



Produced by David Schwann







OLD MISSION STORIES OF CALIFORNIA


By Charles Franklin Carter



     Author of "The Missions of Nueva California"
     and "Some By-ways of California"



San Francisco

Copyright 1917, by Paul Elder and Company



Contents



     Foreword
     The Indian Sibyl's Prophecy
     The Flight of Padre Peyri
     Father Zalvidea's Money
     La Beata
     Juana
     Father Uria's Saints
     Pomponio




Foreword



Of the last six stories comprising the seven in this little collection
of Stories of the Old Missions, all but one have, as a basis, some
modicum, larger or smaller, of historical fact, the tale of Juana alone
being wholly fanciful, although with an historical background. The first
story of the series may be considered as introductory to the mission
tales proper.

In these quiet, unpretending stories the writer has attempted to give
a faithful picture of life among the Indians and Spaniards in Nueva
California during the early days of the past century.

October, 1917.




The Indian Sibyl's Prophecy


In the southern part of the Mojave Desert a low hill stands somewhat
apart from the foot-hills beyond, and back of it. Although not more
than two hundred feet above the surrounding plateau, on account of its
peculiar location, a commanding view may be had from its top. In front,
toward the south, and extending all the way from east to west, the plain
stretches off for many miles, until it approaches the distant horizon,
where it is merged into lofty mountains, forming a tumultuous, serrated
sky-line. Midway between the hill and the distant mountains, lie the
beds, sharply defined, of three dry lakes. In the garish light of day
they show for what they are, the light yellow hard-baked soil of the
desert, without even the ordinary sage brush; but in early morning and,
less frequently, toward evening, these lakes take on a semblance of
their former state, sometimes (so strong is the mirage) almost deceiving
those best acquainted with the region. Years ago--how many it would
be difficult to say--these dry lakes were veritable bodies of water;
indeed, at an earlier period than that, they were, without doubt, and
including a large extent of the surrounding desert, one vast lake. But
that was centuries ago, maybe, and with time the lake dried up, leaving,
at last, only these three light spots in the view, which, in their
turn, are growing smaller with the passing years, until they, too, will
vanish, obliterated by the encroaching vegetation.

Back of the eminence from which this extended view is had, the mountains
come close, not as high as those toward the south, but still respectable
heights, snow-covered in winter. They array themselves in fantastic
shapes, with colors changing from hour to hour. One thinks of the
desert as a barren sandy waste, minus water, trees and other vegetation,
clouds, and all the color and beauty of nature of more favored
districts. Not so. Water is scarce, it is true, and springs few and far
between, and the vegetation is in proportion; for what little there
is is mostly dependent on the annual rainfall, never excessive, at the
best, yet always sufficient for the brush covering the ground, and
the yuccas towering up many feet here and there. But color, beautiful,
brilliant, magnificent color, is here any and every day of the year, and
from earliest dawn until the last traces of the evening sun have faded
away, only to give place to moonlight unsurpassed anywhere in the world.
Truly, the desert is far from being the dry, desolate, uninteresting
region it is commonly pictured.

More than a century and a quarter ago, there stood on the side of this
hill, and not far from its top, an Indian hut, or wickiup. It was built
after the manner of the Indian tribes of Southern California--a circular
space of about fifteen feet in diameter enclosed by brush-work, and
roofed by a low dome of the same material. At the side was an opening,
too small to permit one to enter without stooping low. This doorway, if
it may be so called, being window and chimney as well, fronted toward
the south, facing the dry lakes and the mountains beyond. Close by,
at the left, was a heap of bones, which, on a nearer view, disclosed
themselves to be those of rabbits, coyotes and quail, while three or
four larger bones in the pile might inform the zoologist that the
fierce mountain-lion was not unknown to this region. To the right of the
doorway, some ten feet from it, were two large flat stones, set facing
each other, a few inches apart; between them lay a handful of ashes,
betokening the kitchen of the family living here. Close by the stones
lay a number of smooth, rounded stones of use and value to the people
of the hut. Back of the wickiup, a few paces up the hill, a tiny spring
issued from the ground, affording a never-failing, though scanty, supply
of water.

The location of this solitary hut, remote from all other signs of
humanity, so far as the eye could judge, was a singular one; for the
Indian loves his kind, and it is rare that one wanders deliberately away
to make his home in loneliness, far from the rest of the tribe to which
he belongs. In the case of this hut, however, its solitariness was
more apparent than real; for although out of sight of any habitation
whatever, the tribe to which its inmates belonged was distant not more
than two miles, but on the other face of the hill, and hidden far in the
recesses of a small canyon. Here, on the site of a beautiful source of
precious water, was a cluster of Indian houses of brush, built like the
one on the hillside. Each had its fireplace on one side, as well as
the accompanying heap of bones of animals killed in the chase. Near
the centre of the group of huts stood the temescal--an institution with
nearly every Southern California tribe of Indians--where those who were
ill subjected themselves to the heroic treatment of parboiling over a
fire, until in a profuse perspiration, to be followed, on crawling out,
by a plunge into the icy water of the stream. It was truly a case of
kill or cure.

