GIFT OF 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
STORIES 
 
 ^iil FTHE 
 
 OLD MISSIONS 
 
 OF * 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER 
 
 Author of 
 "The Missions of 
 Nueva California" 
 
 "Some By-ways 
 
 of California" 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 MCMXVII 
 
 PAUL ELDER &CCMPANY PUBLISHERS ! 
 
Copyright 1917, by 
 
 PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Foreword 
 
 THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI . 
 
 FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 LA BEATA 
 
 JUAN A 
 
 FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 POMPONIO 
 
 PAGE 
 VII 
 
 3 
 
 31 
 
 53 
 
 77 
 
 107 
 
 3S0241 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 Of the last six stories comprising the seven in this 
 little collection of Stories of the Old Missions, all but 
 one have, as a basis, some modicum, larger or smaller, 
 of historical fact, the tale of Juana alone being wholly 
 fanciful, although with an historical background. The 
 first story of the series may be considered as intro 
 ductory to the mission tales proper. 
 
 In these quiet, unpretending stories the writer has 
 attempted to give a faithful picture of life among the 
 Indians and Spaniards in Nueva California during 
 the early days of the past century. 
 
 October, 1917. 
 
 VII 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 N THE southern part of 
 the Mojave Desert a 
 low hill stands some 
 what apart from the 
 foot-hills beyond, and 
 back of it. Although 
 not more than two hun- 
 j> dred feet above the sur 
 rounding plateau, on 
 account of its peculiar 
 location, a command- 
 ing view may be had 
 from its top. In front, 
 toward the south, and 
 extending all the way 
 from east to west, the plain stretches off for many 
 miles, until it approaches the distant horizon, where 
 it is merged into lofty mountains, forming a tu 
 multuous, serrated sky-line. Midway between the 
 hill and the distant mountains, lie the beds, sharply 
 defined, of three dry lakes. In the garish light of 
 day they show for what they are, the light yellow 
 hard-baked soil of the desert, without even the or- 
 
 [3] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 sage; b-ruoh; but in early morning and, less 
 frequently, toward evening, these lakes take on a 
 semblance of their former state, sometimes (so strong 
 is the mirage) almost deceiving those best acquainted 
 with the region. Years ago how many it would be 
 difficult to say these dry lakes were veritable bodies 
 of water; indeed, at an earlier period than that, they 
 were, without doubt, and including a large extent of 
 the surrounding desert, one vast lake. But that was 
 centuries ago, maybe, and with time the lake dried 
 up, leaving, at last, only these three light spots in 
 the view, which, in their turn, are growing smaller 
 with the passing years, until they, too, will vanish, 
 obliterated by the encroaching vegetation. 
 
 Back of the eminence from which this extended 
 view is had, the mountains come close, not as high 
 as those toward the south, but still respectable heights, 
 snow-covered in winter. They array themselves in 
 fantastic shapes, with colors changing from hour to 
 hour. One thinks of the desert as a barren sandy 
 waste, minus water, trees and other vegetation, clouds, 
 and all the color and beauty of nature of more fav 
 ored districts. Not so. Water is scarce, it is true, and 
 springs few and far between, and the vegetation is 
 in proportion; for what little there is is mostly de 
 pendent on the annual rainfall, never excessive, at the 
 best, yet always sufficient for the brush covering the 
 ground, and the yuccas towering up many feet here 
 and there. But color, beautiful, brilliant, magnificent 
 color, is here any and every day of the year, and 
 from earliest dawn until the last traces of the evening 
 
 [4] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 sun have faded away, only to give place to moon 
 light unsurpassed anywhere in the world. Truly, the 
 desert is far from being the dry, desolate, uninter 
 esting region it is commonly pictured. 
 
 More than a century and a quarter ago, there stood 
 on the side of this hill, and not far from its top, an 
 Indian hut, or wickiup. It was built after the manner 
 of the Indian tribes of Southern California a cir 
 cular space of about fifteen feet in diameter enclosed 
 by brush-work, and roofed by a low dome of the 
 same material. At the side was an opening, too small 
 to permit one to enter without stooping low. This 
 doorway, if it may be so called, being window and 
 chimney as well, fronted toward the south, facing 
 the dry lakes and the mountains beyond. Close by, 
 at the left, w r as a heap of bones, which, on a nearer 
 view, disclosed themselves to be those of rabbits, 
 coyotes and quail, while three or four larger bones 
 in the pile might inform the zoologist that the fierce 
 mountain-lion was not unknown to this region. To 
 the right of the doorway, some ten feet from it, were 
 two large flat stones, set facing each other, a few 
 inches apart; between them lay a handful of ashes, 
 betokening the kitchen of the family living here. 
 Close by the stones lay a number of smooth, rounded 
 stones of use and value to the people of the hut. 
 Back of the wickiup, a few paces up the hill, a tiny 
 spring issued from the ground, affording a never- 
 failing, though scanty, supply of water. 
 
 The location of this solitary hut, remote from all 
 other signs of humanity, so far as the eye could 
 
 [5] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 judge, was a singular one; for the Indian loves his 
 kind, and it is rare that one wanders deliberately 
 away to make his home in loneliness, far from the 
 rest of the tribe to which he belongs. In the case of 
 this hut, however, its solitariness was more apparent 
 than real; for although out of sight of any habitation 
 whatever, the tribe to which its inmates belonged was 
 distant not more than two miles, but on the other 
 face of the hill, and hidden far in the recesses of a 
 small canon. Here, on the site of a beautiful source 
 of precious water, was a cluster of Indian houses of 
 brush, built like the one on the hillside. Each had its 
 fireplace on one side, as well as the accompanying 
 heap of bones of animals killed in the chase. Near 
 the centre of the group of huts stood the temescal 
 an institution with nearly every Southern California 
 tribe of Indians where those who were ill subjected 
 themselves to the heroic treatment of parboiling over 
 a fire, until in a profuse perspiration, to be followed, 
 on crawling out, by a plunge into the icy water of 
 the stream. It was truly a case of kill or cure. 
 
 Let us return to the hillside hut, and make the 
 acquaintance of its inmates. Passing through the 
 humble opening, the interior is disclosed to the curi 
 ous eye at one glance. The ground embraced within 
 the circle of the wickiup had been dug away so as 
 to make an even, hard floor two or three feet below 
 the surface of the earth outside. To the right, stand 
 ing on the floor, were two large, round baskets, each 
 one with a capacity of half a dozen gallons. They 
 were made in conformity to the general type of 
 
 [6] 
 

 THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 basket of the Southern California aborigine, but with 
 the distinctive marks peculiar to the tribe to which 
 belonged the dwellers within, and w r oven so tightly 
 as to hold w r ater without permitting a drop to pass 
 through. In the bottom of one of these baskets was 
 scattered a little ground meal of the acorn, a staple 
 article of food with all the Indians of California. 
 The other basket, similar to the first in shape and 
 size, but of rougher weave, and lined on the inside 
 with bitumen, was nearly full of water; for though 
 the finely woven baskets of the Southern California 
 Indians were really w r ater-tight, they were not gen 
 erally used for liquids. Any one, acquainted with 
 the customs of these Indians, would understand the 
 meaning of the little heap of stones by the fireside 
 without: they were used in warming the water in 
 the basket, which w r as done by heating them in the 
 embers of the fire, then, w r hen hot, throwing them 
 into the water, in this way bringing it almost to a 
 boil. Afterward, the stones having been taken out, 
 some meal was thrown in and, in this manner, cooked. 
 Beyond the baskets, and nearly opposite the en 
 trance, against the wall, was a heap of fine brush, 
 covered with the tawny skin of an immense moun 
 tain-lion a giant specimen of his species, and a 
 formidable animal, truly, for an Indian to encounter 
 with only bow and arrow. 
 
 On this bed of brush was the gaunt, emaciated 
 form of a w r oman lying stretched out at full length. 
 At first glance, one might have mistaken her for a 
 mummy, so still and lifeless she lay; her face, too, 
 
 [7] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 carried out the resemblance startlingly, for it was 
 furrowed and seamed with countless wrinkles, the 
 skin appearing like parchment in its dry, leathery 
 texture. Only the eyes gave assurance that this was 
 no mummy, but a living, sentient body eyes large, 
 full-orbed and black as midnight, arched by heavy 
 brows that frowned with great purpose, as if the soul 
 behind and beyond were seeking, powerless, to re 
 lieve itself of some weighty message. These were not 
 the eyes of age, yet they belonged to a countenance 
 that gave token of having lived through a great many 
 years; for the woman lying there so deathly still had 
 experienced all the varied joys and sufferings of near 
 four score years, each one leaving its indelible mark 
 on the tell-tale face. She was clothed in a loose dress 
 made from rabbit skins, sewn together coarsely, 
 sleeveless, and so short as to leave her feet and 
 ankles bare. 
 
 To the left of the entrance crouched a young Indian 
 woman. She was an unusually good-looking speci 
 men of the desert tribes: a tall well-shaped form; a 
 head and face of much beauty and character, with a 
 pair of eyes that, at first glance, betrayed a close re 
 lation to the woman lying on the bed. They were of 
 the same size, color and brilliance; but the tense, 
 powerful expression that was seen in those of the 
 aged woman, here was softened to a mild, yet pierc 
 ing glance, which had, at the same time, a touch of 
 sadness. She appeared to be not more than twenty- 
 five years old, although her face, in spite of its gentle, 
 youthful expression, showed the traces of more than 
 
 [8] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 her full quota of hardships; for the life of the desert 
 Indian is never an easy one at the best, and here had 
 been a greater struggle for existence than is usual 
 among the aborigines. As she crouched by the door 
 way, she seemed almost as lifeless as the old Indian 
 woman on the bed, her gaze fixed absently on the 
 extended view of plain and mountain stretching out 
 before her, the only sign of life being the slow, even 
 rise and fall of her bosom with each succeeding 
 breath. Her dress was similar to that of the other 
 woman, but was shorter, reaching only to the knees. 
 
 This young Indian was the granddaughter of the 
 older woman. On the death of her parents (her 
 father s following that of her mother, the daughter 
 of the aged Indian, after an interval of a few months) , 
 when she was little more than an infant, her grand 
 mother had taken sole charge of her, treating her, 
 as she became older, with the closest intimacy, more 
 as a sister than a grandchild; and notwithstanding 
 the diversity in age, this feeling was reciprocated on 
 the part of the child. 
 
 It was after her father s death, but before she her 
 self was old enough to see more than the surface of 
 action, that her grandmother took up her abode in 
 the lone hut on the brow of the hill, apart from the 
 rest of the tribe of which she was a member, with 
 the child her only companion. At first, the little girl 
 noticed not the difference between their mode of liv 
 ing and that of the rest of the tribe, all the other 
 members of which lived together, surrounding the 
 spring of water, their life and mainstay; but very 
 
 [9] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 quickly, as the child grew older, she saw, only too 
 plainly, that her grandmother was looked upon as 
 different from the others : and the Indian regards all 
 those of his kin, no matter how near, who display 
 any peculiar form of mentality, either with rever 
 ence, as something of the divine, or with cruel hatred, 
 when he believes the unfortunate individual pos 
 sessed with the evil spirit. She saw, in the brief and 
 infrequent visits the two made to the tribe, that her 
 grandmother was regarded with distrust; that glances 
 of aversion were cast at her from the doorways of 
 the huts as they passed, and, once or twice, a mis 
 chievous boy had slyly thrown a stone at the two, 
 wending their way to their lonely home. 
 
 Long the child cogitated over the situation, but, 
 as is the Indian s habit, without a word to her grand 
 parent of what was occupying her mind. The old 
 woman saw she was absorbed in some mental prob 
 lem, and, with the shrewdness of the aborigine, 
 guessed the subject, and sought to divert her thoughts 
 into other channels. It was in vain, for one evening, 
 after their simple meal of herbs, the girl, gathering 
 courage, in the increasing dusk, asked abruptly, 
 after a long silence: 
 
 "Grandmother, why do we live here alone, far 
 from the others in the canon? Why do we ?" she 
 paused, frightened at her temerity. 
 
 The old woman started slightly. She had been sit 
 ting with hands folded quietly in her lap, thinking, 
 possibly, of the absent ones of her family, gone to be 
 with Ouiot in the everlasting home. Turning to her 
 
 [10] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 granddaughter, she answered, slowly and solemnly: 
 "My child, I am grieved to have this come upon 
 you now, for I had hoped you would escape it until 
 after I am gone to the eternal life beyond. Then it 
 would not have been to you a burden, only a sorrow, 
 softened by the thought that I had borne bravely the 
 punishment dealt out to me, without a word of re 
 proach. I have seen that you had something on your 
 mind, and guessed this was it, and now that you have 
 asked me, I think it best to tell you, although you 
 are still but a child. For you would, I know, brood 
 over it in your heart. Listen, then, while I tell you 
 my life story. 
 
 "My childhood and youth were passed in a man 
 ner no different from that of the other children of 
 our tribe; I worked and played, careless of every 
 thing but the present, until I was a big girl. I was 
 happy in my ignorance, for why should I be singled 
 out from all the rest to bear the honor that was to be 
 thrust upon me? I knew not what was in store for me. 
 "One night, when I was about fifteen years old, I 
 dreamed that the spring, near which our kindred 
 live, dried up, and forced us to move to another 
 spring where we had to stay for two months. When 
 I came to myself (for it was not so much like sleep 
 as a trance), I wondered; but this passed away after 
 a time, and I had almost forgotten the occurrence, 
 when one day, about a month later, we were startled 
 by hearing there was no water in the spring. The 
 winter before had been very dry, with almost no 
 rain, and fears had been expressed that the spring 
 
 tin 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 would fail us, a thing which had not occurred for 
 more than three generations. My dream flashed 
 through my mind, only for an instant, but long 
 enough to imprint the coincidence on my memory. 
 I thought no more of it, however, until some six 
 months later, after our return to the spring; for, as 
 I saw it in my dream, we had been forced to depart, 
 and to be absent from our beloved dwelling-place 
 for two months. Again I saw, as in a dream (but this 
 time it was full day, and I knew I was not asleep), 
 our entire tribe in mourning for our chief who was 
 lying dead and surrounded by all the elders. It was 
 like a flash of lightning, leaving me, once more, 
 broad awake, yet I had not been asleep. This tune 
 I was frightened, for I knew there had been members 
 of our tribe who could foretell the future. Was I 
 to be one of them? I dared not tell any one of my 
 dream, and waited trembling, from day to day, hop 
 ing and praying that it might not come true. But the 
 future had been revealed to me, and a few weeks 
 later our chief fell in a battle with our enemies to 
 the east. When I heard of it I swooned, and my 
 mother found me lying senseless by the fire. After 
 she had revived me, she asked me the cause of my 
 fainting, and, weakened from the shock, I told her all. 
 " Daughter, she said, after a long pause, you are 
 destined for a great work, for Ouiot speaks through 
 you. And, a few days later, after the burial of the 
 dead, she told the chief men of the tribe what I had 
 seen. And then ended my happiness: from that day 
 I lived a life of sorrow, for the burden I had to bear 
 
 [12] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 was a heavy one: not only when I foretold disaster 
 and suffering to our people, but when I had joyful 
 news for them, even then the dread of knowing the 
 future was terrible. Sometimes a half-year would 
 pass without communication from above, and I 
 would begin to hope that the awful gift was taken 
 from me; but always it would manifest itself again. 
 My husband (for I had been married not long after 
 my first dream) left me just before your mother was 
 born, but I did not want, for I was provided with 
 everything by the entire tribe. Your mother, also, 
 when she grew 7 to be a woman, left me to be married 
 to your father; but when he died, he asked me to 
 take care of his only child, and that is why you and 
 I have lived together all these years." 
 
 The old woman paused, and several minutes passed 
 silently in the gathering dusk, while the little girl 
 waited wonderingly, afraid to speak. Presently the 
 Indian stirred, as if waking from a slumber, and, 
 after a slight shiver, resumed her tale : 
 
 "And thus I lived for many years, prophesying as 
 the Great Spirit revealed the future to me, and my 
 prophecies always came true. I foretold poor har 
 vests, and the issues of our wars. Only once before 
 the last prophecy I made was my word doubted, and 
 then unbelief was born in the minds of many of the 
 men. I spoke the words of truth then, but when 
 I said we should, in time, vanish from this country, 
 I was treated with scorn. But I was right. Are we 
 greater in numbers than our traditions tell us w r ere 
 our fathers many generations ago? Is it not more 
 
 [13] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 difficult to live now than it was in former days? 
 Where are the quail, the rabbits, that our ancestors 
 used to kill so plentifully? Are not they growing 
 less all the time? And the water! Look " and the 
 old woman, with arm extended, pointed with her 
 forefinger toward the three dry lakes in the distance, 
 only one of which showed any signs of moisture, a 
 small spot in the centre, covered with, perhaps, a 
 foot of water "look," she repeated, "what were 
 those lakes years ago? Our fathers tell us that long, 
 long ages past, those three lakes were one large body 
 of water. Where is it now? Have not I seen, in my 
 own lifetime, the last one slowly drying up? Where 
 will our game go when it has quite disappeared? 
 And they laughed at me for telling them. It needs no 
 gift of prophecy to see that. But they heeded me not. 
 What cared they for anything so far in the future 
 as that? 
 
 "But," continued the woman, after a pause, drop 
 ping her arm in her lap, and speaking in a low, sad 
 voice, "the last time came, and I prophesied, and 
 this time I told wrongly, for Ouiot did not speak 
 through me. We were at war with the southern tribe, 
 and it was revealed to me that our men should con 
 quer. When I told them, a shout went up, and at 
 once they set off for our enemies. It was four days 
 before they came back, but I felt no foreboding, for 
 never before had I been deceived, and why should 
 I be this time? So I waited, confident of the result. 
 Alas ! On the fourth day came a messenger with news 
 of the defeat of our army, and the massacre of more 
 
 [14] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 than half of the men. For the second time in my life 
 I fainted. When the men returned, they sought me 
 out, and, with cries and curses, drove me from my 
 home, and told me never to come back. But, on ac 
 count of the position I had held, they gave me this 
 hut by the spring for a dwelling-place, and suffered 
 me to keep you with me. If I had belonged to one 
 of the fierce tribes of Indians to the far east, I think 
 they would have killed me, but we are a milder 
 people. And here we have lived ever since. After a 
 time I was permitted to visit my kindred, but always 
 I am greeted with looks of hatred." 
 
 As she crouched in the doorway of the hut, and 
 gazed absently over the distant view, the young 
 woman was thinking of that day when her grand 
 mother had told her past history. Well she remem 
 bered that night, and the inspired look on her grand 
 mother s face as she spoke of the future of their 
 people. It was the first time she had ever seen her 
 in that psychic condition, and it was almost terrify 
 ing. Since that day, although at rare intervals, her 
 grandmother had given proof of her former power, 
 and in instances touching the w r elfare of the tribe; 
 but no one save the young woman knew of it. 
 
 Then she travelled over in thought the following 
 years, until she became a woman, and was wooed by 
 one of the young men of the tribe, a few months be 
 fore the date of our story. There had been much 
 opposition to this on the part of her grandmother 
 and of the elders of the tribe; but the young people 
 won the day, and her husband had since made his 
 
 [15] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 home with her at the hut. But his marriage with her, 
 in a measure, cut him off from the rest of the tribe; 
 and gradually, as time went on, he had found him 
 self refused the company of his former associates 
 in the hunt, and was forced to make his livelihood, 
 and that of the two women, without the aid of num 
 bers. Until his marriage, the two women had been 
 provided with food by the tribe, but one of the con 
 ditions of his wedding the young woman was that 
 all assistance in that line should cease. Hencefor 
 ward they were to live as though utterly alone. This 
 they had done, and a hard struggle it had been at 
 tunes, when game was scarce and hard to find. But, 
 though suffering hunger and! hardship, they had 
 stayed at the spring, dreading to leave their dwelling- 
 place, and seek other and better hunting-grounds, as 
 is the custom of the Indians when sore pressed for 
 food. 
 
 At this particular moment, her husband was absent 
 on one of his hunting trips, which generally kept 
 him away for several days. This time, however, he 
 had been from home longer than usual, and the 
 young wife was looking anxiously for his return, for 
 there was nothing to eat save the remnant of meal 
 in the bottom of the basket, and to-day her grand 
 mother appeared to be worse. The old woman was 
 dying slowly of old age, aided by the peculiar hard 
 ship of her long life; she had not left her bed for 
 some time, and the young woman could see that her 
 aged grandparent was not long for this world. Dur 
 ing her illness (which, however, was more a gradual 
 
 [16] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 breaking down and dying of her strength than actual 
 illness; for her mind seemed to be as clear as ever) 
 she had given evidences of having something in her 
 thought, some instruction or advice she desired to 
 impart to her children, but which, so feeble was she, 
 was beyond her strength to utter. Thus she had lain 
 for three days, motionless, but for the restless turn 
 ing of the head, and the burning, gleaming eyes 
 seeming to take the place of her voice, and cry out 
 the message her lips refused to speak. 
 
 Suddenly the young woman gave a start, and a look 
 of joy passed swiftly across her face, for she saw her 
 husband come around the brow of the hill far below. 
 She rose quickly and hastened to meet him. As she 
 neared him, she saw he was bearing on his back the 
 carcass of a young deer, under the weight of which he 
 staggered up the hill toward her. Running to him she 
 cried: 
 
 "Itatli! Oh, you are come in time! You have been 
 away so long! But I see you have had good luck this 
 time in your hunting. How tired and thin you look! 
 Have you been far?" and as she spoke, she took the 
 deer from him, and laid it upon her own strong 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Mota, it is a long way I have been, and I am sorely 
 tired. Let me rest and have something to eat, and to 
 night I will tell you where I have been and what I 
 have seen. How is the grandmother?" 
 
 "She is dying, Itatli. She has grown worse every 
 day, and now cannot sit up, and she lies all day so 
 still all but her eyes. She tries to speak, and I am 
 
 [17] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 sure she has something on her mind that she wants to 
 tell us. She will not live long." 
 
 Slowly they climbed the hill, with an occasional 
 sentence now and then. Arrived at the hut, the Indian 
 entered, leaned his bow against the wall, near the 
 baskets, and stood regarding the inanimate figure, a 
 sombre expression stealing over his face as he gazed. 
 The woman s eyes were closed, and she seemed to be 
 asleep, nothing but her short, quick breathing show 
 ing she was still alive. For some minutes the man 
 stood thus, then turned and strode out of the hut, 
 picking up his bow as he passed it, and carrying it 
 with him. Without a word to his wife, who had begun 
 to cook a piece of the deer meat, and was busily at 
 work over the out-door fire, he occupied himself with 
 his bow and arrows, testing the strength of the cord, 
 made of the intestines of a wild-cat, and examining 
 closely the arrow-heads, tipped with poison, taken 
 from the rattlesnake; but all in an intermittent way, 
 for every few moments he raised his head and gazed 
 long and steadily over the plain to the far distant hills 
 on the southern horizon. 
 
 At last his wife called to him that the meal was 
 ready. He went aver to the fire and began to eat, 
 while the woman took some of the broth, which she 
 had made out of the meat, put it into a small earthen 
 pot, and carried it to her grandmother, in the hope 
 that she might be able to force a little of it down her 
 throat. It was of no use: the dying woman was in 
 sensible to all help from food, and lay as in a stupor, 
 from which it was impossible to rouse her. Mota re- 
 
 [18] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 turned sadly to the fire where her husband was eat 
 ing as only a hungry man can eat. 
 
 They finished their meal in silence, and after the 
 wife had put away the remains of the food, she came 
 over to where her husband was sitting in the opening 
 of the hut, and crouched by his side. There, in the 
 gathering gloom of the night, he told of the exper 
 iences of his search for food. 
 
 "It was a long, long distance I went, Mota," he be 
 gan. "I journeyed on and on to the far south, until I 
 reached a river that flows across the plains toward 
 the sea. It was nearing evening of the second day after 
 I came to the river, when suddenly I heard a queer 
 sound as of the steps of a small army of some kind of 
 hard-footed animals. It was far in the distance when 
 first I heard it; for the air was still as though listen 
 ing to the voice of the Great Spirit, its master; and I 
 listened, rooted to the spot where I stood. What could 
 it be? Never had I heard the tread of so many animals 
 at one time. Nearer they came, and soon I heard the 
 voices of men, speaking to each other, but not in any 
 Indian language I am familiar with, and I know sev 
 eral. But if they w r ere men I must hide, for they 
 would take me prisoner, if they did not kill me, 
 should I be seen. So I ran to the rushes growing on 
 the bank of the river, and sank down among their 
 thickly-growing shoots. The army came nearer stead 
 ily, and, in a few moments, I could see them climbing 
 down the steep bank of the river a little way above 
 me. I took one peep, and my breath almost left my 
 body, for what I thought were men before I saw them, 
 
 [19] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 now that they came in sight, I knew to be celestial 
 beings." 
 
 "But that could not have been, Itatli," exclaimed 
 his wife, "for such a sight would have blinded, if not 
 killed, you." 
 
 "I know not about that," answered the man, "but if 
 they were not from above, whence came they? They 
 were like me in shape, stature, and all else but in 
 color and dress. They were white, nearly as white as 
 the snow on the distant mountains, and their bodies 
 were completely covered with their clothes, except 
 ing only their faces and hands. Their clothes were 
 not made of skins, but were something different from 
 any thing I had ever seen; it was more like fine basket- 
 work than anything I know of. They had no bows and 
 arrows, such as ours, but straight, long, bright weap 
 ons which glittered in the sun. It may have been a 
 strange kind of bow, but I could see no arrows, and 
 they did not shoot with them while near me. On 
 their heads, they wore a large round covering, which 
 shaded them from the hot sun, and on their feet they 
 had queer clothes, shaped like their feet, and these it 
 was which had made me think the sound I heard was 
 that made by animals. But among them were a few 
 who were like us, and they may have been Indians, 
 although they had on clothes like the others; so, per 
 haps, after all, the white beings were not gods, for 
 the Indians were in their company and lived." 
 
 The man had talked in low, earnest tones; but as 
 he advanced in his tale, his voice, though still low, 
 had taken on a penetrating, vibrating quality that 
 
 [20] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 thrilled his wife, and reached the ears of the old wo 
 man on the couch, seeming to rouse her from her 
 lethargy like a voice from the grave. She had stirred 
 restlessly two or three times, striving ever harder to 
 break the thrall of her weakness: it would have 
 moved the heart of any one beholding her efforts to 
 make herself heard, but she lay unnoticed, for the 
 man was deep in his wonderful narrative, and his 
 wife listening intently, drinking in every word. At 
 last she attracted the attention of the two, for her 
 strenuous efforts to speak resulted in a hoarse, gut 
 tural sound deep in her throat. They sprang to their 
 feet, and stepped quickly to the couch. There they 
 saw a surprising change in the countenance of the 
 old woman: her eyes, bright and unclouded as they 
 had been before, now looked at them recognisingly, 
 although they still bore the weighty, thoughtful ex 
 pression; her mouth, now partly open, was full of 
 resolve, and the lips were just shaping the words she 
 was about to speak, as the two approached: 
 
 "Itatli, I heard the words you have spoken this eve 
 ning, and I, alone, understand them. You know not 
 what manner of men were those you saw; you know 
 not, indeed, whether they be men or angels. I will tell 
 you. They are men like ourselves, but they come from 
 afar. Listen, my children," she continued, her voice 
 growing in power and volume, "I will disclose to you 
 what I have never revealed to any one of our people. 
 About two seasons of rain after I had foretold the 
 future of our tribe, when the last lake should have 
 become entirely dry, I had a revelation of what was 
 
 [21] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 to befall all the Indians of this great land, that far 
 surpassed anything I had ever before prophesied. I 
 saw, as in a vision, the great blue sea sparkling in the 
 sun, the little waves rolling softly to the shore, to 
 break into lines of white foam on the sands of the 
 beach at my feet. I was alone, but was not afraid, 
 although I had never before seen the sea, either in 
 my visions or in real life; yet I knew at once what it 
 was. While I gazed at the water, and watched the 
 waves rushing up to my feet, I felt, all at once, as 
 though an unseen power was impelling me to look 
 up. I raised my head and gazed out over the water, 
 and there I saw, far away, a great white object that 
 looked like an immense bird. I knew, as I know all 
 things that occur in my visions, this was a ship. 
 
 "Presently, the unseen power, as though whisper 
 ing in my ear, revealed to me that the ship was full 
 of men from a far country, coming to settle in our 
 land, and that they would subdue the Indians, killing 
 many, taking others captive, and making them work 
 for their masters; and that, later, after many years, 
 the Indians would vanish from the land which had 
 been theirs since the time when Ouiot was on this 
 earth. Then the vision faded slowly from my sight, 
 and I seemed to enter a luminous mist as I felt myself 
 impelled to walk. After what, in my trance, seemed 
 many hours, I came out of the mist on to a level 
 stretch of land, through which flowed a large river. 
 There were mountains on the north, reaching for 
 many miles, and from the west, which was lowland 
 as far as the eye could see, came the cool afternoon 
 
 [22] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 sea wind. In the middle of the plain was a great tall 
 house, white with a red roof, and at one end hung 
 some bells in openings made for them in the wall. 
 All around were a great many houses of brush, much 
 like this we are now in, and outside and in were 
 crowds of Indians working like bees, at all kinds of 
 toil, doing many things, too, that we never do, such 
 as planting fields with seeds, and gathering the har 
 vest when it was ripe; making cloth for clothes, such 
 as you, my son, saw those strange men wearing. Then 
 they were making jars and dishes of clay, and weav 
 ing baskets, such as we use. 
 
