into a slippery ball with all the petals hidden inside. 

We went back to our boat as the tide came booming 

[image caption: SHOOTING SEA LIONS.]

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in, and prepared to fish for salmon-trout, as they are called; really they 
are yearling and two-year-old salmon. They will bite at a worm, spoon, or 
fly, but best at worms. I had hardly put in my hook before a noble fellow 
made the line fairly hiss through the water for a few minutes. Then we 
drew him, panting and exhausted with his struggles, alongside the rocks, 
and with a landing net got him into the boat. He was twenty inches in 
length, and the handsomest fish I ever caught. Eight- and ten- pounders 
are common, and they are the most delicious fish for frying or broiling 
which ever swam the sea. Great crabs came in also with the tide, and we 
dipped several of them out with our net. In two hours we corralled 
fourteen salmon-trout, losing several more by hooks breaking, and then. 
the slack-water coming on and the fish ceasing to bite with avidity, 
hoisted sail and went swiftly gliding back up the stream to the hotel. It 
was, all in all, the best morning's sport I have ever enjoyed ill my life, 
and I have shot and fished from the Red River of the North to the Rio 
Grande, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific. 



Page 76

CHAPTER IV. PESCADERO TO SANTA CRUZ. 
Down the Coast toward Santa Cruz.--The Moss and Shell Beaches of 
Pescadero.--A Disgusted Hunter.--A Grizzly Bear Procession.--A Mutual 
Surprise and Double Stampede.--The Bear Fever.--The Buck Fever and Prairie-
Hen Fever.--How Jim wheeler Killed the Buck.--How Old S. killed Three at 
one Shot.--A Spanish-American Gentleman of Scientific Attainments and 
Undoubted veracity.--View of the Bay of Monterey and the valley and 
Mountains of Santa Cruz. 

PESCADERO numbers among its attractions a "Moss Beach," where the ladies 
who visit the place go to gather the beautiful, delicate, many-hued sea-
mosses which are found in such abundance all along the Pacific Coast, but 
in highest perfection on the shores of Central California. These mosses 
are torn loose by the storms, and thrown ashore by the tides in great 
abundance in some localities, this "Moss Beach" being one of them. The 
ladies gather them at low tide, strip them from the glutinous, leather-
like substance to which they are found adhering, and place them in salt 
water, to be kept fresh until they are ready to dry them. The delicate 
sprays, with fibers finer than any silk, are with infinite labor spread 
out with pliers, or other small instruments, upon the open leaves of an 
old ledger or other book of hard paper, and pressed carefully while 

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drying. When fully dried they are taken off the paper carefully, and 
cleaned with a soft brush to remove any mold or other blemishes, and are 
then ready for use in the preparation of moss-baskets, pictures, etc., 
etc. Nothing can be more beautiful than the work thus produced by ladies 
of taste, and no special teaching or experience is required to enable them 
to do it well. These mosses, when dried ready for use, readily command 
high prices at the East and in California, the demand being always large. 
There is also a "Shell Beach" in the vicinity of Pescadero, where 
beautiful sea-sheik are gathered. The finest shell on the Pacific Coast il 
the great abalone (pron. "ab-a- lo -ne"), a mammoth univalve, which is 
found most abundantly and most perfect along the shores of the Bay of 
Monterey, and thence southwards to San Diego. The inside of the shell is 
rainbow-hued and very brilliant, and when the rough outside has been 
ground and polished away they make beautiful ornaments for the mantel and 
cabinet. Belt-buckles and other jewelry, which would be "perfectly lovely" 
if not so cheap and common, are made from these shells. 

From Pescadero to Santa Cruz is thirty-six miles, by the road which winds 
along the coast past Point Ao Nuevo and Pigeon Point to the Bay of 
Monterey, and thence southeastward, through a rich and highly-cultivated 
farming region, to the old Spanish Mission on the hill, below and around 
which the modern town, one of the most beautiful and thriving in 
California, has grown up within the past 

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fifteen years. What a glorious gallop we--Chirimoya and I--had over the 
clean, hard, undulating road on that autumn morning after I left 
Pescadero! Californians will understand me and pardon my enthusiasm, 
possibly sympathize with me in it; but you of the older and more staid and 
conventional East cannot do so, and I pass the description, as you would 
inevitably pass it if you came upon it in print. Passing over a pine-clad 
spur of Santa Cruz mountains, which here come close down to the coast, we 
halted for a time to rest and look about. This is a famous place for 
gathering the pine-cones, with fragments of which ladies are wont to 
construct elaborately wrought picture.frames and other "ornamental" work, 
very ugly, and very effective as dust-catchers, but excellent things for 
presents to religiously inclined friends, who are thereby brought to a 
realizing appreciation of the force of the scriptural maxim, "It is more 
blessed to give than to receive." A hunter, who had followed a deer down 
from the heights above, toward the coast, but lost him, joined me as I 
reclined upon the warm, dry ground upon the hill-side, enjoying the 
delicious sense of quiet and absence of care and life's petty annoyances 
which comes with solitude, mountain air, and autumn sunshine, and we 
swapped stories of forest and mountain life and adventure, in this and 
other lands, for an hour or two. He told me with infinite gusto, and a 
true frontiersman's rude but hearty appreciation of the grotesquely 
humorous, how a Fiend of his, who was, and is, a sort of 

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Mr. Toots in sportsmanship and woodcraft, came down here once from San 
Francisco in pursuit of game, and wandering out into the woods upon this 
same hill, fell asleep one delicious summer afternoon beneath a shady 
tree. When he awake it was almost sunset, and the coolness of evening was 
coming on. He sat up, looked about him, rubbed his eyes, wondered like Rip 
Van Winkle how long he had been lying there, and how long it would take 
him to walk back, empty-handed as he was, to his hotel. Just then a 
rustling and cracking noise, from a clump of chaparral about a hundred 
yards away. attracted his attention. Out walked a grizzly bear, a monarch 
of his kind; yawned, ran his red tongue lazily over the outside of his 
jaw, humped his back as if to test the condition and pliability of his 
vertebr, then advanced directly toward the tree under which the astonished 
but hardly delighted. San Franciscan sat, evidently without having noticed 
him anti blissfully unconscious of his presence. His grizzly majesty had 
hardly advanced twenty yards when a female of the same species, and but a 
little less in Size, followed in his wake and went through almost the same 
calisthenic exercises. The first bear's appearance made the man of 
"Frisco" gasp for breath, the second sent the blood back to his heart in a 
torrent, the force of which almost caused mat organ to jump out of his 
breast. It never rains ?? a third bear followed the second, licked his 
chops, humped his back, gave a half growl, half whine of satisfaction and 
advanced in the same direction at a slow, shambling pace. Every word he 
had ever spoKen in any 

Page 80

near or remote sense disrespectful of bald-headed men flashed through our 
hero's mind in an instant. "Now I lay me down to slee--" the forward bear 
was already within thirty yards of him, and before the prayer could be 
half finished would be upon him. Something more energetic and positive had 
to be done immediately. Springing to his feet in frantic despair, the San 
Franciscan hunter threw his arms wildly aloft, and uttered one loud, long, 
terrific, unearthly yell, such as an able-bodied Irish banshee might have 
given on a particularly rough night, when a particularly bad scion of a 
particularly noble house was passing in his checks at the termination of a 
particularly long and infamous life. The effect was instantaneous and 
striking. The foremost bear, startled out of his seven senses by the yell, 
sprang about ten feet--more or less--into the air, knocked his nearest 
companion off her pins as he came down, rolled over her, gathered himself 
up, and bolted "like forty cartloads of rock going down a chute" straight 
for the chaparral again, his companions following close at his heels, and 
never turning to see what it was which had stampeded them. As they went 
bouncing and crashing away into the undergrowth, our friend, utterly 
oblivious from the first that he had a gun within reach of his arm, turned 
and ran the other way with such speed as Jackson or the Deerslayer never 
achieved, reaching his hotel, some miles from the spot, with his garments 
soaked with perspiration, hair wildly disheveled, and eyes almost bursting 
from their sockets, only to tell the marvelous story of his adventure to 

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a party of practical hunters, who, with the true California instinct, 
scouted the entire statement as "too thin," affirmed that there never was 
a bear seen within ten miles of there, hinted that he had been frightened 
by a drove of cattle, winding up with an intimation that he had doubtless 
been drinking a little too freely of late, and if he did not want to have 
an attack of the "jim-jams" he had better switch off right then and there, 
turn over a new leaf, and reform his vicious not to say criminal habits at 
once and forever. Adding insult to injury was literally boiled down in 
this case, and our hero of "the three bars," as he was derisively termed, 
went to his bed that night in a frame of mind easier to be imagined than 
described. Next morning a small Spanish boy--who had been posted in 
advance by the party--rode out on a mustang to the scene of our hero's 
misadventure, brought back his gun, which was found lying on the ground 
just where he had left it, and on being closely questioned as to the 
"sign" he had seen, swore by all the saints in the calendar that there was 
nothing there save a few fresh hog tracks. This last straw broke the 
camel's back, and our Nimrod packed his traps and started for San 
Francisco by the morning stage, cursing in the bitterness of his heart the 
whole human race, and devoutly praying that the bears which the hunters 
affected to disbelieve in the very existence of might catch and devour 
them all. It is but just to add that the bears were there, and the hunters 
knew it all the time. They only wanted their little joke. Everything had 
occurred just as he had stated it, and in 

Page 82

the frenzy of his terror he had done the wisest thing imaginable, and 
taken in fact the only feasible and proper course to get himself well out 
of a bad scrape. 