Let us return to the hillside hut, and make the acquaintance of its
inmates. Passing through the humble opening, the interior is disclosed
to the curious eye at one glance. The ground embraced within the circle
of the wickiup had been dug away so as to make an even, hard floor two
or three feet below the surface of the earth outside. To the right,
standing on the floor, were two large, round baskets, each one with a
capacity of half a dozen gallons. They were made in conformity to the
general type of basket of the Southern California aborigine, but with
the distinctive marks peculiar to the tribe to which belonged the
dwellers within, and woven so tightly as to hold water without
permitting a drop to pass through. In the bottom of one of these baskets
was scattered a little ground meal of the acorn, a staple article of
food with all the Indians of California. The other basket, similar to
the first in shape and size, but of rougher weave, and lined on the
inside with bitumen, was nearly full of water; for though the
finely woven baskets of the Southern California Indians were really
water-tight, they were not generally used for liquids. Any one,
acquainted with the customs of these Indians, would understand the
meaning of the little heap of stones by the fireside without: they were
used in warming the water in the basket, which was done by heating them
in the embers of the fire, then, when hot, throwing them into the water,
in this way bringing it almost to a boil. Afterward, the stones having
been taken out, some meal was thrown in and, in this manner, cooked.
Beyond the baskets, and nearly opposite the entrance, against the wall,
was a heap of fine brush, covered with the tawny skin of an immense
mountain-lion--a giant specimen of his species, and a formidable animal,
truly, for an Indian to encounter with only bow and arrow.

On this bed of brush was the gaunt, emaciated form of a woman lying
stretched out at full length. At first glance, one might have mistaken
her for a mummy, so still and lifeless she lay; her face, too, carried
out the resemblance startlingly, for it was furrowed and seamed with
countless wrinkles, the skin appearing like parchment in its dry,
leathery texture. Only the eyes gave assurance that this was no mummy,
but a living, sentient body--eyes large, full-orbed and black as
midnight, arched by heavy brows that frowned with great purpose, as if
the soul behind and beyond were seeking, powerless, to relieve itself of
some weighty message. These were not the eyes of age, yet they belonged
to a countenance that gave token of having lived through a great many
years; for the woman lying there so deathly still had experienced
all the varied joys and sufferings of near four score years, each one
leaving its indelible mark on the tell-tale face. She was clothed in a
loose dress made from rabbit skins, sewn together coarsely, sleeveless,
and so short as to leave her feet and ankles bare.

To the left of the entrance crouched a young Indian woman. She was an
unusually good-looking specimen of the desert tribes: a tall well-shaped
form; a head and face of much beauty and character, with a pair of eyes
that, at first glance, betrayed a close relation to the woman lying
on the bed. They were of the same size, color and brilliance; but the
tense, powerful expression that was seen in those of the aged woman,
here was softened to a mild, yet piercing glance, which had, at the same
time, a touch of sadness. She appeared to be not more than twenty-five
years old, although her face, in spite of its gentle, youthful
expression, showed the traces of more than her full quota of hardships;
for the life of the desert Indian is never an easy one at the best, and
here had been a greater struggle for existence than is usual among
the aborigines. As she crouched by the doorway, she seemed almost as
lifeless as the old Indian woman on the bed, her gaze fixed absently on
the extended view of plain and mountain stretching out before her, the
only sign of life being the slow, even rise and fall of her bosom with
each succeeding breath. Her dress was similar to that of the other
woman, but was shorter, reaching only to the knees.

This young Indian was the granddaughter of the older woman. On the death
of her parents (her father's following that of her mother, the daughter
of the aged Indian, after an interval of a few months), when she was
little more than an infant, her grandmother had taken sole charge of
her, treating her, as she became older, with the closest intimacy, more
as a sister than a grandchild; and notwithstanding the diversity in age,
this, feeling was reciprocated on the part of the child.

It was after her father's death, but before she herself was old enough
to see more than the surface of action, that her grandmother took up her
abode in the lone hut on the brow of the hill, apart from the rest of
the tribe of which she was a member, with the child her only companion.
At first, the little girl noticed not the difference between their mode
of living and that of the rest of the tribe, all the other members of
which lived together, surrounding the spring of water, their life and
mainstay; but very quickly, as the child grew older, she saw, only too
plainly, that her grandmother was looked upon as different from the
others: and the Indian regards all those of his kin, no matter how near,
who display any peculiar form of mentality, either with reverence, as
something of the divine, or with cruel hatred, when he believes the
unfortunate individual possessed with the evil spirit. She saw, in
the brief and infrequent visits the two made to the tribe, that her
grandmother was regarded with distrust; that glances of aversion were
cast at her from the doorways of the huts as they passed, and, once or
twice, a mischievous boy had slyly thrown a stone at the two, wending
their way to their lonely home.