 "Suddenly, a little time before sunset, while they 
 were at their busiest, the bells in the big white house 
 began to ring. Every one stopped working and stood 
 facing the building. Tnen, as the bells were ringing, 
 they bowed their heads. At this moment, I heard, 
 again, the voice which yet was not a voice, revealing 
 to me the meaning of the scene before my eyes. Be 
 hold, I seemed to hear, the final end of the Indians 
 of this land! See the fate which is awaiting them! 
 All these peoples and tribes, and others far to the 
 north and south of here, will be brought together into 
 places like unto this. They will be made to work at 
 these white men s tasks; give up their own wild, free 
 life in the open country; give up their old customs; 
 give up their own god, even, to pray to the God of 
 their masters. And thus will it be for many years, 
 until the Indians disappear forever; for, after a time, 
 they will grow fewer and fewer until not one shall be 
 left in the whole land which once they owned. Then 
 
 [23] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 what seemed a deep sleep fell upon me, and when I 
 awoke, I was in my own home. I was greatly fright 
 ened, but dared not tell any one of my visions; for I 
 knew they would laugh me to scorn, perhaps drive 
 me away, as they did at the last." 
 
 As the old woman described this picture of the fu 
 ture revealed to her, her agitation increased. She 
 raised herself on an arm, and with the other stretched 
 out, she swept her hand along the horizon, from the 
 south to the north, saying, as she did so : 
 
 "This is the land of the Indians; this Ouiot gave to 
 our fathers, and they gave it to us. While the sun has 
 been travelling over his path in the sky for many 
 hundred years, we, and our fathers before us, for 
 generations, have lived in this land. But now the end 
 is come. We must give way before a people stronger 
 than we; give up our land to them and vanish." 
 
 Her voice increased in volume as she spoke, until, 
 at the close, it was as powerful as in former days. 
 When she had ceased speaking, she paused, with arm 
 still outstretched, as though transfixed. She gazed 
 steadily across the level plain to the distant moun 
 tains, motionless and rigid, while the two young In 
 dians waited, awed and afraid, minute after minute, 
 for they knew not what. 
 
 After a long silence, the aged sibyl let fall her arm, 
 and dropped back suddenly on to the couch. The fire 
 of prophecy in her eyes was still un dimmed; but 
 turning toward the two waiting ones, she spoke again, 
 yet as if coming back to the present : 
 
 "Mota, Itatli, I am going to the distant home of our 
 
 [24] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 people, where all are happy. It will be but a few 
 hours before I shall leave you. Do you, my son, after 
 I am dead, go to the village, and tell the chief men 
 all that I have revealed to you to-night. Tell them 
 that, with my last breath, I spoke the truth revealed 
 to me by the gods above. Tell them that the only 
 safety for them, and their children after them, is to 
 live with the strange white men who are come to our 
 land; that they must be at peace with the strangers, 
 live with them, and do all that is commanded them; 
 that this is the only way they can put off the evil 
 day when they shall disappear forever. And it is for 
 a time only at best; but it is better to do that than to 
 resist them, for they are too strong to be driven back. 
 But I fear they will not listen to my words which you 
 shall speak. And if so, you, my children, must leave 
 here and go to the south, through the pass in the 
 mountains, then toward the setting sun until you 
 come to the river; and there you will find the strange 
 men, as in my vision. Put yourselves under their care, 
 and perhaps Ouiot will spare you, and the others 
 there before you, from the fate of the rest of the 
 tribes in this land." 
 
 Her voice sank to a whisper, so that it was with 
 difficulty they made out her last words. Closing her 
 eyes, she lay gasping for some minutes; after this, 
 she fell into a comatose state, from which she did 
 not revive again. Hour after hour passed, the two 
 watchers crouching motionless, without a word, re 
 garding the fleeting breath of the dying woman. 
 Shortly before the dawn began to lighten the horizon, 
 
 [25] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 a tremor passed through the body of the sufferer; a 
 long, feeble sigh issued from her lips, and the aged, 
 distrusted seer was no more. 
 
 The young woman, on seeing this, broke out into 
 bitter wailing, swaying slowly forward and back 
 ward, while her husband sat with his head bowed on 
 his knees. Their first thought was of utter bereave 
 ment, for to these two lonely ones, and especially to 
 the woman, the grandparent had been not only the 
 sole member of their tribe they had known for years, 
 but she had proved to them a help, at times through 
 her singular gift. On several occasions, in seasons of 
 little game, had she told the man in which direction 
 to go for the best results. Once, at her instance, they 
 had migrated to a distant spring she had known in 
 her youth, where the three were safe from the mur 
 derous designs of the warlike tribe coming to their 
 country from the north. 
 
 Finally the man bethought himself of the last be 
 hest of the dead woman. "I go to the village, Mota," 
 he said hoarsely, and without another word left the 
 hut and set off down the hill. 
 
 The woman moved not, but remained as before, 
 near the bed of her grandmother. There she sat, on 
 the earthen floor, without taking her eyes from the 
 face of the dead, until her husband returned, nearly 
 three hours later. 
 
 "It was no use," he exclaimed sadly, "they would 
 not listen, but told me to go back and bury the grand 
 mother; they would not come with me." 
 
 Mota replied not. 
 
 [26] 
 
THE INDIAN SIBYL S PROPHECY 
 
 That night, as the sun was setting, the two lone 
 creatures made a grave on the hill a few feet from 
 the hut, and there they buried the mortal remains of 
 the old Indian woman. It was a sad, silent rite; both 
 felt deeply the absence of all their friends and kin 
 dred; the lack of all the customary wailing proper to 
 the solemn service of burial; but, above all, the want 
 of belief in the dead woman s prophecy. That gave 
 the poignant touch to their sorrow 7 . Sadly and si 
 lently, as they had buried the dead, they returned to 
 their hut in the gathering shades of night. 
 
 The next morning, these two bereaved ones, pack 
 ing up their few simple belongings, stole sorrow 
 fully away from their home. They knew not what 
 was before them, scarcely anything of the country 
 whither they were bound; but such was their faith 
 in the dead w r oman s word, that they did not falter in 
 their resolution to fulfill her admonition. 
 
 The hut, and all belonging to it, is long passed 
 away; and the spring, also, has disappeared, drying 
 up till merely a stony furrow in the ground shows 
 where it once had its course. Only the lonely grave 
 on the hillside remains to mark the ancient Indian 
 habitation here, and that, to-day, is almost obliter 
 ated. As for the village beyond in the canon, that, 
 too, is no more; hardly a vestige can now be found 
 to tell us that here, long ago, was a thriving Indian 
 settlement. All is silent and deserted. Truly, as the 
 aged Indian prophetess foretold, has the aborigine 
 vanished from the land. 
 
 [27] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 
 11 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 NE of the few settle 
 ments of the old mission 
 Indians remaining in 
 California is Pala, a lit 
 tle village tucked away 
 amidst some of the most 
 charming scenery to be 
 found in the southern 
 part of the state. It is 
 twenty miles east from 
 Mission San Luis Rey, 
 of which mission it was 
 an asistencia,or branch, 
 and twenty-four miles 
 from Oceanside, the 
 nearest point on the coast. The village stands in a val 
 ley which is completely surrounded by mountains, 
 high and low, far and near, uniting with it in a succes 
 sion of beautiful pictures around the entire hori 
 zon. To the east, the mountains pile themselves up 
 into huge masses, their tips hidden frequently by 
 clouds, and by the fogs of early morning; toward the 
 west, they fall away into low-lying hills, allowing the 
 
 [31] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 sea-breeze of every warm afternoon to sweep the vil 
 lage over them, and through the gap of the San Luis 
 Rey River and Valley. At all times of the year the color 
 and light and shade in every part of the valley are 
 most lovely, delighting the artist s eye with a whole 
 gamut of aerial perspective; but it is in the spring 
 that the hillsides and valley put on their most gor 
 geous robes, from the lightest tints of yellow and 
 green, down through every hue and tone of red, blue 
 and purple, soft and brilliant, pricked out here and 
 there with spots of intense, flaming yellow and or 
 ange, or deepest crimson. Such color scenes are not 
 common even in California; but on account of its 
 comparative inaccessibility, few people visit Pala, and 
 the village has been left much to itself in these latter 
 days of American life in the state. The Indians live 
 the life of the poorest class of Mexicans, dwell in 
 adobe huts, and pursue an agricultural occupation. 
 During the last week of May, 1895, I passed two 
 days in this interesting place, exploring the remains 
 of the asistencia, and sketching the unique bell-tower 
 and near-by mission houses. I was an object of inter 
 est to all who saw me, but was not favored with much 
 company until the second afternoon, when, after I 
 had passed an hour or so in the campo santo, an old 
 Indian slowly appeared and greeted me. He must 
 have been nearly eighty years old, and he was obliged 
 to use a cane to assist his slow and faltering steps. 
 Several times during the two days I had seen him, 
 sitting in the sun on the rough porch of a house close 
 by, or ambling slowly about, and had been struck 
 
 [32] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 with his appearance. Although bent with his years, 
 he was tall, and, in his younger days, must have had 
 a graceful, as well as powerful, figure, traces of it 
 remaining still, in spite of his decrepitude. But his 
 face was the most noticeable thing about him. Not 
 withstanding the dimness of age, there was a won 
 derful amount of intelligence and animation in his 
 expression, and the deep, black eyes could hardly 
 have been brighter and more piercing at the age of 
 forty than they now appeared. His long straight hair 
 was still thick, but very grey. He wore the ordinary 
 dress of the poor man. He was, in fine, a specimen of 
 w r hat the missions could do with the Indians when 
 working on the best material to be found among 
 them. 
 
 "Buenos dias, Sefior," he said gravely, as he came 
 near. 
 
 "Buenos dias." 
 
 "Will the Senor be disturbed if I stay here awhile 
 and watch him work?" he continued in Spanish, 
 which he spoke rather slowly, but with as much ease 
 and correctness as a Mexican. 
 
 I answered I should be glad to have him remain so 
 long as he pleased, and, in return, after he had seated 
 himself beside me on an old ruined adobe wall, asked 
 if he had lived long here. 
 
 "For over sixty years, Senor." 
 
 "And where did you spend your early years, for I 
 think you have seen many more than sixty?" I asked. 
 
 "Si, Senor, I am eighty-one now. Until I was about 
 twenty, I lived at Mission San Luis Rey, twenty miles 
 
 [33] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 from here. Has the Seiior ever seen San Luis Rey?" 
 
 I nodded, continuing with my sketch. 
 
 "Ah ! that was a beautiful mission sixty years ago," 
 the old man said, in a tone of sad retrospect. 
 
 "Tell me about it," I said. "In those days, sixty 
 years ago, the mission must have been perfect, with 
 no ruins to mar its beauty. And were there not many 
 neophytes at that time?" I added. 
 
 "Seiior, San Luis Rey was the largest mission in 
 California. So much larger than this place, although 
 Pala had many more Indians in those days, before 
 the padres were driven away, that it seemed to me 
 like a city. There were more than two thousand In 
 dians, and all worked busily from morning until 
 night, the men plowing and planting in the fields, or 
 making adobes for building houses, and the women 
 weaving and sewing and cooking. Every one had 
 something to do, and knew it must be done, and all 
 were willing and glad to do it; for we all dearly 
 loved the padre, he was so good, and it was a happi 
 ness to do what he demanded of us." 
 
 "You speak of Padre Peyri, do you not?" I asked. 
 
 "Si, Seiior. Padre Peyri was the head of the mis 
 sion, and no one could do anything unless he had the 
 padre s consent. There was almost always a second 
 padre there, but this second padre never stayed long, 
 and when one went away, another would come in 
 his place; but Padre Peyri was there all the time, 
 and never left the mission until he went back to 
 Mexico." 
 
 "And what," I asked, "did you do in those days, 
 
 [34] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 before you were large enough for a man s work?" 
 "I worked with the children, for the children had 
 their own work to do just the same as the grown peo 
 ple. We had to go to school at the mission every day, 
 to learn to speak Spanish, and to say the doctrina 
 cristiana, to read and write; but not all the children 
 could get so far as to write, for it was hard for them 
 to learn, and only the brightest ones were ever able 
 to write more than their names. But it was not so 
 hard for me, for I wished to learn, and the padres 
 liked to teach me. Then, after school, we had other 
 work to fetch wood for the fires; to drive the cows 
 to the fields; to feed and water the horses at the mis 
 sion, and all such things that boys can do. There were 
 a hundred boys or more in the country around, and 
 many of them seldom came to the mission except for 
 school and Sunday mass; but there w r ere always 
 enough, and more than enough, to do all the work, 
 and they had plenty of time for play. But my work 
 was different from that of the other boys. I was one 
 of the two boys who waited on the padres at meal 
 times, swept the mission rooms and walks, and were 
 ready to do any errands the padres wished. Then, for 
 three years, I was one of the altar boys, until I could 
 play well enough to go into the choir. And that is 
 what I liked better than anything else to play on 
 my violin. I began to learn when I was twelve years 
 old. I used to listen to the boys of the choir, when 
 they were practising their mass music, and again on 
 Sundays in the church, and wish I, too, could learn 
 to make that beautiful music. Many times I implored 
 
 [35] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 the padre to let me learn, and he would say: After 
 a little, my son, when you are old enough; it is a dif 
 ficult instrument to learn. I knew he was right, but 
 did not like to wait. At last, however, he told me I was 
 to begin, and the very next day gave me a violin, and 
 sent me to the choir teacher. It was a happy day for 
 me." 
 
 "Tell me something about Padre Peyri," I asked. 
 
 "Sefior, I could talk all day long about that good 
 man. He was so kind and gentle to all, that no one 
 but would have been willing to die for him, if he had 
 asked such a thing. He was not a large man, but was 
 as strong as many of the Indians, and he worked as 
 hard as any one of us. I have heard my mother tell 
 how he helped with his own hands to build the church 
 and the other houses of the mission, and worked all 
 day, so long as it was light, hardly stopping to take 
 time to eat. She said he seemed to think of no thing but 
 to get all the buildings finished, and was unhappy until 
 that was done. She saw him on the day he first came 
 from Mission San Diego with a few workmen and 
 soldiers to start the mission. It was in the afternoon, 
 and the padre and his men passed the time till night 
 fall in making a few huts for themselves like those of 
 the Indians. The next morning, before he would per 
 mit anything else to be done, he made an altar of 
 earth, which he covered all over with the green grow 
 ing grass, and there offered up a sacrifice to his God. 
 He had with him some children he had brought from 
 San Diego, and after the mass he baptised them. My 
 mother and some of the Indians had been to San 
 
 [36] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 Diego, to the mission there, and were not afraid, but 
 nearly all the Indians did not dare come near. 
 
 "As soon as the mass was ended, the padre marked 
 out on the ground the lines for the mission buildings, 
 and the men went to work making adobes. After a few 
 days, the Indians began to lose their fear of the 
 cristianos, and it was not long before they were help 
 ing in all the work to be done. The padre payed them 
 every day for what they did; he would give them 
 clothes or something to eat, and they were very glad 
 to work for him; and it was only a short time when 
 a great crowd was busy on the buildings. My mother 
 told me all this, Senor, for that was long before I was 
 born, more than fifteen years. She was a young girl 
 then. My mother told the Indians how good the 
 padres were to them at San Diego, and did all she 
 could to bring them to work for the mission. I was 
 her first child, and, at her wish, the padre named me 
 after himself Antonio. But all the mission buildings 
 were finished in a few years, and they have never 
 been changed except by falling into ruins. I have not 
 been to San Luis Rev for a long, long time, for I can 
 not bear to go there and see the poor old buildings 
 tumbling to the ground at least that is what they 
 were doing until Padre O Keefe came from Santa 
 Barbara to live there and take charge of the mission. 
 I am glad it is in his care; but he cannot bring back 
 the old days, for the Indians are nearly all gone now. 
 
 "But the Senor wishes to hear about the padre. I 
 think Padre Peyri was nearly fifty years old when 
 I was born, and he had been at the mission all the 
 
 [37] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 time since he started it, about fifteen years before. 
 How he did love his mission, and how proud he was 
 of it! And he was right to be proud, for it was the 
 finest mission in the country, and the largest also. 
 Every one who came there praised the padre for the 
 wonders he had done; and that made him very 
 happy. After his day s work was over, he liked to 
 walk about in the neighborhood, looking at, and see 
 ing, everything the ground, the trees and the sky, 
 listening to the singing of the birds, and watching 
 the sun sink out of sight in the west; but above all 
 else, gazing at the mission, at the beautiful big 
 church, and the building and arches around the patio. 
 Sometimes when I came to him at his bidding, I 
 would see him smiling to himself, as though he was 
 happy to have been able to raise up such a good work 
 to his Lord. 
 
 "But alas! Senor, those happy times could not last 
 always. I do not understand very well the trouble 
 that was between the missions and the Governor it 
 has always been too much for my poor head but I 
 suppose the Senor knows all about it. The Governor 
 wished the Indians to be taken away from the mis 
 sions, and live in pueblos of their own; but the In 
 dians did not like it, nor the padres either; and it 
 made trouble for many years. I was too young to 
 think much about it, but I used to hear the Indians 
 talking among themselves of what they heard from 
 time to time. I asked my father why the Governor 
 could take the Indians away from the missions. He 
 told me it was the wish of Mexico that we should not 
 
 [38] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 live in the missions any longer, but have our own 
 land, and work for money. But must we leave our 
 padre here, and not see him any more? I asked my 
 father. 
 
 " We may have to go away from here, he an 
 swered, but the padre would be our padre still, and 
 we should see him at mass and at other times; but it 
 would not be as it is now. 
 
 " I will never leave here, I said to him, as long 
 as the padre stays; I do not want to go off to w r ork for 
 myself. 
 
 "But the change, Senor, was long in coming, and 
 before it did come, there was another and a greater 
 change at the mission. Well do I remember the day 
 when first I knew, without a doubt, that our old life 
 was at an end. It was a dark and stormy Saturday in 
 early winter. Just before nightfall, a traveller arrived 
 at the mission from the north. Alone and riding 
 slowly a tired horse, which looked as if it had been 
 driven long and hard, he approached, gazing around 
 at the church and all the buildings w T ithin sight. I was 
 driving one of the cows home from the pasture to 
 provide milk for the padre s supper, and saw him as 
 he reached the mission. As soon as I came up to him, 
 he asked me: 
 
 "Is the padre here? 
 
 " 5i, Senor. 
 
 " Tell him Don Manuel wishes to see him at once, 
 he said, in a commanding tone. 
 
 "Calling one of the boys not far away to look after 
 the cow, and to take care of the stranger s horse, I 
 
 [39] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 went to the padre s room and knocked. After waiting 
 a moment, and getting no reply, I knocked again. 
 Hearing no sound, I opened the door and went in. 
 The room was empty, but the door leading into a 
 small side room, from which was an entrance into 
 the church for the padre s use, stood open, and I 
 knew he was in the church. At any other time I would 
 have hesitated, but the traveller had spoken so 
 sternly that I dared not delay, so went on into the 
 church. There was the padre kneeling before the 
 altar of our patron saint, San Luis Rey, his rosary of 
 beautiful gold beads and ivory cross in his hands; 
 but so still one would have said he himself was a 
 statue. I waited again, in hopes he would finish his 
 prayer and come away; but the minutes went by and 
 still he did not move. At last I stepped toward him, 
 stumbling a little against one of the seats that he 
 might know some one was there. He heard the sound 
 and, rising slowly, turned and came toward the door 
 near which I stood. When he saw me he asked what 
 was wanted. I told him. 
 
 " Is it come at last? he said, more to himself than 
 to me, and walked slowly, with bowed head, out of 
 the church. I followed, closing the door of the church 
 and of the little side room, and saw once more the 
 traveller, as he rose from his knees, after receiving 
 the padre s blessing. A moment later he followed the 
 padre into his room. 
 
 "I did not see them again until supper time, when 
 I had to wait at table. They had been some minutes 
 at supper, but were so occupied with their talk that 
 
 [40] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 they had eaten scarcely anything. The stranger was 
 speaking when I went in. 
 
 " But, padre, he said, what will become of your 
 charge here, if you carry out your intention? You 
 know they look up to you as the head and soul of 
 this great mission, and would be, indeed, as sheep 
 without their shepherd, if you 
 
 " My son, interrupted the padre, with a look to 
 ward me, we will speak of that another tune. 
 
 "Nothing more was said until after I had left them. 
 I had seen the look the padre sent in my direction. 
 Had not it been at a time when every one was fearing 
 a change of some kind at the mission, I should have 
 thought nothing of it; but at the time, I knew we 
 might expect something to occur almost any day; so 
 that when he interrupted the stranger, it was only 
 after enough had been said to fill me with fear. I 
 knew, from what he said about the sheep being with 
 out a shepherd, that we might, in some way, lose our 
 padre. As soon as I was free I hastened out to find 
 Miguel, the boy who had taken the stranger s horse. 
 He had gone to his house, a little way from the 
 church. 
 
 " Miguel, I asked, do you know who is this visitor, 
 Don Manuel, and why he is come? 
 
 "He came from Los Angeles, on important busi 
 ness with the padre, Miguel replied. 
 
 " How do you know he is from Los Angeles, and 
 that his business is important? 
 
 " Because, while you were seeking the padre, Don 
 Manuel was so impatient at your delay that he could 
 
 [41] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 not stand still, and kept striding up and down the 
 length of the arcade, muttering to himself. Once I 
 caught the words that if the padre but knew the im 
 portance of his business, he would make great haste. 
 When I led away his horse, he told me to take good 
 care of it, for it must carry him as far on his way 
 tomorrow as it had to-day from Los Angeles. 
 
 " And what is this important business? 
 
 " Quien saber answered Miguel, with a shrug of 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "This was very little to be sure, and it served only 
 to increase my fear that all was not right. 
 
 "But I heard nothing further that night. 
 
 "The next day was the Sabbath. Nothing occurred 
 before mass; breakfast was eaten by the stranger 
 alone in the padres dining-room, and the padre was 
 not seen by any one until the hour for mass. The 
 other padre was here at Pala to take the place of the 
 fraile who was sick. The beautiful church was 
 crowded, every neophyte casting a glance now and 
 then at Don Manuel, who was seated in front, watch 
 ing the door by which the padre was to enter. But it 
 was not until all had begun to wonder what was the 
 reason for his delay, and to grow uneasy and whis 
 per softly to each other, looking at the stranger as 
 though they connected him with some trouble about 
 to befall the mission and their padre. For in those 
 days very little was necessary to stir up fears of a 
 change all knew might come suddenly at any time. 
 At last the door opened, and the padre came slowly 
 into the church. He was pale, and looked sad and 
 
 [42] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 troubled, but went through the service in his usual 
 manner. But when he came to the sermon, it seemed 
 as if he could not go on. He did not take a text from 
 which to preach, but began at once to talk to us in 
 his earnest, gentle voice, saying we must look to God 
 as our father, as one who loved us and would guide 
 us in all this life. Padre Peyri did not preach to us 
 like the fathers at other missions: he seldom said 
 anything about hell and the punishments waiting for 
 us if we were wicked, but talked to us and preached 
 about the love of God and His Son Jesus Christ, and 
 our duty to them, not from fear of future punish 
 ment, but because we owed it to them, as we owed 
 our earthly parents love and respect. This morning 
 he was more than ever solemn, and before the close 
 of his short talk, many of his listeners had tears in 
 their eyes. More than once he had to stop for a mo 
 ment, to regain control of his voice which, all through 
 his talk, trembled and sometimes was hardly above 
 a whisper. As soon as the service was ended, he left 
 the church, followed quickly by the stranger. 
 
 "I hastened from the choir and church to the 
 padre s room to be ready at hand in case he should 
 want anything. He was not there, but I found him 
 in the patio, talking earnestly with Don Manuel, as 
 they walked up and down the cloister. As soon as he 
 saw me, he told me to give orders to have the visitor s 
 horse ready for him immediately after dinner. I did 
 so, and on coming back from the large dining-room, 
 where I told my errand to one of the mozos, found 
 the padre and Don Manuel just sitting down to their 
 
 [43] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 own dinner. The padre ate little; but there was noth 
 ing else to make me think that anything was wrong, 
 and had not it been for the night before, and the 
 morning s mass, I should have thought nothing of it. 
 But now every little thing was large and important in 
 my eyes; and although nothing was said but what 
 might have been said by any visitor at any time, I 
 grew more and more heavy-hearted. After they had 
 finished eating, which they did very quickly, the 
 stranger prepared to leave. Gathering up his som 
 brero and zarape, and receiving a small package, 
 which looked like a bundle of letters, from the padre, 
 he strode out to his horse, already waiting for him 
 in front of the building, the padre close behind him. 
 "I took my place by the horse, and pretended to be 
 looking at the saddle, to see that everything was 
 right, while I tried to hear what the padre and Don 
 Manuel were saying; but they spoke too low for me 
 to make out more than a word now and then. I heard 
 Don Manuel say San Diego; the Pocahontas, a small 
 ship but; Spain, and a few other words of no sig 
 nificance. Padre Peyri said hardly a word, but stood 
 with bowed head, and eyes cast on the ground. At 
 last Don Manuel knelt to receive the padre s blessing, 
 and with a last low sentence, and an adios, spoken 
 aloud, as he sprang to his horse, he dashed off down 
 the hill until he came to the mission road which runs 
 from San Diego into the far north. The padre 
 watched him turn his horse s head toward the south, 
 and disappear behind a hill; a few minutes later he 
 came into sight again as he ascended another hill 
 
 [44] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 until at last he stood on the top. With a long look at 
 the rider hurrying away in the distance, the padre 
 turned and, without a word to me, went into the 
 house and shut himself in his room. 
 
 "Senor, that was the last time I saw him at the 
 mission. Padre Anzar, who had been at Pala that 
 day, returned to the mission in the afternoon, and I 
 saw him at supper, but Padre Peyri did not come out 
 of his room the rest of the day. Late that night I 
 wandered around the church, so sad and full of fear 
 of what I knew was coming, that I could not sleep. 
 There was a light in the church, and I was sure the 
 padre was in there, but, of course, I could not go in 
 to see, and speak to him. After a little while the light 
 disappeared, and I went back to my bed. 
 
 "Although I now felt certain I knew what the padre 
 was going to do, from what I had heard and seen, 
 yet I knew nothing of the time, and did not dream 
 it was so near. But early the next morning I knew all. 
 I was on my way to the padre s house, when I met 
 Miguel coming toward me on the run. As soon as he 
 came near he cried to me : 
 
 " Antonio, el padre se ha ido (the padre is gone) ! 
 His horse is not here, nor his saddle. 
 
 "My heart stood still. So all that I had feared the 
 day before was come true, and our beloved padre 
 had left us. But how suddenly it had taken place! 
 I thought of San Diego and the small ship Poca- 
 hontas, and knew all. I had not seen Miguel since my 
 talk with him two nights before, and he knew nothing 
 of what had occurred. I now told him everything. 
 
 [45] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 " Dios mio! Our padre gone away, not to come 
 back? Oh, why did he go? Why did not he stay with 
 us? What shall we do without him? he exclaimed. 
 
 "While Miguel was crying in this manner, I was 
 like one stunned, and knew not what to do. Suddenly 
 a thought came to me. 
 
 " Miguel, let us follow him, and, if we can, per 
 suade him to come back. I know he did not go will 
 ingly, but was driven to it by the Governor and his 
 people; for you know he has often said that here 
 was his home, and here he intended to stay until his 
 death. 
 
 " But, Antonio, what can we two do ? He would not 
 listen to us, and, besides, he must be too far ahead 
 now to be overtaken. And the ship may have left be 
 fore we get to San Diego. You did not hear when it 
 was to sail? 
 
 " No, but we can come up with him, I am sure, be 
 fore he reaches San Diego, if we waste no time. 
 Come, I am going to tell my father, and get my horse, 
 and be off. And I started on the run for my father s 
 house, which was not far from the church. I found 
 him just leaving for his work, and told him, in a few 
 words, what had happened. He was not so surprised 
 as I thought he would be, for he was an old man, and 
 knew more of all that was taking place in the coun 
 try, than was possible for me, a mere boy. 
 
 " Go, Antonio, he said. I shall follow you; and he 
 turned away into the house. 
 
 "I waited not to see what he would do, but darted 
 away, and, catching my horse, was off as hard as I 
 
 [46] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 could ride. Before I had gone many rods, I heard a 
 horse s gallop behind me, and, looking back, saw 
 Miguel at full speed. I stopped to permit him to come 
 up with me, and then, without a word, we went on 
 together. 
 
