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ADVENTURING IN TIBURON
A PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF EXCITING WEEKS IN THE GULF OF CALIFORNIA
by JOHN A. AVIRETTE
THE two Burke boys, Charlie Kanaka, and I sat in close consultation. Great deference was given to Charlie by the rest of us, since the matter under discussion was a boat. Was he not a Salt of the Sea from the Pacific Islands, where men swam out, in amphibious temerity, to slay the terrible man-eater shark in his own element?
Charlie finally said that She must be twenty-two feet long, half-decked, and with at least five feet beam. We should steal a rail from the Southern Pacific R. R., bend it to suit and bolt it firmly to her bottom, for a keel. This, he said, would stiffen her, give her low ballast and, if we struck a sunken rock in a blow, would save her from holing. Thus, in lieu of sinking, we should only turn over.
Charlie had his way. We built the boat, half-decked her, stole the rail from Collis P., and one glorious November morning christened her (with a bottle) Santa Maria. Never had boat a more propitious launching, and never had crew a fairer promise of fun galore—for were we not bound for the mouth of the Colorado River, Lower California and Tiburon Island? And, where, pray, was a wilder or more dangerous coast on which to venture to one's heart's content?
Frank was the elder of the two Burkes. He had six notches on his gun, while Pete, as a modest younger brother, had only four. I had killed bear and deer, while Charlie had once licked a French cook. We were thus a crew of valor and prowess, fit for all adventures by sea or land.
Old man Shaunnessy and the other half of Yuma came down to see us off and bid us God speed. Shaunnessy is an Irish prince—a remote descendant of Brian Baru. He has "kept saloon" in every Government Post, every mining camp and town in all Arizona. He is a kind old man with a stutter and fine principles—for he gave us a gallon.
We "up-hooked" about 10 A. M., November 11th, to the time of revolver-shots, cheers from the bank, the braying of burros and the barking of dogs. That night we had made only twelve miles, for we put in at Hall Hanlon's ranch near Pilot Knob—for watermelons. Hanlon gave us six whoppers, then helped us punch a hole in the gallon; for California, like Arizona, is a very dry country. Hanlon is a Missourian from Kentucky, when drunk, and a very hospitable man at all times. He is much beloved and feared in Yuma, since he is not only kind to a fault, but is also hasty—when crossed.
Nov. 12—We are now down opposite the Colony. The immense Tule-flats on either bank of the river are simply alive with hogs, "gone-wild" descendants of the lordly Berkshires and Poland-chinas, abandoned here by the Blythe colonists when the mosquitoes ran them off. We camped on an island, to minimize the mosquitoes, and while the rest cooked supper I took the skiff and pulled for Sonora and pork. I got the pork. I came near getting too much pork, for when I shot the pig he squealed. About twenty great wild hogs responded to his cry of distress and, bounding out of the tule, rushed at me in fierce wrath. I stood not on the order of my going; we made it in one heat to the river bank, whence I dived headlong into the muddy waters of the Colorado. When things had cooled off, I sneaked carefully back for my rifle and the pig. To those who know humanity, it is needless to state that my arrival at camp was the signal for merciless jeers, mollified somewhat when I produced the pig.
Nov. 13—To-day we are camped at Shipyard Slough. Some two hours after our arrival we saw the famous "tide-rip" run in from the Gulf. A wall of roaring water, at least thirty feet high, rushed into the mouth of the river at express-train speed. I felt much awe at the sight, for many deaths have occurred at this point, when either greenhorns or careless folk have been caught in the fierce tide. Luckily, Charlie knows all about this coast, so we were hauled up high and dry, out of all danger. This tide is at its greatest at new-moon or full-moon, and if it happens that, at the same time, a strong wind is blowing up the Gulf, the tide reaches truly formidable proportions, sweeping over even the highest banks and destroying both property and life. This, of course, in old days, when there was a port here; now there is sand, solitude and sky.
Nov. 14—To-day we ran out of whisky, so Frank concluded to give up the trip and return to Yuma. His brother Pete also concluded that the salt-water looked too dry for him. Frank argued that it was only three miles across the tule flats to old Ponciano Dominguez's Ranch. He had heard that Dominguez sold contraband mescal to the Cocopah Indians, so the thing looked both promising and easy. He and Pete could easily pack their rifles and blankets across, secure horses from Dominguez and return to Yuma. Charlie and I expostulated in vain; Frank had made up his mind and Pete didn't have any. After they were gone, Charlie and I smoked mournfully for a time, then Charlie said "——." Now while I fully agreed with him, I mentioned the fact that the grub would last two men twice as long as four. At this sapient remark Charlie brightened up, and began to sing in the Honolulu language.
Nov. 15—This morning I killed a 600-pound jewfish, with a finely-placed shot. As he broke water, I pulled trigger. The shot cut the spine at the base of the skull. We are making "jerkey" out of him. The bushes around camp are strung with ropes, great and small, and every rope is weighed down with great white flakes of fish. At noon I shot an egret, cutting his neck in two, with the .22-long Winchester. His plumes were in fine shape, glossy and beautiful. Egret plumes are worth $40 per ounce in Yuma—in good, hard, iron money. At sundown the long expanse of the rivermouth was alive with leaping mullet. Millions were in the air at one time. I have never seen so many fish. This fish is about fourteen inches long, plump and juicy and of fine flavor, gray on the back, bright silver on the sides and dead white on the belly. We got eleven with the gill-net within ten .minutes. The mullet run into the river from the Gulf with the flood-tide, as far as the water is brackish with salt. They penetrate every slough of the great tide-flats and with a net, as the tide runs out, they may be caught by the ton. These waters are unfished, and are simply alive with finny denizens.
The bones of four large vessels project from the sands of Shipyard Slough. These derelicts date from the days when Yuma was a proud United States port. Long before Collis P. Huntington built his Southern Pacific Railroad across the Continent this spot was a busy and thriving city of four houses. The climate being perfect, the people slept on board, or on the sands around the houses; going inside for a drink, if not broke. Now all this civilization is no more; only empty whisky-bottles and the bones of the dead ships attest the former opulence. Sea-going ships anchored here, to meet the river-steamers that carried all freight to Yuma, whence it was freighted on wagon-trains, to forts, towns and mining-camps for hundreds of miles over the Desert. Now the great tule and hemp flats are peopled with only wild hogs, millions of aquatic creatures and billions of mosquitoes. "Sic transit gloria mundi!"
