Notes By Flood And Field

: Selected Stories

PART I--IN THE FIELD



It was near the close of an October day that I began to be disagreeably

conscious of the Sacramento Valley. I had been riding since sunrise, and

my course through the depressing monotony of the long level landscape

affected me more like a dull dyspeptic dream than a business journey,

performed under that sincerest of natural phenomena--a California sky.

The recurring stretches of brow
and baked fields, the gaping fissures

in the dusty trail, the hard outline of the distant hills, and the

herds of slowly moving cattle, seemed like features of some glittering

stereoscopic picture that never changed. Active exercise might have

removed this feeling, but my horse by some subtle instinct had long

since given up all ambitious effort, and had lapsed into a dogged trot.



It was autumn, but not the season suggested to the Atlantic reader under

that title. The sharply defined boundaries of the wet and dry seasons

were prefigured in the clear outlines of the distant hills. In the dry

atmosphere the decay of vegetation was too rapid for the slow hectic

which overtakes an Eastern landscape, or else Nature was too practical

for such thin disguises. She merely turned the Hippocratic face to the

spectator, with the old diagnosis of Death in her sharp, contracted

features.



In the contemplation of such a prospect there was little to excite any

but a morbid fancy. There were no clouds in the flinty blue heavens, and

the setting of the sun was accompanied with as little ostentation as was

consistent with the dryly practical atmosphere. Darkness soon followed,

with a rising wind, which increased as the shadows deepened on the

plain. The fringe of alder by the watercourse began to loom up as I

urged my horse forward. A half-hour's active spurring brought me to a

corral, and a little beyond a house, so low and broad it seemed at first

sight to be half-buried in the earth.



My second impression was that it had grown out of the soil, like some

monstrous vegetable, its dreary proportions were so in keeping with the

vast prospect. There were no recesses along its roughly boarded walls

for vagrant and unprofitable shadows to lurk in the daily sunshine. No

projection for the wind by night to grow musical over, to wail, whistle,

or whisper to; only a long wooden shelf containing a chilly-looking

tin basin and a bar of soap. Its uncurtained windows were red with the

sinking sun, as though bloodshot and inflamed from a too-long unlidded

existence. The tracks of cattle led to its front door, firmly closed

against the rattling wind.



To avoid being confounded with this familiar element, I walked to the

rear of the house, which was connected with a smaller building by a

slight platform. A grizzled, hard-faced old man was standing there, and

met my salutation with a look of inquiry, and, without speaking, led

the way to the principal room. As I entered, four young men who were

reclining by the fire slightly altered their attitudes of perfect

repose, but beyond that betrayed neither curiosity nor interest. A hound

started from a dark corner with a growl, but was immediately kicked by

the old man into obscurity, and silenced again. I can't tell why, but I

instantly received the impression that for a long time the group by the

fire had not uttered a word or moved a muscle. Taking a seat, I briefly

stated my business.



Was a United States surveyor. Had come on account of the Espiritu Santo

Rancho. Wanted to correct the exterior boundaries of township lines, so

as to connect with the near exteriors of private grants. There had been

some intervention to the old survey by a Mr. Tryan who had preempted

adjacent--"settled land warrants," interrupted the old man. "Ah, yes!

Land warrants--and then this was Mr. Tryan?"



I had spoken mechanically, for I was preoccupied in connecting other

public lines with private surveys as I looked in his face. It was

certainly a hard face, and reminded me of the singular effect of

that mining operation known as "ground sluicing"; the harder lines of

underlying character were exposed, and what were once plastic curves and

soft outlines were obliterated by some powerful agency.



There was a dryness in his voice not unlike the prevailing atmosphere

of the valley, as he launched into an EX PARTE statement of the contest,

with a fluency, which, like the wind without, showed frequent and

unrestrained expression. He told me--what I had already learned--that

the boundary line of the old Spanish grant was a creek, described in the

loose phraseology of the DESENO as beginning in the VALDA or skirt

of the hill, its precise location long the subject of litigation.

I listened and answered with little interest, for my mind was still

distracted by the wind which swept violently by the house, as well as

by his odd face, which was again reflected in the resemblance that the

silent group by the fire bore toward him. He was still talking, and the

wind was yet blowing, when my confused attention was aroused by a remark

addressed to the recumbent figures.



"Now, then, which on ye'll see the stranger up the creek to Altascar's,

tomorrow?"



There was a general movement of opposition in the group, but no decided

answer.



"Kin you go, Kerg?"



"Who's to look up stock in Strarberry perar-ie?"



This seemed to imply a negative, and the old man turned to another

hopeful, who was pulling the fur from a mangy bearskin on which he was

lying, with an expression as though it were somebody's hair.



"Well, Tom, wot's to hinder you from goin'?"



"Mam's goin' to Brown's store at sunup, and I s'pose I've got to pack

her and the baby agin."