My hunter friend was just a little soured in spirit by a misadventure of 
his own that morning. In company with a young man from the city, who came 
well recommended as a good shot and energetic hunter, he had started out 
at daybreak into the mountains in search of deer. They were going up a 
narrow trail along the bottom of a thick-wooded caon, when a deer, 
startled by their footsteps, sprang up within ten feet of them and darted 
away with tremendous bounds through the bushes. The young man, startled 
out of his seven senses by the sudden appearance of the deer, had been 
seized with the "buck fever," and discharging his rifle at random without 
the slightest idea what he was about, came within an ace of blowing his 
companion's head off For this he had received a blessing, and an 
intimation that thenceforth their paths. were separated, and the more 
widely the better. 

This "buck fever" is one of the most violent diseases which ever attacked 
the human system. The story of the Southern planter who placed his negro 
servant in ambush, and then, ordering him to fire the moment he got a fair 
sight at the deer, drove a fine buck directly down the ravine past him, is 
familiar, I presume, to most of my readers. As the buck dashed past him 
the negro rose to his feet, when the frightened animal made a tremendous 
bound, clearing a clump of bushes and a fallen tree-top, 

Page 83

and was out of sight in an instant. "Why in thunder didn't you fire, Sam, 
as I told you?" "Fire, massa? Gully mighty, massa, I didn't tink 'twas any 
use! He jump so almighty high, I was done gone sure he'd break his back 
falling, massa!" was the trembling darkey's quick-witted reply. 

I once knew a man out in Illinois named Wheeler. He had been engaged in 
farming on Fox River for years and never fired a gun. But one winter when 
a light snow covered the ground, he heard the boys talking so much about 
the fun they were having at deer-hunting that his ambition became excited, 
and he determined to borrow a gun and start out himself. He did so. That 
night he came back with a magnificent buck, shot square in the middle of 
the forehead. Wheeler said little about his achievement, but got the 
credit of being a crack shot, which he enjoyed for years. But on an evil 
day he visited the village of St. Charles, on the occasion of the visit of 
a circus to the place, and getting unusually full of ginger-pop and such 
mild stimulants, in an unguarded moment let out the secret and blasted 
that glorious reputation in an instant. He had seen a doe drinking out of 
a creek at the foot of a bluff some twenty feet in height, and in the wild 
excitement of the moment got the rifle to his shoulder, shut his eyes, set 
his teeth like a child in a fit, and pulled trigger. To his utter 
astonishment he saw the doe bound away untouched, and at the same instant 
a glorious buck pitched headlong from the top of the bluff into the creek, 
shot dead as a door nail by a bullet through the head. The buck had 

Page 84

been looking down on the doe, and Wheeler had never seen him at all. That 
let him out as a deerhuntist. 

It is not absolutely necessary that the game in sight should be a buck or 
doe, to give a green hunter the "buck fever." Prairie-chickens suddenly 
starting up around a man for the first time will not unfrequently produce 
a severe attack. I remember with a tender regard my old hunting friend and 
companion of other days, Len Huegunin, of Chicago, one of the gamest 
sportsmen I have ever known. He shot his left arm off gunning for ducks in 
the Calumet Marshes, but his right never forgot its cunning, and years 
thereafter he was one of the crack shots of the Garden City. One day Len 
was persuaded against his better judgment to go out on the prairie and 
initiate a green Bostonian in the mysteries of prairie-chicken shooting. 
When the dog took up the scent of the first covey, Len followed upon one 
side of an Osage orange hedge and his companion on the other. The chickens 
were concealed in the grass on the Bostonian's side of. the hedge, and in 
an instant they were all off at once, flying, bur-r-r-r-r-r-r, bur-r-r-r-r-
r, bur-r-r-r-r-r-r, up from around his feet and skurrying off right and 
left in all directions. Without the remotest idea of what he was doing or 
Wanted to do: the startled Bostonian fired both barrels into the air at 
random, and with one of them bored a hole about the size of a saw log 
through the hedge and perforated old Len's coat, vest, and pants, to say 
nothing of his hide, with about ten thousand-more or less-No. 7. 

Page 85

Now Len was a man of few words but prompt action. As quick as a flash his 
gun was at his shoulder, and bang, bang, it went in less time than I can 
write it. The Bostonian jumped about three feet high as each barrel was 
discharged, and yelled, as soon as he could get breath, "Why, confound 
you! what the d-l are you doing? You have peppered me all over with shot, 
and hang me if I don't believe you meant it! If I had some buckshot here, 
blame me If I wouldn't give you a dose, if that is your little game!" 
Len's reply came quick from between teeth set hard on a wire cartridge, 
the mate to which he was jamming down into the gun, which he held upright 
between his knees, having but one hand to work with. "Well, d-n you, that 
is my game, and if you are on it, the quicker you get about it the better! 
I'm loading with buckshot cartridges already!" The timely arrival of a 
mutual friend saved the Bostonian from a dose of "B B"; but Len had enough 
of that chicken-pie, and went home at once full of wrath and small shot, 
the most disgusted man on the continent of America. To this day-if Len is 
still in the land of the living-you have but to ask Len to go out with a 
green Bostonian on a chicken-hunt, to get up a first-class fight on the 
instant. Len was three weeks at work with his fingers, a jack-knife, and a 
pair of tweezers digging out those shot, swearing a blue streak all the 
time, and the Bostonian went home with his body so full of lead that he 
never dared take a swimming bath from that day forth. 

It is a painful fact, but a fact nevertheless, that 

Page 86

hunters will lie, occasionally; I have hunted somewhat myself, and I know 
it. Old S. used to keep a hotel and drive stage on the San Mateo and 
Pescadero road. He had hunted more or less all his life. One day he was 
telling a party of tourists about a big deer-hunt he had a few years 
before. Warming up with his subject, he pointed out with his whip a steep 
bluff on the hill-side above them, and thus concluded his narration: 
"Well, you see, gents, I had just got down in that little caon there, when 
I seen a deer standing right by that big redwood, and went for him. I 
didn't see but one deer when I fired, but that deer just gin one leap and 
come crashing down inter the bush thar as dead as a door nail, and blast 
my pictur' ef three more didn't come jumpin' over arter him, each one shot 
so dead that he never kicked. That was jest the strongest shootin' gun you 
ever seed in yer lives, gentlemen. I never seed its ekal, and I've seen 
some in my time, I kin tell yer! But the curiousest thing about it was, 
that the fust deer I fired at was shot right through the side of the head, 
jest above the eye, and through the off hind foot, jest above the huff. 
Fact, gentlemen !" "Through the hind hoof and head at the same shot!--how 
the deuce could that be?" exclaimed one passenger. "Look here, S., don't 
you think that is drawing it a little strong?--four deer at one shot, and 
only saw one of them!" said another. "Well, as fur the bullet going 
through the hind foot and head at the same time, yer see he was jest 
scratchin' his ear with the huff when I fired. That's easy enuff counted 
fur; but the hittin' of four on 'em one after 

Page 87

another, that always did puzzle me a leetle ; howsumever, I'll take my 
affadavy it's a fact, and what is more, there's the hill right in front on 
yer, gentlemen, and yer can see it fur yerselves! There ain't no gettin' 
over that, gentlemen!" This logic silenced the doubters, and S. remained 
master of the situation. The similarity of the experience of S. and 
Wheeler in some particulars may strike the hypercritical reader: only 
another proof that history has a tendency toward repeating itself in all 
ages and countries; nothing more, upon my honor. 

These and many similar anecdotes we exchanged, my hunter friend and I, 
while Chirimoya amused himself munching the dry grass which grew in 
scattered tufts among the bushes, and from time to time varied the 
entertainment a trifle by essaying the feat of kicking a fly off the top 
of his rump with his hind feet,--a thing which cannot be done 
successfully. I have studied equine anatomy thoroughly, and have done my 
best, laboring long and earnestly with a club, to convince that noble 
brute that the thing is a physical impossibility; but it is all of no use; 
he will persist in trying it, I suppose, and setting all my counsel and 
instruction at naught, until he disjoints his back, turns himself inside 
outwards, or is promoted to a position in the shafts of a sand-cart, where 
he cannot lift his heels. The perversity of men and Spanish horses is 
something beyond my comprehension. 

Speaking of hitting flies reminds me of a trifling incident, occurring 
about the commencement of our late civil war, on the Rio Grande. I saw an 
old, 

Page 88

one-eyed Mexican vaquero hitting flies, one by one with a long rawhide 
whip, as they crawled up the side of a wall, and took occasion to 
compliment him on his dexterity. His broad sombrero was off in a moment, 
and with many low bows and protestatory shrugs and gestures he replied, in 
good Castilian, substantially as follows: 

"Yes, your Excellency, I have made it the study of my life, and have 
achieved some small measure of success in my efforts, as you do me the 
infinite honor to remark. I can now hit a fly and knock him off the side 
of a mule without disturbing the mule, or I can hit the mule and knock him 
out from under the fly without disturbing the fly. I am quite at your 
Excellency's service; which will you do me the honor to order me to do?" 

I ordered him to go and take a drink, and he demonstrated the soundness of 
my judgment and his title to my confidence by going and doing so without 
further parley. To the credit of the Spanish Americans I will say that my 
confidence has seldom been abused by them, or proved to have been 
Misplaced. I wish I could say as much for some of my own countrymen! 