Nov. 16—We are now on Montague Island. It is five miles across to the Lower California bank and eight to the Sonora side at Shipyard Slough. The island is some ten miles long by one mile wide—a low, flat sand-island, covered with short salt-grass and birdnests. Innumerable pelicans, cranes, geese, ducks, gulls, flamingoes, and heaven knows what other winged creatures come here to breed. The birds are very tame, showing little fear of man. The nearest human habitation is that of old man Dominguez; beyond his one lone house there is no other dwelling-place nearer than La Grulla, eighty miles to the north. Both coasts here are treeless, waterless, sunburnt sand wastes. Here and there a reef of black Malpai rock crops out of the eternal sand. Rain seldom falls, and when this rare phenomenon does occur it is likely to be a Summer thunder-shower, wetting a meager and limited patch of sand.
Many great turtles crawl out on the beaches of this island to lay. From one nest we dug some two bushels of eggs. This looks as if several "lady turtles" did business together. The eggs are palatable and, in my opinion, preferable to sea-bird eggs. The Mexican fishermen of this coast call this turtle the carapachi, and are said to esteem its flesh very highly. We found no sign of human beings on the island, not even the char of an old campfire. Charlie said that no one ever comes here but stray pearlfishers from La Paz or Muleje, and then only when they are in hard straits for drinking water and put into the mouth of the river to fill their kegs.
Nov. 18—After a most glorious sail of sixty miles, we are safe and sound behind Point San Felipe. If there was ever a desert paradise on earth, this is one. Somewhere up on the American Line the Sierra Nevadas split in two. One of the forks strikes down by the southeast, to butt boldly into the Gulf of California. We have found a sheltered cove, some shade trees and a small spring of sweet water. At extreme low tide a hot spring boils up from the sands at the water's edge. This water is very hot and somewhat sulphurous. Our drinking spring is a mere trickle from the cliffs, a dainty rock-pool, holding but a few gallons.
We found many wild-game tracks around this spring, apparently those of mountain sheep or deer. The tide-rocks are covered with great masses and clumps of oysters. The water of the inlet is so deaf that even small fish may be seen at great depths. We have blockhauled the boat and are prepared for a long stay, for truly We have found a sportsman's paradise!
Nov. 19—Alas, our Eden has its serpents! Charlie has killed six rattlesnakes, and I nine. Unfortunately this is not the worst of it, for this place is wormy with hydrophobia skunks—diminutive, spotted pests, more dangerous than any other living animal! Dining the night one of these abominations touched my face, giving me a fine scare. After this I sleep in the launched boat! Charlie is a stoic and needs no nerve-tonics. My wild yell in the night brought him up sitting, rifle in hand.
"What's de matta?" he asked.
"One of these blankety—blank—ety blank skunks touched my face!" I cried.
"Did him bait you?"
"No," said I, "but he scared nine kinds of tar out of me!"
"Well," said Charlie philosophically, "if you is scare, you can't sleep, so mak up firg an' keep'm off me; I sleepy."
So my guide, philosopher and friend lay calmly back in his blankets and snored peacefully the rest of the night. Charlie is a gentleman; even his snore is musically gentle. He carries his sixty years like a day and his frame is as vigorous as that of a boy of twenty. He is a primitively simple and honest man, taking no thought for the future, hating no man and fearing no living thing under the sun. Happy Charlie!
These hydrophobia skunks are the most horrible of created creatures. They are less than one quarter of the size of the ordinary skunk, are spotted and are very vicious. In new countries, where men camp out and sleep On the ground, they are more dangerous than a hundred rattlesnakes. The snake strikes solely in self-defense, while the skunk is a nocturnal prowler, biting without provocation the unfortunate sleeper. About ten per cent, of the deaths in Lower California are due to the bites of this skunk. The people are poor and apathetic; they sleep on the ground and have no doors to their huts. The skunks are numerous, are vicious with the disease and bite them. The bitten person contracts hydrophobia from the bite and dies a terrible death. "It is God's will! For if he willed it not, how could it happen? Who may go against the will of God?" They are worthless folk, and fatalists.
Nov. 20—To-day has been a peach! At daybreak I took the 30-30 carbine and went out for deer. I did not get a deer, but I did get two tremendously fine bighorn sheep. I ran into a band of twelve and proceeded to lay out the two patriarchs of the flock. Both were fat as butter, and each had a splendid head of horns. Fortunately I made the kill near camp, for both sheep were very heavy. I went in with one, staggering under the heavy load. Charlie was disgusted.
"What for you shoot ole he one?" he snorted.
When I got my breath I said, "For the horns, Charlie; they will make such splendid trophies."
"We no eat horn!" he asseverated sourly.
"That is true, Charlie," said I, "but just think of the immense satisfaction of the trophies!"
After ruminating over this strange view of hunting, Charlie's native gentility came to his aid. He smiled wanly and then said hopefully, "Mebbe you sell 'm horn to Tenderfoot."
"Mebbe so," I conceded weakly.
Going up to the spring for water, I shot a mountain lion. I came very near not seeing him as he crept away among the rocks. He, too, had gone for water, to find death at the hands of a strange creature that he had never seen before. No more juicy fawns for his lionship! His skin isn't overfine, but maybe I can "sell'm to Tenderfoot."
Nov. 21—We have jerked both of the sheep. They made a full gunnysack of jerky. The meat is fat, savory and tender, so I have risen in Charlie's esteem.
We have neighbors! Four lean, dirty, Mexican pearl-fishers, from Muleje. They beat around the point of rocks about 3 p. m., saw our smoke and steered for our boat. When near, one of them called out to know if we had found fresh water. On our replying in the affirmative, they landed. When they were ashore they came up to shake hands. We picked up our rifles and declined this honor, contenting ourselves with directing them to the spring. This is a lone place, far from courts of justice. They each carry a long knife and their looks are very villainous, and our boat and outfit are very desirable to such as these, so we are warily polite, knowing that dead " Gringos " tell no tales. They unloaded four water-kegs and started for the spring. When they returned I called one of them over and gave him some jerked meat, some coffee and tobacco. After a mellowing-up smoke he became very communicative. "Down the coast," said he, "where two sharp rocks project from the sea, there is much oro [gold]."