I think the expression of scorn this unfortunate youth exhibited for

the filial duty into which he had been evidently beguiled was one of the

finest things I had ever seen.



"Wise?"



Wise deigned no verbal reply, but figuratively thrust a worn and patched

boot into the discourse. The old man flushed quickly.



"I told ye to get Brown to give you a pair the last time you war down

the river."



"Said he wouldn't without'en order. Said it was like pulling gum teeth

to get the money from you even then."



There was a grim smile at this local hit at the old man's parsimony,

and Wise, who was clearly the privileged wit of the family, sank back in

honorable retirement.



"Well, Joe, ef your boots are new, and you aren't pestered with wimmin

and children, p'r'aps you'll go," said Tryan, with a nervous twitching,

intended for a smile, about a mouth not remarkably mirthful.



Tom lifted a pair of bushy eyebrows, and said shortly:



"Got no saddle."



"Wot's gone of your saddle?"



"Kerg, there"--indicating his brother with a look such as Cain might

have worn at the sacrifice.



"You lie!" returned Kerg, cheerfully.



Tryan sprang to his feet, seizing the chair, flourishing it around his

head and gazing furiously in the hard young faces which fearlessly met

his own. But it was only for a moment; his arm soon dropped by his side,

and a look of hopeless fatality crossed his face. He allowed me to take

the chair from his hand, and I was trying to pacify him by the assurance

that I required no guide when the irrepressible Wise again lifted his

voice:



"Theer's George comin'! why don't ye ask him? He'll go and introduce you

to Don Fernandy's darter, too, ef you ain't pertickler."



The laugh which followed this joke, which evidently had some domestic

allusion (the general tendency of rural pleasantry), was followed by a

light step on the platform, and the young man entered. Seeing a stranger

present, he stopped and colored, made a shy salute and colored again,

and then, drawing a box from the corner, sat down, his hands clasped

lightly together and his very handsome bright blue eyes turned frankly

on mine.



Perhaps I was in a condition to receive the romantic impression he made

upon me, and I took it upon myself to ask his company as guide, and he

cheerfully assented. But some domestic duty called him presently away.



The fire gleamed brightly on the hearth, and, no longer resisting the

prevailing influence, I silently watched the spurting flame, listening

to the wind which continually shook the tenement. Besides the one chair

which had acquired a new importance in my eyes, I presently discovered

a crazy table in one corner, with an ink bottle and pen; the latter

in that greasy state of decomposition peculiar to country taverns and

farmhouses. A goodly array of rifles and double-barreled guns stocked

the corner; half a dozen saddles and blankets lay near, with a mild

flavor of the horse about them. Some deer and bear skins completed the

inventory. As I sat there, with the silent group around me, the shadowy

gloom within and the dominant wind without, I found it difficult to

believe I had ever known a different existence. My profession had often

led me to wilder scenes, but rarely among those whose unrestrained

habits and easy unconsciousness made me feel so lonely and uncomfortable

I shrank closer to myself, not without grave doubts--which I think occur

naturally to people in like situations--that this was the general rule

of humanity and I was a solitary and somewhat gratuitous exception. It

was a relief when a laconic announcement of supper by a weak-eyed girl

caused a general movement in the family. We walked across the dark

platform, which led to another low-ceiled room. Its entire length was

occupied by a table, at the farther end of which a weak-eyed woman was

already taking her repast as she at the same time gave nourishment to

a weak-eyed baby. As the formalities of introduction had been dispensed

with, and as she took no notice of me, I was enabled to slip into a seat

without discomposing or interrupting her. Tryan extemporized a grace,

and the attention of the family became absorbed in bacon, potatoes, and

dried apples.



The meal was a sincere one. Gentle gurglings at the upper end of the

table often betrayed the presence of the "wellspring of pleasure." The

conversation generally referred to the labors of the day, and comparing

notes as to the whereabouts of missing stock. Yet the supper was such a

vast improvement upon the previous intellectual feast that when a chance

allusion of mine to the business of my visit brought out the elder

Tryan, the interest grew quite exciting. I remember he inveighed

bitterly against the system of ranch-holding by the "greasers," as he

was pleased to term the native Californians. As the same ideas have

been sometimes advanced under more pretentious circumstances they may be

worthy of record.



"Look at 'em holdin' the finest grazin' land that ever lay outer doors.

Whar's the papers for it? Was it grants? Mighty fine grants--most of 'em

made arter the 'Merrikans got possession. More fools the 'Merrikans for

lettin' 'em hold 'em. Wat paid for 'em? 'Merrikan and blood money.



"Didn't they oughter have suthin' out of their native country? Wot

for? Did they ever improve? Got a lot of yaller-skinned diggers, not

so sensible as niggers to look arter stock, and they a sittin' home

and smokin'. With their gold and silver candlesticks, and missions, and

crucifixens, priests and graven idols, and sich? Them sort things wurent

allowed in Mizzoori."