This part of the coast of San Mateo and Santa Cruz is subject to 
periodical visitations of various kinds of fish, some of which are almost 
unaccountable and very peculiar indeed. The baracouta, a species of sea-
pickerel greatly valued by the Italian and French cooks for soup and 
chowder, sometimes swarms in the waters close in shore, and is taken by 
cartloads. At other times the shore is literally 

Page 89

covered with "horse-mackerel," and the whole population turns out to enjoy 
the sport of gathering them ln. It has never been my good fortune to 
witness one of these grand fish-battles, but I find one described as 
follows in the Santa Cruz Sentinel. 

"We reached the fishing-grounds about twilight,--here the pen fails to do 
justice to the scene. It was low tide; the sea here forms a continuous, 
almost level beach, five or six miles long, and an average width of one 
hundred and fifty yards at low tide, with a hard, smooth bottom, and not a 
pebble nor a sea-weed visible the whole distance; probably there is no 
nicer nor finer drive in the State for the same distance: the ever-
changeable bluff some one hundred feet in height, all the estuaries filled 
in with drift-wood, accumulating for years. Now imagine some four hundred 
people arriving between twilight and dark, the fine carriages, the 
omnibuses, two-horse teams, four-horse teams, six-horse teams, ox teams, 
carts and California go-carts, all filled with persons who have the 
highest expectation of making a big haul. The high piles of dry drift-
wood, set ablaze for the distance of five miles, the moon shining with 
brightest rays on the silver sand and phosphorescent water. Men, women, 
and children taking their positions at equal distances, awaiting the 
coming of the fish, which occurs when the tide is on the point of coming 
in. The theory of the fish coming ashore I imagine is something like this: 
the bay, at present, is full of a small fish similar to anchovies, the 
natural food of the mackerel, which, being a very voracious fish, follows 
the 

Page 90

anchovy into the breakers, when, the incoming tide being stronger than the 
fish is used to, it deposits him through the breakers, often casting great 
numbers of them high and dry, but most generally depositing them just 
through the breakers, into from three to six inches of water, which causes 
them to flounder and squirm to regain their element; then the real sport 
commences, men and boys roll up their trowsers, ladies tie their dresses 
around their waists, and also pitch in to secure the prizes; when the fish 
flounders he is both seen and heard, as he makes a great commotion; the 
cry is given, 'There he goes!' when all those in the immediate 
neighborhood make for the hapless wight. Then look out for collisions; but 
here woman gets her rights; she has as good a right to the fish as her 
would-be superior, especially if she catches fish herself. But to cut a 
long story short, five of us caught over five hundredweight, and got home 
by six o'clock in the morning. Horse-mackerel is considered a very game 
and edible dish." 

The afternoon was far advanced when I bade adieu to my hunter friend, took 
a parting drink from his canteen, rode down the hill into the open country 
bordering on the Bay of Monterey, and saw the grand panorama of the Valley 
of Santa Cruz, and the shores of the historic bay, with the deep, dark, 
wooded mountains, with majestic old Loma Prieta towering high above them 
all in the background, unfold itself before me in beauty to which tongue 
or pen can do no justice. 



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CHAPTER V. SANTA CRUZ AND ITS SURROUNDINGS. 
The Bay of Santa Cruz and its Surroundings.--The Natural Bridge.--Mussel 
Men, their Dangers and Delights.--Adventure with a Sea-Lion.--Uninvited 
Guest at a Picnic.--An Embarcadero.--Sea Bathing.--Big Trees of Santa 
Cruz.--Caves.--Mountain Rides.--Supposed Ruins.--Up the valley of the San 
Lorenzo.--The Mountain Honeysuckle arid Madroo.--Over the Mountains 
Again.--The Redwood.--And what a Fall was there, my countrymen!--How they 
Broke Jail.--Down the valley of Los Gatos.--Strange Rise and Fall of the 
Streams of the coast Range.--Out of the Wilderness.--An old Friend's 
Story. 

FROM the bold rocky shore of the Bay of Monterey to the westward of Santa 
Cruz, I looked upon a scene of quiet beauty worthy the pencil of the 
ablest painter, that warm sunny autumn afternoon. The bay itself was calm 
and unruffled by breeze or gale, but ever and anon a huge ground-swell 
roller came stealing silently in, as if to catch somebody by surprise, 
and, failing in that, burst with a long sullen roar upon the jagged 
limestone cliffs which form a barrier to the encroachments of the ocean on 
that side. Beyond the broad bay, on the line of the southern horizon, rose 
the gray-, and purple-, and mauve-tinted mountains, which come down almost 
to the water's edge, and at the foot of which stands the old, historic, 
picturesque, and half-decayed Spanish city of Monterey, tie ancient 
capital of Alta California. 

Page 92

Dana, Derby, Colton, and Herman Melville have invested the shores of this 
glorious bay, and that famous old city, with a romantic charm such as few 
localities on our continent can boast. Southeastward the red and black 
outlines of the Gabilan Mountains cut against the rose-tinted horizon. 
They look down upon the broad and fertile valley of the Salinas, which 
debouches into the Bay of Monterey on the eastward; and northward of the 
last, due east or nearly so from where I stood, towers the great peak of 
Loma Prieta, wrapped to its very summit in a dark green mantle of 
chemisal. The Valley of Santa Cruz, dotted with white houses embowered in 
green shady groves, with the trim fresh-looking little city of the Holy 
Cross nestled quietly in the centre, stretched away to the eastward from 
our point of observation, and formed the immediate foreground of the 
picture. 

I met a party of acquaintances coming out from the city to visit the 
natural bridge of Santa Cruz, some three miles from the town, and, turning 
off with them from the main road, went down through the fields and broad 
meadows a mile or so to the shore of the bay. The gray limestone which 
here underlies the soil at every point, and at no great depth, crops out 
boldly at the shore, and the unceasing assaults of the waves, lasting 
through centuries on centuries, have worn it into a thousand curious and 
fantastic forms. This limestone buttress is at this point from fifty to 
one hundred feet in height, and the natural bridge is out at its very 
edge, overlooking the bay and ocean. A deep gulley or 

Page 93

chasm in the mesa or table-land runs down under the outer wall of this 
rock, without cutting through it at the top; and the waves, surging and 
whirling incessantly in and out at the bottom, have arched the opening 
beneath, and worn it into the exact shape of a long span of some monster 
stone bridge builded by ambitious human hands. On either side of the main 
arch are two long narrow spout-holes or flumes, running through the 
abutments or piers to the sea, and through these the flood surges in and 
out with a great swash and roar, with every rising and falling wave. 
Brilliant-hued pebbles and fragments of rainbow-colored abalone shells, 
worn smooth by attrition, are washed back and forth by the deep blue 
waters as the waves roll in and out, and beautiful feathery mosses, from 
the great depths of the sea, are left on the beach by every falling tide. 
The upper end of the caon is sheltered completely from the winds, and, 
being dry and warm, is a favorite resort for picnickers and the lovers of 
roast mussels and clams, who find fuel in abundance scattered about, and 
can gather the bivalves by bushels or even cartloads here all the year 
round. At some seasons, for reasons not fully understood, the monster 
mussels of the California coast become poisonous to the last degree, and 
whole parties are poisoned, sometimes with fatal results, from eating 
them, nearly every year. They are of a beautiful yellow hue when cooked, 
as rich as a banana fried in butter; and I know old mussel-fanciers who 
have been poisoned over and over a ain but return to the charge year after 
year, preferring the chances of 

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being killed outright in the end to abandoning the consumption of their 
favorite delicacy. 

There is a low ragged rock just off shore, but a little distance from the 
natural bridge, which is a favorite resort for the sea-lions, and hundreds 
of the unwieldy monsters may be seen disporting themselves there at almost 
any time. A few years since, a party from San Francisco came down to the 
natural bridge for a picnic, and while the men were preparing the lunch at 
the upper end of the caon, a lady of the party strolled down to the beach 
under the main arch. The tide was low, and, as she went down by the 
water's edge, she saw lying alongside the abutment of the bridge, in the 
sun, a monster dead sea-lion, or what seemed to be such. The carcass did 
not emit any offensive smell, and she concluded the animal had just been 
shot. Going up to it without fear, she stood looking at it for some 
minutes, and finally gave it a vigorous poke with the end of her parasol. 
In an instant the party in the caon above were alarmed by wild screams, 
and the lady, half frantic with terror, came running up toward them, with 
the infuriated monster struggling after her and uttering hoarse roars of 
rage as he vainly sought to keep up with her in her hurried flight. He was 
not dead, but sleeping, and the poke in the ribs which she had given him 
had awakened him and infuriated him at the same time. The men ran down to 
meet her, and, having luckily revolvers at hand, despatched the brute with 
repeated shots. I saw his body lying there, and measured it; it was fully 
twelve feet in length from tip to tip, and must 

[image caption: NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPING.]

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have weighed from twelve hundred to two thousand pounds. The sea-lions, or 
lobos de marina (wolf of the sea), as the Spaniards term them, have the 
slowest respiration of any known animal. They will sleep at the bottom of 
the sea, for half to three-quarters of an hour, then rouse themselves, 
come to the surface to breathe, play around for a few minutes perhaps, and 
then descend for another nap. When asleep in the open air they lie as 
motionless as if really dead, and do not rouse readily. They are therefore 
readily approached at such times, and a stranger to their habits, seeing 
no sign of life, would be sure to be led into the error of our lady 
friend. On being suddenly awakened they are likely to dash 
indiscriminately at the first object in sight, and, especially when their 
young are in danger, they will make a somewhat determined attack. Though 
provided with teeth not unlike those of a dog, their offensive capacities 
are not of a very high order, and their attacks on human enemies are 
seldom if ever attended with fatal, or, for the matter of that, very 
serious results. 