Why didn't they dig it out?
They were only pearl-fishers and knew nothing about gold-mining. He had seen the grains of gold, however, in the sands of a dry gulch.
"Is there any fresh water there?"
"No water."
"How far is it?"
"Two days' sail, if the wind is good."
"Where are you going?"
"Back to Muleje, with our pearls." He here undid a greasy belt and showed us some really beautiful pearls. He frankly admitted that they were poachers. God, said he, had made the sea and the pearl-oyster. A bad Government had sold the pearl monopoly to English and French pearl-companies, thus depriving the poor of a natural right. He, for one, did not concur, so he poached. "This pearl," said he, "is worth at least 600 pesos, yet we will get scarcely 200 pesos for it, since we are constrained to sell our pearls to illicit pearl-buyers, who cheat us." He would, however, sell it to us, very cheap. We thanked him, but declined on the plea of poverty. He sniffed incredulously, and then took his departure, after bidding us good-night and thanking us for the food.
That night I slept all night, while Charlie watched. He was to have awakened me at midnight for my turn, but he did not do so, for Charlie is, as I said, a gentleman.
Nov. 22—They went away at dawn—back down the Lower California coast. When they were decently around the point, I took the 30-30 carbine and slipped out on the farther rocks to see that they really went. When I peered cautiously over the last rock, they were a mile away, under full sail for the south. I sat on the rocks and watched the sunrise. Almighty God, how wonderful are Thy works! Out from the bosom of a silver sea rose the sun in spotless splendor; far out at sea, a school of whales played and gamboled, spouting into the air streams of spun silver, then diving, to reappear farther on. The boat of the Mexicans became a mere dot on the southern horizon. I was glad to be alive, for was not the world beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!
I went back to Charlie, and a steaming pot of coffee.
"Gone?"
Yes, really gone. Did he believe the story about the gold?
Yes, he believed it, for Captain Polhemus, of Yuma, had told him the same story. Polhemus was no Mexican and no liar.
Should we hunt for it?
Yes, if I wanted to go. We had six empty five-gallon coal-oil cans that would hold fifteen days' water—if we didn't wash.
II
Nov. 24—The jerky is all packed, the coal-oil-cans are lashed tight amidships and every canteen and bottle is a-brim for the trip. We have cooked ten days' rations of bread, so as to economize water when once off down this dry coast. At 11 a. m. we pulled out with the oars far enough to catch the breeze. As the sail bellied out and the ropes drew taut, we waved a farewell to our snaky, pole-catty paradise. Like all mundane things, it has its good and evil intimately blended. We were not bitten and we did have fine hunting, fishing and bathing. The sun was clear and warm, the breeze pure and the hills very, very beautiful.
Charlie was right to a dot about stealing the rail for a keel. This heavy ninety-pound rail trims the craft beautifully and in a stiff breeze the boat behaves like a thing of life. We are making about three knots, and at this rate should sight the twin rocks by noon to-morrow. We have pored over our U. S. Coast Survey chart, and have come to the conclusion that the Greaser's "twin rocks" must mean the San Louis Islands in the Bay of Vistacio, some seventy-five miles S.E. by S.
The wind freshened to a half-gale by 3 p. m., so we took two reefs in the mainsail. Charlie is a bolder sailor than myself. I prefer to do my dying on dry land, so when a comber slaps me in the face, it dampens my enthusiasm. Bailing water ceaselessly for some hours becomes real, true exercise after the second hour. Charlie had the tiller and I had the bailing-can, and the brine that dripped from my noble brow did not all come from the ocean. About half-past six we saw a cove and steered for it. The shore was rocky and uninviting, but a closer acquaintance showed a little creeklike slough, where the water was still as a church. I landed and collected enough brush to cook supper and breakfast.
Nov. 25—This morning we pulled out into the offing and waited for a breeze. As no breeze showed up, we began to fish, catching a number of worthless croakers, two young sharks, and five fine rockbass. About 9 a. m. the wind came, so we "up-stick-and-away," for the south. The wind freshened steadily until about four o'clock, when it began to blow in puffs. Toward night we watched the coast for an inlet and, finding none, resolved to sail in the moonlight. Just before sundown we sighted the islands, then almost immediately saw the high hill-point of Cape Final. Charlie turned in for the first sleep and I let him sleep until half-past three in the morning. The sea was fairly smooth and the night-breeze soft and delicious. Great fish leaped at intervals from the dim sea and unseen gulls called from the distant shore. After the moon went down the sky became a marvel of glittering worlds. Ah, but I love the Night and her stars!
Nov. 26—When I woke I smelled coffee. Peeping out of the cuddy-hole, I saw Charlie with a finely puckered brow, frying fish and trying to dodge smoke. The "smoke-nuisance" of our great cities is not in it with the smoke of a measly brush campfire. Times innumerable I have circled a campfire like a merry-go-round, but the smoke would persist in blowing my way, going up my nose, making my eyes water and making me swear like a pirate.
Breakfast over, we hoisted the sheet and started to cruise along the mainland, looking for a good shelter. We found none to suit us, so we picked out a smooth path of sand and ran the boat ashore. We then rigged our block and tackle and pulled the boat clear into the brush, so as to hide her from any stray sea-prowlers who might happen along. In the afternoon I took the 30-30 carbine and went prospecting. About a mile inland I came upon two fresh human tracks, evidently those of an Indian buck and his squaw. Going back, I told Charlie, who only grunted.
"If," said I, "any Indians live around here, they drink fresh water. Let's look them up."
Charlie grunted again, but this time it was a grunt of assent.
Nov. 27—We started at daybreak with our rifles and the two-gallon canteen. I took the trail of the Indians and followed it some three miles inland. Here we came out on the edge of a deep canyon that had a wide, flat bottom. Down in this flat we saw a dozen or two wickyups, the smoke from which showed them to be inhabited. We slipped down a small side ravine and came out beside a large wickyup, where a squaw was skinning a turtle. When she saw us she dropped the turtle, squalled and lit out like a streak. The whole village now took to the brush, leaving us alone with the huts. We called loudly to them in Spanish, saying "Amigo, amigo!" but with no further result than to accelerate their speed.