At the mention of improvements, I involuntarily lifted my eyes, and

met the half laughing, half embarrassed look of George. The act did not

escape detection, and I had at once the satisfaction of seeing that the

rest of the family had formed an offensive alliance against us.



"It was agin Nater, and agin God," added Tryan. "God never intended

gold in the rocks to be made into heathen candlesticks and crucifixens.

That's why he sent 'Merrikans here. Nater never intended such a climate

for lazy lopers. She never gin six months' sunshine to be slept and

smoked away."



How long he continued and with what further illustration I could not

say, for I took an early opportunity to escape to the sitting-room. I

was soon followed by George, who called me to an open door leading to a

smaller room, and pointed to a bed.



"You'd better sleep there tonight," he said; "you'll be more

comfortable, and I'll call you early."



I thanked him, and would have asked him several questions which were

then troubling me, but he shyly slipped to the door and vanished.



A shadow seemed to fall on the room when he had gone. The "boys"

returned, one by one, and shuffled to their old places. A larger log was

thrown on the fire, and the huge chimney glowed like a furnace, but it

did not seem to melt or subdue a single line of the hard faces that it

lit. In half an hour later, the furs which had served as chairs by

day undertook the nightly office of mattresses, and each received its

owner's full-length figure. Mr. Tryan had not returned, and I missed

George. I sat there until, wakeful and nervous, I saw the fire fall and

shadows mount the wall. There was no sound but the rushing of the

wind and the snoring of the sleepers. At last, feeling the place

insupportable, I seized my hat and opening the door, ran out briskly

into the night.



The acceleration of my torpid pulse in the keen fight with the wind,

whose violence was almost equal to that of a tornado, and the familiar

faces of the bright stars above me, I felt as a blessed relief. I ran

not knowing whither, and when I halted, the square outline of the house

was lost in the alder bushes. An uninterrupted plain stretched before

me, like a vast sea beaten flat by the force of the gale. As I kept on I

noticed a slight elevation toward the horizon, and presently my progress

was impeded by the ascent of an Indian mound. It struck me forcibly as

resembling an island in the sea. Its height gave me a better view of

the expanding plain. But even here I found no rest. The ridiculous

interpretation Tryan had given the climate was somehow sung in my ears,

and echoed in my throbbing pulse as, guided by the star, I sought the

house again.



But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon the platform. The

door of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting beside

the table, thumbing the leaves of a Bible with a look in his face as

though he were hunting up prophecies against the "Greaser." I turned to

enter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure lying

beside the house, on the platform. The broad chest heaving with healthy

slumber, and the open, honest face were familiar. It was George, who had

given up his bed to the stranger among his people. I was about to wake

him, but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed. And I

went to bed with a pleasant impression of his handsome face and tranquil

figure soothing me to sleep.





I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled repose and

grateful silence by the cheery voice of George, who stood beside my bed,

ostentatiously twirling a riata, as if to recall the duties of the

day to my sleep-bewildered eyes. I looked around me. The wind had been

magically laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows. A dash

of cold water, with an extra chill on from the tin basin, helped to

brighten me. It was still early, but the family had already breakfasted

and dispersed, and a wagon winding far in the distance showed that the

unfortunate Tom had already "packed" his relatives away. I felt more

cheerful--there are few troubles Youth cannot distance with the start of

a good night's rest. After a substantial breakfast, prepared by George,

in a few moments we were mounted and dashing down the plain.



We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now dry and baked

with summer's heat, but which in winter, George told me, overflowed its

banks. I still retain a vivid impression of that morning's ride, the

far-off mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky, the

crisp dry air, and the expanding track before me, animated often by

the well-knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs and

picturesque with flying riata. He rode powerful native roan, wild-eyed,

untiring in stride and unbroken in nature. Alas! the curves of beauty

were concealed by the cumbrous MACHILLAS of the Spanish saddle, which

levels all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the cruel

bit that can gripe, and if need be, crush the jaw it controls.



Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before me, as we

again bear down into sunlit space. Can this be "Chu Chu," staid and

respectable filly of American pedigree--Chu Chu, forgetful of plank

roads and cobblestones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small white

feet beneath me? George laughs out of a cloud of dust. "Give her her

head; don't you see she likes it?" and Chu Chu seems to like it, and

whether bitten by native tarantula into native barbarism or emulous of

the roan, "blood" asserts itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitude

of years is beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs. The creek

widens to a deep gully. We dive into it and up on the opposite side,

carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us. Cattle are

scattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vast

restless herds. George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, as

if to include them all in his vaquero's loop, and says, "Ours!"



"About how many, George?"



"Don't know."



"How many?"



"'Well, p'r'aps three thousand head," says George, reflecting. "We don't

know, takes five men to look 'em up and keep run."



"What are they worth?"



"About thirty dollars a head."