Leaving the natural bridge, we rode over the arch on horseback--carriages 
pass over it without difficulty--and visited an embarcadero, half a mile 
or less farther in towards Santa Cruz. This embarcadero is a mere cleft in 
the limestone bluff, the sides of which are worn into a thousand fantastic 
forms by the waves. The water inside is deep, but the heavy ground-swell, 
rolling in at almost all times, tosses the vessels, which come in here to 
load with lime and lumber, about like so many footballs, and 

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the danger of their being cracked like egg-shells by being thumped against 
the projecting rocks is always imminent. The vessels load from chutes 
running down from the bluffs above, and get away with all possible 
despatch. Thousands of gulls, shaugs, murres, and other sea-birds swarm on 
the rocks in these sheltered coves, and a pistol-shot will send them 
screaming and whirling around in the air in clouds in a moment. 

From the embarcadero we rode back through the fields to the highway again, 
and thence past numerous tanneries and other manufacturing establishments 
to the once fine old Mission on the hill-side above the city, now half 
modernized by a shingle roof, which has replaced the quaint old red 
earthen tiles, and half in ruins, and from thence down into the pretty, 
thriving town to our hotel, where a relishable dinner and welcome rest 
awaited us. Towns, as I have ascertained-by somewhat extended observation, 
are generally composed to a very great extent of houses, and inhabited by 
people. Special descriptions are not generally interesting to the great 
mass of intelligent readers. Santa Cruz is built on the general plan, and 
is therefore no exception to the rule. It looks neat, prosperous, thrifty, 
clean, and not unlike any well-to-do manufacturing and farming centre in 
New England or the Middle States, with California flowers, shade and fruit-
trees thrown in ad lib. The ocean, rivers, woods, mountains, were not made 
with hands, and I like better to be among them and write of them. We will 
sing the praises of Santa Cruz proper. 

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I went down to the beach next morning, and found it not unlike other sea-
beaches. It is a mile or two miles long, with a bold, rocky headland on 
the westward, another marking the entrance of the San Lorenzo, a famous 
mountain trout-stream, to the Bay of Monterey. Near the mouth of the San 
Lorenzo, and inside of the bar over which the tide ebbs and flows, is the 
favorite resort of the bathers. I don't like salt water in any form,--in 
fact, am not partial to water of any kind; it has done immense injury to 
my family in days gone by, and came near depriving the world, at an early 
day, of the presence and services of your humble servant himself. The sea-
bathing had no great attractions for me. I love woman in the abstract, and 
admire the Greek Slave and the Venus de Medici as works of art, but long 
observation has led me irresistibly to the conclusion that the daughters 
of my native land-to say nothing of the mothers-will not, as a rule, 
appear to advantage in a costume approaching the severely classic models 
alluded to. Mary Elizabeth Jane looks well in a ball-room, and is nice 
company at a picnic or on a moonlight ride; but I have observed with pain 
that M. E. J., clad in a red shirt, pair of Shanghai trowsers, and a flop 
hat, bobbing up and down in the breakers, loses some of her attractions. I 
have gazed with admiration on the red flamingo dancing on the edge of a 
quiet lagoon on the palm-fringed shores of Yucatan, because he seemed in 
keeping with, and a part of, the perfect picture. Even the gentle blue fly-
up-the-creek has claims to consideration in his place; but M. E. J., 
dressed in the closest 

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imitation of the flamingo and the fly-up-the-creek, and running before the 
wind from the bathing-house to the water, is not a success,--I say it with 
sincere pain,--not even a qualified success, nothing like one, in fact. 
Beloved of my heart, good-by! May you be happy sporting with the sea and 
the crabs and the little fishes and the possible sharks and the probable 
blood-suckers and the inevitable sand-flies, In your flamingo and fly-up-
the-creek costume; but as for me, give me solitude and the woods, or give 
me death! 

What glorious places for picnicking, and what romantic roads and bridle-
paths, abound in the vicinity of Santa Cruz! With youth and some money and 
pleasant company, what a jolly life one could lead here! Ten miles to the 
northwest of the town, up in the foot-hills, there is what was long 
supposed to be the ruin of a mighty temple, like unto those of Egypt or 
Elephanta. There are two rows of columns forty feet apart, with four feet 
space between the columns, and looking very like the work of human hands,--
very like indeed. They are indeed the ruins of a temple,--the temple of 
Nature, and the columns are simply those which 

"The wizard Time 
Hath raised to count his ages by." 

There is a cave, three hundred feet in length, some three miles from the 
town, and four miles farther up in the hills a mammoth-tree grove, 
wonderful to look upon by one who has not stood among the giants of 
Calaveras and Mariposa. They are of the 

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redwood species, as, indeed, are all the "Big Trees of California." Is it 
not strange that such brittle timber should stand erect amid the tempests 
and the earthquakes, through all the weary ages of historic time? When 
Abraham fed his flocks on the plains of Asia, the present giants of the 
redwood groves of California were already giants; and when the Saviour of 
mankind bowed his head in death upon the cross, and all nature shuddered 
while darkness fell upon the earth, and the veil of the temple was rent, 
they stood there almost as they stand to-day, green in their old age, and 
seamed and scarred by lightning and by fire, but hale and vigorous still. 

In the cool hours of the evening, when the sun was sinking in the western 
ocean, and long shadows were creeping over the hill-sides, with a loved 
companion I rode up the winding valley of the San Lorenzo, some ten miles, 
to the California Powder-Works. These woods are always beautiful, and the 
ride, in summer as in winter, in the flush and bloom of spring-time, or in 
the golden glory of autumn, along the banks of the swift-running stream, 
under the low-bending evergreen trees, and among the flowering shrubs, 
always a delightful one. In the summer the giant mountain honeysuckle-a 
vine which grows into tree-like proportion, twelve, fifteen, or even 
twenty feet in height-is one mass of creamy-white and delicate pink-hued, 
trumpet-shaped blossoms, whose rich delicate odor fills all the air. The 
buckeye, blooming on every hill-side, gives off its dense sensuous odors 
in almost overpowering volume, and the wild rose, the snowdrop, and a 
thousand nameless 

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flowers, mingle their perfume with that of the peerless madroo, which here 
is indeed "a thing of beauty and a joy forever." 

The powder-mills are located in a secluded glen among the hills, and a 
neat, thrifty little hamlet has grown up around them. "No admittance" is 
posted on every door of the thirty or more broad-eaved, yellow-painted, 
Swiss-farmhouse-styled buildings of the Powder Company. Accidents will 
happen here as elsewhere; and when one does happen the people loitering in 
the vicinity at the moment are rendered, as a general thing, forever 
unpresentable in fashionable society. This thought reconciles us to the 
prohibition, and we ride away. 

A few years since, the "oil fever" broke out with violence all over 
California. In Santa Barbara and Los Angeles Counties, where the fields of 
asphaltum or "brea" cover wide districts, and at the surface a refractory 
kind of oil exudes and runs off in small quantities in many localities, 
wells were bored Heaven knows how deep, through almost every conceivable 
substance,--natural putty, cement, corn dodger, cobble-stones, old cheese, 
chalk, ice cream, molasses, soft soap, hard soap, and soapstone,--but 
never a smell of oil came to the surface, though a vein of burning-gas, 
sufficient in volume to light the city of Los Angeles had it been saved 
and utilized, was cut into. Here in quiet Santa Cruz they bored 
everything, from a lime-rock to a sand-bank, in search of oil, and never 
struck it, despite the predictions of professional geologists, oil-
wizards, and rock-sharps generally. All along the banks of the 

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San Lorenzo, you may see where men sunk wells and money in the vain search 
for oil. 

From the summit of a low hill above the Valley of the San Lorenzo I looked 
down for the last time on fair Santa Cruz, embowered in shade-trees, and 
surrounded with broad grain-fields and quiet farmhouses,--on the wide blue 
Bay of Monterey, and the Taurus Mountains beyond,--on the Pacific flecked 
with the white sails of ships,--and, turning my face regretfully 
homewards, galloped away into the mountains northeastwardly, towards San 
Jose. The road winds up the mountains gently for some miles, then more 
abruptly, and we presently find ourselves in the midst of dense redwood 
and pine forests, and breathing the pure resinous air of the mountain 
woods, with only the well-graded road, and here and there a rough 
clearing, to remind us of civilization and our fellow-man. The trees where 
the lumberman's axe has not done its infamous work stand thickly as the 
grain in a field,--almost,-and as tall and straight in proportion. The 
cedars of Lebanon were beautiful to the eyes of the dwellers in arid 
Palestine, but they were and are but stunted distorted dwarfs beside the 
redwoods and pines of California. As we ride on up towards the summit of 
the Coast Range, we look down from time to time into narrow little valleys 
cleared and planted with vines and fruit-trees, and see neat little 
homesteads surrounded with happy and healthy-looking children, and all the 
evidences of modest prosperity and contentment on the part of the owners. 
Then we give the road to monster ox-teams, ten, fifteen, even 

Page 102

twenty yokes in a team, drawing huge wagons hitched one behind another, 
like the cars in a railroad train, laden with redwood lumber going down to 
the bay for shipment to San Francisco. 