 "There are nearly ten leagues between San Luis 
 Rey and San Diego, Senor; and as we were deter 
 mined to reach there by noon, we said very little 
 during the whole ride, but urged our horses to their 
 utmost. After going a few miles, we came to the 
 shore, and went along by the ocean, sometimes on the 
 beach itself, sometimes on the mesa above. But 
 swiftly as we went, the sun was still quicker, and it 
 was nearly noon when we came in sight of San Diego. 
 We hastened on, past houses, the presidio, and down 
 to the edge of the water, taking no notice of the men, 
 women and children, who gazed wonderingly after 
 us. Out in the bay, not far from the shore, lay a ship 
 \vith sails spread, ready to start w r ith the first puff 
 of wind, which began faintly to blow as we reached 
 the water. On the deck there were many people, pas 
 sengers and sailors, and among them we saw our 
 padre, a little apart from the others, and gazing to 
 ward the land he was leaving. By his side stood Don 
 Manuel, who had been at the mission the day before, 
 and with them were two of the mission Indians. I en 
 vied them, Senor, and wished I could have been there 
 also, for my heart was breaking at the thought of 
 losing my beloved padre. At first he did not notice 
 us, but when, with a cry, we called to him, he started 
 as he saw us standing on the beach, with our arms 
 
 [47] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 held out to him. Just at that instant, we heard a dis 
 tant sound of horses coming hard and fast over the 
 ground toward us. Looking around, we saw a sight 
 that made us thrill : a great throng of men, each one 
 urging on with whip and spur the horse he was rid 
 ing. We did not at once know what it meant, but, in 
 a second or two, understood. It was a band of Indians 
 from our mission. Madly they dashed down to the 
 shore, sprang from their horses, and fell on their 
 Igiees some on the beach, some half in the water, 
 so great was the crowd imploring, with heart 
 breaking cries, our padre to have pity on them and 
 not leave them. There were nearly five hundred men, 
 and their lamentations were terrible to hear. 
 
 "But the sails had filled with the freshening breeze, 
 and the ship was fast getting under way. The padre 
 gazed at us all, long and sorrowfully, and, with arms 
 raised up to Heaven, in a faltering voice, which we 
 could scarcely hear from the increasing distance, 
 called down the blessing of God on us. With groans 
 and cries we watched the ship sail away, and as it 
 faded into the distance, we saw our beloved padre 
 kneeling on the deck in prayer. 
 
 "Senor, there is no more to tell. We waited there 
 on the beach until the ship had disappeared; then 
 slowly, one by one, found each our horse, and set 
 out for the mission. All night we rode, not caring how 
 or when we should get there. When we reached the 
 mission, we found the women and children gathered 
 together, waiting for us. As soon as they saw us they 
 burst out weeping and lamenting, for, by our man- 
 
 [48] 
 
THE FLIGHT OF PADRE PEYRI 
 
 ner, they knew our padre was gone. Silently we 
 turned loose our horses, and went back to our old 
 life and work, but with sorrow in our hearts. That is 
 all, Senor." 
 
 I had listened to the old man with great and con 
 stantly increasing interest, and long before he had 
 finished, found myself with brush held idly in my 
 hand. He had told his story with simple earnestness, 
 crossed, now and then, with deep emotion, as his love 
 for the Franciscan father, and sorrow at his loss, 
 came to the surface. After an interval of silence, I 
 asked him if he had ever heard of the padre since 
 that day. 
 
 "Only two or three times," he answered. "A few 
 months afterward we had news of him from Mexico; 
 he was then about to return to Spain. Two years after 
 we heard he was at his old home and, a little later, 
 that he was gone to Rome. Some one told us he lived 
 there till his death, but we never knew positively. 
 
 Padre Peyri is one of the most picturesque figures 
 in California s mission history: the zeal he showed 
 in calling his mission into existence; the intensity of 
 enthusiasm with which he labored for it; his long 
 career of usefulness; the love the neophytes had for 
 him; his agony at the ruthless destruction of the mis 
 sions too great for him to endure, old and feeble 
 as he then was growing; and his dramatic departure, 
 hastening away under cover of the night, to escape 
 the importunities of his devoted flock: all this had 
 been pictured with keen clearness in the old Indian s 
 simple tale. 
 
 [49] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 I thanked him for his story as he rose to go. Wish 
 ing me "adios" with grave politeness, he walked 
 slowly away, and left me to dream of the old mission 
 times, full of color and romance, which have given 
 so much to the present day, until the sun sinking be 
 hind the hills in the west recalled me to myself and 
 my surroundings. 
 
 I fear I shall never again see Pala; but I shall not 
 forget its charm and beauty, the quaint old campa- 
 nario and near-by buildings, and, above all, Antonio, 
 the Indian, and his tale of mission life in the old days. 
 
 [50] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 ATHER ZALVIDEA was 
 in despair! After hav 
 ing lived for twenty 
 years at Mission San 
 Gabriel, devoting him 
 self all that time to 
 bringing the mission to 
 a condition of so great 
 size and wealth that it 
 took its place at the 
 head of nearly all of 
 the missions of Nueva 
 California, toiling from 
 morning until night 
 with untutored neo 
 phytes and striving to hammer something of civilisa 
 tion into their heads now he was to be removed. He 
 had seen this very thing threatening for many days,but 
 had hoped and prayed that it might not be; he had 
 mustered up boldness enough to address President 
 Tapis at Monterey, beseeching that he might be con 
 tinued at San Gabriel, bringing to bear the weight of 
 all he had done, and the flourishing condition the 
 
 [53] 
 
 J |l|c/anjuan Capijtrano 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 mission was in under his charge. It was of no avail. 
 The night before, he had received a letter by the post 
 messenger on his way to San Diego, charging the 
 Father to prepare for removal to Mission San Juan 
 Capistrano, his future field of work. After a sleepless 
 night of vain repining, he had risen early and wan 
 dered out into his garden, back of the church, his 
 favorite resort when in a meditative mood, or when 
 he wished to escape intrusion of whatever sort. 
 
 Father Zalvidea s garden was a warm, sunny place, 
 filled to overflowing with flowers and plants and 
 trees. It covered nearly an acre of ground, bounded 
 on one side by the church, on part of the adjoining 
 side by the Father s house, close by the church; from 
 here the ground sloped gradually to the west, leaving 
 open to view the San Gabriel Mountains, towering 
 high above the plain. The Father had planned this 
 garden soon after coming to the mission, and had 
 laid it out with all the talent of a landscape artist. In 
 the corner bounded by the church and his house, he 
 had planted most of the trees olive, lemon and 
 peach, and a few palms disposing them skillfully 
 for shade, while at the same time leaving vistas of 
 the adobe church, golden yellow in the sunlight; be 
 yond were placed the flowering plants roses in im 
 mense numbers, a great variety of lilies of different 
 tints, a few century plants, one of them with its huge 
 flower stalk high in air, and a large passion vine, 
 trained along the adobe wall enclosing the garden on 
 the west. These were the most prominent of the 
 plants, brought from Mexico and Spain, reminding 
 
 [54] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 him of his old home; and interspersed with these 
 were a goodly number of vegetables, for this garden 
 was not wholly for pleasure, but served as a source 
 of supply for the Father s table. Paths there were 
 none. Every spot of ground, where there was nothing 
 growing, was hard and smooth like a path, baked as 
 it was by the sun after every rain. At first the Father 
 had tried to grow grass in some parts of his garden, 
 but soon gave it up on account of the constant atten 
 tion it needed, and disliking the tough wiry grass, 
 native to the region, he trained his plants to cover the 
 ground, letting them spread and wander much at 
 their will. Here was his rest from the many and 
 varied labors in a Nueva California mission; and 
 here he was to be found when at leisure, seeing if his 
 plants were given the proper attention by his gar 
 dener, studying changes from time to time in their 
 arrangement, or wandering about, now here, now 
 there, with eyes bent on the ground, meditating on 
 his duties, or gazing off to the distant horizon, and 
 dreaming of his early life in his boyhood home. 
 
 But this morning Father Zalvidea was thinking of 
 anything but Spain, or even of his garden, as he 
 passed slowly back and forth among the plants. His 
 thoughts were occupied with the instructions he had 
 received the night before. One must put one s self in 
 the Father s place, and know something of his life 
 and surroundings, to appreciate the reason for his 
 dislike to the proposed change. The missions in 
 Nueva California were lonely, isolated spots of civ 
 ilisation in the midst of many Indian tribes. Each 
 
 [55] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 one, twenty to fifty miles distant from the neighbor 
 ing mission on either side, lived, in a great measure, 
 solely for itself, as it was dependent, in most things, 
 on itself alone. There was communication, of course, 
 between the different missions, with the president at 
 Monterey, and with Mexico; but, occasionally, weeks 
 would go by without a single messenger from the 
 outside world, during which time each mission was a 
 little world by itself. This tended to strengthen the 
 love for locality, which was still farther increased 
 from the fathers having no family ties, leading them, 
 each one, in his celibate state, to become more deeply 
 attached to his own particular field of labor, with an 
 intensity not often seen in other classes of men. Thus 
 our Father Zalvidea had been so long at Mission San 
 Gabriel, that he had come to look on it almost as his 
 own, in more senses than the one strictly of being 
 its religious and temporal head. He had carried on 
 the good work, begun by his predecessor, Father 
 Sanchez, and had brought the mission to such a state 
 of prosperity, that it was second to none in wealth, 
 and to but few in number of Indian neophytes. Now, 
 as he wandered around in his garden, he gazed at the 
 buildings of his establishment scattered, near and 
 far, in every direction; at the church, close by, which, 
 although not as fine as those at some of the missions 
 San Luis Key and Santa Barbara, for instance 
 was a good solid structure, imposing in its appear 
 ance of strength; his own abode adjoining; the low 
 adobe houses of the Indians everywhere; the corrals 
 of livestock on the foot-hills in the distance. Finally 
 
 [56] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 his eye rested on the vineyards stretching away to 
 ward the north and west, so far that they seemed 
 without end. These vineyards were the pride of the 
 Father s heart, for the culture of the grape was one 
 of his hobbies, and here at San Gabriel he had car 
 ried out his theories in viticulture so successfully that 
 his vineyards, and the wine and brandy made from 
 them, were famous throughout the length of the land, 
 and much sought after by the other missions, as well 
 as by Mexico. No wonder the Father was proud of 
 his success, for this product was a mine of wealth to 
 the mission. Now, however, there was no pride in his 
 glance, as he looked long and sorrowfully at his vine 
 yards; he was thinking gloomily that they were no 
 longer his, and that he must leave this place, which 
 he was come to love with all the repressed passion 
 of his heart. It was not as though he were going to a 
 poor and mean mission, as were some of those in 
 Nueva California. Father Zalvidea had been more 
 than once to San Juan Capistrano, fifty miles south 
 of San Gabriel, and knew well that it was large, al 
 though not as rich as it had been at one time; but his 
 was the nature of the cat, which always returns to its 
 old home. Father Zalvidea knew a priest was needed 
 at San Juan Capistrano, and none was as available 
 as himself; but he was human, and this last sacri 
 fice of self was more than he could make without a 
 murmur. 
 
 At last he returned to his house, and, after break 
 fast, began to make his preparations. A week later 
 saw him leaving the mission with his personal be- 
 
 [57] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 longings, the most valuable of which appeared to be 
 a heavy wooden box, about the size and shape of a 
 brick, and which he would not allow out of his own 
 hands, but carried with him, fastened to the pommel 
 of his saddle. What was in this box no one knew but 
 the Father himself. 
 
 Behold Father Zalvidea at Mission San Juan Capis- 
 trano ! Although at first murmuring at the change of 
 his scene of labor, yet, after finding it inevitable, he 
 had submitted to it with all due humility, and with 
 energy and even enthusiasm had thrown himself into 
 the work at hand. Mission San Juan Capistrano was 
 fallen away sadly from the high position it had held 
 ten years before : neophytes were still many, but they 
 had been allowed to follow their own devices; the re 
 ligious life, consequently, was neglected, as well as 
 the cultivation of the mission lands. It was a sad pros 
 pect that met the Father s eyes, the first time he took 
 a survey of the fields and corrals and vineyards of 
 the mission. On every side his well-trained eye saw 
 the marks of lack of care in husbandry the fields of 
 wheat and corn were only half cultivated; the live 
 stock in the corrals looked poor and thin; while as 
 for the vineyards ! Father Zalvidea sighed deeply 
 as he gazed at what were the merest apology for 
 vineyards, judging from his high standard, and 
 compared them mentally with those cared for so 
 lovingly at Mission San Gabriel. He saw, at a glance, 
 just what was needed, and set about bringing them 
 up to a point somewhat approaching his ideal. 
 
 [58] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 But before giving his attention to these mundane 
 things, Father Zalvidea had to do much for the spir 
 itual side of the mission and its people; for it was 
 in a more deplorable state in this respect than in 
 that of material welfare. Fourteen years before, Mis 
 sion San Juan Capistrano had had the finest church 
 in Nueva California, the pride of the whole country. 
 Father Zalvidea had been present at its dedication, 
 the occasion of great ceremony amidst a vast throng 
 of neophytes, and all the Spanish dignitaries that 
 could be gathered together. But the mission had en 
 joyed its beautiful church only a few years when it 
 suffered a most awful calamity. One Sunday morn 
 ing, when the church was crowded with Indians at 
 mass, there was heard in the hush of prayer, a dis 
 tant noise, like the sound of a great rush of storm- 
 wind, which, a moment later, reached the mission, 
 and with the rocking of the earth and the rending of 
 walls, the tower of the new church fell on the people 
 below, shrieking as they fled. Forty were killed on 
 the spot, as well as many wounded. This catastrophe 
 was by far the worst ever visited on the missions, 
 and it was long before San Juan Gapistrano recov 
 ered from the blow never, in fact, so far as the 
 church was concerned, for it was too badly injured to 
 be repaired, and the fathers could not summon up 
 energy enough to build another. Since that dire Sab 
 bath, a room in the adjoining building had been used 
 as a church. Father Zalvidea s greatest desire, next to 
 seeing the vineyards brought up to their proper con 
 dition, was to build a new church, and these were the 
 
 [59] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 only mitigating circumstances in his regretted change 
 of residence; but he had been only a few days at his 
 new home, when he gave up his purpose with regard 
 to the church; it was beyond his power, as he saw. 
 San Juan Capistrano had been too long on the de 
 cline, and the neophytes were too indifferent, to un 
 dertake this work. 
 
 So our Father Zalvidea confined himself to the 
 simple religious duties of his position, and left such 
 grand projects as building a new church to the fu 
 ture. He had enough, and more than enough, to oc 
 cupy all his time, and he soon ceased to sigh for his 
 old home at San Gabriel, indeed, almost to think of 
 it. It was only at rare intervals that he found time, 
 after the day s work was done, to take a little pasear 
 in the mission garden in front of the monastery. But 
 this garden was a poor makeshift; the plants were of 
 the commonest kinds, and were choked with weeds. 
 Still, the Father found comfort in it, and with his 
 oversight it was soon a fairly respectable garden. So 
 the months flew by. 
 
 It was more than a year after Father Zalvidea s 
 advent at Mission San Juan Capistrano, when he be 
 thought himself one day of the little wooden box he 
 had brought with him. On arriving, he had depos 
 ited it temporarily at the bottom of a large chest 
 which stood in his room, and which was used for 
 storing away papers and records of the mission. Hid 
 den as the box was, under piles of papers, the Father 
 felt tolerably safe regarding his treasure, and im 
 mured as he had been ever since, in the busy affairs 
 
 [60] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 needing his whole time and attention, he had almost 
 forgotten it. But on this day he had made up his mind 
 to hide it more effectually. Late that night, after the 
 entire mission was still in sleep, he took out the box, 
 placed it on the table, and by the light of a candle, 
 opened it with a small key which he wore, hung by 
 a slender black silk cord, round his neck underneath 
 his Franciscan robe. Inside were five gleaming rows 
 of gold coins bright new Spanish onzas, every one 
 looking as if just fresh from the mint. There were one 
 hundred and twenty-five coins, each worth about six 
 teen dollars of American money, making the con 
 tents of the box amount to two thousand dollars a 
 goodly sum, indeed, for a poor Spanish priest in 
 Nueva California to possess. Lying on top of the rows 
 of coins was a slip of paper, on which was written 
 in Spanish : 
 
 "My dearest one, pray to God and Our Lady to 
 bless your poor Dolores." 
 
 Father Zalvidea read the paper, then kissing it pas 
 sionately, fell on his knees, and, with trembling voice, 
 offered up his petitions to Christ for a blessing on the 
 loved one in the far away land. 
 
 This box contained the romance of Father Zalvi- 
 dea s life. Years before, when a young man, and ere 
 he had had any thought of becoming a priest, he had 
 been enamoured of a beautiful Andalucian maiden, 
 who returned his love. But Dolores s father was rich, 
 and looked with disfavor upon poor Jose Zalvidea, 
 and at length forced his daughter to marry a suitor 
 he had chosen for her a man three times her age, 
 
 [61] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 but with a fortune equal to that which was to be hers 
 at her father s death; for she was his only child. Jose, 
 heart-broken, entered a seminary to study for the 
 priesthood, and gave himself up to his new work, 
 striving to drown his sorrow. A few years later, he 
 was selected to make one of a number of young 
 priests to go to Mexico. The last time he had heard 
 confessions in the parish church, a woman, heavily 
 veiled, entered the confessional, and, in a whisper, 
 interrupted by sobs, asked for his blessing. At her 
 first word he recognized Dolores s voice, and with a 
 smothered cry, fell back, almost unconscious, in his 
 seat. This was the first time he had seen her. since 
 her unhappy marriage, five years before. Recovering 
 himself, he asked her, coldly, why she was there. 
 With sobs she told him she had a small box which 
 she would leave in the confessional for him. On his 
 asking what was in it, and what she wished him to 
 do with it, she said it was a small sum of money 
 which he must take with him on his journey, and al 
 ways keep by him, and if, at any time, or when old 
 age overtook him, he were in want, to use it. "You 
 are going far away," she said. "I shall never see you, 
 may never hear of you, again. I know a priest s life 
 is one of toil and hardship, especially in the new 
 land, and his salary very small. It is my own, Jose," 
 she implored, "do not refuse me. Take it, and think 
 kindly of me, if you can." Touched by her thought, 
 he promised, and should he never need to use it, he 
 would leave it to the Church. Then, as she bowed her 
 head, in broken accents, he called down Heaven s 
 
 [62] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 richest blessing on his loved one. Weeping bitterly, 
 Dolores arose and left the confessional. As soon as he 
 had recovered from his agitation, Jose left his seat, 
 and entering the side of the confessional where Do 
 lores had knelt, he saw an oblong parcel, wrapped in 
 dark paper, lying on the floor far back in the corner. 
 He took it up and carried it away with him. Not for 
 many days after did he have the calmness to open it. 
 Inside the wrapper was the wooden box we have al 
 ready seen, on top of which lay a small, flat key. He 
 unlocked the box, and with eyes full of tears, saw the 
 glittering rows of gold coins, and the words traced 
 by Dolores s pen. 
 
 But to-night Father Zalvidea decided to put the box 
 in a safer place. Going to the window, and drawing 
 aside the curtain, he opened it. Listening intently for 
 a moment, and hearing nothing, he returned to the 
 table, lighted a small dark lantern, extinguished the 
 candle, and taking up the box after closing and lock 
 ing it, he left the room, and walked softly through 
 the passage out into the patio. 
 
 Aided by the feeble light from the moon, low down 
 on the horizon, he hurried along the cloister to a 
 room back of the church, which had been deserted 
 and left to itself for many years, and was now almost 
 in ruins. Going into one corner, Father Zalvidea, by 
 the light of his lantern, found a small pick and shovel 
 which, that afternoon, he had left there for this very 
 purpose, and set to work to dig a hole in which to 
 bury his treasure. Although the ground was hard, it 
 required only a few minutes, after the cement floor 
 
 [63] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 was broken through, to accomplish this, for the box 
 was small, and to bury it deep down was quite un 
 necessary. Father Zalvidea placed the box in the 
 hole, covered it with the earth he had thrown to one 
 side on a large sheet of paper he had brought with 
 him, and then, carefully fitting together the pieces of 
 cement he had broken, he sprinkled over it some of the 
 remaining earth, to hide all traces of the disturbance 
 a thing very easy to do, as the cement was so nearly 
 the color of the clay soil. Leaving the shovel and pick, 
 he wrapped what earth was left in the paper, put it 
 under his arm, took up the lantern, and wended his 
 way back to his room, congratulating himself on hav 
 ing hidden the money safely. 
 
 Well would it have been for the Father, had he put 
 his box of gold coins into the great, strong, securely 
 padlocked chest standing in the vestry of the church, 
 in which were kept the money and all the valuable 
 articles the gold embroidered vestments and the 
 sacred vessels of silver belonging to the mission. 
 Father Zalvidea had, indeed, thought of it, but he had 
 felt a strong repugnance to placing his own private 
 property among that of the church; so, although 
 much the better way, he had chosen the other. And 
 how could he know there had been a pair of eyes 
 watching him all the time he was busy in the de 
 serted room? Such was the case, however, for a 
 young mestizo had been witness of the whole pro 
 ceeding. Juan, the seventeen year old son of a Mexi 
 can laborer, who had married one of the mission In 
 dian women, united in himself the bad qualities of 
 
 [64] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 both races, as has so often been the result of such 
 crosses. He had grown up idle, indifferent to his par 
 ents, vicious and cruel, leading astray the other 
 youths of the mission, among whom he was easily 
 the master, and causing his parents and Father Zal- 
 videa no end of anxiety. The Father, in fact, had 
 about made up his mind that Juan must be sent away 
 to San Diego, and put under military discipline. To 
 have him longer at liberty was not to be considered. 
 This night Juan had been at the home of one of his 
 boon companions, talking over the plans for a fan 
 dango to be given within a few days. Coming along 
 leisurely by the wall of the building forming the 
 east side of the patio, he saw the faintest glimmer 
 of light shining through the opening of a ruined win 
 dow. Standing on a stone, which he placed beneath 
 the window, he looked in and saw the Father busily 
 at work in the far corner of the room. Curiosity took 
 possession of him, and he watched every movement 
 of the worker until he had completed his task, taken 
 up the lantern, and left the room. After waiting a 
 few moments, to make sure he was not coming back, 
 Juan sprang lightly through the window, and went 
 to the corner where the Father had been occupied. 
 First looking out into the patio to see that no one 
 was there, he seized the shovel, and digging ener 
 getically a minute or two, struck the hard top of the 
 box. Lifting it out he examined it by the moonlight 
 coming in by the door, which he had left open. The 
 box was heavy, but there was nothing else to indicate 
 what were its contents. Juan knew the Father valued 
 
 [65] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 it, from the care with which he had secreted it, and 
 surmised, from its weight, it might contain gold. Has 
 tily filling the hole, and making the surface smooth 
 as possible, in the dim light, he climbed out of the 
 window, taking the box with him. Walking swiftly 
 on the road for a half-mile farther, he came to a 
 little adobe house where he and his parents lived. 
 Passing the house, he hurried on to the garden and 
 wheat-field belonging to his father, and, reaching the 
 far end, he sat down on the ground and took the box 
 in his lap to examine it at his ease. For a moment he 
 hesitated, realising the magnitude of his crime, but 
 only for a moment. He could not resist his curiosity 
 to see the contents of the box; and, too, if it were 
 gold, as he felt sure it must be, he intended to take 
 it, for Juan had long had a great desire to run away 
 to Mexico or Hawaii; but venturesome as he was, he 
 could not quite bring himself to the point of carrying 
 it out, for his indolence drew him back at the pros 
 pect of being obliged to work his way. 
 
 His hesitation quickly came to an end, and placing 
 the box on the ground, he found a sharp stone, and 
 began pounding it with quick, hard blows. Strong as 
 the box was, it could not long withstand such treat 
 ment, and soon it fell apart, broken at the hinges. 
 With a low cry of surprise, Juan gazed at the glitter 
 ing coins; then, with feverish fingers, he took up a 
 handful and examined them carefully, for he had 
 never seen the Spanish onza, and did not know its 
 value. That it was gold, however, satisfied him; he 
 would find out its value later, for at the first sight of 
 
 [66] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 it, Juan had jumped at the fact that now he was a 
 thief, and could not remain at the mission. With 
 lightning speed he made up his mind to run away, 
 and that very night. Two thousand dollars in gold is 
 a heavy load for one s pocket, but that was the only 
 way Juan could carry it, and he quickly transferred 
 it to his two pockets. Not daring to go into the house, 
 from fear of waking his parents, he set off, just as he 
 was, for San Pedro, the nearest seaport, a walk of 
 nearly fifty miles. But the box he must not leave 
 that lying on the ground in plain sight! He must take 
 it with him until he could find some place to hide it, 
 or throw it into the sea. He picked it up, and hurried 
 off, not noticing the slip of paper, which had fallen 
 out of the box when it was broken open. Walking all 
 night, Juan found himself, at daybreak, still far from 
 San Pedro, tired out and hungry. But he knew he 
 must keep on, if he did not want to be overtaken and 
 captured. We shall not follow him farther; it is more 
 than certain he will be relieved of his gold, when he 
 reaches San Pedro, by some friendly sailor or bad 
 character of the settlement; and he will, after all, 
 have to work his way to Mexico, for it would be out 
 of the question to return to San Juan Capistrano. 
 
 Juan was frequently away for two or three days at 
 a time, and his non-appearance the next morning 
 caused no particular remark from his parents; and 
 not until late in the afternoon of the second day of 
 his absence did anything occur to lead them to think 
 he was gone. His father had begun to cut his wheat 
 the day before. This afternoon he was just finishing 
 
 [67] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 the last piece of the field, when he spied something 
 white on the ground, almost hidden by the tall grain. 
 Stopping his horse, he picked it up, wondering, and 
 with some difficulty made out the writing on it. 
 Where had it come from; to whom did it belong; 
 who was Dolores it was too much for his slow mind 
 to fathom. But of one thing he was certain it must be 
 taken to the Father; he would know if it was of mo 
 ment. And then it was he thought of his son and his 
 absence. Hardly in his own mind did he connect it 
 with the bit of paper; and yet the suspicion, once 
 aroused, would not be dispelled. Finishing his work 
 as quickly as possible, he returned to his house and 
 told his wife what he had found, and then spoke of 
 the absence of their son as, possibly, having some 
 connection with it. 
 
 "I will take it to the Father to-morrow," said his 
 wife, calmly, as became her race, but with an under 
 tone of anxiety and sadness. 
 
 Early the next morning Juan s mother wended her 
 way to the mission, and asking to see the Father, was 
 led to his reception-room. He was sitting at a table 
 covered with books and papers, reading from a large 
 folio filled with the early statistics of the mission, the 
 first few pages of which were written by the sainted 
 Serra s hand. Father Zalvidea looked up as the In 
 dian woman entered. 
 
 "Good morning, my daughter," he said. "What do 
 you wish with me?" 
 
 The woman responded with a trembling voice, 
 "Father, my husband found this in his wheat-field." 
 
 [68] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 The Father took the paper with negligent curiosity. 
 It was rumpled and dirty, far different from its ap 
 pearance when in the box, and he did not recognise 
 it. But as soon as he had smoothed it, and saw the 
 handwriting, he sprang to his feet, crying: 
 
 "Woman, how came you by this? Tell me. Why did 
 you bring it to me? Where is the box?" 
 
 Terrified at the outbreak she had evoked, the In 
 dian fell on her knees before the priest, and ex 
 claimed: 
 
 "Father, I know nothing more about it than what 
 I have told you. My husband found it yesterday in his 
 field, and gave it to me to bring to you. That is all, 
 Father." 
 
 The Father composed himself with difficulty, and, 
 after a moment, spoke with his accustomed calm 
 ness: 
 
 "My daughter, forgive me for speaking so harshly, 
 and doubting your word, for I know you would not 
 have brought me the paper if you had not come hon 
 estly by it. But I must see your husband at once." 
 
 The priest got his hat, and, accompanied by the 
 woman, started quickly for her home. 
 
 Now the woman had said nothing about the sus 
 picions her husband had had, and which he had im 
 parted to her. However unworthy of her love, she was 
 Juan s mother, and, Indian though she was, and with 
 the inherited instincts of the savage, hers was the 
 natural love found in civilised and savage alike, and 
 she could not bring herself to tell the Father what 
 she felt must be true. So, silently, the two hastened to 
 
 [69] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 her home. Juan s father was in the garden back of 
 the house, weeding his vegetable patch. As soon as he 
 saw his wife and the priest he came toward them. 
 
 "Pablo, tell me all you know about this paper?" 
 said the Father abruptly, without preamble of any 
 kind. 
 
 The man related the fact of his finding it, which 
 was, indeed, all there was to tell. And then, with 
 hesitation, spoke of Juan s absence. 
 
 The Father started. 
 
 "When did you see him last?" he asked. 
 
 "The day before yesterday, in the afternoon," re 
 plied the man. "He said he was going to see Fernando 
 Diaz, who lives on the mission road, two miles north 
 from here." 
 
 "Did you see him when he came back?" enquired 
 the priest. 
 
 "No, Father," the man answered. "That is the 
 last time we have seen him." 
 