We now examined the huts. The wickyup of the "turtle-lady" had two large water-ollas, three earthen cooking-pots, a metate for grinding corn or seeds and a couple of fish-spears. In one corner we found a gourd partly full of pumpkin-seed, a piece of broken mirror and a joint of reed. Shaking the joint of reed, we found that it rattled inside, and further examination disclosed the fact that it contained about an ounce of placer-gold.
We now started to look for the waterhole, and found it some half-mile down the canyon. The Indians had dug a hole in the sands of the arroyo, where, at the depth of some four feet, they had found passable drinking water. Then we went back to the wickyup of the "turtle-lady," and left some tobacco on her stone metate, as a free gift.
WE RETURNED to the boat, and there, at sundown, an old Indian hailed us from the bluffs. On our making him friendly overtures, he came down to see us. He spoke fairly good Spanish and seemed very intelligent. We gave him a good supper, and while he got on the outside of this, we talked. He said his name was Tomas, and that the name of his people was "Simangitos." This tribe, he said, was very poor and very few in number. He said that they lived on grass seeds, picayunes, fish, turtles and an occasional deer. They had no corn, because the country was too dry to plant corn. He said that they washed a limited amount of placer-gold out of the sands of the dry-washes. At long intervals one or more of them took this gold across on the other side (Pacific) and traded it to Mexicans for flour and cloth.
"Have any white men ever come here before?" I asked.
"Two parties have come," said he. "The first to come were two white men who came in a boat like yours. These brought a machine [dry-washer] and took out much gold. They were good men and cured our sick, but they themselves got sick and died. When they were dead we hid their machine in a cave and told no one, for we were afraid that the Mexican police would think that we had killed them. We loved them and did not kill them."
"Of what did they die?" I asked.
"Of the bubble-sickness," he replied. Seeing that I did not comprehend, Charlie told me that the Indians called smallpox the "bubble-sickness," from the pustules that broke out on the patient.
"The others," said Tomas, "came in a very large boat that smoked much. These were rough and bad men. They were ten in number. Seven of these were Mexicans, who stole our food and attacked our women. We ran away into the hills, and in the night our young men slipped back and slew four of them. The others then made a great smoke on their boat and went away."
"Dat was Captain Polhemus an' his outfit," put in Charlie. "I remember dat time. Dey come in steam tug, an' Polhemus he bring seven Mexican from Yuma." I gave Tomas a pound of tobacco, one of coffee, two of sugar and ten of flour. "Here," said I, "are some gifts; take these home and come again early to-morrow."
The old man took his gifts and silently disappeared in the night. Presently we heard the subdued gabble of voices from the cliff. Tomas had not come alone, but, like a prudent general, had hidden his forces for reprisal in case of bad faith.
Nov. 28—About six this morning Tomas was back with a sack of roots that he claimed were very good eating. Six young men came with him. These had good faces and were lithe, quick, straight fellows. Their deportment was the epitome of grave modesty. They sat on the sand in silence, speaking only when spoken to, and evincing no curiosity. I made a great pot of coffee, and then served them a huge meal of coffee, bread and jerked jewfish. When they were as full as they could hold, every face beamed with good feeling.
"Charlie," said I, "I believe we can trust these people."
"Yaas," said Charlie, "if you don't do 'em no bad t'ing, trust 'em."
The Indians now had a great confab in their own tongue. When they were done, Tomas said, "The two good white men who died here were our brothers. They cured many of us from the bubble-sickness. Their medicine was so strong that we have never understood why they died. We have now a fine young man very sick. A month ago he took our gold and went over on the other coast to trade. When he came back he became very ill. First a bad cold-spirit makes him very cold, then a hot-spirit makes him burn. We would like that you cure him, if your medicine is as strong as that of the other two good white men."
"I will consult with my partner," said I.
The Indians now respectfully withdrew. "Charlie," said I, "this sick Indian has evidently contracted malaria on the other coast. We have plenty of quinine and calomel, so I am going over to cure him."
"Very well," said Charlie, "go and cure him."
I now made up a bed-roll, took the needed medicine and called over one of the young men. "Come," said I, "you are strong. Bring my bed along."
Dec. 2—The sick man is cured of his chills and fever. He is still very wea'k, but the cold and hot devils have fled before the "strong medicine" of the white man. 'Nothing can exceed the silent esteem and gratitude of these poor savages. This morning Ahtú, the sick man, took my right foot and put it upon his head. The assembled onlookers all cried "Tu-roo, tu-roo!" (good, good).
Tomas came in from a turtle hunt at noon. He said, "You men are now our brothers. You white men love gold; we have the machine hidden in a cave, and it is still good. We will give it to you, so that you may get much gold."
Dec. 3—The machine is a thirty-ton drywasher. As this climate is so dry that nothing rots, all that the machine needs is overhauling and grease. We will set it up in the same place it was worked before.
Dec. 4—Ahtú, Charlie and myself have now run the dry-washer for two days. We have taken out four and a half ounces of gold. At $16 per ounce, this makes $12 a day per man. It is needless to state that we are well pleased. I have sent four of the young men across to Encinal to buy flour, charging them strictly to say nothing of our presence to any one whatsoever.
Ahtú has offered me as a free gift his most precious possession, to wit, his wife. I have thanked him kindly, stating that we white men, when good men, love only one woman, and that, as I already love the One Woman, I can not honestly love two. This phase of male virtue seems beyond his primitive philosophy, yet he has silently acquiesced, as he does in all things that are my will. I believe he loves me in his dumb and simple fashion—and I am not displeased.
Charlie is "making googoo eyes" at a coy widow. This lady's name is Ma-hat-mí, and she is the relict of two successive gentlemen who have both passed out by the bubble sickness route. The lady herself has the "face-of-a-thousand-pits," for she had the disease herself. She is fairly young, however, kindly and industrious. I have noticed that Charlie is easily pleased, and that his ideas on some subjects resemble strongly those of the upper-class Stone Age.
Dec. 7—Ma-hat-mí to-day became Mrs. Charles Kanaka. The ceremony was short, sweet and unaffected. The bride wore neither veil nor orange-blossoms, being adorned with only her native virtue, a new red handkerchief, a bag skirt of calico and a man's shirt, the latter presented by myself. She was very proud of this gift, wearing it outside of everything, à la Chinaman. At 2 P. M. a drum was beaten by the bride's brother, while a cousin blew plaintive notes on a reed flute. This wedding-march was continuous during the nuptial feast, said feast consisting of coffee, beans, boiled corn, dried pumpkin, fish and turtle-eggs. We had also some edible roots, baked to a turn. The soul and core of the ceremony itself consisted in the bride and groom eating a small turtle together, the turtle being a sacred emblem.