I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment at the laughing

George. Perhaps a recollection of the domestic economy of the Tryan

household is expressed in that look, for George averts his eye and says,

apologetically:



"I've tried to get the old man to sell and build, but you know he says

it ain't no use to settle down, just yet. We must keep movin'. In fact,

he built the shanty for that purpose, lest titles should fall through,

and we'd have to get up and move stakes further down."



Suddenly his quick eye detects some unusual sight in a herd we are

passing, and with an exclamation he puts his roan into the center of

the mass. I follow, or rather Chu Chu darts after the roan, and in a few

moments we are in the midst of apparently inextricable horns and hoofs.

"TORO!" shouts George, with vaquero enthusiasm, and the band opens a

way for the swinging riata. I can feel their steaming breaths, and their

spume is cast on Chu Chu's quivering flank.



Wild, devilish-looking beasts are they; not such shapes as Jove might

have chosen to woo a goddess, nor such as peacefully range the downs of

Devon, but lean and hungry Cassius-like bovines, economically got up to

meet the exigencies of a six months' rainless climate, and accustomed to

wrestle with the distracting wind and the blinding dust.



"That's not our brand," says George; "they're strange stock," and he

points to what my scientific eye recognizes as the astrological sign of

Venus deeply seared in the brown flanks of the bull he is chasing. But

the herd are closing round us with low mutterings, and George has again

recourse to the authoritative "TORO," and with swinging riata divides

the "bossy bucklers" on either side. When we are free, and breathing

somewhat more easily, I venture to ask George if they ever attack

anyone.



"Never horsemen--sometimes footmen. Not through rage, you know, but

curiosity. They think a man and his horse are one, and if they meet a

chap afoot, they run him down and trample him under hoof, in the

pursuit of knowledge. But," adds George, "here's the lower bench of the

foothills, and here's Altascar's corral, and that White building you see

yonder is the casa."



A whitewashed wall enclosed a court containing another adobe building,

baked with the solar beams of many summers. Leaving our horses in the

charge of a few peons in the courtyard, who were basking lazily in the

sun, we entered a low doorway, where a deep shadow and an agreeable

coolness fell upon us, as sudden and grateful as a plunge in cool water,

from its contrast with the external glare and heat. In the center of a

low-ceiled apartment sat an old man with a black-silk handkerchief tied

about his head, the few gray hairs that escaped from its folds relieving

his gamboge-colored face. The odor of CIGARRITOS was as incense added to

the cathedral gloom of the building.



As Senor Altascar rose with well-bred gravity to receive us, George

advanced with such a heightened color, and such a blending of tenderness

and respect in his manner, that I was touched to the heart by so much

devotion in the careless youth. In fact, my eyes were still dazzled by

the effect of the outer sunshine, and at first I did not see the white

teeth and black eyes of Pepita, who slipped into the corridor as we

entered.



It was no pleasant matter to disclose particulars of business which

would deprive the old senor of the greater part of that land we had

just ridden over, and I did it with great embarrassment. But he listened

calmly--not a muscle of his dark face stirring--and the smoke curling

placidly from his lips showed his regular respiration. When I had

finished, he offered quietly to accompany us to the line of demarcation.

George had meanwhile disappeared, but a suspicious conversation in

broken Spanish and English, in the corridor, betrayed his vicinity.

When he returned again, a little absent-minded, the old man, by far

the coolest and most self-possessed of the party, extinguished his

black-silk cap beneath that stiff, uncomely sombrero which all native

Californians affect. A serape thrown over his shoulders hinted that he

was waiting. Horses are always ready saddled in Spanish ranchos, and in

half an hour from the time of our arrival we were again "loping" in the

staring sunlight.



But not as cheerfully as before. George and myself were weighed down by

restraint, and Altascar was gravely quiet. To break the silence, and by

way of a consolatory essay, I hinted to him that there might be further

intervention or appeal, but the proffered oil and wine were returned

with a careless shrug of the shoulders and a sententious "QUE

BUENO?--Your courts are always just."



The Indian mound of the previous night's discovery was a bearing

monument of the new line, and there we halted. We were surprised to find

the old man Tryan waiting us. For the first time during our interview

the old Spaniard seemed moved, and the blood rose in his yellow cheek. I

was anxious to close the scene, and pointed out the corner boundaries as

clearly as my recollection served.



"The deputies will be here tomorrow to run the lines from this initial

point, and there will be no further trouble, I believe, gentlemen."



Senor Altascar had dismounted and was gathering a few tufts of dried

grass in his hands. George and I exchanged glances. He presently arose

from his stooping posture, and advancing to within a few paces of Joseph

Tryan, said, in a voice broken with passion:



"And I, Fernando Jesus Maria Altascar, put you in possession of my land

in the fashion of my country."



He threw a sod to each of the cardinal points.