This redwood lumber has some valuable properties, with others of the 
opposite character. It contains a large amount of iron, and no pitch, and 
will resist the action of water without showing a sign of decay for many 
years. It will receive a beautiful finish, and may be colored and 
varnished to resemble rosewood so closely that the eye of the most expert 
wood-worker may be deceived. It shrinks less than pine in drying, and is 
particularly valuable, therefore, for the outside of houses when there is 
no pressure upon it. But on the other hand it is almost as brittle as 
glass, and a two-inch plank of it, resting on the ends, will not support 
the weight of an ordinary man. It splits with the least blow, and is so 
soft that I have known a small terrier dog, shut up in a new barn built of 
it, gnaw a hole through the side, or door, and make his escape in half an 
hour. 

Some half-dozen years ago a curious illustration of the unreliableness of 
redwood occurred in San Francisco. Workmen were engaged in putting a new 
asphaltum roof upon the three-story brick block on the southeastern corner 
of Montgomery and California Streets, and a drayman, who had brought them 
some material, stood on the battlement wall looking at them. Something 
attracting his attention, he stepped backward, and to the horror of the 
spectators cleared the wall entirely, and fell in a perfectly upright 
position the whole height of the building 

Page 103

to the sidewalk below. The crowd rushed to see the mangled corpse of the 
unfortunate man spread like a pancake over the sidewalk, but to their 
utter astonishment saw only a round hole in the planking about the size of 
an ordinary flour-barrel. Looking down through the opening into the 
cellar, which extended out under the sidewalk, they saw him pick himself 
up, walk to the stairs under the building, and in a moment more emerge as 
sound and well as ever, not a bone being broken, nor even a severe 
contusion received. The explanation of this remarkable occurrence was 
simple. A part of the sidewalk was of tough and hard Oregon pine plank, 
and a part of stone or brick covered with asphaltum. Between the two there 
were three redwood planks, and he had struck square on his feet on the 
centre one, going through it like a 480-pound shot through the roof of a 
house. Had he fallen a foot and a half on either side of the point where 
he struck, he would not have lived a second. 

The fact and the party are both well known in San Francisco. The man was 
about his work next day as usual, and is so to the present time. When the 
bystanders who had witnessed the terrible fall discovered that nobody was 
hurt, they, Californian-like, began to make all sorts of jokes concerning 
the affair. Had the man been killed or maimed, a purse for the benefit of 
his family would almost certainly have been made up for him on the spot. 
As he was not, it was a fit subject for fun and exaggeration. One said he 
saw him straighten himself as he went down, and put his hands down on his 
thighs, like a 

Page 104

man diving feet Foremost, so as to make a clean hole in whatever was below 
him. Another declared that when he came out of the cellar he swore roundly 
that he would bring suit against the city for damages, for being filled 
with redwood slivers through the carelessness of its superintendent of 
streets and sidewalks in allowing redwood to be put down instead of pine. 
Another still declared that as lie fell past the second story window be 
saw a party inside playing "pitch seven up," and noticing that the dealer 
was "turning up jack" from the bottom of the deck, called out 
threateningly to him, "None of that, now!" The writer was then engaged on 
the Alta California newspaper, and incidentally published these various 
statements, intimating a mild doubt as to the entire reliability of the 
last. The morning paper was hardly out before the champion fallist came 
into the office with a copy in his hand, and demanded to see "the man who 
put that in the paper." Your humble servant was pointed out as the 
culprit, and he immediately demanded my authority for the statement. The 
upshot of it was that he indignantly denied that there was a word of truth 
in it, and demanded a retractation. He said, most emphatically, that lie 
saw nobody playing cards as lie went past the window; in fact, did not 
even look in; and that had lie seen anybody playing, as had been stated, 
he would not have interfered with their little game, as it was none of his 
business anyhow. He wanted it understood that he never poked his nose into 
other people's affairs, and thought it decidedly hard that just because 

Page 105

he happened to have a little fall of forty or fifty feet, people should 
represent him as a busy-body and meddler with what did not concern him. 
With as much gravity as I could command I wrote out his statement almost 
in the words I have given, read it over to him, received his thanks, and 
bowed him out of the room. The retractation was published and he was 
satisfied. 

The county jail at Redwood City, San Mateo County, was formerly--and I 
believe still is--built wholly of this peculiarly brittle and unreliable 
wood. As a matter of course, a prisoner who could command an ordinary 
table-knife never tarried long within its walls, unless afflicted with a 
laziness by no means characteristic of Californians. One night four or 
five prisoners who had been there for some weeks left in disgust, and the 
writer chronicled the escape for a San Francisco paper, stating 
incidentally that it was understood that they dug their way out with the 
aid of a table-spoon and ten-penny nail. Some days later an indignant 
denial of this last proposition was received from the skedaddlers, dated 
at Livermore Pass, Alameda County, then a favorite resort for desperate 
characters. They protested that they were not jail-breakers in the 
ordinary acceptation of the term, but unfortunate victims of untoward 
circumstances. Their version of the case was this. One of their number was 
standing upon one foot, drawing the boot off the other, when he slipped, 
and falling backward, went plump through the side of the building, landing 
on his head outside. Seeing the damage which had been done 
unintentionally, 

Page 106

and supposing that they would have to pay for the same, they concluded 
that it was best to " vamos the ranch," and left accordingly. They added 
that, when the rainy season set in, and sleeping outdoors became 
unpleasant, they would return to jail, provided the county would agree to 
charge them nothing for repairs, and see that the place was made water-
tight and comfortable. Their liberal offer was not accepted, and when last 
heard from they were still in the hills, rejoicing in poverty and virtuous 
liberty. 

The stages from Santa Clara come over this mountain road daily, at break-
neck speed,--especially on the down grade,--and the drivers make it a 
point to scare the uninitiated tourists half out of their lives, by taking 
apparently unnecessary risks at the most dangerous points. At the summit 
or near it, on the Santa Cruz or ocean side of the mountain, there is a 
long, narrow ridge, or "hog-back," along which the stage road runs. The 
view from this is magnificent, and the descent, where the road winds in 
and out the deep caons, turning at sharp angles, the stage clinging to the 
side of the precipice like a squirrel to the side of a tree, almost enough 
to take one's breath away; sometimes it is quite enough. Once, not many 
years ago, a particularly ambitious driver, coming down this descending 
grade at railroad speed, "missed stays" as he essayed to turn an unusually 
sharp angle, and stage, team, and passengers went over. I don't know how 
many hundred feet it is to the bottom of that precipice, but I do know 
that the funeral was one of the 

Page 107

most extensive and select ever held in Santa Cruz County, and everybody 
admitted that the undertaker's work could not have been done more 
tastefully, nor could the minor details have been carried out in better 
shape, in San Francisco. 

From the summit we look down the northeastern slope of the mountains, upon 
the wide and beautiful Valley of Santa Clara, and the blue Bay of San 
Francisco shimmering in the distance through the light veil of autumnal 
vapor which hangs over it, and drapes with a robe of royal purple the 
Valley of Alameda and the mountain heights beyond. 

At a roadside inn just below the summit, we find a well-spread table, and 
dine sumptuously: peaches and cream--not pale-blue milkman's milk, such as 
we get in town, but real, rich, yellow, old-fashioned cream such as 
mother's pantry used to furnish us years ago--coming in for the dessert. 
Another hour's ride, and we are descending the Valley of Los Gatos, whose 
waters, now no longer the home of the mountain trout, run of the color of 
"Old London Port at twelve dollars per dozen," the hue being imparted by 
the redwood sawdust which chokes its course in drifts and bars for miles. 
There is a curious fact in connection with these Coast Range mountain 
streams of California. When the long, dry, summer days come on, they fail 
almost entirely, disappearing in places for miles, then perhaps running 
fresh and clear, though in small volume, for a short distance over a rocky 
bed, only to sink from sight again, possibly not to reappear again through 
all the course of the stream to its outlet in river, sea, 

Page 108

or bay. But when the days begin to grow shorter and cooler, and the nights 
longer, though not a drop of rain has fallen for months, and the sky is 
still unclouded and blue as sapphire, the waters begin to reappear and 
increase in volume, and long before the winter rains descend the streams 
are running half bank full again. The secret of this is, that the surface 
evaporation increases with the length of the days and the heat of the sun, 
and diminishes as they diminish, the sources of supply, far in the deep, 
shady recesses of the mountains, remaining undiminished through all the 
season. 

Another hour's ride down the shady road, and we emerge into the open 
Valley of Santa Clara, and for the first time in a week the familiar 
whistle of the locomotive falls upon our ears. Cool, quiet woods, lonely 
sea-shore, mountain heights, mementos of Castilian civilization, and best 
of all, the welcome rest and solitude of nature, good-by! Henceforth you 
are to me but a pleasant dream of the past. 

In the mountains of Santa Cruz I met an old friend whom I had not seen 
before for years. He was crossing the mountains like myself on horseback, 
and would gladly bear me company as far as the western border of the 
Valley of Santa Clara. What had he been doing since he had drifted out of 
my sight some years before? As we rode through the forest he told me 
little by little the story of his later life, the main event in which 
impressed me deeply. As he told me the story then and there, I will tell 
it now to you. 

"The long, hot September day was drawing to a 

Page 109

close at last, and the fierce sun of the desert sinking down on the 
horizon, when our little cavalcade wound round the bend in the trail, and 
we sighted the little adobe inclosure--half fort, half corral-called by 
courtesy 'The Station,' near the Picacho, on the old overland road, 
between Tucson and San Xavier del Bac, in southern Arizona, and the Pima 
villages on the Gila. 

