CHAPTER VI.
A LONELY RIDE.
As I struck into the trail and out into the broad valley of the Salinas a sense of freedom relieved me in some degree of the gloom inspired by the last words of this strangely unfortunate man. The stars were shining brightly overhead, but the moon had gone down some time previously. It was just light enough to see the way. A small white object lying in the trail caused the mule to start. In the excitement of my escape I had forgotten about the papers. Here they were, all safe. I had no doubt they had been thus disposed of by the ruffian Jack during the previous evening when he took occasion to absent himself from the camp. I quickly dismounted and placed the package securely in the leg of one of my boots, then pushed on with all speed to reach a turning-point of the mountains some distance ahead, in order to be out of sight by the dawn of day, which could not be far off. In about an hour I had gained this point, and at the same time the first faint streaks of the coming day began to appear in the eastern sky. The air was peculiarly balmy—cool enough to be pleasant, and deliciously odorous with the herbage of the mountains. Already the deer began to leave their coverts among the shrubbery on the hill-sides, and numerous bands of them stood gazing at me as I passed, their antlers erect, their beautiful forms motionless, as if hewn from the solid rock, but manifesting more curiosity than fear. Thousands of rabbits frisked about in the open glades, and innumerable flocks of quail flitted from bush to bush. The field-larks and doves made the air musical with their joyous hymns of praise to the rising sun; the busy hum of bees rose among the wild flowers by the wayside; all nature seemed to awake from its repose smiling with a celestial joy. In no other country upon earth have I seen such mornings as in the interior of California—so clear, bright, and sparkling—so rich and glowing in atmospheric tints—so teeming with unbounded opulence in all that gives vigor, health, and beauty to animated nature, and inspiration to the higher faculties of man. There is a redundancy of richness in the earth, air, and light unknown even in that land of fascination which is said to possess "the fatal gift of beauty."
A LONELY RIDE.
Contrasted with the dark spirit of crime that hung over my late encampment, such a morning was inexpressibly lovely. Every breath of air—every sound that broke upon the listening ear—every thought of the vast wild plains and towering mountains that swept around me in the immeasurable distance, inspired vague and unutterable sensations of pleasure and pain—pleasure that I was free and capable of enjoying such exquisite physical and mental luxuries; pain that here, on God's own footstool,
"All but the spirit of man was divine."
As the sun rose, and spread over mountain and valley a drapery of glowing light, giving promise of continued life to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, I could not but think with sadness how man—made after God's own image, the most perfect of his works, gifted with reason and intelligence—should so strangely turn aside from the teachings of his Maker, and cast away the pure enjoyments so bountifully spread before him. Was it possible that a single created being, however steeped in crime, could be insensible to the soothing and humanizing influences of such a scene?
The unhappy fate of the poor fellow to whom I was so deeply indebted haunted me. He, at least, must have felt the better promptings of his inner nature amid these beautiful works of a beneficent Creator. Surely such a man could never be utterly lost. There were noble traits in his character that must, some time or other, assert their supremacy. Honorable even in his degradation, he scorned to turn traitor to men whom he despised. His was not a nature formed for cruel and crafty deeds. Frank, manly, and ingenuous in his whole bearing, there was evidence of innate nobility in his misguided sense of honor, and a manifest scorn of deception in his wild outbursts of passion. What could have driven him to this career of crime? What satanic power was that by which he was enthralled? I could not believe that he was voluntarily bad. That single outburst of emotion as he spoke of his mother would have redeemed him had he been the worst of criminals. A career of dissipation must have brought him to this. He was evidently compromised, but to what extent? Some painful mystery hung over his connection with these bad men—I could not fathom it. The more I reflected upon all I had seen and heard, the more profound became my sympathy; nor is it an affectation of generosity to say that I would have sacrificed much to have saved him. Yet this man's case was not an uncommon one in California. There were many there, even at that early period, and there are still many, who, with the noblest attributes that adorn human nature, have become castaways.
As the day advanced a marked change became perceptible in the character of the country. Passing out from the valley of the Salinas to the right, the trail entered a series of smaller valleys, winding from one to another through a succession of narrow cañons between low, gravelly hills, destitute of shrubbery, and of a peculiarly whitish and barren aspect. The scene was no longer enlivened by bands of deer and smaller game, such as I had seen in the morning; the birds had also disappeared; not a living thing was in sight save a few buzzards hovering in the air over the bleached and sterile hills, and occasionally a coyote or wild-cat skulking stealthily across the trail. Toward noon the earth became like a fiery furnace. The air was scorching. In the narrow passages, where the hills converged into a focus, cutting off every current of air, the refraction of the sun's rays was absolutely terrific. It seemed as if my very clothing must crisp into tinder and drop from my body. The skin peeled from my face and hands; a thick woolen hat was insufficient to keep the fierce and seething heat from my head, and I sometimes feared I would be smitten to the earth. Not knowing the water-holes, or rather having no time to look for them, I was parched with an intolerable thirst. On every eminence I turned to look back, but nothing was in sight save the dreary waste of barren hills that lay behind.
Toward evening, having stopped only a few minutes at a pool of water, my mule began to lag again. I had no spurs, and it was utterly in vain that I urged him on by kicks and blows. His greatest speed was a slow trot, and to keep that up for a few hundred yards at a time required my utmost efforts. By sundown I estimated that the distance to San Miguel must be twelve or fifteen miles. It was a very unpleasant position to be in—pursued, as I had every reason to suppose, by men who would not hesitate to take my life, yet unable to accelerate the speed of my animal. All I could do was to continue beating him.
The country became still more lonesome and desolate as I advanced. The chances of being overtaken momentarily increased. My anxiety to reach San Miguel caused me to forget all the sufferings of fatigue and thirst, and strain every nerve to get my mule over the ground. But the greater the effort the slower he traveled. It was true, I had a pistol, and could make some defense. Yet the chances were greatly against me. Unskilled in this sort of warfare, an indifferent rider, unacquainted with the trails by which I might be cut off and surprised, it seemed indeed a very hopeless case, should such an emergency arise. Besides, it would be very little satisfaction to shoot one, or even two men, against whom I felt no enmity, and whose lives were worth nothing to me, and still less to get killed myself. The truth is, I had a particular relish for life; others were interested in it as well as myself, and I did not feel disposed to risk it unnecessarily.
The sun went down at last, and the soft shadows of night began to soften the asperities of the scene. I rode on, never once relaxing my efforts to get a little more speed out of my mule. The moon rose, and innumerable stars twinkled in the sky. The air became delightfully balmy. Long shadows of rocks and trees swept across the trail. Mystic forms seemed to flit through the dim distance, or stand like ghostly sentinels along the wayside. Often I fancied I could see men on horseback stationed under the overhanging rocks, and detect the glitter of their arms in the moonlight. Stumps of trees riven by the storms of winter loomed up among the rocks like grim spectres; the very bushes assumed fantastic forms, and waved their long arms in gestures of warning. The howling of innumerable coyotes and the hooting of the night-owls had a singularly weird effect in the stillness of the night.