"I don't know your courts, your judges, or your CORREGIDORES. Take the

LLANO!--and take this with it. May the drought seize your cattle till

their tongues hang down as long as those of your lying lawyers! May it

be the curse and torment of your old age, as you and yours have made it

of mine!"



We stepped between the principal actors in this scene, which only the

passion of Altascar made tragical, but Tryan, with a humility but ill

concealing his triumph, interrupted:



"Let him curse on. He'll find 'em coming home to him sooner than the

cattle he has lost through his sloth and pride. The Lord is on the side

of the just, as well as agin all slanderers and revilers."



Altascar but half guessed the meaning of the Missourian, yet

sufficiently to drive from his mind all but the extravagant power of his

native invective.



"Stealer of the Sacrament! Open not!--open not, I say, your lying, Judas

lips to me! Ah! half-breed, with the soul of a coyote!--car-r-r-ramba!"



With his passion reverberating among the consonants like distant

thunder, he laid his hand upon the mane of his horse as though it had

been the gray locks of his adversary, swung himself into the saddle and

galloped away.



George turned to me:



"Will you go back with us tonight?"



I thought of the cheerless walls, the silent figures by the fire, and

the roaring wind, and hesitated.



"Well then, goodby."



"Goodby, George."



Another wring of the hands, and we parted. I had not ridden far when I

turned and looked back. The wind had risen early that afternoon, and was

already sweeping across the plain. A cloud of dust traveled before it,

and a picturesque figure occasionally emerging therefrom was my last

indistinct impression of George Tryan.





PART II--IN THE FLOOD





Three months after the survey of the Espiritu Santo Rancho, I was again

in the valley of the Sacramento. But a general and terrible visitation

had erased the memory of that event as completely as I supposed it had

obliterated the boundary monuments I had planted. The great flood of

1861-62 was at its height when, obeying some indefinite yearning, I took

my carpetbag and embarked for the inundated valley.



There was nothing to be seen from the bright cabin windows of the

GOLDEN CITY but night deepening over the water. The only sound was the

pattering rain, and that had grown monotonous for the past two weeks,

and did not disturb the national gravity of my countrymen as they

silently sat around the cabin stove. Some on errands of relief to

friends and relatives wore anxious faces, and conversed soberly on

the one absorbing topic. Others, like myself, attracted by curiosity

listened eagerly to newer details. But with that human disposition to

seize upon any circumstance that might give chance event the exaggerated

importance of instinct, I was half-conscious of something more than

curiosity as an impelling motive.



The dripping of rain, the low gurgle of water, and a leaden sky greeted

us the next morning as we lay beside the half-submerged levee of

Sacramento. Here, however, the novelty of boats to convey us to the

hotels was an appeal that was irresistible. I resigned myself to a

dripping rubber-cased mariner called "Joe," and, wrapping myself in a

shining cloak of the like material, about as suggestive of warmth as

court plaster might have been, took my seat in the stern sheets of his

boat. It was no slight inward struggle to part from the steamer that to

most of the passengers was the only visible connecting link between

us and the dry and habitable earth, but we pulled away and entered the

city, stemming a rapid current as we shot the levee.



We glided up the long level of K Street--once a cheerful, busy

thoroughfare, now distressing in its silent desolation. The turbid water

which seemed to meet the horizon edge before us flowed at right angles

in sluggish rivers through the streets. Nature had revenged herself on

the local taste by disarraying the regular rectangles by huddling houses

on street corners, where they presented abrupt gables to the current, or

by capsizing them in compact ruin. Crafts of all kinds were gliding in

and out of low-arched doorways. The water was over the top of the

fences surrounding well-kept gardens, in the first stories of hotels

and private dwellings, trailing its slime on velvet carpets as well as

roughly boarded floors. And a silence quite as suggestive as the

visible desolation was in the voiceless streets that no longer echoed

to carriage wheel or footfall. The low ripple of water, the occasional

splash of oars, or the warning cry of boatmen were the few signs of life

and habitation.



With such scenes before my eyes and such sounds in my ears, as I lie

lazily in the boat, is mingled the song of my gondolier who sings to

the music of his oars. It is not quite as romantic as his brother of

the Lido might improvise, but my Yankee "Giuseppe" has the advantage of

earnestness and energy, and gives a graphic description of the terrors

of the past week and of noble deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion,

occasionally pointing out a balcony from which some California Bianca

or Laura had been snatched, half-clothed and famished. Giuseppe is

otherwise peculiar, and refuses the proffered fare, for--am I not a

citizen of San Francisco, which was first to respond to the suffering

cry of Sacramento? and is not he, Giuseppe, a member of the Howard

Society? No! Giuseppe is poor, but cannot take my money. Still, if I



must spend it, there is the Howard Society, and the women and children

without food and clothes at the Agricultural Hall.