After the feast we smoked, told stories and gambled for gold-dust. Fortune favored Ahtú, whose skill or luck was phenomenal.
Dec. 8—Last night Ahtú surreptitiously added his winnings to my sack of gold-dust. This Indian is a gentleman, one of God's fools—such as he who found Richard Coeur-de-Leon in his Austrian prison. Of course, I won't keep the dust, but I am touched beyond words. Tomas has the belly-ache—too much turtle-egg. I am giving him a dose of salts. One of the turtle-eggs must have been sour.
Dec. 9—Yesterday Charlie resolved to move his honeymoon up to the dry-washer. Ma-hat-mí is now chief cook and bottlewasher for the three of us—ably assisted by Mrs. Ahtú. She watches Charlie like a faithful pup, who, loving and trusting his master, ever yearns to lick his hand. Some white ladies might take a leaf out of Ma-hat-mì's book—else I have been a sorry observer. The gold is piling up rapidly, skunks are none, snakes are few, and the Winter weather is ideal.
Dec. 10—A ragged, starved Mexican peon was found down on the beach by one of. the women. He has a great, livid wound in his head and is in the last stages of emaciation from hunger and thirst. We went down to see him, then had the Indians bring him up to camp, where we fed him broth every two hours. Tomas was displeased at our action. "Better kill this Mexican," said he. "These people are like snakes — if you warm them, they bite you!" All the village got into a great discussion at this; finally I went out and said to them, "I will not have this man slain. When he is well, we will bind his eyes so that he can not see the trail, and send him away to Encinal." As usual, they deferred to me.
Dec. 12—The Mexican is much better and stronger. He says that his name is Pedro Castaneda and that he is a pearl-fisher from La Paz. Last September he and four others sailed from La Paz in an open yawl, to poach for pearls. They had poor luck until a month ago, when they struck a phenomenally rich bank from which they took two hundred pearls in ten days, some of them worth great sums. Running short of water, they landed just south of Cape Final to search for a spring they had been told was there. He and one of his comrades had gone inland to look for the spring, and when they returned to the beach, the men, pearls and boat were gone, leaving them marooned to a dreadful death. His comrade had become violently insane with fear and had assaulted him with a club, inflicting a great gash in his head. Luckily he had his knife——!
"Where did you kill this man?" I asked.
"On the beach, some five hundred meters south of the Point," he replied.
The Indians heard him in silence, but I could see disbelief plainly written in their faces. They have suffered much harm in the past from Mexicans, hence do not love them. Tomas says he will send two young men down there to read the tracks.
Dec. 13—The two sign-readers are back. They say that the Mexican is a liar. It is true that a boat has recently landed behind the point, that five men landed from the boat; true that one dead Mexican lies on the beach. The rest of the Mexican's story is false, since the tracks show plainly that all five men were in the struggle. Tomas believes that Castaneda and the dead Greaser tried to sneak away with the boat and pearls while the others slept. He thinks that they were discovered and set upon at the water's edge, where one was slain and our friend Castaneda knocked senseless and abandoned. Charlie and I concur with him. We will send this man away so soon as he can stand the four days' walk. In the meantime we will keep silent about the dry-washer, not wishing to bring a horde of Greaser gold-seekers down on our Simangito friends or on ourselves.
Dec. 15—Castaneda has been sent away. He bitterly objected to the blindfold, but. submitted sullenly when he saw that resistance was useless. To-day Ma-hat-mí found a nugget weighing six ounces! She had gone up a "little red canyon" to dig edible roots for dinner. She found one of the plants she sought, growing in the very bed of the wash. Digging down for the root, she struck bed-rock and this beautiful nugget. Ahtú and I are going back with her to-morrow, taking a shovel, a pick and a gold-pan.
Dec. 17—Talk about luck! Mrs. Charlie is a brown replica of the goddess herself! The gulch is rich, rich beyond our fondest hopes—rich as ——! We move the drywasher over in the morning. When Charlie saw our cleanup (five pans), he said, "Jack, if dat —— Greaser know what we do here, we get all de —— yellow cut-troat from other side."
"That is unfortunately true, Charlie," said I, "but I couldn't have him killed like a beef, thief and liar though he be."
Seeing the wrinkles of apprehension on Charlie's brow, Ma-hat-mi rose silently, filled his pipe and brought it to him, a live coal neatly balanced on top of the tobacco. She has most white ladies looking like thirty cents—and even her smallpox marks become her of late.
Dec. 19—We have taken out 37 pounds of gold in the last three days! $192 per pound, multiplied by 37=$7,104—just think of it! We are searching for the ledge it eroded from, although most old miners claim that coarse placer seldom or never comes from a vein. In this instance they seem to be borne out by the facts. Our gulch is short, steep, and bare from where we are working on up the hill. From there up, the rocks of the sidehills are simply barren and rotten schist bedrock. A hundred yards below the machine our gulch debouches into the great dry-wash, where the bed-rock is buried under hundreds of feet of sand, pebbles and boulders. As it now stands, our rich channel is being buried deeper and deeper at every foot that we mine downhill. Up the gulch there is neither earth nor gold—only the bare, rotten schist.
Dec. 24—Gosh-wà and Ah-chit-wèh are back. They report that they left Castaneda in sight of Encinal. They took him to the top of the last sand ridge and told him to "Git!"
"Did he try to follow you back?" I asked.
"No," said Gosh-wà, "he no come."
That night Ahtú said to me: "If my brother will promise not to be angry, I will give him some news." When I promised, he continued: "When Gosh-wà and Ah-chit-wèh took the Mexican away, they saw that his heart was bad, for he had secretly made small holes in his bandage so that he could see the trail. When they started, Gosh-wà had ten arrows in his quiver and Ah-chit-wèh twelve. Gosh-wà returned with nine arrows and Ah-chit-wèh with ten. We Simangitos are careful of our arrows, since straight stems are very scarce. We recover the arrows when we shoot game. We destroy them when a man dies, or when we slay an enemy."