 Father Zalvidea asked the man to show him the 
 place where he had found the paper, and the two 
 walked to the wheat-field. When they came to the 
 spot, the Father looked carefully around on the 
 ground, hoping to discover some trace of the box and 
 its contents. Searching in the stubble, he did actually 
 find one of the gold coins, but that was all. The box 
 was too large to remain hidden in the field, and the 
 Father knew it must have been carried away. He 
 showed Pablo, who had been assisting in the search, 
 the coin he had found, and then, as there was no 
 object in concealment, told him of his loss. 
 
 [70] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 The man s astonishment at the enormity of his 
 son s offence was profound. He was struck dumb for 
 some moments, but realising, at last, that his son was, 
 in all likelihood, involved, he besought the Father to 
 have pity on him. 
 
 "Pablo," said the priest, "have you no idea whither 
 Juan is gone ? Have you ever heard him say anything 
 to lead you to think he wanted to leave the mission?" 
 
 "No, Father," he replied; for Juan always had been 
 careful to say nothing of his longing to go to Mexico, 
 as he knew he might be watched should he ever 
 carry it out. 
 
 "I know not what to do," said the priest, "but I 
 shall, at any rate, send messengers to San Diego and 
 San Pedro. He might leave either place in some ship 
 for Mexico or Central America, for he would not dare 
 to go to San Luis Rey or San Gabriel, as he would be 
 discovered and sent back. But I fear it will do no 
 good." 
 
 The two returned to the house, where the woman 
 still waited for them. She saw traces of emotion on 
 the Father s face, and consternation written plainly 
 on that of her husband, but, like a true Indian, asked 
 no questions. 
 
 Father Zalvidea commanded the couple to say 
 nothing about the matter, and returned to the mis 
 sion. As soon as he reached it, he sent off two trusty 
 neophytes, on horseback, one to San Diego, the other 
 to San Pedro, with letters to friends in each place, 
 relating the robbery. But no trace of Juan was found. 
 He had had over two days start, and by the time the 
 
 [71] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 messenger arrived at San Pedro, he was far out to 
 sea in a ship which had sailed the very morning of 
 the discovery of the theft. 
 
 After this cruel interruption, Father Zalvidea re 
 turned to his quiet life with a sorrowful heart. He did 
 not regret the loss of the money, so far as he himself 
 was concerned, for he had long destined it for the 
 Church, as he knew he could retire to some monas 
 tery when too old and feeble for further usefulness; 
 but the desecration of his secret was like a painful 
 stab. The robbery had the effect, also, of calling 
 forcibly to mind, once again, the life and love of 
 other days those halcyon days of youth, when all 
 was sunshine and hope. During the rest of the day 
 the Father was unable to control himself for any 
 work whatsoever. He paced back and forth the length 
 of his room; walked up and down the cloister sur 
 rounding the patio; wandered out around the gar 
 den, and even as far off as the bluff, a mile from the 
 mission, from which could be seen the beach below, 
 white with foam from the inrushing waves. It was 
 many days before he regained his normal equa 
 nimity. 
 
 Father Zalvidea lived at Mission San Juan Capis- 
 trano nearly fifteen years after this episode in his 
 life there. Two years after the robbery he heard that 
 his loss was known to the mission. Pablo, while under 
 the influence of too much aguardiente, had told of it. 
 Father Zalvidea at once set to work to silence the 
 gossip, and did so effectually, for he heard nothing 
 more of it while he remained at the mission. But the 
 
 [72] 
 
FATHER ZALVIDEA S MONEY 
 
 rumor lived, although repressed, and for years after 
 his departure, searches were made for the money 
 which many believed had never been stolen, or, if 
 recovered, had been reburied by the Father; for 
 Pablo, babbling in his stupor, had not been careful 
 as to accuracy. In fact, as late as 1888, there were 
 people at San Juan Capistrano who still believed in 
 the buried treasure, and explored the ruins of the 
 mission, digging in various spots for it. Why the 
 Father should have left his money buried there (sup 
 posing it not to have been stolen), instead of taking 
 it with him when he removed from the mission, tra 
 dition does not state. 
 
 NOTE. Bancroft: History of California, Vol. IV, p. 624, 
 note, gives about all that is known of these famous onzas 
 of Father Zalvidea. Probably it will never be known defin 
 itely what became of them. 
 
 In alluding to the earthquake of 1812, the writer has fol 
 lowed the commonly received assumption, derived from 
 Bancroft, that it occurred December 8, and that this date 
 fell on a Sunday. From later research, it is now believed to 
 have occurred October 8, which w r as a Thursday. This seems 
 more likely than the date given by Bancroft (December 8, 
 1812, fell on Tuesday), for he himself says forty of the at 
 tendants at mass were killed, the officiating priest and six 
 others being all that were saved: he does not mention the 
 wounded, if any. This would be far too small a number for 
 a Sunday mass attendance. 
 
 [73] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
LABEATA 
 
 T WAS a bright sum 
 mer morning in the 
 month of June of the 
 year 1798. All was bus 
 tle and excitement at 
 the wharf in the har 
 bor of the town of Aca- 
 pulco, on the western 
 coast of Mexico, for at 
 noon a ship was to sail 
 away for the province 
 of Nueva California, in 
 the far north. This was 
 always an event to at 
 tract the attention of 
 the town, partly from its infrequent occurrence, but 
 more especially because, in those days, this northern 
 Mexican province was an almost unknown land to 
 the general mind. The first expedition to the new 
 country, under the spiritual direction of the beloved 
 Father Serra, had been sent out nearly thirty years 
 before. But so many and conflicting were the tales 
 of wars with the Indian natives, the struggles of the 
 
 77] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Franciscans to make and maintain a footing, the 
 hardships endured by all who journeyed thither 
 sometimes to the point of suffering the pangs of 
 hunger , and, on the other hand, the marvellous tales 
 of the perfect climate, grand mountain ranges with 
 snowy peaks, fertile soil nearly everywhere, there 
 was a want of unanimous opinion respecting the 
 northern land. Whenever, therefore, from time to 
 time, a ship was sent from the mother country to her 
 struggling colony, a great interest was always dis 
 played. Each ship would be filled with agricultural 
 produce of all kinds, implements of labor, clothing 
 of every sort, including vestments and adornings for 
 the mission churches, as well as laborers and sol 
 diers, together, sometimes, with a few priests to swell 
 the number already in the new field. The ship pre 
 paring for her voyage this pleasant June morning 
 was the centre of all such busy scenes witnessed 
 many times before, but which never seemed to lose 
 their interest for the inhabitants of the town. 
 
 But this particular occasion was one of more than 
 usual interest to the people assembled by the water 
 to watch the preparations for departure. An hour be 
 fore the time set for sailing, a procession was seen 
 coming slowly down the main street of the town, 
 heading for the ship. It was a strange, silent, pathetic 
 little company. At the head were two sisters of char 
 ity, following them a score of young children, evenly 
 divided as to sex, and all under ten years of age. 
 They were dressed with the utmost simplicity, al 
 most severity, although with extreme neatness. 
 
 [78] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 Hardly a word was spoken among them as they came 
 along, but their eyes were busy glancing from one 
 side to the other, noting everything about them, and, 
 in particular, the ship which was evidently their des 
 tination. 
 
 This little procession was the cause of the unusual 
 interest shown in the sailing of the ship. The chil 
 dren were on their way from Mexico City to the new 
 country, where they were to find homes among the 
 people settled there; for they were foundlings, with 
 no one but the Church to look to for aid in their 
 helplessness. The Church had responded nobly, and 
 had cared for these poor little waifs from infancy, 
 and until they were large enough to be sent to their 
 new home. 
 
 "Caramba!" exclaimed a by-stander to his com 
 panion. "What will become of the pobrecitos in that 
 heathen country? I grow cold to think of it," he added 
 with a shiver. 
 
 "Basta, Juan !" said his friend. "What do you know 
 about it? Were it not for my wife and little one, I 
 would go away quickly, and be glad to go. There are 
 Indians here and in Baja California, plenty of them, 
 and what harm do they do any one?" 
 
 "All very well," replied the other. "You may not 
 believe it. But I have heard tales of that land which 
 made my flesh creep. Know you not what the Indians 
 did to Father Jaime at Mission San Diego? Would 
 you like to have been there then? I think not." 
 
 "You remember well," answered his companion. 
 "That was over twenty years ago. There are many 
 
 [79] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 more people there now, and the Indians would not 
 dare do such things again. Besides, these children are 
 going to Monterey, and that is a large town, I have 
 heard." 
 
 The children boarded the ship, and were soon 
 standing by the taffrail, watching the busy scene be 
 low, as the men hurried with the last loads of the 
 cargo. Presently all was done, the vessel weighed 
 anchor, and slowly making her way out of the har 
 bor, set her course for the distant northern country. 
 
 During the three weeks voyage these children lost 
 much of their shyness at their strange surroundings, 
 made friends with all on board, and had a generally 
 royal good time probably the first they had ever 
 had in their short lives. Under charge of the sisters 
 of the asylum whence they came, they had had the 
 best of training, which, although lacking the indi 
 vidual love of the mother for her own children, was 
 one to influence and increase their religious instincts, 
 and to make them good, pious Catholic men and 
 women. The children, almost without exception, were 
 docile and obedient, venerating the sisters in charge, 
 and quick to respond to their slightest word. Among 
 the girls was one to be especially remarked, from her 
 face and its habitual expression. Indistinguishable 
 from the others in general appearance, it was only 
 in glancing at her countenance that one thought to 
 look at her a second time with close attention. She 
 was not handsome, or even pretty, although not by 
 any means homely; but her face was almost transfig 
 ured by its expression of earnest piety and goodness, 
 
 [80] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 remarkable in one so young. Quiet and sedate as was 
 her habit, she was ever ready to enter freely into the 
 fun and play of the other children; but even in the 
 most absorbing frolic, if any one became hurt from 
 too much roughness, she was the first to be on the 
 spot to comfort the suffering one and to ease its pain. 
 
 Apolinaria Lorenzana (for so the child had been 
 named by her guardians) had become the object of 
 the love of the entire asylum, and of the sisters in 
 charge of it, in particular. She was looked up to with 
 respect, almost adoration, for her piety and devo 
 tion to all religious observances; and the sisters never 
 tired of whispering to each other, prophesying what 
 good works she would do during her life, led and 
 taught by the Virgin as she most certainly was. The 
 parting from her was a sore one to the sisters, more 
 so than to Apolinaria herself, great as was her affec 
 tion for them; but, in spite of her youth, she was al 
 ready filled with her work in the new land to which 
 she was going; and she was almost the only one of 
 the little group of children to look forward with joy 
 to the new life. 
 
 With fair winds, and under bright skies, the ship 
 sped on her course, and, at the end of three weeks, 
 cast anchor in the bay before the town of Monterey 
 and opposite the presidio. Here the scenes enacted at 
 their departure from Acapulco, were repeated, with 
 even greater animation, although the number of peo 
 ple was pitifully small. It was touching to see the 
 eagerness with which they welcomed the new-comers, 
 strangers though they were; the passion with which 
 
 [81] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 they seized on letters from friends in Mexico, as soon 
 as they were distributed; the interest shown in the 
 news, extorted from each of the passengers, as they 
 in turn were questioned, of everything which had oc 
 curred in their old home and in Spain, as well as in 
 the rest of the world. Such was the hunger mani 
 fested by these home-sick persons! The children 
 aroused quite as much interest here as they had on 
 their departure, and with more reason, for this was 
 to be their future home. Boys and girls stood on the 
 deck, and noted everything going on. Such a little 
 place Monterey seemed to these young people fresh 
 from Mexico City some dozen houses scattered here 
 and there, a church, the Governor s house and the 
 presidio, all of adobe, and all small and insignificant. 
 But the little town made a pretty sight in the warm 
 sunshine, with the bay and ocean in front, and the 
 hills, forest-clad, behind. 
 
 During the height of the excitement incident to un 
 loading, Governor Borica was seen to approach, ac 
 companied by half a dozen soldiers from the pre 
 sidio, and a Franciscan priest, who was come from 
 the mission, six miles distant, to take charge of the 
 little band of children, until they should be placed in 
 permanent homes. Boarding the ship, the Governor 
 and the Father made their way to the group, and 
 greeted the two sisters, both of whom had been ac 
 quainted with the Governor before he left Mexico. 
 The children, instructed by the sisters, made a deep 
 obeisance to the Governor, and kneeled before the 
 Father, as he spoke to each in turn. A few minutes 
 
 [82] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 later all left the ship, and the priest, with the sisters 
 and children, set out, on foot, for the mission. The way 
 was long, but no one thought of fatigue; for it lay, for 
 the most part, along the edge of the shore, with the 
 ocean in full sight, the waves dashing on to the rocks 
 strewn thickly here and there, while now and then 
 the scene was varied with clusters of cypress trees 
 growing in fantastic shapes. It was past noon when 
 they reached the mission, a small establishment, hav 
 ing, at this time, about eight hundred Indians, under 
 the charge of the Father and his assistants. 
 
 The children, however, did not remain here long. 
 During the next two weeks homes were found for 
 them, some among the families at Monterey, some 
 were sent across the bay to Mission Santa Cruz, and 
 some as far as Mission Santa Clara; so that, by the end 
 of that time, not one was left at Mission San Carlos, 
 the two sisters alone continuing there to give their 
 aid in all manner of work looking toward the better 
 ment of the Indians. 
 
 Among the children finding homes in Monterey 
 was Apolinaria. Pleased with her appearance, when 
 he saw her at the disembarkation, Don Raimundo 
 Carrillo, a well-known and powerful personage in 
 the new country, decided to take her into his own 
 family, consisting of himself, his wife and three small 
 children. This was a piece of rare good fortune for 
 Apolinaria, for Senor Carrillo was noted for his kind 
 heart to all inferiors; and with this family she found 
 a home than which none could have been happier in 
 the whole colony. Apolinaria was not adopted by the 
 
 [83] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Carrillos she filled, in some measure, the place of a 
 servant, while, at the same time, she was regarded as 
 one of the family in all domestic relations, and be 
 came a companion, in many respects, to Seiiora Car- 
 rillo, who was an invalid. And beyond all this, Apol- 
 inaria was under the religious charge of the mission 
 fathers, as were all the foundlings brought to the 
 province. The fathers not only instructed and admon 
 ished them in the Catholic faith, but kept informed as 
 to the temporal welfare of their every-day life. 
 
 And now began a time of happiness for Apolinaria; 
 busy all day, sometimes at the roughest toil, she 
 worked with her whole heart, full of joy because she 
 was busy, and was doing something for the good peo 
 ple with whom she had found a home. But more than 
 this: the change from her old shelter in the asylum 
 in the great city to a life in the sweet, wild new 
 country, beautiful with all that was loveliest in na 
 ture, was one to make a character like Apolinaria 
 expand and grow into a rounded simplicity of soul 
 and spirit. Father Pujol had heard of Apolinaria s 
 piety on her coming to Monterey, having a chance, 
 also, of observing it during her short stay at the mis 
 sion; and he watched over her with more than usual 
 interest, instructing her mentally, as occasion offered, 
 in addition to fostering the religious side of her na 
 ture. Apolinaria attended the school in the town until 
 she was thirteen years old, and acquired the elements 
 of an education, as much as she could possibly have 
 any occasion to use in after years in the country 
 whither she was come for life. 
 
 [84] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 As Apolinaria grew older, and after she had ceased 
 going to school, she found, even with her accustomed 
 duties in Don Raimundo s home, that she had much 
 unoccupied time; and with her religious fervor she 
 thought long on the matter, trying to find in what 
 way she could more completely fill the place she be 
 lieved the Holy Virgin had destined for her. But in 
 vain did she seek for this object; and at length arose 
 slowly in her, becoming more and more fixed as she 
 dwelt on it, the thought that maybe she had been 
 mistaken in considering that a life in Nueva Cali 
 fornia was meant for her; and with the thought was 
 awakened the longing to return to Mexico and be 
 come a nun. This was during her fifteenth year. A 
 young girl with her religious habit of mind would, 
 naturally, turn to the convent, and regard a life spent 
 in it as the worthiest, therefore the most desirable, 
 to be found in this sinful world; and Apolinaria, not 
 withstanding her strength of character, soon became 
 fascinated with the prospect. She thought long and 
 seriously before saying a word to any one; for much 
 as she now wished it, she knew it would be painful 
 both to herself and to the good Carrillos, and she 
 dreaded to disclose her plan. But at last, believing 
 she had definitely decided that it concerned the fu 
 ture welfare of her soul, she betook herself to her 
 spiritual adviser, Father Pujol, and laid her thought 
 before him. 
 
 Now Father Pujol was a man one of many in this 
 imperfect world who had not found his proper place 
 in life. His father had intended to take him, as a 
 
 [85] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 partner, into business, toward which he had a nat 
 ural leaning, so soon as he was of sufficient age; but 
 Senor Pujol suffered reverses which swept away his 
 modest fortune, and left his family destitute. Rather 
 than receive aid from his uncle, and waiving his claim 
 in favor of his younger brother, this son, although 
 with reluctance, decided to enter the priesthood, for 
 he was a singularly religious young man. But Father 
 Pujol, in his capacity as priest, combined, in a marked 
 degree, the wisdom of the serpent with the harmless- 
 ness of the dove. He had a deeply rooted aversion to 
 the custom of women sequestering themselves from 
 the world behind the walls of a convent; and it had 
 been his habit, whenever opportunity offered, to 
 dissuade any who, by so doing, might leave a void 
 in the world. Indeed, he had been so zealous in one 
 or two cases that the suspicions of his fellow-brethren 
 had been aroused, and, eventually, he was selected 
 to make one of a company of Franciscans to the new 
 province. Therefore, on hearing for the first time 
 what Apolinaria meditated doing, he felt almost 
 angry with her, foolish and unreasonable though he 
 knew he was. 
 
 "My blessed child!" he exclaimed, "what has made 
 you think of such a thing?" 
 
 "I know not, Father," replied Apolinaria, "but it 
 seemed to have been put into my mind by the saints 
 in Heaven that that was what I should do; and I 
 believe that must be what I was destined for when I 
 was found by the dear sisters, forsaken and starving, 
 and was taken to the asylum. Did not they save my 
 
 [86] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 life that I might glorify God and the Blessed Virgin 
 the rest of my days?" 
 
 "Listen, Apolinaria," replied the Father solemnly. 
 "I know well the state of your mind concerning this 
 question. I have no word of blame to give you, and I 
 am sure that the life you would pass in the convent 
 would be acceptable to God; one, indeed, of good 
 w r ork done for others, in so far as your limited sphere 
 of action would permit. But, my dear child, consider 
 carefully before you decide to take this step, whether 
 it may not be a step backward in your progress toward 
 a heavenly home. Here you are, a member of a leading 
 family in Nueva California, in the midst of duties 
 which you can, and do, discharge faithfully, and 
 which would not be done so w r ell by any one else, 
 should you give them up. Think of the help and com 
 fort you are to Senora Carrillo, in her poor health, 
 with three children, who would be a sad burden to 
 her without you. Look at the place you fill in the 
 household, where you are, in truth, the housekeeper. 
 Is not your life full of good work? What more could 
 you find in a convent? I kno\v, my daughter, you 
 wish for the life of devotion to be found there, and 
 that you look on it as a life of rapture and uplifting. 
 That is all very well for many poor women who have 
 no especial sphere of usefulness to fill in the world; 
 but, Apolinaria, I should deeply mourn the day that 
 saw you become one of them. Do not think I am de 
 crying the convent far be from me such a thing ! But 
 I believe, I know, God never intended that his crea 
 tures should isolate themselves in any such way from 
 
 [87] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 the duties among which He had placed them." 
 
 The Father had risen to his feet as he uttered the 
 last sentence, and, with some agitation, took a few 
 steps back and forth in the room. He was an earnest, 
 deep-souled man, eager and passionate, almost to 
 the point of inspiration, when aroused from his usual 
 reserved manner. Apolinaria was greatly beloved by 
 him, and it was with genuine pain that he had heard 
 her wish. 
 
 "Apolinaria," he said at last, after a few moments 
 of silence on the part of both, "hija mia, have I made 
 you see this matter clearly? Can not you trust me to 
 decide this weighty question for you? Is your heart 
 so set on the quiet life of prayer, cut off from so much 
 of the work, without which, Saint James tells us, faith 
 is dead? Do not decide now," he added, as Apolinaria 
 made an uncertain attempt to speak, "take plenty of 
 time, daughter; think it over during the next week, 
 and then come to see me again and let me know." 
 
 "I thank you, Father, and I shall consider what you 
 have said to me. Will you pray for me that I may be 
 guided aright?" 
 
 "Surely, my daughter," replied the Father, and 
 laying his hands on her head as Apolinaria knelt be 
 fore him, continued in slow, measured tones: "May 
 the Mother of God help you to choose that which will 
 ever be most pleasing and acceptable to her Son, our 
 Lord Jesus Christ." 
 
 "Amen," whispered Apolinaria. 
 
 During the next few days Apolinaria thought of 
 Father Pujol s words. It was a great disappointment 
 
 [88] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 to her to give up her long-cherished plan; but from 
 the moment of leaving the Father she knew in her 
 heart what the outcome would be. Yet it cost her a 
 pang of regret as she thought of the quiet walls in 
 Mexico which she used to look upon with a hush of 
 awe, and dream of the lives of peace and holiness 
 passed behind them. But she was not one to grieve 
 long over what cost some tears to resign, and soon 
 was, heart and soul, absorbed once more in whatever 
 her hand found to do. Father Pujol having suggested 
 the plan to her, she now, for the first time, took up 
 the study of nursing at the mission hospital, instructed 
 by the two sisters who had come with her and the 
 other children some years before, and who had re 
 mained at the mission. There were always many pa 
 tients among the neophytes, and here Apolinaria found 
 a work ready to her hand, which soon claimed all the 
 time she could give to it. This was an intense happi 
 ness to her, and the Father saw, with the utmost sat 
 isfaction, that his remedy was a good one. 
 
 Not long after this Seiior Carrillo was called to 
 Santa Barbara to take command of the presidio, and 
 knowing he should be kept there for many months, 
 perhaps years, he decided to move his family to this 
 new place of activity, and make it his future home. 
 Apolinaria alone, of all the household, was averse to 
 the change. She had just given herself unreservedly 
 to her work with calm, patient enthusiasm, that left 
 no room for regretful thought for what she had once 
 longed to do; she could not bear the idea of parting 
 from Father Pujol, who had been, indeed, a father 
 
 [89] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 to her, and who had had so much influence in marking 
 out her life work. It was with tears she said the last 
 bitter "adios" to him, on the eve of the departure; 
 for in those days and in that country, there could be 
 no probability that she would ever see him again, 
 less likely in this case, as Father Pujol was far on 
 life s decline. But even Apolinaria s sorrow at leaving 
 Monterey could not destroy the interest and pleasure 
 felt on arriving at Santa Barbara, one of the most 
 beautiful places in the province, and at that time 
 much larger than Monterey. As the ship came into 
 the roadstead which served as a harbor, the town lay 
 spread out before them : in the foreground, straggling 
 along the beach and for some distance back, were the 
 adobe houses of the inhabitants, about one hundred 
 in number, most of them glittering white in the bril 
 liant sunlight; among them, somewhat distant from 
 the shore, was the huge, low building of the presidio, 
 frowning out over the rest of the scene; beyond the 
 houses, and nearly two miles from the water, was 
 the mission, a large group of buildings, from the midst 
 of which rose the white two-towered Moorish church. 
 Back of all was the long range of mountains, stretch 
 ing off far into the north, in color a wonderful changing 
 golden pink, streaked with palest blue-grey in the 
 shadows. It was a perfect picture of peace, the sole 
 hostile point in the whole being the presidio, which 
 served but to accentuate the quiet beauty of the rest. 
 Even when the passengers were landed from the 
 ship, the quiet of the town was not disturbed in any 
 great degree. It was only when a vessel from Mexico 
 
 [90] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 arrived, when the Governor of the province vis 
 ited them, or when news of an Indian uprising was 
 brought, that the town awoke from its almost le 
 thargic calm. All this Apolinaria found out later. To 
 day, however, the undisturbed quiet of the place 
 suited her best, and she would not have had it other 
 wise, surprised as she was at first to find it thus, so 
 different from the bustle attending any event, even 
 the slightest, occurring at Monterey. Don Raimundo 
 and his family were domiciled in the home of Captain 
 Jose de la Guerra, a friend of his, who met him at 
 the landing to render all the assistance in his power. 
 The captain s house \vas a large one, and Don Rai 
 mundo was led to this plan on account of the growing 
 infirmity of his wife. 
 
 It did not require a long while for a quiet soul like 
 Apolinaria to take up once more in the new home 
 the broken threads of her life; and before she had 
 been there many days, she had found more than 
 enough to employ all her time. At Monterey Apoli 
 naria had been in part servant, in part mistress of 
 the household, discharging the duties of her some 
 what anomalous position. In Santa Barbara, on the 
 contrary, her services as domestic and housekeeper 
 were dispensed with, and she was at liberty to give 
 her whole time and attention to the occupation which 
 she had but just begun to pursue at Monterey. She 
 offered her services to the priests at the mission as 
 a nurse for the sick neophytes in the hospital. The 
 winter before had been a severe one for the health 
 of the Indian community, and there had been an un- 
 
 [91] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 usual number of cases of smallpox the most com 
 mon disease with which they were afflicted. Capable 
 nurses were hard to find, and the fathers gladly ac 
 cepted Apolinaria s offer. Once her qualities becoming 
 known and appreciated, she was in almost constant 
 demand from one end of the town to the other, for 
 she displayed a skill in the care of the sick that came 
 from born aptitude. 
 
 Here Apolinaria remained for several years, en 
 grossed in her work which had now taken complete 
 possession of her. As she became better known, she 
 had calls from many high caste Spanish residents 
 who desired her services, and not only those living 
 in Santa Barbara, but in near-by towns San Buena 
 ventura, Santa Ines, and as far as Los Angeles; and 
 her fame reached, at last, the whole length of the 
 chain of settlements in the province, from San Diego 
 to San Francisco, for she was the sole person in that 
 part of the country who undertook the office of what 
 is now filled by the trained nurse. After a time, Apo 
 linaria, finding there was room for many more like 
 herself, gathered a few young women into a class 
 whom she taught what she knew in regard to nursing 
 the sick, and upon whom she called for such assist 
 ance as they were able to give. 
 
 One morning a mission neophyte came to her with 
 a message from Father Amestoy, that he desired to 
 see her as soon as she could come to him. Wondering 
 a little at the seeming urgency of the request, she 
 took her way to the mission at the end of her morn 
 ing s visit to the hospital. She met the Father walking 
 
 [92] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 slowly up and down in front of the monastery, every 
 now and then looking off down the road with anxious 
 impatience. As soon as he saw Apolinaria approach 
 ing, he hurried to meet her. 
 
 "My child," he exclaimed, "you are come at last! 
 I have been watching for you the whole morning." 
 
 "I could not come before, Father," she replied. "Did 
 you want me at once?" 
 
 "Yes, Apolinaria," the Father answered. "Late last 
 night a messenger came from San Diego with a letter 
 from Father Barona, imploring us to send you down 
 there. They are in great trouble. The smallpox is 
 raging; so many neophytes are ill that help is needed 
 to care for them. The fathers are worn out with 
 watching and tending the dying, and burying the 
 dead, and all the Spaniards are too occupied \vith 
 their own sick to be of much assistance. They want 
 you to come. Will you go, Apolinaria?" 
 
 "Most assuredly,Father,"Apolinaria replied prompt 
 ly. "I shall be ready to start to-morrow at daybreak. 
 I cannot leave sooner for I must give last directions 
 to my pupils. But how shall I go? Have you made ar 
 rangements for me?" 
 
 "You can return with the messenger. I shall give 
 him full instructions. With hard riding you can reach 
 there in three days. Do you think you can stand it? 
 I would not ask it did not they need you so badly 
 just as soon as you can get there." 
 
 "Do not think of me, Father. I shall not fail." 
 
 After a few more words Apolinaria left the mis 
 sion, and returning to the town, made preparations 
 
 [93] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 for her absence, which bade fair to be a prolonged 
 one. Bitter regrets were felt and expressed by the 
 people, some going so far as to mutter against the 
 priest for sending her, for "does not Apolinaria be 
 long to us, and why should we, how can we, spare 
 her to go so far away for a lot of sick Indians?" 
 
 The next morning, an hour before the sun was up, 
 Father Amestoy and the messenger, each with a horse 
 from which they had dismounted, stood at Apoli- 
 naria s door. In a moment Apolinaria came out of 
 the little adobe house which had been her abode 
 since leaving the Garrillos, bearing a small bundle 
 in her arms. Kneeling before the Father, he gave her 
 his blessing, and then asked her abruptly if she was 
 ready to start. 
 
 "Yes, Father, I am quite prepared." 
 