I thank the generous gondolier, and we go to the Hall--a dismal, bleak

place, ghastly with the memories of last year's opulence and plenty,

and here Giuseppe's fare is swelled by the stranger's mite. But here

Giuseppe tells me of the "Relief Boat" which leaves for the flooded

district in the interior, and here, profiting by the lesson he has

taught me, I make the resolve to turn my curiosity to the account of

others, and am accepted of those who go forth to succor and help the

afflicted. Giuseppe takes charge of my carpetbag, and does not part from

me until I stand on the slippery deck of "Relief Boat No. 3."



An hour later I am in the pilothouse, looking down upon what was once

the channel of a peaceful river. But its banks are only defined by

tossing tufts of willow washed by the long swell that breaks over a

vast inland sea. Stretches of "tule" land fertilized by its once regular

channel and dotted by flourishing ranchos are now cleanly erased. The

cultivated profile of the old landscape had faded. Dotted lines in

symmetrical perspective mark orchards that are buried and chilled in the

turbid flood. The roofs of a few farmhouses are visible, and here and

there the smoke curling from chimneys of half-submerged tenements shows

an undaunted life within. Cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian mounds

waiting the fate of their companions whose carcasses drift by us, or

swing in eddies with the wrecks of barns and outhouses. Wagons are

stranded everywhere where the tide could carry them. As I wipe the

moistened glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on the deck from the

lowering clouds, dashing against the window, dripping from the willows,

hissing by the wheels, everywhere washing, coiling, sapping, hurrying in

rapids, or swelling at last into deeper and vaster lakes, awful in their

suggestive quiet and concealment.



As day fades into night the monotony of this strange prospect grows

oppressive. I seek the engine room, and in the company of some of the

few half-drowned sufferers we have already picked up from temporary

rafts, I forget the general aspect of desolation in their individual

misery. Later we meet the San Francisco packet, and transfer a number

of our passengers. From them we learn how inward-bound vessels report

to have struck the well-defined channel of the Sacramento, fifty miles

beyond the bar. There is a voluntary contribution taken among the

generous travelers for the use of our afflicted, and we part company

with a hearty "Godspeed" on either side. But our signal lights are not

far distant before a familiar sound comes back to us--an indomitable

Yankee cheer--which scatters the gloom.



Our course is altered, and we are steaming over the obliterated banks

far in the interior. Once or twice black objects loom up near us--the

wrecks of houses floating by. There is a slight rift in the sky toward

the north, and a few bearing stars to guide us over the waste. As we

penetrate into shallower water, it is deemed advisable to divide our

party into smaller boats, and diverge over the submerged prairie. I

borrow a peacoat of one of the crew, and in that practical disguise

am doubtfully permitted to pass into one of the boats. We give way

northerly. It is quite dark yet, although the rift of cloud has widened.



It must have been about three o'clock, and we were lying upon our oars

in an eddy formed by a clump of cottonwood, and the light of the steamer

is a solitary, bright star in the distance, when the silence is broken

by the "bow oar":



"Light ahead."



All eyes are turned in that direction. In a few seconds a twinkling

light appears, shines steadily, and again disappears as if by the

shifting position of some black object apparently drifting close upon

us.



"Stern, all; a steamer!"



"Hold hard there! Steamer be damned!" is the reply of the coxswain.

"It's a house, and a big one too."



It is a big one, looming in the starlight like a huge fragment of the

darkness. The light comes from a single candle, which shines through a

window as the great shape swings by. Some recollection is drifting back

to me with it as I listen with beating heart.



"There's someone in it, by heavens! Give way, boys--lay her alongside.

Handsomely, now! The door's fastened; try the window; no! here's

another!"



In another moment we are trampling in the water which washes the floor

to the depth of several inches. It is a large room, at the farther end

of which an old man is sitting wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle in

one hand, and apparently absorbed in the book he holds with the other. I

spring toward him with an exclamation:



"Joseph Tryan!"



He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently on

his shoulder, and say:



"Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they? The

boys--George! Are they here? are they safe?"



He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and we

involuntarily recoil before his look. It is a calm and quiet glance,

free from fear, anger, or pain; but it somehow sends the blood curdling

through our veins. He bowed his head over his book again, taking no

further notice of us. The men look at me compassionately, and hold their

peace. I make one more effort:



"Joseph Tryan, don't you know me? the surveyor who surveyed your

ranch--the Espiritu Santo? Look up, old man!"



He shuddered and wrapped himself closer in his blanket. Presently he

repeated to himself "The surveyor who surveyed your ranch--Espiritu

Santo" over and over again, as though it were a lesson he was trying to

fix in his memory.



I was turning sadly to the boatmen when he suddenly caught me fearfully

by the hand and said:



"Hush!"



We were silent.



"Listen!" He puts his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear, "I'm a

MOVING OFF!"



"Moving off?"



"Hush! Don't speak so loud. Moving off. Ah! wot's that? Don't you

hear?--there! listen!"



We listen, and hear the water gurgle and click beneath the floor.