"I am sorry to hear this, Ahtú," said I, "yet at the same time it may be for the best, since Castañeda was, as you say, an evil man."
Dec. 25—This is Christmas Day. We have made a great feast and I have told the Indians the story of the death of the Christ. They said that they had heard this story long ago from their fathers, who had heard it from Mission priests. They had not believed the story, however, since if God had the power, he need not have slain his son, when his simplest wish would have made all men good. They were content with the religion of their fathers, since the story of "Tse-huh," and the "Great Turtle" seemed more reasonable.
Jan. 1—Our rich streak is worked out as far as the heavy overburden will permit. If we had a steam hoist, timbers and heavy boards, we would attempt to go under the deep sands of the great dry-wash; as it now stands it would be courting death to attempt it. Our rich dirt has spoiled us for the $12-a-day diggings, so we are going to leave here and look for the rich pearlbank Castaneda told of. We have told the Indians and they are very sad. Ahtú and his younger brother, To-weé, are going with us. "Where you go, I go," said Ahtú. Mrs. Ahtú and Mrs. Charles Kanaka are out on the ridge, howling mournfully under the stars. The grief of Mrs. Ahtú is in A Minor, while that of Ma-hat-mì is G Major. Both ladies are like Mrs. Noah—they want to go in the boat.
III
Jan. 5—Twenty and two Simangitos sat dejectedly on the beach as we rowed the boat out into the offing. Mrs. Ahtú and Mrs. Charlie Kanaka ran distractedly up and down the beach, making the air resound to their cries. I steered the boat and Charlie pulled the oars. Ahtú and To-weé sat stoically silent in the bow. All at once Charlie dropped the oars and stood erect. He was much affected, for iwice he started to call to his Indian wife, and twice his voice broke. " Tell her, Ahtú, that I am coming back to her, to stay," said Charlie in a choked voice. Ahtú stood up, and putting his hands to his mouth, gave a peculiar call. Both women were at once silent, listening with strained attention.
Ahtú now called to the women that Charlie said he would surely come back to Ma-hat-ml and that when he came back, it would be to stay.
Ma-hat-mí now ran into the water and cried out joyfully: "Charlow say come back. Charlow no lie; him come, me wait!" She then turned back to Ahtú's wife and began to comfort her. An hour later all the small black specks on the beach climbed the face of the cliff and disappeared.
Jan. 14—We are unable to find the good bank of pearls. We have cruised as far south as the Animas and San Lorenzo Islands, yet have taken only ten inferior pearls. The pearl oysters are plentiful, but they are fat and hearty. To-weé took a fine pearl yesterday, a blue-black one, worth perhaps $200. We are going to look for a harbor on the east side of San Lorenzo Island, hoping that on the reefs we may do better.
Jan. 15—To-day Charlie made a kill on a large shark—à la Kanaka. We were anchored over a reef and Ahtú, To-weé and myself were diving for the shells, while Charlie was opening them. The rocks of the reef were thick with shells, yet they were depressingly healthy and hence free from pearl. Ahtú and I sat naked on the bow, taking a blow and rest, when To-weé dived for the rocks underneath. We saw his "streak" go down to the bottom. Charlie 'sat naked, smoking and opening the pearls with a long knife. All at once he spit out his pipe and dived for the boy. I then saw the shark. I grabbed a harpoon and poised it for a throw, but before I could cast, Charlie was alongside the shark's upturned belly. I saw a sudden whorl under the water, then the shark shot up into the air, with a great rip in his belly. To-wee and Charlie came up together, the first sputtering with fear, the latter cursing because his pipe had gone overboard.
"The —— pipe is black," said Charlie. "The —— reef is also black, now it vill be —— to fine dat pipe!"
Well, after repeated dips we found it, but we took no more shell that day.
The shell of the pearl-oyster is from four to seven inches across. The base or hinge of the shell is a flat, straight line, from which the body of the shell bulges like three quarters of a full moon. The pearl is found either in the stomach of the oyster or in its outer feeding-fringe. In the first case the pearl is likely to be large andustrous; in the latter, small and of less meat. Not over one pearl in a hundred has a nape perfect enough to give it much value. At one side of the "hinge" a tuft of coarse horse-hair like tentacle protrudes from the inside of the shell. It is with this coarse hair-like tentacle that the oyster adheres to his native rocks. A large oyster will test the strength of a strong man to dislodge his hold; a sudden, quick jerk will do the job, however, so soon as the knack of jerking under water is learned. There are tricks in all trades, even under the water.
Jan. 16—We took a hunt to-day on San Lorenzo Island. As Pete Kitchen says, "It was chiefly a hunt—and a —— pore ketch!" A few seagulls gave us a mournful ha-ha as we passed them. Outside of this, it was chiefly a rattlesnake hunt. The island is full of them, and how they got there is a job for a Philadelphia lawyer. Either they "must 'a' swum," or the island was once part of the mainland. "Saint Pathrick" is badly needed on San Lorenzo. Once clear of snakes, it would make a great place for an Irish picnic, and an Orange-Catholic affair of great spirit could be arranged, if "hand-sized" rocks mean anything. After due reflection, I withdraw the above, as whisky is as scarce as true charity between society ladies. Coming back, we found an old camp and some human bones. From the gold-filling in the teeth of the skull we thought it must be the skull of a white man. Poor devil, I suppose a rattler bit him.
Jan. 21—We have had four dreadful days of rain and wind. Time after time I thought we were gone and, but for Charlie's fine seamanship and our faithful bailing, we should be with the fishes. We have four lives and $29,000 in gold aboard, so it would be a double pity to swamp in a storm. I am tired beyond words!
Jan. 22—We are short of drinking water. The storm battered our water-cans until some of them have holes in them. We have only four great cans that are still watertight. We are now four drinkers in lieu of two. The storm blew us across the Gulf and left us at the southern end of Tiburon Island. We are now beating up the channel between the island and the Sonora coast. The wind is good, but a fierce tide is running against us, so that for the last few hours we are at a standstill. If the wind holds, we ought to get north like an express, when the tide changes our way.
