# A La California/Chapter 5

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.—Un-invited 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 and Madrono.—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, the ancient capital of Alta ​California. 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. South-eastward 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 Lay and ocean. A deep gulley or ​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 canon 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 again, but return to the charge year after year, preferring the chances of ​being killed outright in the end to abandoning the consumption of their favorite delicacy.
NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPING.
​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 ​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. ​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 ​imitation of the flamingo and the fly-up-the-creek, and running before the wind from the bathine-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 ​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 ​Howers, mingle their perfume with that of the peerless madroño, 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 fashion-able 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 ​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 lumber-man'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 ​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 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 ​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 he fell past the second story window he 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 he saw nobody playing cards as he went past the window; in fact, did not even look in; and that had he 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 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 retraction 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 tenpenny 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 ​intentionally, 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 canons, 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 ​most extensive and select ever held in Santa Cruz County, and everybody admitted that the undertaker's work could not have been done more taste-fully, 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, ​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 ​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 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 foot-prints 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 ​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, señor! 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, ​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 wa«s 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 ​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 ​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 protégé, 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 ​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 ​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, ​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 it. 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 ​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 ​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, ​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 ​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 ​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 ​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 protégé, 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 ​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. ​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.
​"'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 ​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 years—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. 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 ​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 ​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 bark,—the noble old fellow! This is my ranch; that is our house, under the madrono-trees up there at the entrance of the cañon yonder; and that is Manuela—God bless her!—coming down to the gateway to meet us, with little Manuel and Manuela by her side. I tell you what it is, old friend, I am just the happiest man in all California, and the most contented, you may believe me!"