"It's them wot he sent!--Old Altascar sent. They've been here all night.

I heard 'em first in the creek, when they came to tell the old man to

move farther off. They came nearer and nearer. They whispered under the

door, and I saw their eyes on the step--their cruel, hard eyes. Ah, why

don't they quit?"



I tell the men to search the room and see if they can find any further

traces of the family, while Tryan resumes his old attitude. It is so

much like the figure I remember on the breezy night that a superstitious

feeling is fast overcoming me. When they have returned, I tell them

briefly what I know of him, and the old man murmurs again:



"Why don't they quit, then? They have the stock--all gone--gone, gone

for the hides and hoofs," and he groans bitterly.



"There are other boats below us. The shanty cannot have drifted far, and

perhaps the family are safe by this time," says the coxswain, hopefully.



We lift the old man up, for he is quite helpless, and carry him to

the boat. He is still grasping the Bible in his right hand, though its

strengthening grace is blank to his vacant eye, and he cowers in the

stern as we pull slowly to the steamer while a pale gleam in the sky

shows the coming day.



I was weary with excitement, and when we reached the steamer, and I had

seen Joseph Tryan comfortably bestowed, I wrapped myself in a blanket

near the boiler and presently fell asleep. But even then the figure of

the old man often started before me, and a sense of uneasiness about

George made a strong undercurrent to my drifting dreams. I was awakened

at about eight o'clock in the morning by the engineer, who told me one

of the old man's sons had been picked up and was now on board.



"Is it George Tryan?" I ask quickly.



"Don't know; but he's a sweet one, whoever he is," adds the engineer,

with a smile at some luscious remembrance. "You'll find him for'ard."



I hurry to the bow of the boat, and find, not George, but the

irrepressible Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a little dirtier and

rather more dilapidated than I can remember having seen him.



He is examining, with apparent admiration, some rough, dry clothes

that have been put out for his disposal. I cannot help thinking that

circumstances have somewhat exalted his usual cheerfulness. He puts me

at my ease by at once addressing me:



"These are high old times, ain't they? I say, what do you reckon's

become o' them thar bound'ry moniments you stuck? Ah!"



The pause which succeeds this outburst is the effect of a spasm of

admiration at a pair of high boots, which, by great exertion, he has at

last pulled on his feet.



"So you've picked up the ole man in the shanty, clean crazy? He must

have been soft to have stuck there instead o' leavin' with the old

woman. Didn't know me from Adam; took me for George!"



At this affecting instance of paternal forgetfulness, Wise was

evidently divided between amusement and chagrin. I took advantage of the

contending emotions to ask about George.



"Don't know whar he is! If he'd tended stock instead of running about

the prairie, packin' off wimmin and children, he might have saved

suthin. He lost every hoof and hide, I'll bet a cooky! Say you," to a

passing boatman, "when are you goin' to give us some grub? I'm hungry

'nough to skin and eat a hoss. Reckon I'll turn butcher when things is

dried up, and save hides, horns, and taller."



I could not but admire this indomitable energy, which under softer

climatic influences might have borne such goodly fruit.



"Have you any idea what you'll do, Wise?" I ask.



"Thar ain't much to do now," says the practical young man. "I'll have to

lay over a spell, I reckon, till things comes straight. The land ain't

worth much now, and won't be, I dessay, for some time. Wonder whar the

ole man'll drive stakes next."



"I meant as to your father and George, Wise."



"Oh, the old man and I'll go on to 'Miles's,' whar Tom packed the old

woman and babies last week. George'll turn up somewhar atween this and

Altascar's ef he ain't thar now."



I ask how the Altascars have suffered.



"Well, I reckon he ain't lost much in stock. I shouldn't wonder if

George helped him drive 'em up the foothills. And his casa's built

too high. Oh, thar ain't any water thar, you bet. Ah," says Wise, with

reflective admiration, "those greasers ain't the darned fools people

thinks 'em. I'll bet thar ain't one swamped out in all 'er Californy."

But the appearance of "grub" cut this rhapsody short.



"I shall keep on a little farther," I say, "and try to find George."



Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new light dawned upon

him.



"I don't think you'll save much. What's the percentage--workin' on

shares, eh!"



I answer that I am only curious, which I feel lessens his opinion of me,

and with a sadder feeling than his assurance of George's safety might

warrant, I walked away.



From others whom we picked up from time to time we heard of George's

self-sacrificing devotion, with the praises of the many he had helped

and rescued. But I did not feel disposed to return until I had seen

him, and soon prepared myself to take a boat to the lower VALDA of the

foothills, and visit Altascar. I soon perfected my arrangements, bade

farewell to Wise, and took a last look at the old man, who was sitting

by the furnace fires quite passive and composed. Then our boat head

swung round, pulled by sturdy and willing hands.



It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen. Our course lay

nearly west, and we soon knew by the strong current that we were in the

creek of the Espiritu Santo. From time to time the wrecks of barns

were seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farming

implements.