 "Then you must be off at once," he replied. "I have 
 given the messenger instructions for your journey. 
 You have swift horses. If possible, get to San Fer 
 nando to-night; that is the longest day s ride you will 
 have, but if too much for you, or if you be delayed 
 on the way, stop at some rancho this side for the 
 night. In that case your ride to-morrow will be longer, 
 for you ought to get to Mission San Juan by to 
 morrow night; from there to San Diego is a short 
 distance compared with the others. You will change 
 horses at San Buenaventura, and at the ranchos on 
 the way from there to San Fernando. Felipe knows 
 where to stop for them. He has letters also for the 
 padres at the missions, and will see to everything. 
 And now, my daughter, may the saints protect you 
 
 [94] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 and keep you, and bring you back once more to your 
 friends here, when you shall be no longer needed at 
 San Diego." 
 
 When the Father had ceased speaking, he assisted 
 Apolinaria to mount her horse, and with a last "adios" 
 she made off, preceded by the messenger, who had 
 taken her bundle and fastened it to his saddle. The 
 priest watched them as they hurried aw r ay in a cloud 
 of dust, and then, breathing a blessing for Apolinaria, 
 returned to the mission. 
 
 It was a glorious June morning. The air was fresh 
 and crisp; the water was just taking on a tinge of 
 yellow from the light of the yet unrisen sun, and the 
 sky above was of the intensest blue. The road, for the 
 first tw r enty miles, lay along the shore, now on the 
 beach itself, the water not seldom lapping the horses 
 feet, now on the mesa above. Open to all impressions 
 of the beautiful in nature as was Apolinaria, she had 
 little time, or, indeed, inclination, for its indulgence 
 this morning, for the messenger had set the pace at 
 a hard gallop, and her attention was taken up with 
 the riding. She was a good horsewoman, and found 
 no difficulty in keeping up with Felipe, although, 
 whenever they came to a bit of bad road, he slack 
 ened his pace a little. The sun was not two hours high 
 when they reached San Buenaventura, where they 
 were received by the fathers, given fresh steeds, and 
 were soon on their way again. With the exchange of 
 horses they kept up their speed, and as the hours 
 went by, the riders saw mile after mile left behind. 
 Whenever they stopped for horses at the ranches 
 
 [95] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 lying on the road, they were welcomed by all, and to 
 Apolinaria was shown the greatest deference, and 
 everything was done to make her long ride as little 
 fatiguing as possible, for her fame was known to all, 
 as well as the reason for her present journey. Thus 
 the day passed. Toward noon Apolinaria began to 
 feel the effects of her rapid flight, but she had no 
 thought of stopping, for she was determined to reach 
 San Fernando that night. Slowly the day wore by, 
 and the miles slipped behind them; but the sun was 
 set, and night was over them before they reached San 
 Fernando. Two miles before arriving, they met a 
 horseman who had been sent out on the road to meet 
 them, in case, as the padres hoped, Apolinaria should 
 come that night. At last they reached the mission, 
 where Apolinaria was welcomed warmly. But she 
 was too exhausted to do more than eat a little, drink 
 a cup of chocolate, and then retire for the night, which 
 she passed in a heavy, dreamless sleep. 
 
 The next morning she was up with the first faint 
 grey of dawn, although she was so stiff and lame that 
 every movement caused her agony; but this wore off 
 gradually as soon as she set out once more after 
 breakfast with the fathers. We shall not follow her 
 journey in detail. The second day was easier as she had 
 only seventy-five miles to cover to reach San Juan 
 Capistrano. At Capistrano she found the first traces 
 of the epidemic, a few of the Indians being ill with 
 the smallpox. At Mission San Luis Rey there were 
 a much larger number, and at all of the settlements 
 in the region were many patients, but only at the 
 
 [96] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 southernmost mission were the people in great straits. 
 In the afternoon of the third day Apolinaria arrived 
 at her destination, tired out, but happy to be, at last, 
 where she was so much needed. Here she found a 
 scene of desolation : more than half of the neophyte 
 population down with the fell disease; the two fathers 
 used up with the care of their especial work; the few 
 Mexican women available for nurses without a head 
 to take charge of affairs at the hospital. Apolinaria, 
 forgetting her fatigue from the long, hard ride, set 
 to work at once where she was most needed, in the 
 hospital; and with her skill and experience she, in 
 a few days, wrought a wonderful change. It was a 
 simple matter, after all, and the fathers had acted 
 wisely in sending for her, as she supplied what was 
 lacking a head; and after she had fitted herself into 
 her proper place, everything went on smoothly, and 
 Apolinaria and her assistants were able to cope with 
 the plague successfully. 
 
 One morning, while it was still at its height, Apoli 
 naria, on making her visit for the day to the hospital, 
 found a new patient. He was a soldier from the pre 
 sidio, six miles away, who had developed symptoms 
 of the disease, and had been dismissed and sent to the 
 mission hospital, while he was yet able to bear the 
 journey; a handsome young man, hardly more than 
 a youth, with all the fire, vivacity and pride of the 
 Spaniard, tempered in his case with a touch of sad 
 ness, lending an indefinable charm to his counte 
 nance. It was an attractive face, and so Apolinaria 
 found it; but with a second glance at the young sol- 
 
 [97] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 dier, she had an uneasy feeling that she had seen him 
 before. She had met so few people in her life, that it 
 was not difficult for her to remember the youth as one 
 of her young companions from the asylum in Mexico, 
 who had come with her to Nueva California nearly 
 fifteen years before. But if she was a little slow in 
 placing the stranger in her memory, he, on the con 
 trary, as soon as his eyes rested on her, showed, by 
 the lighting up of his countenance, that he already 
 knew and recognised her. As she approached he held 
 out his hand, crying eagerly: 
 
 "Apolinaria, tu me recuerdas (You remember me) ?" 
 
 "Surely, Pedro, how could I forget one of those 
 who were so large a part of my life in the old days? 
 But little did I expect to see you here, and it grieves 
 me sorely to find you ill." 
 
 "That is a little thing, Apolinaria, after many of 
 the hardships I have been through since we came to 
 this country. But I shall not talk of that. It is a hard 
 land for all who come. Tell me of yourself, Apoli 
 naria. Have you found many trials? But I think you 
 can have none now, for though you work hard, you 
 must be very happy with it all. You see I have heard 
 much about you, and the good you have done in these 
 last years." 
 
 "Another time maybe, Pedro," Apolinaria replied, 
 "but you are here to get well, and I cannot stop now 
 to talk. I must make my rounds. I shall see you again, 
 for I come here every day." 
 
 And Apolinaria left him hastily to visit another 
 room of the hospital. His gaze followed her until she 
 
 [98] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 was out of sight; then, slowly closing his eyes, he 
 leaned back in his chair. 
 
 The next day he was too ill to leave his bed. His 
 attack was not severe, but the disease seemed to leave 
 him without strength to recover, and many days 
 passed before he began to improve. During all the 
 time, Apolinaria visited him once or twice every day, 
 and it was not long before Pedro learned to know her 
 hours for the hospital, and to watch and wait for her 
 coming. If, for any reason, she was delayed in her 
 daily visit to him, he fretted nervously until she ap 
 peared. Now this, to one in his condition, is dan 
 gerous, but how could poor, simple Pedro know it? 
 So he gave himself to his one happiness of the mo 
 ment, without suspicion of whither it was leading 
 him. The nurses in the hospital soon noticed his in 
 terest in Apolinaria, but mistook the direction it was 
 taking. 
 
 "How can I help loving her?" he said, in response 
 to some remark made to him. "Saw you ever any one 
 so beautiful as she? I could pray to her as I do to the 
 Holy Virgin, for I think she is as good. She is ana 
 beata, is she not?" 
 
 And those who heard what he said were of one 
 mind on this point, and the title thus given to Apoli 
 naria by the man who loved her, was, ere long, the 
 one by w r hich she became known to all La Beata.* 
 
 But before Pedro had entirely recovered from his 
 illness, he realised the nature of his fondness for 
 
 * Literally, the blessed one; a woman who gives herself to 
 works of charity. 
 
 [99] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Apolinaria. Dismayed and perplexed, he knew not 
 what to do, for, to tell his love for her seemed to his 
 simple eyes an impertinence. That he should dare to 
 love one so immeasurably above him one in whom 
 earthly love was merged in her love for God and her 
 f ellowmen ! No, he must go back to his old life at the 
 presidio, just as soon as he was able, and leave her 
 with his love unsaid. 
 
 But love sometimes is stronger than will, and so it 
 proved in Pedro s case. He determined to leave the 
 mission the next day, without a word to any one, and 
 this last evening he had wandered out into the olive 
 orchard near the church. It was the close of a hot 
 summer day, toward the end of June; the sun was 
 just set in the glowing western sky, and all nature 
 seemed to take a breath of relief in the cool evening 
 air. Pedro had been there only a few moments when 
 Apolinaria appeared, approaching from the river be 
 yond the orchard, where she had been to see some of 
 her patients. Pedro, undecided whether to stay quiet 
 and risk a last meeting with her, or, as prudence 
 whispered, to flee, hesitated too long, and she was 
 close to him before he awoke from his indecision. She 
 did not see him, in the fast gathering dusk, until close 
 to the spot where he was standing. 
 
 "You here, Pedro!" she exclaimed. "But it is not 
 well to be out at this time of the day. Don t you know 
 you are doing wrong? I am astonished to see you so 
 careless," she added, smiling. 
 
 It was the first time Pedro had seen her smile in 
 any but a grave, quiet way. Now, accompanied as it 
 
 [100] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 was with the half-playful, half-deprecating manner 
 in which she uttered her chiding, it proved too much 
 for him. 
 
 "Dona/ he said, "I am going away to-morrow. I 
 have struggled hard to leave here without showing 
 you my heart, and I should have done so had not you 
 come by this way to-night. Oh, why are you so far 
 above me, that I must think of you as one belonging 
 to Heaven rather than earth? Why are you so good 
 and beautiful? For know, Dona, I love you, I love 
 you," and Pedro poured out his confession of love 
 in a swift rushing stream of words. 
 
 Amazed at such vehemence in one w r ho had always 
 until now shown himself the quietest of mortals, Apo- 
 linaria listened, as in a dream, hardly comprehending 
 the full significance of what she heard. At last, with 
 a start, she gave a slight shiver, and interrupted 
 Pedro in the midst of his impassioned speech. 
 
 "Pedro," she said gently and quietly, "I am sorry 
 you have told me this, more sorry you should have 
 allowed such a feeling toward me to take root and 
 grow up in you, for I am sure, my friend, you will 
 see that I could not entertain any such change in my 
 life as is implied in your words. Once, when I was 
 younger than I am now, and before I had taken up 
 my special work, I may have had dreams of a home 
 and love as you are now experiencing; but it was 
 only for a short time, for, I thought, who would 
 choose a poor outcast foundling for a wife? I will 
 tell you how I came to take up the work I have been 
 doing these years;" and Apolinaria related her youth- 
 
 [101] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 ful desire to enter a convent, and how she was led 
 to give herself to her present active work. This she 
 did, partly because she felt it was only just to Pedro, 
 partly because she wished to lead him away from 
 again bringing up the subject of his love. 
 
 Pedro listened absently to her story. The fire had 
 died out of his heart with the uttering of his con 
 fession, for he knew, even before he began, how hope 
 less it all was. How could such an one as Apolinaria, 
 engrossed and absorbed in her work, but raised far 
 above this life and its passions, think of so poor and 
 humble a being? He had been overpowered with the 
 intensity of his emotion, and, his resolution broken, 
 he had hurried on, knowing, poor fool that he was, 
 the hopelessness and folly of it. Like a sudden, severe 
 storm, coming after a day of intense, sultry heat, 
 leaving the air refreshed, and the birds singing me 
 lodiously their evening hymns, so it was with Pedro. 
 After his wild outburst, he was once more the quiet, 
 reserved young man he had shown himself to be 
 the same, yet with a difference, for his love for Apoli 
 naria had an effect on him that he felt all his life. 
 She became to him an example which he followed 
 willingly and joyfully, on their journey toward the 
 life beyond. 
 
 When Apolinaria concluded her tale, a silence of 
 some minutes fell upon the two, broken by the plain 
 tive cry of an owl as it flew softly overhead toward 
 the church. At last Apolinaria awoke from the revery 
 into which she had fallen, and speaking brightly and 
 cheerfully, but with a tender accent, said: 
 
 [102] 
 
LA BEATA 
 
 "You must go in, Pedro, and I have a sick woman 
 to visit before I finish my day s work. I shall not see 
 you again, amigo mio, but I shall not forget you, be 
 lieve me. Live a good life and be happy." 
 
 And saying this, she held out her hand. Pedro bent 
 low and kissed it reverently, without a word. Then, 
 after one long, steady look into her face, he turned 
 abruptly, and walked slowly through the orchard and 
 back to the mission. The next morning he was gone. 
 
 Apolinaria continued with her nursing at San Diego 
 for some wrecks longer, until the disease had done its 
 worst, and then returned to Santa Barbara. But after 
 this she never was allowed to remain there for long 
 at a time. From San Diego to San Luis Obispo, and 
 beyond, she was in demand; and w r henever a wash 
 for her assistance was sent to her, she always re 
 sponded. Not infrequently, more than one mission 
 would implore her presence. Then she would visit 
 the one most in distress, and send some of her pupils 
 to the others. Thus she passed her days in good w r ork 
 toward her fellowmen, finding her rew r ard in the 
 blessing of God w r hich crowned her life. And ever 
 after her first visit to San Diego, she was called by 
 the name which Pedro, in his love, had bestowed 
 upon her La Beata. 
 
 [103] 
 
JUANA 
 
JUANA 
 
 HE overland mail-train 
 from San Francisco, on 
 the way to New Orleans, 
 came to a stop for a 
 minute or two at the 
 little old town of San 
 Gabriel, ten miles east 
 of Los Angeles. It was 
 a hot July afternoon, in 
 the year 1890; the car 
 windows were open, 
 and the passengers 
 were gazing out list 
 lessly at the few signs 
 of animation about the 
 station and town. San Gabriel is a sleepy old place, 
 with little to interest the ordinary person. A traveller, 
 passing through it, sees nothing to attract his notice 
 as the train pauses at the station, and he finds his 
 gaze wandering off to the north, where it meets the 
 lofty San Gabriel Mountains, a long line of blue-grey, 
 shimmering in the heat of the plains. There is much 
 beautiful scenery around San Gabriel, and wonder- 
 
 [107] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 ful canons among these mountains. But there is one 
 object of interest in the town we must not forget to 
 mention the old mission church, which the traveller 
 on the train may see standing near the track, a half- 
 mile before coming to the station. It is a fine old 
 structure, planted firmly and solidly on the ground, 
 and looking as though it might stand another century, 
 without showing more marks of age than it does now 
 after having closed its first one hundred years. This 
 is an object in which every passer-by, even the most 
 indifferent, finds an interest. 
 
 The engine panted, the passengers gazed absently 
 at the men exchanging the bags of mail. All at once 
 a sound of singing was heard in the distance. It was 
 a woman s voice, old and quavering, and the song 
 was a weird, almost unearthly, chant or dirge in a 
 minor key. Slowly the singer approached the station, 
 and reaching it, mounted the steps of the platform 
 and seated herself on a bench, keeping on, without 
 pause, her monotonous singing. The woman was a 
 Mexican, very poorly dressed, and looked to be all of 
 ninety years of age. This aroused in some slight de 
 gree the interest of the passengers. 
 
 "Who is that old woman?" asked one, of a brake- 
 man who stood by his window. 
 
 "Oh," laughed the man, "that is old Jane. She is 
 here nearly every day, when the train comes in." 
 
 "What is the matter with her? Is she crazy?" asked 
 the traveller. 
 
 "Yes," answered the brakeman. 
 
 There was no time for more. The conductor called 
 
 [108] 
 
JUANA 
 
 "all aboard," and the train moved slowly away, leav 
 ing the old woman still intoning her chant. 
 
 The year 1824 opened with a feeling of distrust and 
 uneasiness affecting all the missions of Nueva Cali 
 fornia, from San Juan Capistrano northward to Mon 
 terey. The fathers had held communication with each 
 other many times regarding the Indians in their 
 charge, and it was confessed by all that trouble from 
 them was to be feared. At the same time nothing of 
 any tangible import had occurred to lead the mission 
 fathers to this conclusion. A few insubordinate indi 
 viduals among the neophytes had been a little more 
 insubordinate than usual; several had run away from 
 Santa Ines and Purisima to their old haunts and com 
 panions in the mountains; some indications of a re 
 vival of the superstitious religious customs of the In 
 dians had been discovered; once, at San Luis Obispo, 
 among the neophytes living at some distance from the 
 mission, a dozen men had been found, one night, by 
 a Mexican servant of the fathers, preparing some 
 poison with which to tip the points of their arrows. 
 This last was ominous, and carried more weight than 
 all the other signs of trouble brewing, and roused the 
 fathers to some activity; for the neophytes, at that 
 late day, in mission history, were not allowed to en 
 venom their arrows without the express sanction of 
 the fathers. But nothing could be learned from the 
 disobedient Indians when they were questioned. They 
 maintained that they were preparing for the hunting 
 and killing of some large and fierce bears which had 
 
 [109] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 been seen in the neighborhood, and which had de 
 stroyed some of their cattle. They were permitted to 
 keep the arrows, with a reprimand, and a strict watch 
 on their movements was held for many days. Nothing 
 definite could be discovered, however, and the fathers 
 were forced to wait, with anxiety and added watch 
 fulness, for whatever was to come. 
 
 There had been many false alarms, ever since the 
 first settlement of the country, and many slight up 
 risings of the Indians, who saw, with disfavor, their 
 land taken from them, and themselves obliged to 
 serve almost as slaves, at the missions. They were 
 nearly always well-treated, and, in fact, were usually 
 tractable, and even more than satisfied with their 
 lot; but now and then they would be roused by some 
 of the fiercer spirits among them to struggle against 
 this slavery. At such times, the injury they could, and 
 did, inflict on the missions was great, but they had 
 always been subdued and forced back to their state 
 of servitude. Yet the fathers had ever with them this 
 condition of anxiety, rendered all the greater as the 
 military force in the country was very small, and 
 usually unavailable at the moment when needed, 
 owing to the distance between their barracks and the 
 larger number of the missions. 
 
 Not quite three miles from Mission San Gabriel, 
 toward the mountains in the north, stood a little 
 adobe house, the home of a young Mexican, one of the 
 men belonging to the mission, with his wife and one 
 year old child. Diego Borja, this was the man s name, 
 had been connected with the mission ever since he 
 
 [1101 
 
JUANA 
 
 was a boy, serving in various occupations, first, as 
 altar boy, then as occasion required, as messenger 
 and servant to the Father, carpenter, for he was a 
 skilled artisan, and overseer of the planting and 
 gathering of the crops. He had even been trusted by 
 the Father with commercial negotiations with mer 
 chants at San Pedro and Los Angeles, selling to them 
 hides, which were a valuable source of wealth to the 
 mission, and wine, famous for its fine quality. He 
 was, in fact, a general utility man, on whom, on ac 
 count of his reliability and versatile qualities, the 
 Father depended greatly. Father Zalvidea, the senior 
 priest at San Gabriel, had reason to congratulate him 
 self on having Diego at his command, for not often 
 is such an one found among the poorer and laboring 
 class of Mexicans, combining the power and ability 
 to serve in manifold ways, with a love of work for 
 its own sake as well as for the reward it brings 
 very different from the general slowness and laziness 
 of this class. 
 
 Two years before this little tale opens, Diego had 
 become attached to a young girl living at the mis 
 sion. Juana was an orphan, and had come to Nueva 
 California from the same institution in Mexico which, 
 many years before, had sent "La Beata," well known 
 and loved by every one in the country. Juana had 
 none of the characteristics of the celebrated Apoli- 
 naria, excepting only her piety, for she was a simple 
 young woman, doing what was given her to do with 
 a devout, unquestioning thankfulness, happy that she 
 was able to work for those who had befriended her. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 She had been at San Gabriel for some years, and was 
 the teacher of the Indian girls school. It was the most 
 natural thing to occur in the little world at San Ga 
 briel, that Diego and Juana should be drawn to each 
 other, for neither had any relatives at the mission, 
 and it happened that there were no other Mexicans 
 of their own age here at this time. It was with much 
 hesitation that Diego had told the Father of his love, 
 for the priest, although one of the kindest of men, 
 disliked change of any sort, were it the most trivial, 
 a condition due as much to temperament as to age, 
 although the Father was now past the meridian of 
 life. Diego s great desire was to have a home for him 
 self and his wife away from the mission, for he was 
 tired of the communal life which he had lived for 
 twenty years. Nothing but the love and respect he 
 had for Father Zalvidea, and the knowledge that he 
 was, in a measure, necessary to him, had kept him 
 from making the change long before. But at last he 
 was resolved to hazard the matter, and with his mind 
 made up, he broached the subject one evening, after 
 having received the priest s orders for the following 
 day. 
 
 The Father s surprise was great, for, somewhat 
 strangely, the thought that the relations between him 
 self and Diego might be altered or broken had never 
 occurred to him; yet not so strangely, after all, for 
 after having had his services for nearly twenty years, 
 what more natural than his coming to regard the ex 
 isting arrangement to be impossible of change? Yet 
 why should Diego s marriage make any difference in 
 
 [112] 
 
JUANA 
 
 the present condition of things? Married or single, 
 would not Diego and Juana continue to live at the 
 mission? And so, somewhat to Diego s surprise, the 
 Father offered no remonstrance to his wish. 
 
 But when Diego asked him if he might have a piece 
 of the mission land where he could build a house, 
 and make his home, the Father exclaimed: 
 
 "My son, are you dissatisfied with your life here? 
 Must you leave me, and give up all your old occupa 
 tions at the mission? Cannot you and Juana be con 
 tented here? What shall I do without you, for you 
 are my right hand man, and there is no one here I 
 could trust to take your place?" 
 
 "Father," replied Diego, "I should be sorry to feel 
 obliged to give up doing all in my power for you and 
 the mission; nor would I. I do not wish to go far. 
 The land I want is less than three miles away, and I 
 could be here at your command almost as much of 
 the time as now. But if it be wrong to desire a place 
 of my own, which I can plant and cultivate, and make 
 of it a home, I will not ask it." 
 
 "No, Diego," answered the Father, "it is not wrong 
 to wish for such a thing, nor can I say you nay. I am 
 no longer young, although, I thank God, still strong to 
 labor for many years yet, I hope, for our Mother 
 Church. But I shall let you do as you like. You have 
 been a good servant to me, Diego, and I will not with 
 hold from you your reward." 
 
 Diego had selected a piece of ground of about ten 
 acres, situated north of the mission, and near the 
 foot-hills leading up to a canon of the San Gabriel 
 
 [113] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Mountains. A line of shrubs and small trees cut diag 
 onally across the land, marking the course of a riv 
 ulet, which, not a half-mile farther, lost itself in the 
 light, dry sand of the plain. This tiny stream would 
 suffice for irrigation, and it was the particular feature 
 that had decided Diego to choose this place. He at 
 once set about clearing the land and building the 
 house. With the Father s permission for everything 
 needed, he soon had a number of neophytes busily at 
 work making adobes, and building the walls under 
 his supervision. Houses were quickly built in Nueva 
 California in those days. They were but plain, simple 
 structures at best, and, at the missions, an unlimited 
 number of workmen took only a few days to finish 
 one. 
 
 Diego and Juana had a grand wedding. Both favor 
 ites of the Father, and Diego, in particular, whom he 
 regarded rather as friend than servant, the priest made 
 it a holiday, and the mission church was crowded to 
 the doors, in the morning, at the marriage ceremony. 
 In the afternoon the Indians and the Mexicans cele 
 brated the day with a bull-fight, horse racing, and 
 various games and diversions, Mexican and aborig 
 inal. The day was one long remembered by all the 
 inhabitants of the mission. 
 
 The newly wedded couple took up their abode in 
 the tiny adobe house Diego had built, and began a 
 life of great happiness, little disturbed by affairs out 
 side their own domain. Life in California, in those 
 days, was a dolce far niente kind of existence that 
 was most captivating, although ruffled at times by 
 
 [114] 
 
JUANA 
 
 troubles with the many Indians on all sides. The days 
 sped by, each one making but the slightest notch in 
 the span of life. Juana continued her teaching, riding 
 to the mission every day, where she spent the morn 
 ing. During the rest of the day, after returning home, 
 she busied herself about the house in all domestic 
 duties, or in embroidering, at which she was an adept, 
 her work being much in request, not only at San 
 Gabriel, but at the other missions; or in tending her 
 garden, where were growing many vegetables and 
 fruits for their use. The birth of their child brought 
 an added joy to their already overflowing life of 
 happiness. But this kind of life could not last forever, 
 even in that idyllic land of Nueva California. 
 
 Diego was given the services of two neophytes in 
 cultivating his land, leaving him at liberty to con 
 tinue those of his mission duties which could not be 
 delegated to another. And toward the end of the sec 
 ond year of Diego s married life, his presence at the 
 mission became more urgent, and he was sent off to 
 the neighboring missions with greater frequency, and 
 made longer stays than ever before. Juana began to 
 be anxious, and to wonder what was the cause of 
 these strange proceedings, taking her husband away 
 from her, sometimes for nearly two weeks at a stretch. 
 Questioning Diego was useless, for he was a discreet 
 servant, and told her, simply, that the Father s busi 
 ness called him away. This was far from satisfying 
 her, of course, but she could learn nothing more from 
 him. 
 
 Juana, however, was not dependent entirely upon 
 
 [115] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Diego for information as to what was going on in her 
 little world, that is, at the mission. She was an acute 
 little person in spite of her simplicity, and it would 
 not have taken one as acute as she, to see that some 
 thing was disturbing the neophytes, and tending to 
 make them unruly. One day, at the hour for shutting 
 up the Indian children for the night, a youth was dis 
 covered missing. Search was made, and kept up far 
 into the night and the next day, but without result. 
 Ordinarily this would have excited no great atten 
 tion, but indications of the troublous times of 1824 
 had already made their appearance, and every little 
 incident out of the common routine was looked upon 
 with apprehension. The young Indian returned at 
 the close of the next day, and tried to appear as if 
 nothing had occurred. He was taken immediately to 
 the Father, who questioned him long and patiently, 
 but with no avail. He would say nothing farther than 
 that he had run off to the canon in the mountains for 
 a day s idleness; and this he maintained, while the 
 priest, wearied and harassed, threatened him with 
 flogging. 
 
 Juana had heard of this, for news in a little com 
 munity like the mission flies fast. Several times, when 
 on the way to her work at the mission, either as 
 teacher to the Indian girls, or as spinner and weaver 
 of the fine cloth from which were made the vestments 
 and altar decorations, or, if it chanced to be the 
 Sabbath, to attend mass at the church, she had no 
 ticed little groups of the neophytes talking eagerly, 
 but in low voices; but so soon as she approached, they 
 
 [116] 
 
JUANA 
 
 separated and went their several ways, giving her a 
 glance of malevolence, or so it seemed to her, as she 
 passed by. These things were enough to show her 
 that something was stirring the neophytes; and what 
 ever that something was, it meant, in the end, danger 
 to the fathers and to all the Mexicans connected with 
 the mission. 
 
 But the most important, and far the most terrifying, 
 indication of something amiss, was the sight Juana 
 had one day while in the canon near her home. She 
 had taken Pepito with her, and wandered up the 
 canon to the place where the stream came down the 
 mountainside in a series of little falls, rushing and 
 tumbling among the boulders that filled its path. This 
 was a favorite spot with Juana, and here she came 
 frequently for an afternoon holiday, sitting in the 
 shade of the cottonwood trees lining the brook on 
 either side, working on some piece of embroidery for 
 the church, or, perhaps, some more humble domestic 
 bit of sewing, or, in idle revery, watching the water 
 hurrying by, but never long at a time forgetting her 
 baby, which was always, of course, her companion. 
 On this afternoon Juana had been at her shady nook 
 by the stream, intent on finishing some sewing she 
 had brought with her, before it should come time to 
 go home. Not a sound was heard above the noise of 
 the stream, the crowing of the child lying on the 
 ground, as it plucked the yellow poppies, being lost 
 in the wild rush of the water. Chancing to look up 
 while she was threading her needle, Juana saw an 
 Indian striding rapidly toward the stream, which, 
 
 [117] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 reaching its bank, he crossed, springing from stone 
 to stone; climbing the opposite bank, he made his 
 way up the mountainside, and was soon lost to sight 
 behind the brow of a near-by foot-hill. Screened as 
 she was by the deep shade of the trees, the Indian had 
 not seen Juana, and well for her he did not, for her 
 first glance told her he was one of the untamed sav 
 ages that, at that late day in the efforts made by the 
 missions for their reclamation, were still numerous 
 in various parts of the country. Juana was well enough 
 acquainted with Indian customs to recognise at once 
 that the savage was on some hostile errand. He car 
 ried a bow in his hand, together with an arrow ready 
 to use without an instant s loss of time. This might 
 have meant he was on a hunting expedition, had not 
 Juana known there was no game of any kind, ex 
 cepting jack-rabbits and rattlesnakes, within a radius 
 of several miles from the mission; for the neophytes 
 had, long before, killed everything near. This fact as 
 well as his quick gait, showed her he was not on any 
 peaceful business. 
 
