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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas




Don Miguel erects his ranch establishment in a military style. It
is at once a square stronghold and mansion shaded with ample porches.
Corrals for horses, pens for sheep, make up his constructions for
the first year. Already the herds are increasing under the eyes
of his retainers.

The Commandante has learned that no manual work can be expected of
his Californian followers, except equestrian duties of guarding
and riding.

A flash of mother-wit leads him to bring a hundred mission Indians
from the bay. They bear the brunt of mechanical toil.

Autumn finds Lagunitas Rancho in bloom. Mild weather favors all.
Stores and supplies are brought from San Francisco Bay.

Don Miguel establishes picket stations reaching to the Castro
Rancho.

Save that Juanita Peralta sees no more the glories of the Golden
Gate, her life is changed only by her new, married relation. A few
treasures of her girlhood are the sole reminders of her uneventful
springtime.

Rides through the forests, and canters over the grassy meadows
with her beloved Miguel, are her chiefest pleasures. Some little
trading brings in the Indians of the Sierras. It amuses the young
Donna to see the bartering of game, furs, forest nuts, wild fruits
and fish for the simple stores of the rancho. No warlike cavaliers
of the plains are these, with Tartar blood in their veins, from
Alaskan migration or old colonization. They have not the skill and
mysterious arts of the Aztecs.

These Piute Indians are the lowest order of indigenous tree dwellers.
They live by the chase. Without manufactures, with no language,
no arts, no agriculture, no flocks or herds, these wretches, clad
in the skins of the minor animals, are God's meanest creatures.
They live on manzanita berry meal, pine-nuts, and grasshoppers.
Bows and flint-headed arrows are their only weapons. They snare
the smaller animals. The defenceless deer yield to their stealthy
tracking. The giant grizzly and panther affright them. They cannot
battle with "Ursus ferox."

Unable to cope with the Mexican intruders, these degraded tribes
are also an easy prey to disease. They live without general
intercourse, and lurk in the foothills, or hide in the ca¤ons.

Juanita finds the Indian women peaceable, absolutely ignorant,
and yet tender to their offspring. The babes are carried in wicker
baskets on their backs. A little weaving and basket-making comprise
all their feminine arts. Rudest skin clothing covers their stunted
forms.

Don Miguel encourages the visits of these wild tribes. He intends
to use them as a fringe of faithful retainers between him and the
Americans. They will warn him of any approach through the Sierras
of the accursed Yankee.

The Commandante, reared in a land without manufactures or artisans,
regarding only his flocks and herds, cherishes his military pride
in firmly holding the San Joaquin for the authorities. He never
turns aside to examine the resources of his domain. The degraded
character of the Indians near him prevents any knowledge of the
great interior. They do not speak the language of his semi-civilized
mission laborers from the Coast Range. They cannot communicate
with the superior tribes of the North and East. All their dialects
are different.

Vaguely float in his memory old stories of the giant trees and the
great gorge of the Yosemite. He will visit yet the glistening and
secret summits of the Sierras.

Weeks run into months. Comfort and plenty reign at Lagunitas. With
his wife by his side, Miguel cons his occasional despatches. He
promises the Seflora that the spring shall see a chapel erected.
When he makes the official visit to the Annual Council, he will
bring a padre, at once friend, spiritual father, and physician. It
is the first sign of a higher life--the little chapel of Mariposa.

Winter winds sway the giant pines of the forests. Rains of heaven
swell the San Joaquin. The summer golden brown gives way to the
velvety green of early spring.

Juanita meekly tells her beads. With her women she waits the day
when the bell shall call to prayer in Mariposa.

Wandering by Lagunitas, the wife strays in fancy to far lands
beyond the ocean. The books of her girlhood have given her only a
misty idea of Europe. The awe with which she has listened to the
Padres throws a glamour of magic around these recitals of that
fairy world beyond the seas.

Her life is bounded by the social horizon of her family circle; she
is only the chatelaine. Her domain is princely, but no hope clings
in her breast of aught beside a faded middle age. Her beauty hides
itself under the simple robe of the Californian matron. Visitors
are rare in this lovely wilderness. The annual rodeo will bring
the vaqueros together. Some travelling officials may reach the
San Joaquin. The one bright possibility of her life is a future
visit to the seashore.

Spring casts its mantle of wild flowers again over the hillocks.
The rich grass waves high in the potreros; the linnets sing blithely
in the rose-bushes. Loyal Don Miguel, who always keeps his word,
girds himself for a journey to the distant Presidio. The chapel is
finished. He will return with the looked-for padre.