"We had left the upper valley of the Rio Grande too early in the season by 
a month, at least; and our trip thus far, on the road to California, had 
been a hard one. The coarse, dry bunch-grass, or gaieta, never abundant on 
this route, was unusually scarce that summer; and, as we were forced to 
guard our animals night and day, to prevent a surprise and capture by the 
Apaches, they got scarcely enough of it to keep life within them. We were 
hurrying on as rapidly as possible for the Gila, where we could purchase 
corn-fodder and barley from the friendly' Indians, and proposed to camp 
for some time and recruit our worn-down stock, before turning westward 
toward the Colorado and the Pacific Coast. As we were unpacking that 
evening on the Picacho, I missed a package containing a valuable set of 
mathematical and drawing instruments, and some important papers, which I 
could not afford to lose. They had been put, with other articles, on a 
pack-mule, in the morning; but, having been carelessly corded, had worked 
loose and fallen off on the road, without being noticed. Finding I could 
borrow a fresh horse at the station, I determined to ride back up the 
trail in the cool of the evening--preferring 

Page 110

to trust the chances of being captured by the Apaches to losing the 
package. The night was clear, and the full moon lighted up the landscape 
so that everything of any size for miles around was almost as distinctly 
visible as at midday. I had ridden at a gallop some ten or twelve miles, 
when I saw the package, lying beside the road, under a scrub mesquite-
tree, which had raked it off as the mule ran under it. Dismounting, I 
secured the package upon the back of my saddle, and, having tightened the 
cinch, was just mounting again for the return to the station, when my 
horse gave a loud snort and jumped backward, looking up the road toward 
Tucson, with staring eyes, nostrils distended, and ears pricked sharply 
forward. I knew what this meant in Apache Land, and was on his back in an 
instant, and out into an open space beyond the reach of arrows, which 
might be shot from behind any shrub or rock. Death haunts your steps, day 
and night, in that land of blood; and man and horse acquire habits of the 
most intense vigilance. Looking up the road in the direction indicated, I 
saw something moving along the trail, about a fourth of a mile distant, 
which looked like a small boy. Proper caution would have prompted me to 
turn and ride straight back to the station; but just then I remembered 
that we had seen, some distance back upon the trail, the footprints of a 
human being--apparently those of a little boy-in the dust of the road; and 
noticed that they finally left the track and turned away into the 
chaparral. There were no other footprints with them; and this fact, in 
such a locality, had caused us to 

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indulge in considerable speculation and conjecture as to who had made 
them. Remembering all this, my curiosity was excited; and, after a few 
moments' hesitation, seeing that the object, whatever it was, had stopped 
and crouched down, having apparently noticed me just then for the first 
time, I rode cautiously up the road toward it. I had reached within ten or 
fifteen rods of the object, when it sprang up and darted into the 
chaparral, and, as it did so, I saw what appeared to be a young Indian, 
dressed in Mexican costume--loose shirt and wide pants of cotton goods, 
and a broad sombrero. All was quiet for a moment, and then I called out, 
in English, 'Who is there?' There came no response. I then repeated the 
question in Spanish. A little, weak, frightened voice replied, in the same 
language, this time,-- 

"'Only a poor Christiano, seor! And you are not an Apache?' 

"'No; I am a friend,' I replied. 

"'Thanks be to God; I am saved!' was the devout response; and the little 
fellow ran out from his hiding-place, and, coming directly up to me, 
seized my hand and covered it with kisses, praying and uttering thanks, 
and crying hysterically, all at once. 

"He was a boy of apparently twelve or thirteen years of age, small and 
slender, and dressed in clothes much too large for him. It took me some 
minutes to get anything like a connected account of his troubles from him; 
but I finally gathered that he had been on his way from Hermosillo, in 
Sonora, 

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to Los Angeles, in California, with a party of Mexican friends, consisting 
of a man and his wife, another boy, and two mozos. They had turned out 
from the road, to camp where there was some grass; and while preparing for 
the night, they had been jumped by the Apaches, and all shot down but 
himself. He had happened to be a few yards away from the camp when the 
attack was made; and, concealing himself, had escaped detection. The 
Apaches had only remained at the camp, after committing the massacre, but 
a few minutes, being evidently afraid of having drawn the attention of 
some stronger party by the firing; and, after scalping their victims, rode 
away in haste upon the captured animals. The poor boy had wandered away 
from the road, in his terror and despair, and for three days had been 
traveling around at random, endeavoring to regain the trail, or discover a 
station where he would find shelter and protection. Late that day he had 
found the trail, and followed it several miles; but, becoming faint and 
exhausted from long exposure and the want of food, he had turned out to 
lie down for a rest under a tree; and, having fallen asleep, had missed us 
entirely as we passed only a few hundred yards from him. He had found 
water once, and had eaten a few mesquite bean-pods, which had fallen in 
his way, thus sustaining life. His clothing was torn to shreds by the 
thorny shrubs through which he had passed; his feet were swollen from long 
walking on the hot, dry earth, and filled with cactus-spines; and, between 
weariness, hunger, and thirst, he was so nearly dead that it is doubtful 
if he would have had strength 

Page 113

enough to reach the station, had he not fallen in with me, almost by a 
miracle, as he did. 

"I always loved children, though I had none of my own; and my heart's 
warmest sympathy was enlisted for this poor, suffering boy. I had some 
water with me, in my canteen, and, by the greatest good luck imaginable, a 
handful of dry soda-crackers in my pocket,--the remains of my afternoon 
lunch. He swallowed the water with trembling eagerness, and munched the 
dry crackers, in spite of his sore mouth, swollen tongue,' and bleeding 
lips, as he rode back to the station behind me on my horse, telling his 
story, little by little, as he could collect his thoughts and call to mind 
the incidents. 

"He was a half-orphan, his mother having died a year before at Hermosillo. 
His father had gone to Alta California, three years before, leaving him 
and his mother in sonora, to follow him when his circumstances would 
warrant sending for them; and on the mother's death, he had written for 
the boy to come with the first party of friends who might be going over 
the road, to join him at Los Angeles. The party which had been murdered 
were not relatives, but kind friends; and, Spanish-like, he had become so 
attached to them that he mourned their fate so deeply as to almost forget 
his own fearful peril, and helpless, lonely condition, when he spoke of 
it, with tears coursing down his sunburned, blistered face, and sobs and 
sighs choking his utterance. Before we reached the station, I had already 
come to look upon him as my peculiar charge,--a waif thrown in my way by 
Providence, which I was bound 

Page 114

to care for and protect; and the idea of adopting him into my family, in 
case I could not find his father at Los Angeles, more than once occurred 
to me. 

"All my traveling companions, save one,--a big, rough brute, known as Waco 
Bill,--took a kindly interest in the little unfortunate, and consented to 
my adding him to the party. That night we succeeded in finding him a pair 
of shoes, which would keep his bleeding feet from the sun and the rough 
rocks of the road, and a blanket to wrap around his shoulders when 
traveling; and, after a hearty meal of the best we could prepare for him 
in camp, he fell asleep. I had a large black dog--half-hound, half-
mastiff--which had accompanied us on the trip, and was very useful in 
watching the camp, and guarding us against surprise by the Indians. He was 
as savage as a tiger, and could scent an Apache a mile away. Butcher went 
up to little Manuel--the boy's name was Manuel de la Cruz--as soon as I 
brought him into camp, and, to the surprise of everybody, immediately 
manifested the warmest friendship for him. Thenceforth the boy and the dog 
were almost inseparable companions. That night Manuel slept near me, with 
Butcher lying watchfully at his feet; and, time after time, the little 
fellow would start up, suddenly reach out his hand to touch me, and make 
sure that I was still there, then, reassured, curl down again under his 
ample blanket, and close his eyes in slumber. Next morning, I rigged a 
temporary saddle for my protg, and, mounting him on one of my pack-mules, 
installed him as a member of the expedition, as we took up our line of 
march again for 

Page 115

the Gila. Big Waco Bill was a thorough Texan outlaw, who had joined our 
party more because none of us cared to insist on denying him permission to 
do so than because any of us really wanted him along. He despised 
everything Mexican, and frequently alluded in no friendly manner to 'that 
d--- little Greaser' whom I had picked up on the road and was taking with 
me to California. Butcher, who had taken so kindly to Manuel, had hated 
Bill from the start, and this fact served still more to awaken his enmity 
to the boy. However, we got on pretty well for several days. Manuel--
though, curiously enough for a Mexican boy, a poor rider, and not at all 
skilled in packing horses, lassoing mules, or similar accomplishments, on 
which his countrymen generally pride themselves--showed a genuine anxiety 
to make himself useful: he was a capital cook, ingeniously adding a number 
of dishes hitherto unknown to our bill of fare in camp, and with a needle 
he was as good as any woman, cheerfully setting himself to work to sew on 
buttons, or patch and repair our tattered clothing, whenever he had a 
moment's leisure. To me he was completely devoted, and there was nothing 
he would not try to do, if I asked him. On the other hand, he seemed to 
shrink instinctively from the presence of Bill, and repaid all the hatred 
and contempt of that worthy with interest, in his own quiet way. His 
complexion, though his skin was scorched and burned by exposure to the 
savage desert sun, was much lighter than that of most Mexicans of the 
lower class, and his features indicated pure or nearly pure 