We have seen several Seri Indians, who seem to be watching us from the cliffs of their island. Ahtú declares that these Indians are cannibals and that they are treacherous and cruel beyond words. This is unfortunate news, since we are compelled to land on the north end of the island for water. The chart shows no other water within one hundred miles, so we must take the risk. If they, buzz around us too close, we will try some of Dr. Colt's and Dr. Winchester's pills on them.
Jan. 24—We are now exactly opposite the spot where the chart shows fresh water. We have also divided the last sup of water, at breakfast. We held a council of war and decided to land for water and take chances. We can't get back to the coast of Lower California at Vistacio Bay, for the wind is dead in the west. If we keep on north for the Colorado River, a change of wind may become a head-wind and so cause us to perish of thirst. So we have resolved to land, since we might as well die fighting as die of thirst. Ahtú has just seen a squaw come out of a clump of brush with a waterolla on her head. This may be a decoy to lead us into a trap. Anyway, here goes— for water or a row, or water and a row!
Jan. 25—Well, we had the row! Ahtú has two bullet-wounds, one in the flesh of the shoulder and a glancing shot in the head. I think his skull is very hard. Charlie is shot twice in the same leg. If God ever made a brave and devoted man, Ahtú is one! Here is how it happened: Ahtu and I being the best shots, we acted as guards for To-weé and Charlie, who were hurriedly to fill the cans. Ahtú took the 30-40 and I took the 25-35.
We waded ashore and each took a high knoll of sand on either side of the waterhole. Seeing no Seri Indians, we waved for Charlie and To-weé to come on with the cans. Charlie carried two of the good five-gallon cans and the 30-30 carbine. To-weé came behind him with the other two good cans and the three canteens. He also brought an iron pot to fill with. To-weé was unarmed.
Just as Charlie and To-weé began to fill the cans, we were fired on by concealed Seris, who lay in some scrub brush about one hundred yards away. Ahtú called to me to watch on my right. I turned just in time to see a big Seri buck aiming at me—not over thirty yards away. I ducked as he fired, then shot him in the mouth. He fell flat at the shot, lying sprawled on the sand, with the whole back of his head blown out by the bullet. To-weé shouted and, running over amid a shower of bullets, got his gun—a .44 Winchester carbine. Seeing this, the Serfs yelled and rushed us, losing four more men. In this rush they wounded Ahtú in the shoulder and Charlie in the right leg.
When the Serfs broke for cover Charlie and To-weé began hastily filling the cans. Just as these were nearly full, they began yelling again and opened a hot fire. This time they broke Charlie's wounded leg with another shot. We could see numbers of the Indians hastening down from the high ground to reenforce those who were engaged with us. To-weé now ran to the boat with two full cans and returned for more. Charlie was unable to stand, but sat grimly on the sand,, pumping lead at the brush. To-weé now secured the other two cans and again ran for the boat.
This left Charlie and three full canteens at the spring. Seeing that Charlie could not walk, Ahtú ran down, shouldered Charlie, took up the three canteens and started staggering for the boat. At this the Sips rushed again, yelling and firing like devils. Ahtú now set Charlie down on the sand and both men began firing on the Serfs. Ahtú was now struck in the head, falling to the ground. I ran from my knoll to succor the two men on the ground, but before I got there Ahtú rose up and killed the nearest Seri. I here upset two Serfs in succession, and they again broke for cover.
Ahtú picked up Charlie once more, while I took the three canteens. Thus we reached the boat and put out under a heavy fire from the brush. To-weé and I now set the mainsail and we were soon out of range. I gave To-weé the tiller and began to look after the wounded. I tore up two shirts, bandaged Charlie's bleeding leg and made him as comfortable as I could. Ahtú had fainted from loss of blood and his heroic overexertion, but I gave him some hot coffee and this brought him to. As I bathed and bandaged his wounds I saw him weakly smiling. "What in the —— are you grinning about?" I asked him.
"We killed many of them and we are all alive," he answered.
To-weé was the most dejected man of the lot. A perverse demon seemed to have entered his savage soul. At supper he refused to eat. "What is the matter with you?" I asked. He replied that he was an old squaw, since he had not slain an enemy. He deplored the fact that he did not know how to hit with a rifle. "Had I had my bow and quiver of arrows, I could tell a better story!" said he. I first chided him, then complimented him on his valor, saying that but for his coolness and devotion to duty we would all have been slain. At this he brightened up and ate a hearty meal.
Jan. 26—Ahtú is much better. Youth and a stout heart are helping him recover at a bound. His wounds were only flesh-wounds and, while he is weak and a bit feverish, he is getting well fast. I am wetting the bandages of both men with sea-water; though salt and painful, I believe it does their wounds good. Charlie is in great pain, and is slightly delirious at times. I am afraid that his age and severe wounds are going to give him a hard rub, so I am much distressed, for old Charlie is a fine man. This morning To-wee said that if I would land on the Sonora coast, he would get good medicine. He was gone inland about an hour, returning with a squat, fleshy shrub which we pounded up and applied to the wounds. We also made tea of it and gave it to them to drink. It seemed to refresh them very much, especially Charlie.
Jan. 30—I have been too busy and tired to write much diary. Ahtú, while still weak and sore, is otherwise well. I tend Charlie constantly, for he is very ill. He is out of his head most of the time. At such times he talks Kanaka, of which we can not understand a word. If his wounds don't gangrene, I think we are going to save him. The wind is from the northwest and we are making slow but steady progress for the mouth of the Colorado. A storm now would be fatal to poor Charlie. We have refilled the cans from a swamp near the beach. We boil this water and it is drinkable.
Feb. 2—No sign of gangrene yet. He has less, fever than any day this week. I believe he is going to live and I am overjoyed accordingly. Ahtú now takes his turn at things and this lightens my load so that I can get a little sleep. To-weé is a fine boy, but there is no one like Ahtú, for he is a man— a MAN! The wind has shifted to the southwest and we are making great headway. We ought to sight Montague Island tonight or in the morning.
Feb. 3—We are now, thank the Lord, safe and sound in Shipyard Slough, and have plenty of water to drink! Charlie is perfectly clear-headed, but very weak. Poor devil, he has suffered the tortures of the damned, but he is a game old cock and takes his medicine like a stoic. He says that his leg is numb, so we rub it gently every few hours. I am sending To-wee with the skiff to try to find old Dominguez's ranch. The sloughs are many and crooked, but if he has luck, he may stumble on the right one. I have warned him about the bore or tide-rip, so that he won't get caught and drowned.