Leaving the sergeant in command, Don Miguel, with a few followers,
speeds to the seashore. Five days' swinging ride suffices the soldier
to reach tide-water. He is overjoyed to find that his relatives
have determined to plant a family stronghold on the San Joaquin.
This will give society to the dark-eyed beauty by the Lagunitas
who waits eagerly for her Miguel's return.

At the Presidio the Commandante is feasted. In a few days his
business is over. Riding over to the Mission Dolores, he finds
a missionary priest from Acapulco. He is self-devoted to labor.
Father Francisco Ribaut is only twenty-five years of age. Born in
New Orleans, he has taken holy orders. After a stay in Mexico, the
young enthusiast reaches the shores of the distant Pacific.

Commandante Miguel is delighted. Francisco Ribaut is of French
blood, graceful and kindly. The Fathers of the mission hasten to
provide the needs of Lagunitas chapel.

The barges are loaded with supplies, councils and business despatched.
Padre Francisco and Don Miguel reach the glens of Mariposa in the
lovely days when bird, bud, and blossom make Lagunitas a fairyland. In
the mind of the veteran but one care lingers--future war. Already
the feuds of Alvarado and Micheltorrena presage a series of domestic
broils. Don Miguel hears that foreigners are plotting to return
to the coast; they will come back under the protection of foreign
war-ships. As his horse bounds over the turf, the soldier resolves
to keep out of this coming conflict; he will guard his hard-won
heritage. By their camp fire, Padre Francisco has told him of the
Americans wrenching Texas away from Mexico. The news of the world
is imparted to him. He asks the padre if the Gringos can ever reach
the Pacific.

"As sure as those stars slope to the west," says the priest,
pointing to Orion, gleaming jewel-like in the clear skies of the
Californian evening.

The don muses. This prophecy rankles in his heart. He fears to ask
further. He fears these Yankees.

Joy reigns at Lagunitas! A heartfelt welcome awaits the priest, a
rapturous greeting for Don Miguel. The grassy Alamedas are starred
with golden poppies. Roses adorn the garden walks of the young wife.
Her pensive eyes have watched the valley anxiously for her lord.

Padre Francisco hastens to consecrate the chapel. The Virgin
Mother spreads her sainted arms on high. A school for the Indians
soon occupies the priest.

Months roll around. The peace and prosperity of the rancho are
emulated by the new station in the valley.

Don Miguel rides over the mountains often in the duties of his
position. Up and down the inland basin bronzed horsemen sweep over
the untenanted regions, locating new settlements. San Joaquin valley
slowly comes under man's dominion.

Patriot, pioneer, and leader, the Commandante travels from Sutter's
Fort to Los Angeles. He goes away light-hearted. The young wife
has a bright-eyed girl to fondle when the chief is in the saddle.

Happiness fills the parents' hearts. The baptism occasions the
greatest feast of Lagunitas. But, from the coast, as fall draws
near, rumors of trouble disturb the San Joaquin.

Though the Russians are about to leave the seacoast, still
Swiss Sutter has taken foothold on the Sacramento. The adherents
of Micheltorrena and Alvarado arc preparing for war in the early
spring. To leave Lagunitas is impossible. The Indian tribes are
untrustworthy. They show signs of aggressiveness. Father Ribaut
finds the Indians of the Sierras a century behind those of the
coast. They are devoid of spiritual ideas. Contact with traders,
and association with wild sea rovers, have given the Indians of
the shore much of the groundwork of practical civilization.

To his alarm, Don Miguel sees the Indians becoming treacherous.
He discovers they make voyages to the distant posts, where they
obtain guns and ammunition.

In view of danger, the Commandante trains his men. The old soldier
sighs to think that the struggle may break out between divided
factions of native Californians. The foreigners may gain foothold
in California while its real owners quarrel.

The second winter at Lagunitas gives way to spring. Rapidly
increasing herds need for their care all the force of the ranch.

From the coast plentiful supplies provided by the Commandante
arrive. With them comes the news of the return of the foreigners.
They are convoyed by a French frigate, and on the demand of the
British consul at Acapulco they are admitted. This is grave news.

Donna Juanita and the padre try to smooth the gloomy brow of Don
Miguel. All in vain. The "pernicious foreigner" is once more on the
shores of Alta California. The Mexican eagle flutters listlessly
over the sea gates of the great West. The serpent coils of foreign
conspiracy are twining around it.






CHAPTER III.

A MISSING SENTINEL.---FREMONT'S CAMP.





"Quien Vive!" A sentinel's challenge rings out. The sounds are
borne away on the night wind sweeping Gavilan Peak. No response.
March breezes drive the salty fog from Monterey Bay into the eyes
of the soldier shivering in the silent hours before dawn.