Page 116

Castilian descent. He was not strong, and quite timid and nervous 
ordinarily, but, in presence of actual danger, would suddenly develop 
genuine pluck and courage such as constitutes the hero in life. After we 
reached the Gila, we camped near the Pima villages, with the intention of 
remaining there some ten days or two weeks, to thoroughly recruit our 
animals. One day I had been out with my shot-gun after quail and rabbits, 
leaving Manuel and Butcher in charge of the camp, and, returning just 
before nightfall, heard, while still some distance away, a noisy 
altercation going on. As I afterward learned, Waco Bill, who had been off 
all day, had returned late, half drunk, and in a quarrelsome mood. On 
coming into camp, he had ordered Manuel to go to the river for a pail of 
water; and the boy, who would have brought it instantly had I but 
intimated a wish for him to do so, instead of complying with the command, 
resented it, and kept on with the sewing upon my clothing at which he was 
busy, showing only by the flashing of his large, lustrous, dark eyes, and 
the quivering of his red lips over his snow-white teeth, that he had heard 
what was said to him. Bill, infuriated at this, ran toward the boy to 
seize and punish him, when the latter sprang to his feet, and, catching 
the coffee-pot from the coals, where it stood simmering, threw it full at 
him, a portion of the scalding contents striking him on the arms, the 
breast and neck, and causing him fairly to howl with rage and pain. As I 
came in sight, the boy stood a few yards from the fire with the butcher-
knife, which we used for cutting bacon, in his hand, 

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prepared to defend himself to the death, though trembling from head to 
foot like a leaf from excitement, while Bill was coming out of the tent 
with his big Colt's six-shooter in his hand, and malice which would stop 
nothing short of murder convulsing his countenance. Butcher, the dog, as 
if comprehending at a glance the condition of affairs, dashed forward at 
Bill as he came out, and the latter stumbling over him, both rolled on the 
ground. Bill was on his feet again in an instant, more fairly beside 
himself than ever; but I had by this time reached within striking 
distance, and seeing that he meant mischief of the murderous description, 
without a moment's reflection dealt him a blow with my full strength with 
the butt of my gun, and he went down like a bullock. The blow took effect 
partly on his neck, and, though it brought him down, it did not disable 
him, and he, still holding the revolver in his hand, almost regained his 
feet before I could repeat IL The second blow broke his right arm near the 
elbow, causing the pistol to drop from his now powerless hand; and at the 
same moment the dog, which had made several savage snaps at him, fastened 
his teeth firmly in the muscles of his leg, to which he hung for several 
minutes with a grip like a vice, before I could break his hold and release 
the now helpless and half-dead bully. 

"When the row was all over, and Bill's wounds dressed as well as possible 
under the circumstances, quiet settled down on the camp. Then Manuel came, 
and, crouching down on the ground by my side, seized my hand and kissed 
it, and, his voice 

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half choked with sobs, exclaimed, over and over again: 'Oh, my father, my 
friend, my benefactor, why did not the Apaches kill me before I brought 
this trouble upon you? I would have died for you,--I would, in truth,--and 
here I have put your life in peril! But, father of my heart, don't drive 
me away from you! I will go through fire to serve you: let me have the 
opportunity to prove to you my devotion, my eternal gratitude!' 

"I was not angry with the boy: how could I be? I told him so again and 
again, and, having quieted him at last, went and consulted with my 
partners on the situation. They agreed with me that it was best I should 
leave the party and push on to California ahead. Waco Bill was disposed of 
for the time being, but he might recover in a few days sufficiently to do 
me mischief; and we all felt sure that it was in his nature to stop at 
nothing in the way of obtaining revenge. The party could not move on for 
some two weeks, their animals being far more worn down than mine; so I 
determined to go on alone next day with Manuel, and trust to luck to fall 
in with another party on the trail to Fort Yuma. It was a risky venture, 
but the best we could do under the circumstances. We were off bright and 
early next morning. As soon as we were out of sight of the party Manuel 
gave a sigh of relief, and asked, with affecting earnestness, 'Will you 
always be my friend, capitan?' He asked me the question a hundred times in 
the course of our journey down the Gila, receiving the same answer every 
time. Alone with me, his shyness, which had been so 

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marked while with the party, disappeared; his spirits rose day by day, and 
he seemed to have almost wholly recovered from the terrible shock caused 
by the butchery of his friends. I had found some cheap clothing at the 
Pima villages, which he had quickly razeed to fit him; and with this, and 
with his glossy black hair-which, when I found him, had the appearance of 
having been hacked off with a dull knife--neatly cut, his appearance had 
changed wonderfully. A neater little figure than he now presented you 
would have to go far to see. We slept every night at or near one of the 
old stage stations, and by care and good-fortune escaped attack by the 
Apaches, through the whole trip down the Gila to Fort Yuma. At the latter 
place we stopped some days to rest and recruit, and wait for a party which 
was bound 'inside,' like ourselves. 

"There were quite a number of Manuel's countrymen and countrywomen here, 
but he seemed to avoid them all as far as possible, never leaving my 
company for a moment, if he could help it. A priest, who happened to be at 
the post, was to say mass there on Sunday; and Manuel told me, with 
satisfaction beaming on his countenance, that we could now say our 
prayers, and thank God and the saints for our escape from the many dangers 
of our journey. He looked both surprised and pained when I told him that I 
was not a Catholic, and could not join him in his devotions; but, after a 
moment, remarked, 'Then, with your permission, friend of my heart, I will 
pray for you!' and I am sure that he did so with the earnestness of a 
simple, 

Page 120

trusting soul, and a faith which knew no shadow of doubt. 

"From Fort Yuma to the settlements near Los Angeles, our journey was 
devoid of special danger or excitement, as we were out of the hostile 
Indian country and had little to fear from horse-thieves even, with such 
indifferent stock as we traveled with. As we drew near our journey's end, 
Manuel's spirits began to sink again, and I saw that he looked upon the 
fast-approaching hour, when we must separate, with sadness and 
apprehension. As we rode along he talked with me of my family and my 
prospects in life. He was particularly anxious to know how he could always 
be certain of reaching me, or hearing from me. When I gave him my address, 
minutely written out, he immediately sewed it into his jacket, so that it 
could not work out and be lost, and I saw him pressing his hand against 
it, over and over again, to be sure that he was not mistaken, and had it 
safe. He would, indeed, like to go to the great city of San Francisco with 
me, and always be my son, but then his father was old, and would, now that 
his mother was dead, find it hard to part with him; and his sister--of 
whom he knew little, as he had not seen her for years--would need his 
protection. So he could not go with me to the great city, but he would 
never cease to pray for me, and if ever I needed his company or 
assistance, he would leave father and sister, and all, to come to me: I 
might be sure of that. I looked down into his trusting, tearful eyes, and 
was sure of it, and felt more kindly and charitably toward all the world 
for 

Page 121

the assurance. On the last day's journey toward Los Angeles, Manuel hardly 
talked at all. His mind seemed to be filled with sad thoughts which his 
tongue could not utter. "It was nightfall when we came in sight of the 
'City of the Angels,' and I realized that my long journey of thousands of 
miles on horseback, from Texas to the shore of the Pacific, would soon be 
over, and I should, in a few minutes more, be in communication with home, 
and wife, and friends in San Francisco. Just then Manuel called me back to 
the rear of the party, and, with quivering voice, told me that I must not 
think hard of him if he left me immediately on arriving in Los Angeles. 
His father had not seen him for so long a time that he was in duty bound 
to seek him out at once. As he said this he held my hand with an eager, 
trembling grasp in both his own, and looked up, with a longing, mournful 
expression, into my face. I understood and respected his feeling. He 
wished to bid me good-by, then and there, when no one was looking at us. I 
bent down from my saddle, and, throwing his arms around my neck, he kissed 
me with passionate energy; then, with the exclamation, 'Oh, capitan, 
capitan, and I am going to see you no more!' released me, commenced 
sobbing convulsively, stopped it with a strong effort, then rode forward 
and rejoined the train, without another word. 

"I had no sooner arrived in Los Angeles than I went to the express-office 
and got my letters. Everything was going wrong. My poor wife, whose health 
had been declining for years, was 

Page 122

growing steadily worse; my business was suffering from neglect and the 
need of money, which my partners hoped I would bring from Texas. My trip 
to Texas had been a failure, for I had found it impossible to sell the 
greater portion of the lands from which I had expected to realize a 
handsome sum, and what money I had obtained had nearly all been absorbed 
in paying taxes on the lands unsold, and the expenses of the trip. The 
steamer would sail from San Pedro next morning for San Francisco, and I 
determined to lose no time, but go at once, leaving my horses to be sold 
by a friend as soon as they had so far recovered from the effects of the 
trip as to be salable. Manuel had disappeared as soon as we arrived at the 
hotel, but I felt sure he would come around in good time in the morning to 
bid me a last good-by. Morning came, but no Manuel. No one had seen him 
since we rode up to the door of the hotel. 

"The stage for San Pedro was ready, and I reluctantly got upon the box, 
wondering all the time why Manuel neither came nor sent me any word. The 
hostler from the stable came at the last moment to tell me that the dog 
Butcher was also missing. He had howled and acted like a mad creature from 
the moment that Manuel left, and, some time during the night, had gnawed 
in two the rope by which he had been tied in the stable and ran away, no 
one knew where. They thought he must have gone to find the boy, but no one 
knew the family of De la Cruz, and so they did not know where to look for 
him. There was no time to wait, and I left, feeling 

Page 123

more disappointed than I cared to admit. I had believed that Manuel was a 
living and triumphant contradiction of the vulgar theory that gratitude 
has no place in the Spanish heart; and yet he had deserted me at the first 
opportunity, when there was nothing more to be gained from my friendship, 
and had even seduced my faithful dog from his allegiance to me. Reflection 
would suffice to dispel such ideas for the moment, but they came back 
again and again with redoubled force, and at last I came to acquiesce in 
them, and doubt that such things as disinterested friendship and real 
gratitude were to be found on earth. 