We emerge at last into a broad silent sea. It is the "LLANO DE ESPIRITU

SANTO." As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh water

into mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of October

over that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant

hills, which are now lost in the lowering clouds. The men are rowing

silently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growing

benumbed and depressed as then. The water, too, is getting more shallow

as we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly

over the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tide

to have somewhat fallen. There is a black mound, bearing to the north of

the line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to the

right to avoid, I recognize. We pull close alongside and I call to the

men to stop.



There was a stake driven near its summit with the initials, "L. E. S.

I." Tied halfway down was a curiously worked riata. It was George's. It

had been cut with some sharp instrument, and the loose gravelly soil of

the mound was deeply dented with horses' hoofs. The stake was covered

with horsehairs. It was a record, but no clue.



The wind had grown more violent as we still fought our way forward,

resting and rowing by turns, and oftener "poling" the shallower surface,

but the old VALDA, or bench, is still distant. My recollection of the

old survey enables me to guess the relative position of the meanderings

of the creek, and an occasional simple professional experiment to

determine the distance gives my crew the fullest faith in my ability.

Night overtakes us in our impeded progress. Our condition looks more

dangerous than it really is, but I urge the men, many of whom are still

new in this mode of navigation, to greater exertion by assurance of

perfect safety and speedy relief ahead. We go on in this way until about

eight o'clock, and ground by the willows. We have a muddy walk for a few

hundred yards before we strike a dry trail, and simultaneously the white

walls of Altascar's appear like a snowbank before us. Lights are moving

in the courtyard; but otherwise the old tomblike repose characterizes

the building.



One of the peons recognized me as I entered the court, and Altascar met

me on the corridor.



I was too weak to do more than beg his hospitality for the men who had

dragged wearily with me. He looked at my hand, which still unconsciously

held the broken riata. I began, wearily, to tell him about George and

my fears, but with a gentler courtesy than was even his wont, he gravely

laid his hand on my shoulder.



"POCO A POCO, senor--not now. You are tired, you have hunger, you have

cold. Necessary it is you should have peace."



He took us into a small room and poured out some French cognac, which he

gave to the men that had accompanied me. They drank and threw themselves

before the fire in the larger room. The repose of the building was

intensified that night, and I even fancied that the footsteps on the

corridor were lighter and softer. The old Spaniard's habitual gravity

was deeper; we might have been shut out from the world as well as

the whistling storm, behind those ancient walls with their time-worn

inheritor.



Before I could repeat my inquiry he retired. In a few minutes two

smoking dishes of CHUPA with coffee were placed before us, and my men

ate ravenously. I drank the coffee, but my excitement and weariness kept

down the instincts of hunger.



I was sitting sadly by the fire when he reentered.



"You have eat?"



I said, "Yes," to please him.



"BUENO, eat when you can--food and appetite are not always."



He said this with that Sancho-like simplicity with which most of his

countrymen utter a proverb, as though it were an experience rather than

a legend, and, taking the riata from the floor, held it almost tenderly

before him.



"It was made by me, senor."



"I kept it as a clue to him, Don Altascar," I said. "If I could find

him--"



"He is here."



"Here! and"--but I could not say "well!" I understood the gravity of

the old man's face, the hushed footfalls, the tomblike repose of the

building, in an electric flash of consciousness; I held the clue to the

broken riata at last. Altascar took my hand, and we crossed the corridor

to a somber apartment. A few tall candles were burning in sconces before

the window.



In an alcove there was a deep bed with its counterpane, pillows, and

sheets heavily edged with lace, in all that splendid luxury which the

humblest of these strange people lavish upon this single item of their

household. I stepped beside it and saw George lying, as I had seen him

once before, peacefully at rest. But a greater sacrifice than that he

had known was here, and his generous heart was stilled forever.



"He was honest and brave," said the old man, and turned away. There

was another figure in the room; a heavy shawl drawn over her graceful

outline, and her long black hair hiding the hands that buried her

downcast face. I did not seem to notice her, and, retiring presently,

left the loving and loved together.



When we were again beside the crackling fire, in the shifting shadows

of the great chamber, Altascar told me how he had that morning met the

horse of George Tryan swimming on the prairie; how that, farther on, he

found him lying, quite cold and dead, with no marks or bruises on his

person; that he had probably become exhausted in fording the creek, and

that he had as probably reached the mound only to die for want of that

help he had so freely given to others; that, as a last act, he had freed

his horse. These incidents were corroborated by many who collected

in the great chamber that evening--women and children--most of them

succored through the devoted energies of him who lay cold and lifeless

above.



He was buried in the Indian mound--the single spot of strange perennial

greenness which the poor aborigines had raised above the dusty plain. A

little slab of sandstone with the initials "G. T." is his monument,

and one of the bearings of the initial corner of the new survey of the

"Espiritu Santo Rancho."



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