"Only a coyote or a mountain wolf," mutters Maxime Valois.
He resumes his tramp along the rocky ramparts of the Californian
Coast Range. His eyes are strained to pierce the night. He waits,
his finger on the trigger of his Kentucky rifle.

Surely something was creeping toward him from the chaparral. No:
another illusion. Pride keeps him from calling for help. Three-score
dauntless "pathfinders" are sleeping here around intrepid Fremont.

It is early March in 1846. Over in the valley the herd-guard watch
the animals. "No, not an Indian," mutters the sentinel. "They would
stampede the horses at once. No Mexican would brave death here,"
muses Valois.

Only a boy of twenty, he is a veteran already. He feels for his
revolver and knife. He knows he can defy any sneaking Californian.

"It must be some beast," he concludes, as he stumbles along the
wind-swept path. Maxime Valois dreams of his far-away home on the
"Lower Coast," near New Orleans. He wanders along, half asleep.
This hillside is no magnolia grove.

It is but a year since he joined the great "Pathfinder's" third
voyage over the lonely American Desert. He has toiled across to
the Great Salt Lake, down the dreary Humboldt, and over the snowy
Sierras.

Down by Walker's Lake the "pathfinders" have crept into the valley
of California. As he shields his face from biting winds, he can see
again the panorama of the great plains, billowy hills, and broad
vistas, tantalizing in their deceptive nearness. Thundering herds
of buffalo and all the wild chivalry of the Sioux and Cheyennes
sweep before him. The majestic forests of the West have darkened
his way. The Great Salt Lake, a lonely inland sea; Lake Tahoe, a
beautiful jewel set in snowy mountains; and its fairy sisters near
Truckee--all these pass before his mental vision.

But the youth is tired. Onward ever, like the "Wandering Jew,"
still to the West with Fremont.

Pride and hot southern blood nerve him in conflicts with the fierce
savages. Dashing among the buffalo, he has ridden in many a wild
chase where a single stumble meant death. His rifle has rung the
knell of elk and bear, of wolf and panther.

These varied excitements repaid the long days of march, but the
Louisianian is mercurial. Homeward wander his thoughts.

Hemmed in, with starvation near, in the Sierras, he welcomes this
forlorn-hope march to the sea. Fremont with a picked squad has swept
down to Sutter's Fort to send succor to the remaining "voyageurs."

But the exploring march to Oregon, and back East by the southern
road, appalls him. He is tired now. He would be free. As a mere
volunteer, he can depart as soon as the frigate PORTSMOUTH arrives
at Monterey. He is tired of Western adventures. Kit Carson, Aleck
Godey, and Dick Owens have taught him their border lore. They all
love the young Southerner.

The party are now on the defensive. Maxime Valois knows that General
Jose Castro has forbidden them to march toward Los Angeles. Governor
Pio Pico is gathering his army to overawe "los Americanos."

Little does Valois think that the guns of Palo Alto and Resaca
de la Palma will soon usher in the Mexican war. The "pathfinders"
are cut off from home news. He will join the American fleet, soon
expected.

He will land at Acapulco, and ride over to the city of Mexico. From
Vera Cruz he can reach New Orleans and the old Valois plantation,
"Belle Etoile." The magnolias' fragrance call him back to-night.

Another rustle of the bushes. Clinging to his rifle, he peers into
the gloom. How long these waiting hours! The gleaming stars have
dipped into the far Pacific. The weird hours of the night watch
are ending. Ha! Surely that was a crouching form in the arroyo.
Shall he fire? No. Another deception of night. How often the trees
have seemed to move toward him! Dark beings fancifully seemed to
creep upon him. Nameless terrors always haunt these night hours.

To be laughed at on rousing the camp? Never! But his inner nature
tingles now with the mysterious thrill of danger. Eagerly he scans
his post. The bleak blasts have benumbed his senses.

Far away to the graceful groves and Gallic beauties of Belle
Etoile his truant thoughts will fly once more. He wonders why he
threw up his law studies under his uncle, Judge Valois, to rove in
this wilderness.

Reading the exploits of Fremont fascinated the gallant lad.

As his foot falls wearily, the flame of his enthusiasm flickers
very low.

Turning at the end of his post he starts in alarm. Whizz! around
his neck settles a pliant coil, cast twenty yards, like lightning.
His cry for help is only a gurgle. The lasso draws tight. Dark
forms dart from the chaparral. A rough hand stifles him. His arms
are bound. A gag is forced in his mouth. Dragged into the bushes,
his unknown captors have him under cover.