Long the child cogitated over the situation, but, as is the Indian's
habit, without a word to her grand parent of what was occupying her
mind. The old woman saw she was absorbed in some mental problem, and,
with the shrewdness of the aborigine, guessed the subject, and sought
to divert her thoughts into other channels. It was in vain, for one
evening, after their simple meal of herbs, the girl, gathering courage,
in the increasing dusk, asked abruptly, after a long silence:

"Grandmother, why do we live here alone, far from the others in the
canyon? Why do we--?" she paused, frightened at her temerity.

The old woman started slightly. She had been sitting with hands folded
quietly in her lap, thinking, possibly, of the absent ones of her
family, gone to be with Ouiot in the everlasting home. Turning to her
granddaughter, she answered, slowly and solemnly:

"My child, I am grieved to have this come upon you now, for I had hoped
you would escape it until, after I am gone to the eternal life beyond.
Then it would not have been to you a burden, only a sorrow, softened
by the thought that I had borne bravely the punishment dealt out to me,
without a word of reproach. I have seen that you had something on your
mind, and guessed this was it, and now that you have asked me, I think
it best to tell you, although you are still but a child. For you would,
I know, brood over it in your heart. Listen, then, while I tell you my
life story."

"My childhood and youth were passed in a manner no different from that
of the other children of our tribe; I worked and played, careless of
everything but the present, until I was a big girl. I was happy in my
ignorance, for why should I be singled out from all the rest to bear the
honor that was to be thrust upon me? I knew not what was in store for
me."

"One night, when I was about fifteen years old, I dreamed that the
spring, near which our kindred live, dried up, and forced us to move
to another spring where we had to stay for two months. When I came to
myself (for it was not so much like sleep as a trance), I wondered;
but this passed away after a time, and I had almost forgotten the
occurrence, when one day, about a month later, we were startled by
hearing there was no water in the spring. The winter before had been
very dry, with almost no rain, and fears had been expressed that the
spring would fail us, a thing which had not occurred for more than three
generations. My dream flashed through my mind, only for an instant, but
long enough to imprint the coincidence on my memory. I thought no more
of it, however, until some six months later, after our return to the
spring; for, as I saw it in my dream, we had been forced to depart, and
to be absent from our beloved dwelling-place for two months. Again I
saw, as in a dream (but this time it was full day, and I knew I was not
asleep), our entire tribe in mourning for our chief who was lying dead
and surrounded by all the elders. It was like a flash of lightning,
leaving me, once more, broad awake, yet I had not been asleep. This time
I was frightened, for I knew there had been members of our tribe who
could foretell the future. Was I to be one of them? I dared not tell
any one of my dream, and waited trembling, from day to day, hoping and
praying that it might not come true. But the future had been revealed to
me, and a few weeks later our chief fell in a battle with our enemies
to the east. When I heard of it I swooned, and my mother found me lying
senseless by the fire. After she had revived me, she asked me the cause
of my fainting, and, weakened from the shock, I told her all."

"'Daughter,' she said, after a long pause, 'you are destined for a great
work, for Ouiot speaks through you.' And, a few days later, after the
burial of the dead, she told the chief men of the tribe what I had seen.
And then ended my happiness: from that day I lived a life of sorrow,
for the burden I had to bear was a heavy one: not only when I foretold
disaster and suffering to our people, but when I had joyful news for
them, even then the dread of knowing the future was terrible. Sometimes
a half-year would pass without communication from above, and I would
begin to hope that the awful gift was taken from me; but always it would
manifest itself again. My husband (for I had been married not long after
my first dream) left me just before your mother was born, but I did
not want, for I was provided with everything by the entire tribe. Your
mother, also, when she grew to be a woman, left me to be married to your
father; but when he died, he asked me to take care of his only child,
and that is why you and I have lived together all these years."

The old woman paused, and several minutes passed silently in the
gathering dusk, while the little girl waited wonderingly, afraid to
speak. Presently the Indian stirred, as if waking from a slumber, and,
after a slight shiver, resumed her tale:

"And thus I lived for many years, prophesying as the Great Spirit
revealed the future to me, and my prophecies always came true. I
foretold poor harvests, and the issues of our wars. Only once before the
last prophecy I made was my word doubted, and then unbelief was born in
the minds of many of the men