CHAPTER II.
THE MIRAGE.
After an early breakfast, I mounted my mule and pursued my journey over the pass of the San Juan. The view from the summit was magnificent. Beyond a range of sand-hills toward the right stretched the great Pacific. Ridges of mountains, singularly varied in outline, swept down in front into the broad valley of the Salinas. The pine forests of Monterey and Santa Cruz were dimly perceptible in the distance; and to the left was a wilderness of rugged cliffs, as far as the eye could reach, weird and desolate as a Cape Horn sea suddenly petrified in the midst of a storm. Descending through a series of beautiful little valleys clothed in a golden drapery of wild oats, and charmingly diversified with groves of oak and sycamore, and rich shrubbery of ceonosa, hazel, and wild grape, I at length entered the great valley of the Salinas, nine miles from the Mission of San Juan. At that time innumerable herds of cattle covered the rich pastures of this magnificent valley; and although there are still many to be seen there, the number has been greatly reduced during the last ten years. A large portion of the country bordering on the Salinas River, as far south as the Mission of Soledad, has been cut up into small ranches and farms; and thriving settlements and extensive fields of grain are now to be seen where formerly ranged wild bands of cattle, mustang, and innumerable herds of antelope.
PASS OF SAN JUAN.
Turning to the southward, and keeping in view the two great ranges of mountains which were the chief landmarks in former times, the scene that lay outspread before me resembled rather some wild region of enchantment than any thing that could be supposed to exist in a material world—so light and hazy were the distant mountains, so vaguely mingled the earth and sky, so rich and fanciful the atmospheric tints, and so visionary the groves that decorated the plain. Never before had I witnessed the mirage in the full perfection of its beauty. The whole scene was transformed into a series of magnificent optical illusions, surpassing the wildest dreams of romance. Points of woodland, sweeping from the base of the mountains far into the valley, were reflected in mystic lakes. Herds of cattle loomed up on the surface of the sleeping waters like miniature fleets of vessels with variegated sails. Mounds of yellow sand, rising a little above the level of the plain, had all the effect of rich Oriental cities, with gorgeous palaces of gold, mosques, and minarets, and wondrous temples glittering with jewels and precious stones. Bands of antelope coursed gracefully over the foreground; but so light and vaguely defined were their forms that they seemed rather to sail through the air than touch the earth. By the illusory process of the refraction, they appeared to sweep into the lakes and assume the forms of aerial boats, more fanciful and richly colored than the caïques of Constantinople. Birds, too, of snowy plumage, skimmed over the silvery waste; and islands that lay sleeping in the glowing light were covered with myriads of water-fowl. A solitary vulture, sitting upon the carcass of some dead animal a few hundred yards off, loomed into the form of a fabulous monster of olden times, with a gory head, and a beak that opened as if to swallow all within his reach. These wonderful features in the scene were continually changing: the lakes disappeared with their islands and fleets, and new lakes, with still stranger and more fantastic illusions, merged into existence out of the rarefied atmosphere. Thus hour after hour was I beguiled on my way through this mystic region of enchantment.
ANTELOPE IN THE MIRAGE.
Toward evening I reached the Salinas River, where I stopped to rest and water my mule. A Spanish vaquero, whom I found under the trees enjoying the siesta to which that race are addicted, informed me that it was "Dos leguos, poco mas o meno," to Soledad. As he lived there, he would show me the way. It was inhabited by the Sobranis family, and they owned sixteen square leagues of land and "muchos granada." This much I contrived to understand; but when I handed the vaquero a fine Principe cigar, and he took a few whiffs and became eloquent, I entirely lost the train of his observations. It is possible he may have been reciting a poem on pastoral life. At all events, we jogged along very sociably, and in something over an hour reached the mission.
VULTURE IN THE MIRAGE.
A more desolate place than Soledad can not well be imagined. The old church is partially in ruins, and the adobe huts built for the Indians are roofless, and the walls tumbled about in shapeless piles. Not a tree or shrub is to be seen any where in the vicinity. The ground is bare, like an open road, save in front of the main building (formerly occupied by the priests), where the carcasses and bones of cattle are scattered about, presenting a disgusting spectacle. But this is a common sight on the Spanish ranches. Too lazy to carry the meat very far, the rancheros generally do their butchering in front of the door, and leave the Indians and buzzards to dispose of the offal.
SOLEDAD.
A young Spaniard, one of the proprietors, was the only person at home, with the exception of a few dirty Indians who were lying about the door. He received me rather coldly, as I thought, and took no concern whatever about my mule. I learned afterward that this family had been greatly imposed upon by travelers passing northward to the mines, who killed their cattle, stole their corn, stopped of nights and went away without paying any thing. At first they freely entertained all who came along in the genuine style of Spanish hospitality; but, not content with the kind treatment bestowed upon them, their rough guests seldom left the premises without carrying away whatever they could lay hands upon. This naturally embittered them against strangers, and of course I had to bear my share of the ill feeling manifested toward the traveling public. It was not long, however, before I discovered a key to my young host's good graces. He was strumming on an old guitar when I arrived, and soon resumed his solitary amusement, not seeming disposed to respond to my feeble attempts at his native language, but rather enjoying the idea of drawing himself into the doleful sphere of his own music. As soon as a favorable opportunity occurred, I took the guitar, and struck up such a lively song of "The Frogs that tried to Come it, but couldn't get a Chance," that the cadaverous visage of my host gradually relaxed into a smile, then into a broad grin, and at the climax he absolutely laughed. It was all right. Music had soothed the savage breast. Sobranis was conquered. He immediately directed the vaquero to see to my animal, and set to work and got me an excellent supper of tortillas and frijoles, jerked beef and oja; after which he insisted upon learning the song of the Frog, which of course I was obliged to teach him. So passed the hours till late bedtime. Notwithstanding the fleas, which abounded in overwhelming numbers, I contrived to sleep soundly. Next morning, after a good breakfast of coffee, tortillas, jerked beef, etc., as before, I mounted my mule and proceeded on my journey, much to the regret of Sobranis, who positively refused to accept a cent for the accommodations he had afforded me.