The boy feels with rage and shame his arms taken from his belt.
His rifle is gone. A knife presses his throat. He understands the
savage hiss, "Vamos adelante, Gringo!" The party dash through the
chaparral.

Valois, bruised and helpless, reflects that his immediate death
seems not to be his captors' will. Will the camp be attacked? Who
are these? The bitter words show them to be Jose Castro's scouts.
Is there a force near? Will they attack? All is silent.

In a few minutes an opening is reached. Horses are there. Forced to
mount, Maxime Valois rides away, a dozen guards around him. Grim
riders in scrapes and broad sombreros are his escort. The guns
on their shoulders and their jingling machetes prove them native
cavalry.

For half an hour Valois is busy keeping his seat in the saddle.
These are no amiable captors. The lad's heart is sad. He speaks
Spanish as fluently as his native French. Every word is familiar.

A camp-fire flickers in the live-oaks. He is bidden to dismount.
The lair of the guerillas is safe from view of the "pathfinders."

The east shows glimmers of dawn. The prisoner warms his chilled
bones at the fire. He sees a score of bronzed faces scowling
at him. Preparations for a meal are hastened. A swarthy soldier,
half-bandit, half-Cossack in bearing, tells him roughly to eat.
They must be off.

Maxime already realizes he has been designedly kidnapped. His
capture may provide information for Castro's flying columns. These
have paralleled their movements, from a distance, for several weeks.
Aware of the ferocity of these rancheros, he obeys instantly each
order. He feigns ignorance of the language. Tortillas, beans, some
venison, with water, make up the meal. It is now day. Valois eats.
He knows his ordeal. He throws himself down for a rest. He divines
the journey will be hurried. A score of horses are here tied to the
trees. In a half hour half of these are lazily saddled. Squatted
around, the soldiers keep a morose silence, puffing the corn-husk
cigarette. The leader gives rapid directions. Valois now recalls
his locality as best he can. Fremont's camp on Gavilan Peak commands
the Pajaro, Salinas, and Santa Clara. A bright sun peeps over the
hills. If taken west, his destination must be Monterey; if south,
probably Los Angeles; and if north, either San Francisco Bay or
the Sacramento, the headquarters of the forces of Alta California.

Dragged like a beast from his post, leaving the lines unguarded!
What a disgrace! Bitterly does he remember his reveries of the home
he may never again see.

The party mounts. Two men lead up a tame horse without bridle. The
leader approaches and searches him. All his belongings fill the
saddle-pouches of the chief. A rough gesture bids him mount the
horse, whose lariat is tied to a guard's saddle. Valois rages in
despair as the guard taps his own revolver. Death on the slightest
suspicious movement, is the meaning of that sign.

With rough adieus the party strike out eastwardly toward the
San Joaquin. Steadily following the lope of the taciturn leader,
they wind down Pacheco Pass. Valois' eyes rove over the beautiful
hills of the Californian coast. Squirrels chatter on the live-oak
branches, and the drumming grouse noisily burst out of their
manzanita feeding bushes.

Onward, guided by distant peak and pass, they thread the trail.
No word is spoken save some gruff order. Maxime's captors have the
hang-dog manner of the Californian. They loll on their mustangs,
lazily worrying out the long hours. A rest is taken for food at
noon. The horses are herded an hour or so and the advance resumed.

Nightfall finds Valois in a squalid adobe house, thirty miles from
Gavilan Peak. An old scrape is thrown him. His couch is the mud
floor.

The youth sleeps heavily. His last remembrance is the surly wish
of a guard that Commandante Miguel Peralta will hang the accursed
Gringo.

At daybreak he is roused by a carelessly applied foot. The dejected
"pathfinder" begins his second day of captivity. He fears to
converse. He is warned with curses to keep silent. In the long day
Maxime concludes that the Mexicans suspect treachery by Captain
Fremont's "armed exploration in the name of science."

These officials hate new-comers. Valois had been, like other
gilded youth of New Orleans, sent to Paris by his opulent family.
He knows the absorbing interest of the South in Western matters.
Stern old Tom Benton indicated truly the onward march of the
resistless American. In his famous speech, while the senatorial
finger pointed toward California, he said with true inspiration:
"There is the East; there is the road to India."

All the adventurers of the South are ready to stream to the West.
Maxime knows the jealous Californian officials. The particulars
of Fremont's voyage of 1842 to the Rockies, and his crossing
to California in 1843, are now history. His return on the quest,
each time with stronger parties and a more formidable armament, is
ominous. It warns the local hidalgos that the closed doors of the
West must yield to the daring touch of the American---manifest
destiny.