 With a prayer of thankfulness in her heart (for 
 there was little doubt the Indian would have killed 
 her, had he seen her) Juana seized her work, and, 
 with the baby in her arms, made all possible haste 
 to her home. Her heart was in her mouth more than 
 once, when she fancied she saw a savage lurking 
 among the trees, or behind some big boulder; but she 
 reached the house without further incident. 
 
 Diego, who had been away on one of his long ab 
 sences, arrived home that same night. When Juana 
 
 [118] 
 
JUANA 
 
 related to him, almost at the first moment of greeting, 
 the incident of the afternoon, Diego listened in sur 
 prise and alarm, and when she had finished said: 
 
 "Juana, you must not go there again; it is most 
 dangerous. But I do not think you will after what 
 happened to-day. I must go back to the mission, and 
 tell the Father what you saw." 
 
 "Tell me, Diego," implored Juana. "I know there is 
 some trouble with the Indians. Is it very serious? Are 
 we all in danger? Remember what they did to Father 
 Jaime at San Diego. But they could not do any harm 
 to the fathers now. We are too strong for them." 
 
 "No, Juana," answered Diego, "the fathers are in 
 no personal danger, I think. And the trouble is not 
 here, so much as farther north, at Santa Barbara, and 
 the missions near there. But the fathers at all the mis 
 sions are on the watch, for no one knows just where 
 or when the trouble will break forth. The neophytes 
 are dissatisfied, and will not obey their masters. But 
 you must say nothing of this to any one. The Father 
 wishes to keep it as quiet as possible, so as to alarm 
 no one at the mission, and to have none of the Indians 
 think they are suspected. I must go." 
 
 And Diego set out for the mission, from whence he 
 did not return until several hours later. The next day 
 saw him off again on one of his long absences, bear 
 ing letters from the Father to the priests at Capis- 
 trano, San Fernando and the more distant Santa 
 Barbara. * * 
 
 During his absence, Juana hardly dared stir from 
 the house, except to take the beaten road to the mis- 
 
 [119] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 sion; and even this required a mustering up of her 
 courage every time she made the short journey, al 
 though she knew a foe would be very unlikely to 
 venture into so exposed a position. On the day of 
 Diego s departure, Father Zalvidea had made her re 
 late to him every detail of her episode in the canon. 
 He feared the worst, but made light of it to her. At 
 the same time he told her she might stay at the mis 
 sion if she feared to be alone, until such time as the 
 danger should be past. But Juana could not make up 
 her mind to leave her home, her flowers, which she 
 tended so carefully, and her garden, which, without 
 her daily oversight, would be ruined. Thanking the 
 Father, she said she would stay on at home, unless 
 something more should occur. 
 
 Day after day went by without further incident of 
 any kind. Indeed, the presence of the Indian in the 
 canon appeared to be the last of the series of occur 
 rences to cause alarm; and the anxiety of the Father 
 and the Mexicans was quieted. Still, as Diego did not 
 return, they knew that affairs at the other missions 
 were not in an altogether favorable condition. 
 
 But at last, after an absence of nearly three weeks, 
 Diego returned, and brought tidings boding no good. 
 There was no trouble apparent impending at San 
 Juan Capistrano, and but little at San Fernando; but 
 at Santa Barbara, and especially at Santa Ines, to 
 which missions Diego had been sent by the priests at 
 Santa Barbara, much trouble was feared, and at any 
 moment. The neophytes were watched closely, but 
 there were many gentiles in the mountains around, 
 
 [120] 
 
JUANA 
 
 who had stirred up the mission Indians to a state of 
 great excitement. However, there was nothing to do, 
 except to keep a strict guard. 
 
 Juana was overjoyed to see Diego. She had kept on 
 with her daily work at the mission and at home, and, 
 as nothing further had occurred of an alarming na 
 ture, she had, by degrees, lost much of her terror. Her 
 anxiety for Diego, too, had helped to draw away her 
 thought from herself and her situation. That was a 
 happy evening for Juana, and her happiness was in 
 creased when Diego told her he would not be obliged 
 to leave again for some weeks, unless the outbreak 
 that was feared should materialise to call him away. 
 
 Well for us we know not what the morrow may 
 bring forth ! Nothing disturbed Juana s happiness that 
 night, and she fell asleep with a sigh of content, and 
 a heart lightened of all fear and anxiety. The next 
 morning Diego went to work in the garden not far 
 from the house, leaving Juana busy with her domestic 
 duties. The day after Diego s return from one of his 
 long absences was always a holiday for Juana, one 
 of the mission women taking her place as teacher. 
 Happy and gay she cleared away the breakfast, swept 
 the room, and washed and dressed the baby, now and 
 then bursting into song, from sheer excess of joy. It 
 was toward the middle of the morning, when she 
 heard a sudden cry from Diego. Springing up, she 
 hastened out of the house, and ran to the spot where 
 she had seen her husband at work a few moments be 
 fore. It was not until she had reached the place that 
 she discovered Diego, prone on the ground where he 
 
 [121] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 had fallen, near the vines he had been pruning. Juana 
 knelt and threw her arms around his neck, when she 
 saw the arrow from which he had fallen, buried deep 
 in his breast. 
 
 "Juana, querida," he whispered hoarsely, "get Pe- 
 pito and fly to the mission. Tell the Father. Leave me; 
 I am past help. The arrow was poisoned. Go at once." 
 
 "Diego, Diego, I cannot go; let me die here with 
 you. Let the Indian kill me, too. Where is he?" and 
 she looked wildly around. 
 
 "He is hiding among the trees by the stream. Juana, 
 go, I command you. Santa Maria ! Save her from the 
 cruel savage, who may be, even now, watching us." 
 
 Enfolding her in a close embrace, he kissed her 
 many times, then, with his remaining strength, pushed 
 her from him and motioned her to go. 
 
 Juana did not move. She clung to Diego, weeping 
 bitterly, as she whispered endearing names. The time 
 of delay, however, was not long, for the Indian s aim 
 had been true; and without the aid of the poison with 
 which the arrow was tipped, Diego was doomed. Sud 
 denly Juana felt a tremor pass through him; his head 
 fell back on the ground, and with a deep sigh, he 
 closed his eyes and was dead. 
 
 Juana gazed long on the inanimate form of her 
 husband, then, with a last parting kiss, turned toward 
 the house. She thought now of Pepito for the first 
 time since she had left him, and she quickened her 
 steps, going faster as she neared the house, and her 
 fear of the hidden savage came over her. The time 
 she had been absent was short, though it seemed 
 
 [122] 
 
JUANA 
 
 hours to her, and she found the baby playing in the 
 sunlight that streamed in the window. Snatching him 
 up convulsively, she dashed out of the house, and ran 
 at her utmost speed along the road that led to the 
 mission, nearly three miles away. Her horse was 
 tethered in the field, not one hundred yards from her, 
 but she was too frightened to think of that. Her one 
 thought was to get away from the Indian, and to 
 reach the mission, forgetting in her unceasing fear 
 that she was completely at the mercy of her foe, and 
 that, were he bent on still further mischief, by hurry 
 ing unduly, she was only hastening the bitter mo 
 ment. 
 
 And so it proved. The road to the mission lay at an 
 acute angle with the course of the stream, and the 
 place where Juana supposed the Indian to be hid 
 was, for some distance, almost in front of her. She 
 hurried on, looking neither to right nor left, but with 
 gaze bent tensely on the mission church, the cross 
 on the roof alone being visible above the tree tops. 
 She had gone only a few yards when she heard a sud 
 den, sharp whistling in the air near her. Startled, she 
 glanced quickly to one side, and clutched the baby 
 more closely to her too late; she saw not the arrow, 
 such was its velocity, but felt the baby give one spas 
 modic bound. She flew along the road, the child 
 screaming as she ran. As she neared the mission, and 
 the houses clustered around it, the inmates started 
 from their various occupations and gazed in aston 
 ishment at Juana as she sped by, wild-eyed, her hair 
 streaming in the wind. 
 
 [123] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Father Zalvidea had passed the morning in reading 
 the letters Diego had brought to him the night before, 
 and meditating gloomily on the prospect confronting 
 the missions. He did not fear any particular trouble 
 at San Gabriel, but the news he had had from some of 
 the northern establishments was not reassuring; and 
 the missions were so closely united in one common 
 bond, that what was an injury to one was an injury to 
 all. After reading and re-reading the letters, he put 
 them away, and betook himself to his garden for a 
 little pasear before his midday meal. He had paced the 
 length of the garden only two or three times, when he 
 was aroused from his revery by the abrupt appearance 
 of a woman whom, from the agony distorting her 
 face, and her long fluttering hair, he did not at once 
 recognise. As soon as she saw him Juana cried out, 
 "Father, Father !" and staggering forward a step, fell, 
 unconscious, at his feet. Calling loudly for help, the 
 priest bent over, and caught the baby from her arms. 
 At sight of the arrow he exclaimed: "Now may God 
 help us!" for he understood, on the instant, its im 
 port. 
 
 By this time he was surrounded by a number of 
 women and servants, and, not heeding their ejacula 
 tions, he bade them carry Juana into the house. The 
 baby was past help the arrow had pierced its neck, 
 and the child was even then in the stupor that would 
 give way only to death, the poison working rapidly 
 in the small body. But the Father could not linger. 
 Leaving Juana and the child in care of the household, 
 he quickly alarmed the Mexican contingent of the mis- 
 
 [124] 
 
JUANA 
 
 sion, and put them on guard. A small number of armed 
 men were sent to reconnoitre the mountains near 
 Diego s home. The hunt was kept up for two days; 
 but nothing was found except the tracks of the In 
 dian in the soft mud of the river, and a circle of 
 ashes, the remains of a small fire. From all indica 
 tions there had been only one Indian in the neighbor 
 hood, and he, apparently, had disappeared to return 
 no more, for nothing was seen of him, though a watch 
 was maintained there for several weeks. 
 
 Such a state of extreme uncertainty as the mission 
 was in could not have lasted long, and the Father 
 knew that unless something were done to end it, the 
 neophytes would most certainly rise in rebellion, and 
 slay their masters. Fortunately all danger was re 
 moved, a few days after Diego s tragic end, by the 
 arrival of a messenger with letters from Santa Bar 
 bara. The news they contained was most grave. The 
 vague, intangible anxiety, so long experienced, had 
 culminated at last in the uprising of the Indians at 
 Mission Purisima. On the Sabbath morning previous, 
 they had made a sudden assault on the mission, and 
 had burned many of the buildings, almost ruined the 
 church, and, after much fighting, had driven the 
 Mexicans with the fathers to Mission Santa Ines, 
 twenty-five miles distant. Word had been sent at 
 once to Monterey, and a detachment of soldiers from 
 the presidio there had hastened to the spot. This re 
 quired two days, during which the insurgents held 
 the mission; but on the arrival of the troops, they 
 were soon ousted and forced to retire. 
 
 [125] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 The same thing was attempted at Santa Ines, but 
 not much difficulty was found in quelling the dis 
 turbance. Some signs of insubordination were shown 
 at the neighboring missions, San Luis Obispo in the 
 north, and Santa Barbara, San Buenaventura and 
 San Fernando south of the scene of the trouble; but 
 there was no disturbance after the Indians had 
 learned that the attempt at Purisima was unsuccess 
 ful; and they hastened to pledge obedience to the 
 fathers. There were four hundred Indians in active 
 insurrection, and although many were wounded, only 
 sixteen were killed. 
 
 As for San Gabriel, the shooting of Diego and his 
 child was the only incident that occurred at this mis 
 sion which showed the condition of things prevail 
 ing everywhere; and Father Zalvidea was thankful 
 to have it no worse yet long he mourned for his 
 faithful servant. When Diego and Pepito were buried, 
 the Father made a solemn and impressive address to 
 the neophytes, painting in vivid colors the pains of 
 hell, which those engaged in the insurrection were in 
 danger of experiencing after death, contrasting it 
 with the joys of those blessed ones who did God s 
 will on earth, and received their own great reward 
 hereafter. 
 
 Juana was delirious and raving for many days. 
 The shock itself was sufficient to cause her illness, 
 but it was surmised that the arrow, which had slain 
 Pepito, had entered an inch or so into her arm. In 
 the excitement of her sudden appearance and faint 
 ing, when the Father took the child from her, this 
 
 [126] 
 
JUANA 
 
 was not noticed; but a few hours later her arm be 
 came much swollen and very painful; and as a slight 
 wound was discovered, the Father concluded some 
 of the poison had entered her system. This was the 
 only plausible theory to account for her swollen arm, 
 and also, perhaps, for her subsequent condition; for 
 Juana, alas! never recovered her mental faculties 
 after the fever left her. Regaining her physical health, 
 the memory of her former life was an almost com 
 plete blank. All she seemed to have retained were the 
 refrains of two or three songs she had been accus 
 tomed to sing to Diego, in the first months of their 
 married life. 
 
 Juana lived for many years, and until she became 
 an old, old woman. She was always treated with the 
 greatest consideration by every one at the mission, 
 for her story was known, at first, as an event in their 
 mission life, then, as the years went by, as history 
 and tradition. Meek and gentle she was. It was only 
 when thwarted in her desires that she became 
 aroused to a pitch of angry insanity which made her 
 dangerous. This chanced very seldom, for she was 
 allowed to do as she pleased in all things. And so she 
 lived, unnoting the many and great changes that took 
 place from year to year in Nueva California San 
 Gabriel losing its greatness and power, ceasing, even, 
 together with all the others, its life as a mission, and 
 the province itself torn from the grasp of Mexico, to 
 become a member of the greatest republic in the 
 world her unheeding mind knew nothing of all this. 
 Her favorite pastime, after the railroad was built 
 
 [127] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 through the little town of San Gabriel, was to wander 
 down to the station, when time for the trains, which 
 she quickly learned, and to greet them with the 
 snatches of song that remained with her sole vestige 
 of her former life. 
 
 But death came at last to this poor wayfarer on 
 life s journey, and she was buried in the cemetery 
 near the church, by the side of her husband and her 
 child, the place which had been, by common consent, 
 reserved for her in the sadly overcrowded little 
 campo santo. Here lies all of her that was mortal. 
 We know she is well once more, with her mind and 
 memory, touched by divine healing, restored to her, 
 and, we may be sure, happy in the companionship of 
 her loved ones. 
 
 [128] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
FATHER URIAS SAINTS 
 
 HEREFORE I went to 
 Father Uria and told 
 him your story. He was 
 very kind, and bade me 
 write to you that you 
 might trust him to find 
 you something to do if 
 you should decide to 
 come here. Have no 
 fear; there are not 
 enough men at San 
 Buenaventura to pre 
 vent a single man from 
 having all the work he 
 may wish. Make haste and come. Do not delay. Diego." 
 The reader finished the letter, and there was a 
 silence of some minutes between the two, reader and 
 listener. The former, a young man, not much more 
 than twenty-five years of age, had a moody expres 
 sion on his dark face. After reading the letter he 
 waited for his companion to speak. But Maria, his 
 wife, appeared not to notice this, and remained silent. 
 
 [131] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 The two were sitting on the porch of a little adobe 
 house on the outskirts of the presidio town of Tubac, 
 Mexico, a few miles from the coast of the Gulf of 
 California. This had been the home of Benito s par 
 ents, and since their death three years before, that of 
 himself and his wife. For a time they had been happy 
 in their hard-working life, for love lightened their 
 toil; but toward the close of the second year in their 
 home they had suffered a series of reverses that 
 sadly crippled Benito s resources. First there had 
 been a season of such heat and drought that all their 
 labor in the dozen acres which Benito cultivated 
 came to naught, and they gathered hardly more than 
 enough to keep them from starving before the next 
 year s harvest. Then one of Benito s horses, of which 
 he had three, and fine ones they were, had been taken 
 sick and died just at the time when it was most 
 needed, during the early summer plowing both 
 Benito s and his neighbors ; for after the work on his 
 own land was done, Benito worked for others, thus 
 adding something toward their income. The death 
 of his horse was a severe blow to him, not only be 
 cause he loved his horses, but because his income 
 was greatly curtailed in consequence. With three 
 horses Benito could use a pair every day, and yet 
 allow each horse to rest one day out of three; but 
 with two, it could be done only by losing a day s work 
 out of every three; and this was the plan Benito had 
 followed, for he could not bring himself to use his 
 good steeds every day. This had occurred in the 
 spring following the poor harvest. 
 
 [132] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 Some weeks later, about six months before our 
 story opens, another disaster befell these two unfor 
 tunate ones. One night, Benito and Maria had been 
 awakened by a terrible uproar in their chicken- 
 house. Benito rushed out to find it in flames. Some 
 traveller passing, after smoking a cigarette, had, most 
 likely, carelessly thrown the burning stub among the 
 inflammable boards and loose stuff of the enclosure. 
 Benito did what he could to rescue the hens and 
 chickens, but of all of his flock, he saved a mere 
 score. This last calamity was almost more than Maria 
 could bear. The hens had been her especial care. She 
 had, under her skillful tending, seen the flock in 
 crease from the small nucleus of a dozen, which 
 Benito had bought and given her on her coming to 
 his home, a few days after they were married, to over 
 one hundred. These hens had been the source of no 
 small profit, and by their means Benito was able to 
 put aside a little nest egg each year. And now they 
 must begin again! It was hard, and both felt there 
 was no relief for them. The little they had saved dur 
 ing the first few years had to be used for the summer 
 sowing, and for food until they could gather a har 
 vest. Here, again, Benito found there would not be 
 more than sufficient for their wants, and that, when 
 the next sowing time came, they would be in a worse 
 condition than at present for continuing the struggle 
 for existence. Altogether Benito and Maria were on 
 the edge of despair. 
 
 Shortly after the death of Benito s parents, his 
 elder brother had made one of a band of artisans, 
 
 [133] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 laborers and soldiers, in company with two Fran 
 ciscan priests, to the province of Nueva California. 
 Diego, who was of a roving disposition, had wan 
 dered off to the south, working at his trade of car 
 pentry as the mood seized him, or the state of his 
 pocket forced him, now here, now there, until finally 
 he found himself in the coast town of San Bias. This 
 was the point from which many of the expeditions 
 to the northern province set sail; and the busy prep 
 arations for departure, which Diego witnessed, fired 
 his desire to join a company about to leave for the 
 remote, half-mythical region in the north. This he 
 did, and, some weeks later, landed at Monterey, 
 whence, in the course of the next year, he worked his 
 way south until he reached Mission San Buenaven 
 tura. Here he settled down permanently, having 
 grown tired of his aimless life, and became an active 
 and useful man to the Father. Communication be 
 tween the two countries in those days was infrequent, 
 and Benito had heard his brother was settled at San 
 Buenaventura only after he had been there nearly a 
 year. Diego described, in glowing terms, the advan 
 tages of the province the fine climate, exceeding 
 fertility of the soil, land to be had for the asking, 
 where everything necessary and desired could be 
 grown, and his own content, far away, though he was, 
 from his old home. This letter had reached Benito 
 when he was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes. The 
 glowing language of his brother s description of 
 Nueva California awakened an intense longing in his 
 heart to go there and make a new beginning under 
 
 [134] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 more favorable influences. He said nothing to Maria, 
 but wrote a letter to Diego, telling of his troubles, 
 and asking if there were room for himself and wife 
 in that new land. This he sent off by a friend to San 
 Bias, where it was given over to a priest who, in turn, 
 was to deliver it into the charge of the next expedi 
 tion to be sent out. Benito had written nearly six 
 months before, and had about given up looking for 
 an answer, when a neighbor, returning home from 
 the town, handed him a letter as he passed by. His 
 brother gave him encouraging news and advised him 
 to come, ending with the words quoted above. After 
 reading it, Benito hastened to find Maria, and with 
 her by his side on the little porch he read it again 
 to her. 
 
 At last Maria broke the silence: 
 
 "Benito, I am glad you wrote to Diego, and I feel 
 sure the best thing for us to do is to go. How can we 
 keep on in the way \ve have been doing the last two 
 years? I am tired and disheartened, and I know you 
 are too; but there, in the new land, we could make 
 another start with better courage. Let us go." Maria 
 looked up at Benito, smiling brightly, but with tears 
 in her eyes. 
 
 Benito lost no time in carrying out his plan, and 
 at the end of a few weeks he had sold his house and 
 land, and all his furniture and farming tools, reserv 
 ing only his horses. These, with a few clothes, and 
 two hundred dollars in gold in his pocket, made up 
 the entire wealth of this poor couple. As Benito 
 wished to keep his horses, he decided to go to the 
 
 [135] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 new country overland by way of the Colorado River, 
 and across the desert to Mission San Gabriel. This 
 had been the regular route of the land expeditions of 
 the early days of mission history, and was still used, 
 although less frequently. Benito and Maria had not 
 long to wait when a company was formed to start out 
 on the long journey of seven hundred miles to Mis 
 sion San Buenaventura. 
 
 At the time of the setting out of our friends in the 
 year 1830, travelling overland from Mexico to Cali 
 fornia was an easy thing, compared to the hardship 
 and dangers of fifty years earlier. Then, the way, 
 through the desert around the mouth of the Colorado 
 River, was beset by the fierce and powerful Yuma 
 Indians, and unless the band of travellers were large 
 and well armed, it would suffer severely at their 
 hands. But the Yumas had become subdued with 
 time, and travelling made safe. The company with 
 which Benito and Maria journeyed had no mishap, 
 and after four weeks passed on the way, they arrived, 
 one evening late in October, at Mission San Buena 
 ventura, just as the bells of the mission church were 
 pealing out their evening burden. 
 
 What a charming place Mission San Buenaventura 
 was in those days ! Situated on the coast, it stood not 
 a half-mile from the water, which it faced, while be 
 hind, and close to it, was a line of hills running off 
 into the distance until they disappeared on the hori 
 zon. At the time of year our pilgrims first saw it, 
 there was little remaining of the verdant freshness 
 of spring and early summer. But if Nature refuses 
 
 [136] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 to permit southern California to wear her mantle of 
 green later than May or June, she has bestowed on 
 her a wealth of warm yellow, red and brown, which, 
 to some, is even more pleasing. The bare ground 
 takes on a vividness of glowing color that is almost 
 incredible, while the hills in the distance run through 
 another gamut of color from yellow through all the 
 shades of orange to an almost pure pink, with pale 
 blue shadows, changing at sunset to intensest purple. 
 Color is rife in California. 
 
 The mission consisted of a large white adobe 
 church, a long line of buildings adjoining in which 
 lived the padre and the Mexicans, and a number of 
 little houses and cabins, some of adobe, but the 
 greater number of straw and rushes, which sheltered 
 the Indians. These little huts were scattered around 
 irregularly on all sides; and to them the inmates 
 were wending their way from their daily toil in the 
 fields and among the horses and cattle, and from all 
 the occupations of a pastoral life. Nothing more beau 
 tiful could well be imagined than the picture the mis 
 sion made in the rosy light of sunset crowds of sav 
 ages, children of nature gathered together to receive 
 the rich blessings bestowed on them by the fathers, 
 deriving their authority from the Church whose sym 
 bol, the great white building, towering above all else 
 of man s work, stood like a sentinel guarding the re 
 ligious life of the mission. 
 
 Father Uria had been pacing to and fro in front of 
 the mission for more than an hour, waiting impa 
 tiently for the expedition from Mexico, which had 
 
 [137] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 been expected two days before, its regular time of 
 arrival. It was not at all unusual for these bands to 
 be delayed three or four days, and that without meet 
 ing with any accident on the way; but news from 
 home was infrequent to a degree that made an expe 
 dition to the province awaited with almost unreason 
 able impatience. Mail, as well as everything else, 
 came usually by sea; but to send letters by the desert 
 route was by no means rare. 
 
 Father Uria was known to all his fraternity in the 
 country for his eccentricity. He was a small, rather 
 stout man, about sixty years of age, every one of 
 which had left its mark upon him; for his had been 
 a life of toil surpassed by but few, even among those 
 self-denying workers in the Lord s vineyard. But the 
 hardships of his life had not quenched his jovial 
 spirits, which were, indeed, irrepressible. A laughing 
 greeting for every one he met, Mexican or Indian, 
 was his habit, one that might have begotten a meas 
 ure of contempt in the beholder, had the Father not 
 possessed a sternness, latent for the most part, it is 
 true, but which could, on occasion, be evoked to prop 
 up the apparently tottering respect due him. Father 
 Uria was fond, too, of company, not only for its own 
 sake, but because it gave him an excuse for the pleas 
 ures of the table, and, in especial, for enjoying the 
 delights of the wine made at Mission San Gabriel, 
 and which was in demand by all the missions. This 
 was a weakness seldom indulged in, for the Father 
 cared not for imbibing this delectable liquid unless 
 assisted by pleasant company; and occasions when 
 
 [138] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 this could be had were rare. Let not the reader infer 
 from this that our respected fraile was guilty of 
 drinking more than was good or seemly for him. 
 There had been a whisper one time, going the rounds 
 of the missions, that he had been uproariously drunk 
 on some occasion in the past; one slanderous tongue 
 said the priest had been reprimanded by President 
 Sanchez, but we do not believe a word of this. And 
 who would grudge him all the pleasure he might get 
 from the good San Gabriel wine? Think of the poor 
 padre, expatriated for the rest of his days, and in a 
 land that wanted much to make life seem worth the 
 living! Our hearts go out to the Father, as to all the 
 other good men who had done likewise, in deepest 
 sympathy. 
 
 It is not our intention to enumerate all the pecu 
 liarities of Father Uria. But there was one, before 
 which all the rest sank into insignificance, and that 
 was his excessive fondness for cats. The love of cats 
 is more particularly a feminine trait; and this, to 
 gether with his strength of mind, marked though it 
 was usually by his geniality, makes it the more sur 
 prising in Father Uria s case. Yet such was the fact, 
 and as such was it recognised by all with whom he 
 came in contact; for in this instance it was "love me 
 love my" cats! This hobby of the friar was one he 
 had had from childhood; but gaining man s estate, 
 he had kept it in subjection (fearing it was not in 
 accord with the strictest propriety, especially after 
 taking orders) until he came to California. Here he 
 had found a life of such loneliness, that, as a refuge 
 
 [139] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 from almost unbearable ennui, he had gone back to 
 his youthful feline love with more than youthful 
 ardor. When he came to take charge of the Mission, 
 San Buenaventura, three years before, he had brought 
 with him, carefully watched over, four immense cats, 
 which had long been his pets. These he still had, and 
 in their companionship he found his greatest solace 
 for a life of solitude. 
 
 Father Uria continued his walking to and fro, gaz 
 ing off to the east along the road which the expedition 
 from Mexico must traverse on its way to Monterey. 
 Behind him, almost at his heels, trotted one of his 
 pets, seeming to be perfectly content to follow the 
 footsteps of her master, and showing unbounded joy, 
 when he stopped for a moment to pet and speak to 
 her. 
 
 "Well ! gatita mia, you are the only one to stay with 
 your old master. Where are the others? Off hunting 
 for gophers, I suppose. But here are the travellers at 
 last," and he hurried down the road toward the ap 
 proaching train, the cat bounding along at his side, 
 or running off every few feet, now this way, now 
 that, to chase a butterfly or mosquito hawk. Once, in 
 her haste to overtake her master, she encountered a 
 horned toad. With a spring to one side, and a loud 
 "spst!" she passed it, for this pet of Father Uria was 
 acquainted with these hated objects, but could never 
 overcome her intense horror of them. We are much 
 afraid this puss is a sad coward. 
 
 The Father reached the band of travellers, and he 
 received from the commander the packet of letters 
 
 [140] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 destined for the mission. Then, with a few words of 
 welcome to all, he bade them follow him to the mis 
 sion, where they would find refreshment and shelter 
 for the night. On the way, singling out Benito and 
 Maria (the former from his resemblance to Diego) 
 Father Uria questioned them as to their journey, and 
 plans for their future home at his mission. Benito re 
 lated his story, and hopes of finding some occupation. 
 
 "Diego tells me you are skilled in gardening," said 
 the Father. "Would you like to take charge of my 
 garden and orchard? My gardener is growing too old 
 for work, and I have long had thoughts of retiring 
 him. I have waited only to find some one to take his 
 place, and when Diego told me of you, I thought you 
 might be the one I want. What say you?" 
 
 "I thank you heartily, my Father," replied Benito. 
 "I should, indeed, be happy and proud to do that, if 
 I can prove worthy." 
 
 They reached the mission, and there Benito found 
 Diego waiting to welcome him. After bidding Benito 
 to come and see him in the morning, as Diego led 
 them away to his own little home, the Father went 
 in, his cat following. Leaving her in the house, the 
 Father passed on to the church, where he performed 
 the usual short evening service of the rosario, after 
 which he returned to his habitation. No sooner was 
 he in the house, than he was fairly bombarded by a 
 small army of cats, or so it seemed; for although there 
 were only four, including the one with whom we are 
 already acquainted, one might have thought, from 
 the noise and confusion they made, trying to get at 
 
 [141] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 their dear master, that there were a dozen at least. 
 
 "Now, my cats, you really must behave yourselves 
 a little better than this," said the Father, with a tone 
 of sternness, which, however, had not the slighest ef 
 fect, since he began at once to pet them, first one and 
 then another, as they crowded around him. "I know 
 you are hungry, but that is no excuse for making such 
 a disturbance. Gome, we shall have supper," and with 
 these words he went into his dining-room, the cats 
 trooping after him. 
 