Feb. 4—To-weé is back, but could not find the ranch. Ahtú will look after Charlie to-morrow, while To-weé and I have another try for the ranch. I wonder if the Burkes made it across on foot, burdened as they were with bed-roll and rifles? One wrong step m the bottomless mud of one of these sloughs would preserve one for future ages of geologists. They could then argue even more than the present day wiseacres; they might class Frank Burke's skull as neolithic or paleolithic, but Pete's would come under the class of plain "bone-head." Frank insisted that he knew the tide-flats and if that was true, the chances are that he made it all O. K.
Feb. 5—We are just back from the ranch. Old Dominguez is a kind old sow, but he is the ——est liar this side of Hades. Most Greasers are natural born liars, but old Dominguez is a liar by heredity, education, practise, inclination, general principles and mendicitis! He props bis fat belly up in the shade and starts early in the morning. He knows where there are tons of "buried treasure." Hehasthe cinch on "lost-mines" that are pure gold—each vein being a mile wide and an inch long! Well, anyway, I bought a bottle of brandy from him, some milk and some sagu. This ought to strengthen old Charlie wonderfully.
A Cocopah Indian at the ranch told me that Frank Burke was dead, and that Pete was now Town Marshall of Yuma. He said also that it was rumored in Yuma that Charlie and I had been drowned by the bore. Charlie and I are not drowned by a —— sight. He may wind up shy a leg, but he has a fine stake of gold to keep him and, if he needs it, he can have my share as well as his own. Dominguez says that a young New York doctor is up in the bottoms, hunting for deer. I have sent the Cocopah with a letter, begging him to come down and attend to Charlie.
Feb. 7—The doctor was not a doctor. He was an unfortunate Tenderfoot "lunger," out here trying to prolong his consumpted life a few more years. Old Dominguez had seen his cartload of medicine bottles and had drawn his usual correct conclusion. If he should ever happen to tell the truth it would be instantly fatal to him.
We have sent over to the nearest Cocopah village, to hire four bucks to row and tow us up to Yuma. It will be —— going through the mosquito-belt the next few days. Coming down-stream with the current and everybody well and hearty is very different from bucking the river with a sick man.
Feb. 8—The four Cocopah, bucks are here. We are to feed them and pay them twenty-five dollars for the trip. They say that they can make it in four days. As there is a strong wind blowing in from the Gulf, I think it will be wise to sail up as far as we can. Charlie seems morally encouraged at his nearness to a good doctor. One of the wounds is well. The other is continually suppurating, and his leg pains him all the time. He has had a hard time, with three rude but willing nurses. We are all cheerful and hoping the best for him.
Feb. 10—We are now more than half way up to Yuma. I sent a runner to Yuma to get a doctor to meet us at La Grulla. H he comes, we will take him aboard and send his horse back by the Indian runner. The mosquitoes are very bad; our faces are bitten terribly. These naked Indians do not seem to mind them in the least and their skins are as tough as bull-hide. Our best relief from the mosquitoes is obtained by daubing our hands and faces with a thick layer of soft river-mud. This seems either to fool them, or their bills can not reach through to the skin. This towing up-stream is slow and irksome traveling. A little more patience!
Feb. 11—Doctor Heffernan is here! He says that Charlie's leg will have to be operated on. He has sand and pieces of broken bone in the wound and they must be removed. He thinks the leg will be saved, although Charlie will always have a slight limp. Charlie is pleased that he won't lose the leg and says that a "Limpy is better than a Peg-leg."
Ahtú to-day licked one of the Cocopah bucks, because of a fancied disrespect to me. The Cocopah buck was grinning and making what Ahtú considered insulting gestures in my direction. Quick as a flash Ahtu was at him with a stick of driftwood, knocking him silly with a terrific blow. I stopped the row and, when explanations were made, it tinned out that the Indian was describing a row he had had with another Cocopah some months before. I scolded Ahtú for overzealousness, gave the Cocopah a dollar and so salved the broken peace.
Feb. 13—Yuma at last! The boys all came down to greet the wanderers and lend a helping hand. Shaunnessy came in person and brought a felicitous quart, which, being "mountain dew," lasted the crowd about as long as a puff of smoke. Charlie was carried up to the hospital, and the many sympathizing friends were not thinned out by the sight of the bags of gold-dust. We deposited this at the express office and cleaned up for a restful loaf. Money is a great thing to tune the human heart to lively sympathy —with the possessor. This may sound like cynicism—yet I have ever noted that the sorrows of the unfortunate poor are likely to fall on dull ears.
Ahtú and To-weé were the recipients of much kindly curiosity, which, as I saw it offended Ahtú, I firmly put a stop to. He, To-weé and I are to live together in my old dobe shack, in easy reach of the hospital. The old Santa Maria was hauled up on the bank for a coat of paint and a general fixing up. She is a stanch boat and can stand many another trip down the river.
Mar. 10—I went down this morning to see them off. The Santa Maria was loaded down to the guards with grub and presents for Tomas, Ma-hat-mì, Mrs. Ahtú and the rest of the Simangitos. Ahtú has refused food these last two days and has cut off his hair, in sign of mourning at leaving me! I have promised him that "some day" I will come and pay him another visit. To-weé has two new rifles and cartridges galore. He is all fuss and fine feathers—a perfect peacock of a dandy. He boasted to me that if he ever fought again, he would "shoot kill many." The young ladies of the Simangitos may now prepare for the heartache, since this proud young savage is becoming a gay Lothario.
Charlie is entirely well, save for a slight limp that he will always have to remind him of Tiburon. He said to me, "Jack, I now pretty soon been old. I never go back to Honolulu. Ma-hat-mí a good vooman an' I lak her plenty."
I am sorely tempted to drop all else and go with them—but I am of another race and another world of men. An occasional lapse back into primitive life is good for the soul, however, and "some day," if God is willing, I will go to them for a time.
The parting from Ahtú is a bitter thing for me. Sophists may assert that there can be no true love and sympathy between the Indian and the Anglo-Saxon. That this is untrue is proved by the great affection and perfect trust between this savage youth and myself. Under the dark skin of this primitive man dwells a soul that is truth itself, and between this soul and mine own there is a bond of love—strong as the Promise of God. May God go with them!