"My business, by patient care and attention, became prosperous once more; 
but my dear wife grew daily weaker and more wan, despite all that loving 
kindness could do for her; and a year after my return I stood by a new-
made grave, alone in the world, still under the middle age, a childless, 
downcast, disappointed man. 

"Once only during all this time had I heard from Manuel. A Spanish lady, 
well advanced in years,--for whose children I had once used my influence 
with some success, and who thereafter always regarded me both as a friend 
and a son,--returning from Los Angeles, called at my house and said to me: 
'Capitan, I met the sister of your little protg, Manuel, at Los Angeles, 
and brought you a message from her. She is very grateful to you for what 
you did for Manuel, and begs you to accept a little gift in token of her 
regard.' In the package I found a pair of fine handkerchiefs, delicately 
and 

Page 124

elaborately embroidered, and bearing the initials, 'M. De la C.,' and a 
note in a neat little hand, but indifferent English: 'Don't think too much 
hardly of your little 'Manuel, who will never forget that you were his 
friend and benefactor, and will pray for you always. He did not wished for 
leave you, and some time you will know why he did. He would not if he 
could help it.--MANUELA DE LA CRUZ.' 

"I was too much occupied with other thoughts and considerations then to 
pay much attention to this, but I felt glad to learn that Manuel was not 
ungrateful, and was sorry--probably ashamed--for having left me so 
abruptly. 

"After my great loss, I was much alone, and my mind reverted to the 
subject many times; and the more I thought of it the more satisfied I 
became that there was some mystery at the bottom of the whole affair which 
I had never fathomed. Two more years passed away, and I heard no more of 
Manuel and his sister. I drank at the club, gambled now and then in a 
small way at cards, and, in short, tried--as lonely, disappointed men will 
try--to forget the past, kill time in the present, and avoid thinking of 
the future. 

"One day I was out riding on the San Bruno road, in company with a friend. 
We had both been drinking a little, but only enough to make us feel like 
driving a trifle more recklessly than usual. As we were coming home along 
the bay beyond the Seven-mile House, we came up with a party who had also 
a fast team, and a trial of speed ensued. 

Page 125

Just as we were passing them we rounded a sharp turn in the road, and I 
saw another team coming from the opposite direction, right before us, not 
twenty feet off. I had no time to see more. When I regained consciousness, 
I was lying in bed in my room on Stockton Street, in San Francisco, my leg 
broken, three ribs fractured, and a terrible gash in my scalp, which 
extended half-way across my head. They said I had narrowly missed instant 
death, and it might--probably would--take me six months to recover. As 
good-fortune would have it, my old Spanish lady friend had seen me brought 
in, and was attending me assiduously. 

"Then the fever came on, and for days I was raving in delirium, or tossing 
in distempered sleep, which brought no rest or relief. One day I was lying 
half asleep, half unconscious, with my head as it were on fire, and my 
ideas all distorted and confused by the fever-heat which ran through my 
brain like molten metal, when I felt, or fancied I felt, a cool, soft hand 
upon my burning forehead, and the touch of moist, velvety lips on mine. It 
was some seconds before I was fully awakened to consciousness; and then, 
when I turned my head painfully on my pillow, I saw that there was no one 
else in the room. I was sure that I could not have been wholly mistaken; 
and reaching the bell, I rang it for my kind volunteer nurse, who came at 
once. 

"'There was somebody else in this room a moment since?' I said, with a 
positiveness I did not wholly feel, but with a determination to know the 
truth. 

Page 126

"'Yes, capitan, you are right!' Then, coming to me, she took my hand, and 
said, 'If you promise me not to be angry, I will tell you something.' 

"I gave the promise. 

"'Well, then, I have taken a liberty. Manuela, the sister of the boy you 
found upon the desert, has come to attend upon you, now that you are in 
trouble and need loving care and assistance.' 

"'But I never saw her in my life!'I said. 

"'You have seen her brother, and been his friend; and for his sake she is 
devoted to you.' 

"'But why did not Manuel come?' I asked. 

"'Their father died recently; and he was detained at home.' 

"Hardly knowing what I did, I said, 'Call Manuela in, then!' 

"The girl came in, and stood, with cheeks suffused and downcast eyes, 
quietly by my bedside. She was taller than Manuel, and of lighter 
complexion, but had the same glorious eyes of liquid black, the same dark 
hair with the tinge of purple when the sunlight rested on it, the same 
bright, expressive countenance, and quick, graceful movement of the little 
taper hands when speaking. She was very fair to look upon,--as the young 
palm-tree by the desert spring; and there was goodness, as well as beauty, 
in her face. 

"From that day I began to mend. Manuela stayed with my nurse, and was ever 
at my bedside, or ready to come at my call. Neatness and taste were in all 
she did, and at her touch all things grew beautiful. She practiced reading 
English 

Page 127

hour after hour, every day, to amuse me, profiting, at the same time, by 
the lessons. Her hand prepared little dulces and other dishes to tempt my 
slowly returning appetite. Her hand arranged the flowers which filled my 
room with fragrance; and her hand bathed my aching brow, and arranged my 
pillows when sleep grew heavy upon my eyelids. You can guess the rest. 

"When I was able to sit up once more, and to begin to bear my weight upon 
the broken limb and move about the room with the aid of a crutch and the 
chairs, I was madly, hopelessly in love--despite the disparity of our 
year--with Manuela, and determined that she should not leave me, if I 
could prevent it. The time came when she told me that she must go home; 
that I did not need her care and assistance longer. Then I poured forth 
all which was in my heart; told her that I should always need her care and 
sympathy and assistance, and made her the offer of my hand and heart, in 
all good faith and sincerity, confident of acceptance." 

"And she accepted you, of course?" 

"No; she did not. She broke from me, with a startled look, as if something 
which she had long dreaded had come upon her at last, unexpectedly; and 
answered me, proudly, but sadly: Love me? Yes; she could love me, did love 
me, would always love me. She was proud to receive a true man's love, and 
to own that she returned it. But she was an orphan, their father had died 
since I left Manuel in Los Angeles; poor; almost uneducated, and lacking 
all of what we call the necessary accomplishments. 

Page 128

She could not do me credit in society; and would not risk the chance of 
seeing me regret my folly, and feel ashamed of my hasty choice. She loved 
me too much to make me miserable for life; but would pray for me, night 
and day, as the dearest and truest friend she had ever found on earth, and 
would ask me to continue to love her as a sister, or daughter (if I 
preferred it), and believe her worthy of my affection. She had come to 
prove her gratitude to me and do her duty, not to entrap me into a 
marriage beneath me; and she wished me to believe it. 

"All this, and more, she told me; then broke down wholly, and wept 
passionately, rejecting all my attempts to comfort her, She must, and 
would, go at once, now that this had happened; and she left me--half 
stunned, bewildered, and utterly downcast at this crushing blow-to make 
the arrangements for her journey back to Los Angeles. "My other nurse came 
in soon after, with her eyes full of tears; but I could not talk, even to 
her, of the great sorrow which had come upon me; it was too sacred for 
others than Manuela and I to speak of, even though, as I suspected, she 
knew it all. That night I never closed my eyes in sleep. I formed a 
thousand plans, but abandoned each, in turn, as impracticable, feeling 
that, if Manuela had decided on her course, nothing would turn her from 
it. Manuela came in the afternoon, to bid me goodby. She was pale, sad, 
and silent. She took my hand; and I, no longer able to suppress my 
emotion, turned my head away, in speechless agony. She 

Page 129

stood a moment, irresolute, and then, in an instant, a wondrous change 
swept over her. Her arms were around my neck, her head was upon my bosom, 
and her warm tears falling thick and fast upon my hands. When, at last, 
she looked up into my face, she said: 

"'I thought that I was doing my duty, and had the strength to bear it, and 
go away alone; but I had not. I cannot part with you again!' 

"'Again?' I repeated, inquiringly. 

"'Yes,--my true, my only friend,--again! The first time was at Los 
Angeles. I am the little Manuel whom you found on the Arizona desert, and 
cared for and protected at the risk of your life. God brought us together 
then, and now again, for some good purpose; and I will not leave you more! 
You know all now; and I will be your loving wife, to honor and to serve 
you always, if you still desire it!' 

"She said this with trembling eagerness. In truth I wished it. Then she 
explained how she had come to deceive us in Arizona, and so long kept up 
the deception. There was a boy in the party, somewhat older than herself,--
she was fourteen then,--and when the Indians charged upon the camp she was 
sitting in the shade, a little distance away, mending some of his 
clothing. When she realized that her companions and protectors were no 
more, and the full horror of her situation broke upon her mind, instinct 
told her that her chances of safety would be better with whoever she might 
meet, if she donned the costume of the other sex,-which she lost no time 

Page 130

in doing. When we reached Los Angeles, she hurried away to meet her father 
before the secret of her sex should be discovered by others, and succeeded 
in assuming again her proper costume, without the story becoming known to 
any one but him. Meeting our mutual friend,--my old Spanish nurse,--she 
had confided the whole story to her, and she had kept the secret well. God 
bless her! 

"The dog Butcher was hunting for Manuel for two days, and recognized 
Manuela in his place the moment that he found her. He was with her still; 
he is with us now. That is his l ark,--the noble old fellow! This is my 
ranch; that is our house, under the madroo-trees up there at the entrance 
of the caon y