 Father Uria always had his table set with as much 
 variety and luxury as his meagre salary, and the re 
 sources of the mission, allowed. He was not a hearty 
 eater, nor, as we have said, did he drink largely of 
 wine, unless he had the support of congenial com 
 pany, but he insisted on variety. His vegetable garden 
 was his pride, and the object of extremest solicitude. 
 In it he had, in flourishing condition, every sort of 
 edible, including, as well, the fruits especially adapted 
 to that climate. As he was seldom favored with guests, 
 he had made it a custom to have his pet cats bear 
 him company at his meals; and he had trained them 
 so well that they were, in general, as perfectly be 
 haved, in their limited capacity, as the best mannered 
 human being; only occasionally, when hunger gained 
 the upper hand, did they break the bounds of cat- 
 decorum. They had their places opposite the Father, 
 in two chairs, two cats, side by side, in each chair; 
 and there they would sit, looking with meek but 
 hungry eyes, first at the Father, then at the meat and 
 cream destined for their repast. 
 
 [142] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 But it is time these cats were introduced to the 
 reader, for such intimate and (if we may be per 
 mitted to use the word) personal friends of the priest 
 should have a regular introduction. Let us begin then, 
 with the first, and, as it happens, the oldest and most 
 sedate one. His name is San Francisco, a solemn- 
 looking beast, large and handsome; he is a maltese, 
 and is admired by all who have seen him. The cat 
 sitting quietly by his side in the same chair is Santa 
 Barbara, a maltese like her companion, but younger 
 and not so handsome, only because not so large. Next 
 comes, in the second chair, the cat whose acquaint 
 ance we have already made, Santa Clara, the Father s 
 usual companion at all times, for she has less roving 
 blood in her veins, and prefers remaining with her 
 master to hunting and other feline diversions. She, 
 too, is maltese, but has white paws, the only deviation 
 from pure blood that any of the four cats show. The 
 last, the youngest and smallest cat (although she can 
 boast of five years of age, and, in any company but 
 the present, would be considered a fine large animal), 
 is Santa Ines, the daughter of Santa Barbara. She is 
 the one to get into all the mischief of which cats are 
 capable; to run away and lead every one a lively chase 
 until she is found, for the Father (let us whisper it 
 under our breath) would feel nearly as much sorrow 
 at the loss of one of his cats, as he would at losing the 
 soul of one of his neophytes. 
 
 We fear much that our reader will be ready to set 
 Father Uria down as a mere fool, or a half-crazy old 
 man, and to sneer at him and his precious cats. But 
 
 [143] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 are not we all crazy on some subject; has not each 
 one of us some hobby or idiosyncrasy which makes 
 us appear more or less demented to our neighbors? 
 And just because the twist in our poor Father s mind 
 takes the particular form of a love for cats, why 
 should we, how dare we, say he is crazy? No, he was 
 no more crazy than are we; and perhaps his beau 
 tiful cats kept him from becoming so, in very sooth, 
 forced to live in the wilderness, if we may call it that, 
 deprived of all the happiness of his native land, and 
 of the friends for whom these cats make a poor sub 
 stitute at the best. 
 
 But there is one point on which we cannot find ex* 
 cuse for the Father, that is, in giving his cats the names 
 of some of the most respected and venerated saints 
 among the Franciscans; going so far, indeed, as to 
 bestow upon his finest cat the name of Saint Francis 
 himself, the founder of the order. It is difficult to con 
 ceive of such irreverence in a priest, himself a mem 
 ber of that great order in the Catholic Church; and it 
 is this, if anything, which would show a weakness of 
 the mind. But even here, let us say, not as excuse, but 
 in mitigation of his offence, that only from inadvert 
 ence did the Father speak to, or of, his cats by these 
 names in any one s hearing; and there were only two 
 or three people at the mission who knew after what 
 august personages they were called. Besides, their 
 full title was usually reserved for occasions of repri 
 mand, and with these well-mannered creatures such 
 occasions were rare indeed. 
 
 "Well," said the Father, beginning his own supper, 
 
 [144] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 after having given the cats each their portion of meat 
 in a large, deep plate, flanked by a saucer brimming 
 full of sweet cream, "aren t you pretty cats to go off 
 and leave me the whole afternoon? Clara was the 
 only one to keep me company. What is the use in 
 having four cats to amuse me, if you mean to run off 
 whenever the notion seizes you? I want you cats to 
 be home all the time. You, San Francisco, should have 
 stayed here with Clara as you are the largest. I think 
 I shall have to tie you up to-morrow. No, I believe I ll 
 punish you now by taking away your supper," saying 
 which, the Father reached across the table and re 
 moved the plate of meat and the cream from in front 
 of Francisco, who had just begun to devour his re 
 past. "Miou! Miou!" said Francisco, piteously, looking 
 after his supper, which the priest put down on the 
 table near his own. It was too much : Francisco forgot 
 his manners and with one bound he leaped across the 
 table, snatched up a piece of meat, and, with a growl 
 of defiance, began chewing it vigorously. The Father 
 laughed and returned the cat s supper. "I am afraid, 
 Francisco, you did not catch much in your hunt this 
 afternoon, for you appear to be as hungry as usual. 
 So I won t punish you by depriving you of your sup 
 per. Go back to your place." 
 
 After supper, the Father, accompanied by his friends, 
 made a tour of the mission to see that everything 
 w r as safe for the night; then, returning to his house 
 by the church, he spent the evening reading the let 
 ters and messages brought to him that day, and in 
 studying for an hour or so by the help of the few 
 
 [145] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 theological books his library boasted. Father Uria was 
 an intelligent and well-educated man, and took de 
 light in the investigation of the abstruse subjects and 
 doctrines his Church afforded. He did this from nat 
 ural inclination, and not from any practical use to 
 be made of such study in his capacity as head of the 
 mission. People in Nueva California, in those days, 
 not only the Indians, but the Mexicans and Spaniards, 
 were of the utmost simplicity of mind, entirely unable 
 to grasp anything beyond the rudiments of their faith. 
 Early the next morning Benito made his appear 
 ance. The Father conducted him out to his garden, 
 and showed him the method he had pursued in bring 
 ing everything to a high state of cultivation. Irriga 
 tion was not absolutely essential, as at many of the 
 other missions; but, notwithstanding, Father Uria had 
 evolved a miniature system in his garden by means 
 of a spring in the foot-hills, half a mile away, from 
 which water was brought in a narrow flume. This had 
 long been in use for the general needs of the mission; 
 but it was reserved for Father Uria to apply some of 
 the surplus water to the garden. Father Uria had once 
 visited the garden at Mission San Gabriel which had 
 been the special pride and comfort of Father Zal- 
 videa; and it was with complacent satisfaction that, 
 in comparing it with his own, he saw the latter suf 
 fered no disparagement. His was in fully as flourish 
 ing condition, but the element of picturesque beauty 
 was lacking; his needs for a garden were entirely utili 
 tarian, while Father Zalvidea required beauty quite 
 as much as use. The two gardens were typical of the 
 
 [146] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 two men. So Benito was installed as his gardener. 
 
 While the Father was showing Benito the garden, 
 andv explaining to him about the plants, the cats 
 which, as usual, had followed him, employed the time 
 in roaming around among the bushes, searching in 
 tently for anything alive which might make fair 
 game. They scattered in all directions, one after a 
 humming-bird, another chasing a butterfly; the third 
 wandered off lazily to a big patch of catnip for a sniff 
 of its delightful aroma; w r hile the fourth began to 
 career to and fro after a dragon-fly, in the wildest 
 fashion. The priest and Benito had moved off to an 
 asparagus bed, to consult about the best treatment to 
 give it, for the plants were slowly dying, and the 
 Father was in a quandary. The dragon-fly alighted to 
 rest on his broad-brimmed hat. All unconscious of its 
 presence, he talked on with Benito, expounding his 
 theory of the proper treatment for the asparagus, 
 when, suddenly, as he bent over a plant to look at it 
 more closely, with a blow that almost knocked him 
 down, his hat \vent flying from his head, and fell to 
 the ground several yards away, while at his feet 
 dropped the venturesome Ines. She was up in an in 
 stant, looking for her prey, but it was out of sight. 
 
 With an exclamation rather stronger than was quite 
 proper in one of his cloth, the Father turned to the cat. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this business, Ines ? Really, 
 you are getting to be insufferable. I cannot allow you 
 to come out with me if you carry on in this way." Benito 
 had run to pick up his hat, and offered it to him, his 
 eyes dancing with merriment, and the corners of his 
 
 [147] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 mouth twitching. The Father took it, and noting the 
 gleam in his eyes, smiled himself. "These cats of mine 
 will be the death of me some day, I expect," he said, 
 laughing. "Go along, Ines, and remember to show a 
 little more respect for your master another time." 
 
 These saints of Father Uria were given the run of 
 the entire mission, and were known to all its inhab 
 itants. Although every one was kind to them, the cats 
 were dignified and distant toward all but the Father 
 and Benito, after the latter had lived there a few 
 months. It had gradually become one of Benito s 
 duties to keep an eye on them; shut them up when 
 the Father did not wish them around; and when, as 
 occasionally happened, they ran away, to search for 
 them. Usually they would return of their own accord 
 the second day, if not found the night before; but 
 the Father could not sleep unless he knew his pre 
 cious animals were housed safely, and an effort was 
 always made to find the truants before night set in. 
 
 From the time Benito and Maria made San Buena 
 ventura their home, Fortune again turned her face 
 toward them. Benito, with steady employment as 
 the Father s gardener and trusted servant, was pros 
 perous and happy; while Maria once more had her 
 chickens, although the demand for her poultry and 
 eggs was smaller than she had found in her former 
 home in Mexico. She seldom missed her old asso 
 ciates, busy as she was, and content with her simple 
 tasks the whole day long. What a quiet, peaceful life 
 was that at the California missions in the old days! 
 Perhaps, reader, you think humdrum would be the 
 
 [148] 
 
FATHER URIA S SAINTS 
 
 more appropriate adjective to use than peaceful or 
 even quiet. And to one like our Father Uria, thou 
 sands of miles from his early home, cut off from all 
 the pleasures and advantages of ordinary social in 
 tercourse, it was, as we have seen, more, much more, 
 than humdrum. But for Maria, the life at the mission 
 was not unlike that they had been accustomed to in 
 their former Mexican home. California was Mexico 
 in those days, and the life greatly similar. 
 
 About two years after Benito s arrival at San Buena 
 ventura, a dreadful misfortune befell Father Uria, 
 in the death of his largest and finest cat San Fran 
 cisco. This saint had always manifested a most sin 
 gular and inveterate propensity to hunt tarantulas. 
 More than once he had been discovered when just on 
 the point of beginning a battle with one of those mon 
 sters, and had been stopped in the nick of time. With 
 almost constant watchfulness, the Father had suc 
 ceeded in preserving the life of his cat for many 
 years; but the reader has already guessed what the 
 end was to be. After an absence of three whole days, 
 during which the Father was almost distracted, Be- 
 nito found the saint dead on the plain, fully a mile 
 from the mission. On one paw, which was slightly 
 swollen, a minute wound was discovered, supposed to 
 have been the bite of the venomous spider, although 
 the Father could not tell positively. Poor Father Uria 
 was inconsolable, and from that day his health, which 
 had been deserting him for many months, yet so 
 gradually as to be hardly perceptible, took a sudden 
 change for the worse, and with the long years of toil 
 
 [149] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 he had lived, soon made great inroads on his strength. 
 Less than a year after this dire event, he became so 
 feeble that, at his own request, he was relieved. The 
 last thing he did before leaving San Buenaventura 
 was to give his three remaining friends into the charge 
 of Benito, who promised to care for them faithfully 
 so long as they lived. Much the Father would have 
 liked to take them with him, but he was growing too 
 feeble to care for them; and once retired from his 
 position as head of the mission, he would not have 
 enough power and authority to be able to treat them 
 as such old and dear friends should be treated. We 
 shall not attempt to depict the sorrowful parting be 
 tween the Father and his cats it would need the 
 master hand of a Dickens to keep the comic element 
 in the pathetic scene within due bounds. The Father, 
 poor old man, felt no further interest in life, broken 
 down in health and obliged to give up his compan 
 ions, his only comfort being the thought that his re 
 maining days were few, and would soon pass. 
 
 He removed to Mission Santa Barbara, and there, 
 some months later, at the close of the year 1834, he 
 died, worn out in the cause of his Master. 
 
 NOTE. This story of Father Uria and his oddities is not 
 wholly fanciful. In an early book on California occurs the 
 following: "At dinner the fare was sumptuous, and I was 
 much amused at the eccentricities of the old Padre [Father 
 Uria], who kept constantly annoying four large cats, his 
 daily companions; or with a long stick thumped upon the 
 heads of his Indian boys, and seemed delighted thus to 
 gratify his singular propensities." Alfred Robinson: Life in 
 California, New York, 1846, Chap. IV, page 50. 
 
 [150] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 IBERTY! Liberty! For 
 a half-century we have 
 done nothing but re 
 peat this word, and one 
 would say that those 
 mouths which pro 
 nounce it belong to the 
 heads which are igno 
 rant of its meaning, or 
 rather that it has no 
 meaning; for, if one 
 says : We are free ! ten 
 others cry out at once: 
 We, we are oppressed ! 
 
 Such an one who found, 
 
 a few years ago, too great a freedom, to-day demands 
 very much more; and this is, doubtless, because each 
 one has his own idea of liberty, and it is impossible 
 to create a liberty for each one. Liberty to empty the 
 treasury of the state. Liberty to seize public posi 
 tion. Liberty to gather in sinecures. Liberty to get 
 one s self pensioned for imaginary services. Liberty 
 to calumniate, abuse, revile the most venerated things. 
 
 [153] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Is this to enjoy liberty? No, it is to abuse it, to 
 profane it. 
 
 "It is, then, shown that no one is agreed on what 
 is political liberty; but it is not that about which I 
 wished to write. It is a freedom composed, I will not 
 say of all men, but of all beings who are in existence; 
 it is this that nature demands imperiously; it is this, 
 in truth, that crime compels society to take away 
 from the wrong-doer; but it is this, also, that injus 
 tice and force snatch away from the unhappy slave." 
 
 Thus wrote Captain Duhaut-Cilly in his journal for 
 the year 1827, contrasting his ideal of freedom with 
 the actual condition of the aborigines in California, 
 under the domination, as they were at that time, of 
 the Catholic Church, through its agent, the order of 
 the Franciscans. 
 
 Just a few words are necessary here as an intro 
 duction to the story of Pomponio, to enable the reader 
 to have a clear impression of the condition of affairs, 
 political and ecclesiastical, in the province of Nueva 
 California during the first thirty years of the past 
 century. When the country was explored and settled 
 by the Franciscans, their ostensible and, in the earlier 
 days, real, aim was to civilise the Indians, teaching 
 them to live useful, moral lives, and instructing them 
 in the doctrines of Christianity. But to do this, force 
 was necessary to subdue the turbulence of insubordi 
 nation. Gradually, at last, the greater number of the 
 natives were forced under the rule of the friars, who 
 brought them to such subjection as was actual slavery 
 in all but in name. It is a matter of regret that this 
 
 [154] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 was so, yet, though an evil, it was a necessary one, 
 for to do any measure of good to the Indians, an 
 oversight in every detail was essential; and, after all, 
 the savages were treated with almost uniform mild 
 ness, and the instances of cruelty and wickedness 
 practised toward them, as in this tale of Pomponio, 
 were most happily very rare. It is a blot on the his 
 tory of the Franciscans in California that there was a 
 single instance of anything but kindness and hu 
 manity; but the truth cannot be ignored, however 
 much it grieve us to know it. Let us turn to Pomponio. 
 His is a strange tale. 
 
 Distant about a league south from Mission San 
 Francisco stood a little Indian hut, made from the 
 tules and rushes which were found growing with such 
 luxuriance in all parts of Nueva California. It was 
 built in the form of a cone with a blunt apex, was 
 less than ten feet in diameter, and but little more 
 than that in height. An opening near the ground gave 
 communication with the outer air, and a small hole 
 at the top of the hut allowed the smoke from the fire 
 to pass away. This hut stood in the centre of a small 
 open spot among the trees of the dense forest which 
 surrounded it on all sides; small in extent like the 
 many other wooded spots in the peninsula which 
 terminated at the mission and the presidio of San 
 Francisco, but sufficiently large to force a stranger 
 to them to lose his way almost at the first step. But, 
 difficult to find by the stranger, this little open space 
 was correspondingly safe from pursuit by any one 
 
 [155] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 bent on hostile deeds; and for this reason it had been 
 selected by Pomponio for a retreat for himself. 
 
 Pomponio was a mission Indian, had been con 
 nected with the religious establishment since boy 
 hood, and had made great progress on the way to 
 becoming a civilised human being. He had a mind 
 above the low level of the average Galifornian In 
 dian intellect, and had been an object of solicitude to 
 the padres, arousing in them an interest in his mental 
 and spiritual welfare seldom evoked by the neophytes 
 in general. For years Pomponio had been contented 
 with the life he led under the tutelage and control of 
 the fathers, receiving unquestioningly their teaching, 
 and regarding their ordering and direction of his and 
 his parents life and actions in every particular with 
 indifferent eyes. But when Pomponio left childhood 
 and youth behind him, and acquired the mind of a 
 man, Indian though it was, he began to see the state 
 of things in a different light. "What right have these 
 padres," he would say to himself, "to come here 
 from far away, take our land from us, make us work 
 for them, and order us about as we should women 
 and children taken from our enemies in war? And 
 what do they give us in return? They teach us the 
 religion of their God, and make us learn their cate 
 chism. Is their religion any better than ours, their 
 God more powerful than the Great Spirit? What better 
 is it to till the ground for growing food than to kill 
 the wild animals with bow and arrow? Why did my 
 father s father and all the strong men of those days 
 permit these espanoles to come here? I would have 
 
 [156] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 withstood them to the last drop of my life s blood." 
 Thus would Pomponio question. The Indians of 
 Nueva California were mild and gentle, having noth 
 ing in common with their neighbors, the warlike 
 Yumas, and were easily subjected by the early Fran 
 ciscans. But gentle and pliant as they were, there 
 were always a few, fiercer than the rest, who did not 
 brook calmly the sight of their subjection; and these 
 bolder ones stirred up, from time to time, the other 
 natives to insurrection. Many were the uprisings at 
 the different missions one of the earliest at San 
 Diego, in 1775, when the savages killed one of the 
 padres; one, the last, and only a few months before 
 the beginning of our tale, late in 1824, when the two 
 missions, Purisima and Santa Ines, were almost de 
 stroyed. This last uprising had had more to do with 
 Pomponio s change of attitude toward the fathers 
 than anything else; and it had fired his zeal to devote 
 his life to the freeing of his kindred and tribe from 
 the slavery in which they were held at Mission San 
 Francisco. 
 
 Pomponio, simple savage that he was, knew little 
 of human nature, either Indian or civilised. He judged 
 others by himself, not realising the great difference 
 between himself and the generality of the tribe to 
 which he belonged. He had had many talks with the 
 various men of the tribe, trying to instill into their 
 minds some of the ferment of his own; but to his 
 amazement and anger they were too far sunk in their 
 servitude to be roused by his projects. A few there 
 were, young and venturesome like himself, who de- 
 
 [157] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 clared themselves ready to follow him as a leader; 
 and among these were some of the fierce savages of 
 the forests, with whom he was always in touch; but 
 how could a mere handful of a score of Indians cope 
 successfully with the men of the mission, aided, as 
 they would be, by the trained soldiers of the presidio ? 
 Pomponio had sense enough to see that such pro 
 cedure would be foolhardy, and he abandoned the 
 plan for the time, hoping his little body of followers 
 would increase, when the disparity in strength and 
 numbers between the two sides might be less. 
 
 Pomponio was some twenty-three years old. A 
 short time before he had married an Indian girl, and, 
 with her, lived in a little adobe house, a few paces 
 from the mission church. Pomponio and Rosa had 
 lived the regular life of the neophytes, working at 
 various occupations of the community Pomponio 
 tilling the ground and caring for the crops, and help 
 ing in the making of bricks for the houses ; Rosa spin 
 ning and weaving and cooking. After they were mar 
 ried they continued with their customary labors, still 
 under the tutelage of the fathers. But about this time 
 Father Altimira had begun to notice the alteration 
 in Pomponio s demeanor. Wondering at the change 
 in one of his most promising neophytes, he had sought 
 to find a clue to the mystery. From an unquestioning 
 readiness in everything pertaining to his mission life, 
 Pomponio had begun to neglect his duties, shirking 
 the tasks given him, wandering off among the moun 
 tains and stirring up the mission Indians to a state of 
 dissatisfaction and ill-feeling. Father Altimira had 
 
 [158] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 seen Pomponio s growing negligence with concern, 
 but to his questioning Pomponio would give no an 
 swer as to the reason for his new attitude toward his 
 masters. The Father, finding that persuasion was of 
 no avail in correcting Pomponio s disobedience, had 
 him locked up in the mission prison for twenty-four 
 hours, after which he was released with a reprimand 
 and warning. 
 
 Pomponio walked out of the prison and to his 
 house without a word. For a few days he was quiet 
 and attentive to his work, not from fear of the con 
 sequences of doing otherwise (that is not the Indian 
 nature, even of those poor natives of Nueva Cali 
 fornia), but because he was awaiting his opportunity 
 for inflicting some injury on his persecutors, as he 
 had come to think of them. 
 
 One night Father Altimira, who was a light sleeper, 
 awoke, thinking he had heard a faint noise in the 
 room adjoining his bed-room, which was used as a 
 store-room for the books, the rich vestments embroid 
 ered with gold and silver threads, and the money be 
 longing to the mission. At this time there was, in the 
 strong iron-bound chest used for the safekeeping of 
 these valuables, a sum of nearly five thousand dol 
 lars in gold, and the Father s first thought on wak 
 ing, was of this money. Rising on his elbow, he lis 
 tened. Hearing nothing, he was about to lie down, 
 when again came the sound which had disturbed him, 
 scarcely louder than the chirp of a far-away cricket, 
 and which, but for the utter silence of the night, 
 would have been swallowed up in the thick depths 
 
 [159] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 of the adobe wall between the two rooms. Springing 
 out of bed, he threw on his clothes, and without a 
 thought of danger to himself, hurried out to the 
 cloisters and the next room. The night was dark, and 
 he could not make out anything until he reached the 
 window of the room from which came the noise. 
 The heavy wooden shutters were slightly ajar, and 
 through the narrow upright opening between them, 
 filtered the faint light from a small lantern in the 
 room. With noiseless steps, Father Altimira ap 
 proached the window, and looked through the crack 
 between the two shutters. There, in front of the iron- 
 bound box, knelt Pomponio, busily at work on the 
 stout padlock that guarded the treasures within. With 
 all the strength of his powerful arms he filed away 
 at the bar of the padlock. For a moment the Father 
 forgot his part in the nocturnal business, and stood, 
 breathless, at the window, fascinated by the quick 
 motion of the arm back and forth, and the strident 
 sound of the file as it slowly ate its way through the 
 steel. Suddenly Pomponio paused and looked up, 
 with an expression of fear and hate on his face, 
 dreadful to see. Snatching up the lantern from the 
 floor, he dropped it behind the great box, and ran to 
 the window. The Father stooped, and crouched close 
 against the wall under the window for there had 
 not been time to get away and waited, hardly dar 
 ing to breathe. Pomponio carefully opened the shut 
 ters and peered out, but he could distinguish nothing 
 in the intense blackness. After listening a moment 
 and hearing no sound, he closed the shutters and 
 
 [160] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 went back to his work. The priest waited until he 
 again heard the screech of the file before he dared to 
 move. This action of Pomponio recalled him to him 
 self, and the responsibility resting on him regarding 
 the safety of the mission funds. 
 
 With hasty strides, the Father started off to seek 
 assistance. He hurried to the other end of the row of 
 buildings, some three hundred feet distant, where 
 lived the Mexican servants of the mission. At the 
 house of the carpenter, which was the first he came 
 to, the priest rapped loudly on the door, and called 
 to the occupant to awaken. Juan, the carpenter, an 
 swered almost at once, and came to the door. Before 
 he could ejaculate a word of surprise on seeing the 
 Father, the latter had told him the trouble. 
 
 "Arouse, with all haste, the men in the next house, 
 while I go for Rafael. Be ready when I come back," 
 and the Father hurried off. 
 
 Juan lost no time in awakening the two men in the 
 house near-by. A moment after, the Father returned 
 with Rafael, the overseer, and together the five men 
 ran swiftly and silently to the scene of the disturb 
 ance. Nearing the window through which Pomponio 
 had forced an entrance, the carpenter stepped up to it 
 softly. The Father s absence had not been longer than 
 five minutes, and the thief was still hard at work 
 filing the padlock. Muttering to Rafael to follow him, 
 and the other two men to guard the window without, 
 Juan noiselessly pushed open the heavy shutters, and 
 sprang through the window, Rafael close at his heels. 
 
 It was not until both men had passed through the 
 
 [161] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 window, so quick were their movements, that Pom- 
 ponio became aware he was discovered. Looking up, 
 he dropped the file, snatched up the lantern and 
 hurled it against the wall, shivering it into pieces. 
 Just as the light went out the men seized him. Pom- 
 ponio fought like a demon, and was fast getting loose 
 from their clutches, when Juan shouted to the men 
 outside to come to their aid; but too late. As they 
 clambered through the window, and sought to lay 
 hold of him, which was not the work of a moment in 
 the darkness, the neophyte broke from his antag 
 onists and sprang to one side, avoiding the oncoming 
 couple from the window. While the men were shout 
 ing and swearing, groping this way and that to find 
 their prey, Pomponio slid softly to the window, 
 jumped through it, and set off, at his utmost speed, 
 for the open plain and not far distant forest. During 
 the fray Father Altimira had remained somewhat 
 apart, outside the room. As Pomponio rushed by him, 
 the Father, calling him by name, commanded him to 
 stop. He paid no attention, but kept on his way, and 
 was immediately lost in the darkness. By this time 
 the four men had piled out of the window, falling 
 over each other in their eagerness to pursue the fast 
 escaping game. 
 
 "It is useless to follow him," cried the Father. "You 
 could not find him in this gloom. Wait till daylight, 
 and we will hunt for him. We must see what damage 
 he has done in the store-room. Stay here. I will get a 
 light." 
 
 The Father went to his chamber, and brought out 
 
 [162] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 a lighted lantern, and with this the men returned to 
 the now quiet room, entering by the door which the 
 priest unlocked with the key he had taken from its 
 hiding place in his own room. With the exception of 
 the shattered lantern, and the file and hammer lying 
 on the floor, everything was in order. The bar of the 
 padlock was almost filed through three minutes 
 more, and Pomponio would have been away with 
 his booty. As further sleep that night was out of the 
 question, the Father and one of the men remained 
 on guard in the room until dawn, the others recon 
 noitring every half-hour to see that all was quiet 
 around the mission. 
 
 When morning came, the first thing the Father did 
 was to send a messenger to the presidio, four miles 
 distant, with a letter to the commandant, relating the 
 occurrence of the night, and asking for a guard for 
 the mission, and a number of men to take up the 
 hunt for the escaped culprit. The soldiers arrived 
 during the day, and at once made active preparations 
 for finding Pomponio. Beyond knowing the general 
 direction he had taken in fleeing from the mission, 
 which the padre had noted as well as he could in the 
 darkness, the hunters were wholly at sea as to where 
 to look. He might be in any part of the hills and for 
 ests which surrounded the mission on all sides. To 
 the north he would probably not go, for that way lay 
 the presidio, and the country was more open and 
 travelled, as well as terminating, at no great distance, 
 at the water s edge of the bay. It would be difficult, 
 if not impossible, to find an Indian of Pomponio s 
 
 [163] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 intelligence, but the soldiers began their task, search 
 ing near and far, visiting the various rancherias and 
 the room, to rob which he had made such a bold and 
 country for many days, but without result. We shall 
 leave them for a while, and see what is become of our 
 fugitive. 
 
 As Pomponio passed the Father in his flight from 
 the room, to rob which he had made such a bold and 
 nearly successful attempt, he heard the priest calling 
 him to stop; but what cared he for his master? Had 
 not he been fleeing for his liberty and, perhaps, for 
 his life, he would have killed the Father on the spot : 
 not because he hated his kind teacher, but because 
 in him was embodied the life of the mission, or so it 
 seemed to Pomponio; and his death would have been 
 one blow given toward the freedom of his kind. But 
 Pomponio s first thought now was for his own safety, 
 and he took the shortest course to the forests south of 
 the mission. As much at home among the great trees 
 as at the mission, he made his way into their depths 
 with unerring aim, in spite of the Egyptian darkness, 
 until he reached a slight thinning of the trees, where 
 he halted. The spot, mentioned at the beginning of 
 this tale, was a favorite of Pomponio, and one he vis 
 ited from time to time, when he wished to be free to 
 hold communication with the wild men in the neigh 
 borhood. Here he felt reasonably secure from sur 
 prise, and here he meant to spend the days to come. 
 