The enemy are hovering around the "pathfinders" entrenched on the
hills; they will try to frighten them into return, and drive them
out of the regions of Alta California. Some sly Californian may
even contrive an Indian attack to obliterate them.

Valois fears not the ultimate fate of the friends he has been torn
away from. The adventurous boy knows he will be missed at daybreak.
The camp will be on the alert to meet the enemy. Their keen-eyed
scouts can read the story of his being lassoed and carried away
from the traces of the deed.

The young rover concludes he is to be taken before some superior
officer, some soldier charged with defending Upper California.
This view is confirmed. Down into the valley of the San Joaquin
the feet of the agile mustangs bear the jaded travellers.

They cross the San Joaquin on a raft, swimming their horses. Valois
sees nothing yet to hint his impending fate. Far away the rich
green billows of spring grass wave in the warm sun. Thousands of
elk wander in antlered armies over the meadows. Gay dancing yellow
antelope bound over the elastic turf. Clouds of wild fowl, from the
stately swan to the little flighty snipe, crowd the tule marshes
of this silent river. It is the hunter's paradise. Wild cattle, in
sleek condition, toss their heads and point their long, polished
horns. Mustangs, fleet as the winds, bound along, disdaining
their meaner brethren, bowing under man's yoke. At the occasional
mud-walled ranches, vast flocks of fat sheep whiten the hills.

Maxime mentally maps the route he travels. Alas! no chance of
escape exists. At the first open attempt a rifle-ball, or a blow
from a razor-edged machete, would end his earthly wanderings.
Despised, shunned by even the wretched women at the squalid ranchos,
he feels utterly alone. The half-naked children timidly flee from
him. The wicked eyes of his guards never leave him. He knows a
feeling animates the squad, that he would be well off their hands
by a use of the first handy limb and a knotted lariat. The taciturn
chief watches over him. He guards an ominous silence.

The cavalcade, after seven days, are in sight of the purpled outlines
of the sculptured Sierras. They rise heavenward to the sparkling
crested pinnacles where Bret Harte's poet fancy sees in long years
after the "minarets of snow." Valley oaks give way to the stately
pines. Olive masses of enormous redwoods wrap the rising foot-hills.
Groves of laurel, acorn oak, and madrona shelter the clinging
panther and the grim warden of the Sierras, the ferocious grizzly
bear.

Over flashing, bounding mountain brooks, cut up with great ledges
of blue bed rock, they splash. Here the silvery salmon and patrician
trout leap out from the ripples to glide into the great hollowed
pools, yet the weary cavalcade presses on. Will they never stop?

Maxime Valois' haggard face looks back at him from the mirrored
waters of the Cottonwood, the Merced, and the Mariposa. The prisoner
sees there only the worn features of his strangely altered self.
He catches no gleam of the unreaped golden harvest lying under the
feet of the wild mustangs. These are the treasure channels of the
golden West.

The mountain gnomes of this mystic wilderness are already in terror
lest some fortunate fool may utter the one magic word, "Gold." It
will call greedy thousands from the uttermost parts of the earth
to break the seals of ages, and burrow far below these mountain
bases. Through stubborn granite wall, tough porphyry, ringing quartz,
and bedded gnarled gneiss, men will grope for the feathery, fairy
veins of the yellow metal.

A feverish quest for gold alone can wake the dreamy "dolce far
niente" of the Pacific. God's fairest realm invites the foot of
man in vain. Here the yellow grains will be harvested, which buy
the smiles of beauty, blunt the sword of justice, and tempt the
wavering conscience of young and old. It will bring the human herd
to one grovelling level--human swine rooting after the concrete
token of power. Here, in later years, the wicked arm of power will
be given golden hammers to beat down all before it. Here will that
generation arise wherein the golden helmet can dignify the idle
and empty pate.

Maxime, now desperate, is ready for any fate. Only let this long
ride cease. Sweeping around the hills, for the first time he sees
the square courtyard, the walled casas of the rancho of Lagunitas.

By the shores of the flashing mountain lake, with the rich valley
sweeping out before it, it lies in peace. The fragrant forest throws
out gallant flanking wings of embattled trees. It is the residence
of the lord of ten leagues square. This is the great Peralta Rancho.

In wintering in the San Joaquin, Maxime has often heard of the
fabulous wealth and power of this inland chieftain. Don Miguel
Peralta is Commandante of the San Joaquin. By a fortunate marriage
he is related to Jose Castro, the warlike Commandante general of
Pio Pico--a man of mark now. Thousands of cattle and horses, with
great armies of sheep, are herded by his semi-military vaqueros.
The young explorer easily divines now the reason of his abduction.

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