 There was an old Indian hut in the open space 
 which once had sheltered some family, and was now 
 abandoned. Pomponio took possession of this. When 
 
 [164] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 daylight came, he went in search of the savages in 
 the forest, and on finding them, he recounted his ad 
 venture and the consequences to himself. Among the 
 Indians were the larger number of those who had 
 sworn allegiance to Pomponio, promising to follow 
 him whenever he should decide for a general ex 
 termination of the detested Spaniards. They wel 
 comed him warmly, and supplied him with food and 
 everything he needed for his hut. The Indians not 
 included in his band of followers had, heretofore, 
 looked askance on Pomponio, and had sought to 
 withdraw him from the mission into their own wild 
 life. This he had refused to do, contending, with more 
 than usual Indian intelligence, that he would be able 
 to wreak greater harm to the Spanish if connected 
 with the mission. This had been the principal reason 
 for his small following. Now that he had broken 
 definitely with his old life, they espoused his cause 
 almost to a man, and at last he had the joy of seeing 
 himself at the head of a very respectable band of 
 nearly fifty determined men. The majority of them 
 were for advancing to the enemy without a day s 
 delay, and striking a decisive blow once for all. But 
 Pomponio refused. 
 
 "No," he said. "Wait until the excitement of last 
 night dies away; then we shall stand a better chance 
 of winning. But now the mission will be on guard, 
 and we should be defeated." 
 
 This cogent reasoning prevailed, but the hot 
 headed youths grumbled much and long at the delay. 
 
 Pomponio, himself, chafed at their enforced inac- 
 
 [165] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 tion, necessary though he knew it to be. Then another 
 thing that troubled him was the thought of his wife. 
 Would they think she knew of his attempt that night, 
 and punish her? He had told her nothing, but 
 whether she could make the Father believe it, was 
 another matter. Much he wished he could have some 
 communication with her, and tell her where he was, 
 and beg her to join him. But it was too dangerous. 
 Without a doubt she was watched closely, if she were 
 not actually imprisoned. So he gave up all thought 
 of it. 
 
 The days dragged slowly along for Pomponio and 
 his companions. Several times during the following 
 two weeks he heard reports of the doings of the mis 
 sion from different ones of the Indians who went 
 thither to reconnoitre. From these he learned that the 
 soldiers were still kept there, and while they re 
 mained on guard, nothing could be done. Once Pom 
 ponio stole up to the more distant houses of the mis 
 sion in the gathering dusk of approaching night. He 
 heard the chant of the fathers and their servants at 
 their evening devotions. All was calm and quiet, and 
 he was just about to risk the attempt to go to his old 
 home, in the hope of seeing Rosa, when a soldier 
 came into view from behind the church. Pomponio 
 crouched down behind a shrub near which he was 
 standing, and waited until the man disappeared 
 again from sight in his round of the buildings. Then 
 noiselessly he crawled away to his companions in 
 the forest. 
 
 It was about two weeks after Pomponio s flight. 
 
 [166] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 He had been holding a council of war with his fol 
 lowers, and had told them that, at last, the time w r as 
 come to strike for liberty. The soldiers at the mission 
 had not been seen for some days, and it w r as thought 
 they had returned to the presidio. What a shout of 
 exultation went up from the Indians! Now the time 
 was at hand, the time they had looked forward to for 
 so long, when, at one single blow, they hoped to free 
 themselves from their hated oppressors. Vain hope! 
 Had they forgotten already what was the fate of a 
 similar uprising in the southern missions only a few 
 months before? But each one learns from his own 
 experience. The Indian is sanguine, and hopes to 
 succeed where others have failed, or carries out his 
 purposes, desperately and without hope, to end in 
 certain failure. This is not an Indian trait exclu 
 sively; it is a question of the \veak overpowered by 
 the strong, and has shown itself in all parts of the 
 earth and in every race of mankind. See how well 
 treated were the Indians of Nueva California by their 
 conquerors, mild, humane and devoted to their inter 
 ests, having given up home and friends to isolate 
 themselves in a w r ild new country, solely to bestow on 
 these gentiles the blessings of civilisation and, above 
 all, the gift of Christ s religion. We may wonder why 
 they were not willing and glad to follow the fathers , 
 almost without exception, gentle guidance. But the 
 one thing necessary to make it a complete success 
 was wanting freedom. That was the keystone on 
 which all depended : lacking that, the w r hole mission 
 system was, by just so much, a failure. 
 
 [167] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 Pomponio was returning to his hut late that day 
 after telling his followers to hold themselves in readi 
 ness for marching on to the mission on the nightfall 
 of the morrow. He had nearly reached his habitation, 
 and was walking slowly and with downcast head, 
 buried deep in thought over the approaching conflict 
 which he had wished for so long. Pomponio saw 
 clearly that the task before him and his band was a 
 difficult one. He was not blind to the fact that, even 
 should they succeed at this mission, there would be 
 left in the land twenty others, each one of which 
 would give aid in quelling a revolt at San Francisco, 
 and punishing the insurgents. But Pomponio was in 
 a desperate mood. He preferred failure and death to 
 his life at the mission, and he knew his present life 
 as a fugitive could not last; he would certainly be 
 captured sooner or later. 
 
 He walked slowly on. Had not he been so absorbed 
 in thought of the crisis of his life, on the brink of 
 which he stood, the indications of something unusual 
 and foreboding would have arrested his attention. A 
 rustling among the leaves and brush of the under 
 growth told of the presence of some animated thing, 
 human or brute. Once a gleam, as of some highly 
 burnished metal flashing in the sun, was to be de 
 tected that surely was no animal! But Pomponio 
 walked on oblivious to these signs which, at any other 
 time, he would have been the first to notice. He was 
 within a few yards of the hut, and on the edge of the 
 clearing, when he heard a crackling among the 
 branches under-foot, and a rushing toward him. One 
 
 [168] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 glance was enough. Three soldiers, armed with mus 
 kets, were upon him, one on each side, the third in 
 front. They were close to him before he was aware 
 of their presence, and escape was impossible, for he 
 was seized and his arms bound behind him almost 
 as soon as he knew he was captured. 
 
 "Aha ! we have you at last," cried the leader. "You 
 thought we could not find you out here, hiding in 
 the forest. And I must say it has been hard enough 
 and taken long enough. But we have you safe now, 
 you rascal." 
 
 Pomponio said not a word. From the first, so soon 
 as he saw he was helpless, he submitted quietly, and 
 suffered the soldiers to bind his arms with the leath 
 ern thong they had brought with them. Had his In 
 dian followers been within sound of his voice, he 
 would have shouted to them to come, not to rescue 
 him that could not have been done, for the soldiers, 
 at the instant of his call and the answering cries of 
 the Indians, would have shot him dead but to kill 
 the soldiers. The Indians were too far distant for this. 
 How the soldiers had escaped the savages was a mys 
 tery. They must have been at his hut soon after his 
 leaving it that morning, and kept watch for the re 
 turn of its inmate, thinking it might be Pomponio 
 himself, or some one who would lead to the discovery 
 of his whereabouts. Only in this way could they have 
 missed the Indians roaming in the forest that day, 
 as they made their preparations for the eventful 
 morrow. 
 
 "Now, my man, off to the presidio," said the leader, 
 
 [169] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 after they had finished binding Pomponio s arms se 
 curely. "We have no time to lose; the sun is low in 
 the west, and will be set long before we get there. So 
 step lively all." 
 
 The soldiers picked up their muskets, and started 
 off quickly in the direction of the mission, Pomponio 
 guarded by a man on each side, grasping his pinioned 
 arms. Alas! Was this the end of his long, long plan 
 ning; was this the outcome of the insurrection which 
 was to have been the prelude to a glorious victory, 
 that he should have been caught through his own 
 carelessness and carried off ignominiously to prison? 
 Pomponio could have sacrificed his life gladly for the 
 cause he had so much at heart; but to be captured 
 before the blow for liberty had been struck was un 
 bearable. He had been the prime mover in planning 
 the revolt, and well he knew his capture sounded the 
 knell, for no one could take his place successfully as 
 leader. 
 
 The soldiers hurried their prisoner forward almost 
 on the run, partly because it was so late, and they had 
 a long walk before them, partly from fear of encoun 
 tering some of the savages they knew were in the 
 forest. However, they were not molested, and reached 
 the mission, lying on their way, as the last bit of sun 
 set color faded away on the horizon. They delayed 
 only long enough to relate the circumstance of the 
 capture, and to get two of the soldiers, acting as guard 
 at the mission, to accompany them to the presidio. 
 Pomponio did not see the Father, who was engaged 
 with the sick in the hospital, and he was glad. After 
 
 [170] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 a stop of a few minutes, they again took up their 
 march, and reached the presidio a little later. Here 
 the commandant of the garrison, after having heard 
 the tale of the leader, and taken a look at Pomponio, 
 ordered him to be chained to the wall in a room of 
 the prison. This was done. The chains were fastened 
 around his ankles; his arms w r ere unbound, and he 
 was left to solitude and darkness. 
 
 Poor savage captive ! Alone, abandoned, and 
 chained to the wall of the little cell he was in, so 
 closely that he could barely reach the low, rough 
 bench on which to sit. But Pomponio could have 
 borne his imprisonment patiently, even cheerfully, 
 had the rebellion only taken place, successfully or 
 not. That was the maddening thought. He buried his 
 head in his hands. Well he knew that all hope was 
 over. Even though he might manage to escape, he 
 would find the Indians dispersed and in hiding, too 
 frightened at the effect his capture might have on the 
 Spaniards, and the result to themselves. All was over. 
 He had nothing farther to live for. Even the thought 
 of Rosa failed to rouse him, for he knew he had been 
 too wicked in the eyes of the fathers to be permitted 
 to see her again whether in prison or liberated, if 
 such a thing could have been dreamed of, she was 
 dead to him. 
 
 Yet the love of life is implanted too deeply in the 
 human breast to die before life itself deserts our 
 mortal body. As Pomponio crouched there, bound 
 and forsaken, a passionate feeling of revolt at his 
 doom arose within him. Was he to be killed; must 
 
 [171] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 he leave this earth, beautiful to him even when in 
 the lowest depths of misery, and that, too, at the 
 command of his enemies, who had stolen his country 
 and made him and his kindred slaves? They should 
 not take his life, the only thing they had left him. 
 And with the wish came into his mind a plan of 
 escape that made him start. 
 
 When the soldiers arrested and imprisoned Pom- 
 ponio, they neglected to search him, thinking, no 
 doubt, that by no possible means could he escape 
 from them, chained as securely as if to the solid rock 
 itself. Pomponio had, stuck in his belt underneath 
 his shirt, a hunting-knife, his trusty weapon and 
 constant companion. No one who has not lived in the 
 wilderness can have any idea of the value of the 
 hunting-knife. The uses to which it can be put are 
 countless. It is pocket-knife, scissors, hatchet, dagger, 
 and all cutting and stabbing instruments in one; it 
 will, moreover, take the place of revolver and rifle 
 on many occasions, and has one immense advantage 
 over them its utter silence. It is a powerful, and, at 
 need, murderous weapon. 
 
 Pomponio pulled out his knife from its leather 
 sheath and examined it by touch, for it was too dark 
 to see it. He felt carefully of the blade; yes, it was 
 sharp as a razor, and would do the work wanted of 
 it. He grasped it nervously, but firmly, in his right 
 hand. Then he paused. Was it, after all, worth the 
 pain he must suffer; had life anything in store for 
 him in recompense for what he must endure? He 
 could not expect to be again a power among his 
 
 [172] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 brethren. At the best he would be the mere wreck of 
 what he had, till now, been to his followers. They 
 might look to him for counsel and advice : as a leader 
 he could be of no more use. Again, admitting he had 
 the courage to do the deed, could his strength hold 
 out until he reached a place of safety? Suppose he 
 fell helpless on the way; he would be found and 
 brought back. Yet to do nothing was to receive cer 
 tain death, or what, to Pomponio, with his Indian 
 pride, was worse, a public whipping, such as he had 
 heard was given sometimes for grave offences; and 
 afterward such humiliation in his life of bondage as 
 was not to be borne. No, anything to free himself 
 out of the hands of his persecutors. He hesitated no 
 longer. 
 
 Clutching the knife, he stooped. Taking firm hold 
 of his foot, as it rested on the ground, with his left 
 hand, he poised the edge of the knife on his heel, 
 back of the iron ring; then, with all his strength, he 
 gave one quick, sharp cut downward and severed 
 the prominence of the heel, removing the greater 
 part of the os calcis. Not a sound passed his lips. 
 Letting fall the knife, he pushed the ring down over 
 the wound and the length of his foot. One foot was 
 free, but only one; he was still as much a prisoner 
 as before. Could he bear the torture again? 
 
 He gave himself no time to think, but picking up 
 the knife, repeated, with convulsive strength, the 
 operation on his other foot. With a low moan, wrung 
 from him by the double agony, he leaned, faint and 
 deathly sick, against the wall. In this position he re- 
 
 [173] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 mained for many minutes, until, above the pain, 
 arose the thought that he was not yet free. 
 
 The small window of the prison was within easy 
 reach from the floor, and it would have been the 
 work of an instant to vault through it, had Pomponio 
 not been disabled by the ugly wounds he had in 
 flicted upon himself. With a sigh he stood up slowly 
 on his maimed feet. Think of the power of will of 
 the poor Indian, his love of life, and, more than his 
 love of life, his hatred of his oppressors, to go 
 through the agony each movement caused him! He 
 crept up to the window, laid hold of the sill, and, 
 with his hands, drew himself up to, and through it, 
 the blood spouting from his wounds at every inch of 
 progress. Lowering himself from the window, he lay 
 down on the ground to gather a little strength for 
 flight. But first he must bind up his feet, in order that 
 his blood might not betray whither he went. Taking 
 off his cotton shirt, he tore it in half, and wrapped 
 each foot in a piece. The touch of the cloth to his 
 wounds was like fire; but by this time his nerves 
 were benumbed to such a degree that he scarcely no 
 ticed it. 
 
 Going on hands and knees, he started to creep over 
 the distance lying between him and the fringe of 
 trees near the presidio. There was a good half-mile, 
 and Pomponio feared he could not cover it. Four 
 times he fell to the ground unconscious, four times 
 he revived and pushed on with all the strength he 
 could muster. Fortunately he had started early in the 
 night, for he needed every minute of the darkness. 
 
 [174] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 Foot after foot, yard after yard, he crept along, the 
 presidio and the other buildings receding in the in 
 creasing distance behind him, while the welcome 
 woods and hills, his refuge, loomed up, higher and 
 darker, as he neared them. At last he reached the 
 shelter of the trees, his friends, as the first faint 
 streaks of the dawn began to brighten in the east. 
 Only a little time remained before the hue and cry 
 would begin, and he must find a place of conceal 
 ment before then, else he were lost. Pomponio knew 
 every part of the forests for miles around; and after 
 getting under cover of them, he turned at a slight 
 angle toward the southwest, and made straight for a 
 cave he had once visited when hunting for a bear. 
 He remembered it was concealed by a thick tangled 
 mass of bushes and young trees, hiding it so effectu 
 ally that discovery w r as well nigh impossible. In pur 
 suing the bear, Pomponio had tracked it to the cave 
 which it had entered, and this it was that gave him 
 the secret. Summoning all his remaining strength for 
 a last supreme effort, he dragged himself on slowly 
 and painfully. It was not far, and soon he recognised 
 the clump of bushes that shaded the entrance; and 
 none too soon, for just before reaching it, he heard a 
 musket shot in the direction of the presidio. His flight 
 was discovered. But he was safe, for the present, at 
 least; and crouching down in the depths of the dark 
 cave, kind nature once more came to his relief, and 
 he knew no more. 
 
 Great was the excitement at the presidio when 
 Pomponio s escape was discovered. The soldiers, on 
 
 [175] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 going past the place on their morning rounds, saw 
 the bloody tracks of the prisoner s descent on the 
 wall under the window. An instant investigation was 
 made, and the truth of the awful manner in which 
 Pomponio had accomplished his evasion disclosed. 
 Stupefied, the commandant and his men gazed at the 
 traces of the deed, the pools of half-dried dark blood 
 and the two pieces of bone, eloquent of the fortitude 
 he must have possessed, the desperation he was in, 
 to perpetrate such an act. 
 
 Might not it be thought that so astonishing a hardi 
 hood would have awakened a feeling of admiration 
 and pity for the unfortunate being? So heroic a deed 
 would have elicited praise to rend the skies from the 
 peoples of antiquity,* and the story of Pomponio 
 would have passed down from generation to genera 
 tion as that of one of their brave men. But, alas! in 
 the breasts of the men with whom Pomponio had to 
 deal, no such sentiment of ruth was raised. On the 
 contrary, they were roused to an even greater vio 
 lence of hatred and anger toward the poor savage. 
 Wild with rage that his prisoner, whom he had 
 hunted for so long, should have escaped when se 
 curely bound, the commandant sent out his men in 
 squads of four and five to scour the woods and find 
 their prey. "He must and shall be found," he said. 
 
 The search was instituted forthwith. For days, 
 weeks and months, they hunted for Pomponio, but 
 not a trace of him was found. Gradually, as time 
 
 *"Un trait que les Anciens auraient divinise." Duhaut-Cilly. 
 
 [176] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 went on, the search was given up, for the intense ex 
 citement roused by his flight died out from want of 
 fresh fuel to feed upon, and, in addition, the soldiers 
 were required for other more immediate needs; so 
 that, before a year was past after his escape, all in 
 terest in the subject ceased, and Pomponio was sel 
 dom thought of, or his name spoken, except among 
 those of the Indians to whom he and his deed were 
 ever an impulse toward insubordination. 
 
 And what was Pomponio doing? At first from ne 
 cessity, on account of his wounded feet, and after 
 ward so long as the soldiers kept up a vigorous 
 search for him, he made the cave, in which he had 
 taken refuge, his home. All that day, following the 
 night of his escape, he lay in the cave, more dead than 
 alive, caring for nothing, wishing, even, he might die, 
 now he was out of the grasp of his enemies. But the 
 next morning the pangs of hunger awakened him to 
 life and its realities. Nearly two days were passed 
 since he had had a morsel to eat. He was too weak to 
 go in search of food, and his only help must come from 
 making his presence known to some of the Indians 
 who were scattered in the forest. Pomponio crawled 
 to the opening, and out beyond the clump of bushes 
 hiding it, with the greatest caution. Slowly and pain 
 fully he reconnoitred in every direction no trace 
 or sound of the soldiers. Picking out a vantage point, 
 from which he had a survey among the trees of sev 
 eral hundred feet radius, he took up his watch, keep 
 ing a careful lookout for the soldiers, as well as for 
 any of his kindred who might chance to wander 
 
 [177] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 thither. Here he passed the day, his little strength 
 slowly leaving him as the hours went by, until, near 
 evening, he felt that unless help came before the 
 darkness fell, he could not survive the night. Almost 
 past caring whether the soldiers found him, he lay 
 back against a little heap of leaves he had scooped 
 together, giving himself up to the numb, delicious 
 feeling of the last sleep no more to be feared and 
 fought against when his ear caught the sound of 
 steps, muffled by the leaves of the undergrowth car 
 peting the ground. He started; life for an instant re 
 turned to him. Did that portend the approach of the 
 soldiers, or was it some friendly Indian roaming the 
 forest for game, and now on his return home? He 
 gazed into the obscurity of the approaching night, 
 lying back too weak to move, though it were his en 
 emies come to take him again. But his fear was vain. 
 It was an Indian boy, not more than fifteen years old, 
 on the way to his tribe. At sight of him Pomponio 
 was rejoiced, for the nearing Indian belonged to his 
 own tribe, and but for his extreme youth would have 
 been included among Pomponio s followers in the 
 contemplated revolt. 
 
 His eyes lighted up with the fire of life. He raised 
 himself on an elbow, and when the Indian was within 
 a few yards of him, and about to turn aside to reenter 
 the thicker woods beyond, Pomponio called to him. 
 His voice was hardly above a whisper, but it was suf 
 ficient. The Indian heard, and turned quickly. See 
 ing the form of a man, he started, and was on the 
 point of springing away into the forest, when Pom- 
 
 [178] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 ponio spoke, this time in a louder and stronger tone : 
 
 "Help me Taxlipu, I am nearly dead. I am Pom 
 ponio." 
 
 "Pomponio!" almost shrieked the boy. "It cannot 
 be. I saw Pomponio carried away and locked up at 
 the presidio, and an Indian told me he had been 
 chained fast to the wall of his prison cell." 
 
 The boy came nearer as he said this, but he held 
 himself ready to flee at the least movement of the 
 figure lying on the ground. "Surely it is his spirit," 
 he said to himself, "for it is, indeed, the countenance 
 of Pomponio." 
 
 But the wounded man spoke again: "I am Pom 
 ponio. I cut myself loose from the chains that bound 
 me, and escaped from my prison. Give me a little 
 water, else I die," and again he lost consciousness. 
 
 But he was saved. Taxlipu came close, and gazed 
 earnestly at the dark upturned face. Yes, that was 
 Pomponio. He sprang away and dashed madly into 
 the forest, and on to the settlement of the Indians, 
 for help. Here he found a number of Pomponio s fol 
 lowers together, talking sadly of the mishap to their 
 chief. Taxlipu burst in on them with the startling 
 news that Pomponio had escaped and was now in the 
 forest nearly dead. The men sprang up, telling the 
 boy to lead them to the place. But before starting, 
 one of the Indians went to a hut close by, and 
 brought out with him part of a rabbit, freshly cooked, 
 and an olla of water. With these, the company set 
 off on the run, led by Taxlipu. It was only a few min 
 utes before they reached the spot where Pomponio 
 
 [179] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 lay as one dead. The Indian with the water knelt 
 down by his side, and poured some drops into his 
 mouth. After a short while, during which the dose 
 was repeated as often as it was swallowed, Pomponio 
 opened his eyes, drawing a heavy sigh. 
 
 Tenderly and reverently they cared for him. At his 
 request they bore him into the cave where he would 
 be safe from the sight of any chance party from the 
 presidio hunting for him, and here they nursed him 
 back to life and strength. It was many days before 
 he recovered from the effects of the great loss of 
 blood he had suffered; many more before the wounds 
 in his feet healed. From the ill-usage to which he had 
 subjected them, inflammation set in, and at one time 
 great fear was felt that he could not survive; but his 
 strong constitution prevailed. Yet after all he would 
 have died gladly, for he was a helpless cripple from 
 that day, hobbling around only with the aid of rude 
 crutches. 
 
 His comrades vied with each other in their atten 
 tions to the sick leader, and after he had recovered 
 from the fever and weakness, they furnished him 
 with all the necessaries of life which he was unable 
 to obtain by his own efforts. After a few months in 
 the cave, Pomponio left it to be with the Indians in 
 the forest near the mission; but he was careful to 
 keep away from the neighborhood of the scene of his 
 capture, judging rightly that that place would be 
 under surveillance at any time of uneasiness. How 
 ever, there was no thought of farther insurrection. 
 Their spirit had been broken with Pomponio s cap- 
 
 [180] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 hire, for a long time, at any rate. But although they 
 had abandoned all idea of a general uprising, they 
 did everything in their power to annoy and harass 
 their enemies: stealing their horses and cattle and 
 sheep; devastating their crops of wheat and grapes, 
 and, once or twice, setting fire to an outlying mission 
 house or granary. Their lofty idea of freedom from 
 servitude had degenerated thus into a system of petty 
 depredation. 
 
 Here, among his friends, Pomponio passed the 
 days quietly and sadly, caring for nothing, and go 
 ing through mechanically the routine of each day. 
 His spirit was crushed not so much from the effects 
 of his treatment, but because his long thought of, 
 long desired, purpose was come to naught. He paid 
 but little attention to the affairs of those about him. 
 They went and came, carried on their game of life, 
 rousing in him only a gleam of interest. Thus three 
 years passed. 
 
 One day, in the early spring, the Indians went 
 away on a foraging expedition, leaving Pomponio 
 alone in his hut. It had been a warm, sunny day, and 
 in the afternoon Pomponio dragged himself to a little 
 moss-covered bank under the trees, on which he 
 stretched himself, and, after a short time, he fell 
 asleep. All was quiet. Not a sound was to be heard 
 save the insects humming drowsily in the heated air, 
 and, now and then, the whirr of an oriole as it flew 
 swiftly past, lighting up with a glint of gold the 
 shadows among the trees. The oriole is sunlight in 
 carnate. 
 
 [181] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 But this quiet scene was to be broken. The sound 
 of branches snapping beneath the tread of some 
 heavy foot was heard. It drew near the secluded 
 spot; then the form of a man, carrying a musket, 
 could be discerned, making his way to the glade. He 
 reached the edge of the clearing, when he espied the 
 sleeping Indian, lying with his face turned from him. 
 He halted instantly. Was it an Indian belonging to 
 the mission, and playing truant, or one of the sav 
 ages of the forests, from whom the mission had suf 
 fered so much during the last three years? He must 
 find out. Creeping so slowly and carefully that not a 
 sound was heard again from his feet among the 
 plants, he passed around the edge of the glade to a 
 point nearly opposite, in order to get a more direct 
 view of the sleeping man. What a diabolical expres 
 sion of alternate hate and triumph passed over his 
 countenance! Here was the scoundrel who had 
 escaped from the presidio. After three years, when 
 hope of ever finding him again had died out, w r hen, 
 except for the depredations continually taking place 
 at the mission and presidio, every one would have 
 declared Pomponio was dead of the wounds he had 
 inflicted on himself, that he, Pablo, the youngest sol 
 dier at the presidio, when out hunting, and with no 
 thought of enemies near, should find the miscreant, 
 asleep and in his power! This would advance him in 
 the good graces of the commandant. 
 
 There was no time to lose. Pomponio might awake 
 at any moment; his friends in the forest might re 
 turn on the instant. He raised his musket and took 
 
 [182] 
 
POMPONIO 
 
 long and steady aim at the Indian. There was a re 
 port that raised the echoes. With lightning speed the 
 soldier reloaded, and then cautiously drew nearer; 
 but there was no need of apprehension from Pom- 
 ponio. He was dead shot through the heart. The sol 
 dier gazed at the inanimate form, at the bullet-hole 
 in his breast, from which the blood was trickling, 
 and at the poor mutilated feet. Did a glimmer of pity 
 stir in his heart? It were hard to say. Yet, as he stood 
 there looking down at his work, perhaps there was a 
 little feeling of sorrow for the fate of his fellow man, 
 coupled with a touch of shame at his own unmanly 
 act in thus murdering his sleeping foe, criminal though 
 he was, and richly deserving death. But he had scant 
 time for reflection. The noise of men approaching 
 was heard in the forest. Pomponio s friends would 
 be here in an instant. He must go at once. He slipped 
 away among the trees in the direction from which he 
 had come, and vanished. A moment later four In 
 dians appeared at the point where the soldier had 
 stood when he fired. Their first glance at Pomponio 
 revealed to them the meaning of the shot they had 
 heard. 
 
 Pomponio was buried that night, secretly and in 
 profound silence. His comrades, determined his en 
 emies should never find his grave and body, bore it 
 into the deepest recesses of the forest, and there in 
 terred it, afterward removing all trace of any dis 
 turbance of the earth covering it. There they left him, 
 at rest, his little part in life s drama ended. 
 
 Pablo s story of his killing Pomponio was not be- 
 
 [183] 
 
OLD MISSION STORIES 
 
 lieved when he told it at the mission and the pre 
 sidio. No one, however, could contradict him, and as 
 time went on, and nothing farther was heard of the 
 neophyte, and the marauding at the mission became 
 less, until it ceased altogether, his assertion came, in 
 time, to be regarded as the true account of Pom- 
 ponio s death. 
 
 NOTE. The writer has taken the liberty of altering the 
 real facts of Pomponio s end. He was captured by a party of 
 four soldiers, tried by court martial at Monterey, in Febru 
 ary, and shot, about September, 1824. The period covered by 
 the story, also, has been changed to three years later than 
 the actual time of occurrence. It is surprising that Bancroft, 
 from whose history the facts in this note are taken, does not 
 mention Captain Duhaut-Cilly who, in his Voyage autour du 
 Monde, Vol. II, Chap. XI, recounts Pomponio s self-mutila 
 tion in order to effect his escape. As Pomponio s execution 
 occurred only three years before Duhaut-Cilly s visit, the 
 French captain must have learned his facts with a close ap 
 proach to accuracy, and it seems safe to take them without 
 reserve. Bancroft affects to regard the main fact in this 
 story with some incredulity, and limits the victim s man 
 acles to one ankle only. Vide Bancroft : History of California, 
 Vol. II, pp. 537-38. 
 
 [184] 
 
HERE END THE STORIES OF THE OLD MISSIONS OF 
 CALIFORNIA AS TOLD BY CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER, 
 DECORATED BY WILLIAM H. WILKE AND PUT INTO 
 BOOK FORM BY PAUL ELDER AND COMPANY AT THEIR 
 TOMOYE PRESS, SAN FRANCISCO, UNDER THE CAREFUL 
 DIRECTION OF RICARDO J. OROZCO, IN THE MONTH OF 
 NOVEMBER, NINETEEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN 
 
Return to desk from which borrowed 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY