CHAPTER VIII.
SAN MIGUEL.
It was a bright and beautiful morning as I left the house and turned toward San Miguel. The contrast between the peaceful scene before me and the horrible sight I had just witnessed was exceedingly impressive. The mellow light of the early sun on the mountains; the winding streams fringed with shrubbery; the rich, golden hue of the valley; the cattle grazing quietly in the low meadows bordering on the Salinas River; the singing of the birds in the oak groves, were indescribably refreshing to a fevered mind, and filled my heart with thankfulness that I was spared to enjoy them once more. Yet I could not but think of what I had witnessed in the adobe hut—a whole family cut down by the ruthless hands of murderers who might still be lurking behind the bushes on the wayside. Their dreadful crime haunted the scene, and its exquisite repose seemed almost a cruel mockery. De Quincey somewhere remarks that he never experienced such profound sensations of sadness as on a bright summer day, when the very luxuriance and maturity of outer life, and the fullness of sunshine that filled the visible world, made the desolation and the darkness within the more oppressive. I could now well understand the feeling; and though grief had but little part in it, beyond a natural regret for the unhappy fate of the murdered family, still it was sad to feel the contrast between the purity and beauty of God's creation and the willful wickedness of man.
I had not lost the strong instinct of self-preservation, which, so far at least, through the kind aid of Providence, had enabled me to preserve my life; and in my lonely walk toward San Miguel I was careful to keep in the open valley, and avoid, as much as possible, coming within range of the rocks and bushes. In about an hour I saw the red tile roofs and motley collection of ruinous old buildings that comprised the former missionary station of San Miguel. A gang of lean wolfish dogs ran out to meet me as I approached, and it was not without difficulty that I could keep them off without resorting to my revolver, which was an alternative that might produce a bad impression where I most hoped to meet with a friendly reception. As I approached the main buildings I was struck with the singularly wild and desolate aspect of the place. Not a living being was in sight. The carcass of a dead ox lay in front of the door, upon which a voracious brood of buzzards were feeding; and a coyote sat howling on an eminence a little beyond. I walked into a dark, dirty room, and called out, in what little Spanish I knew, for the man of the house. "Quien es?" demanded a gruff voice. I looked in a corner, and saw a filthy-looking object, wrapped in a poncho, sitting lazily on a bed. By his uncouth manner and forbidding appearance I judged him to be the vaquero in charge of the place, in which I was not mistaken. With considerable difficulty I made him comprehend that I had lost my mule, and supposed it had strayed to San Miguel.
"Quien sabe?" said the fellow, indifferently.
SAN MIGUEL.
Could he not find it? I would be willing to reward him. I would give him the blankets. I was an Oficiál, and was on my way to San Luis Obispo. To each of these propositions the man returned a stupid and yawning answer, "Quien sabe—who knows?"
Finding nothing to be gained on that point, I asked him for something to eat, for I was well-nigh famished with hunger. He pointed lazily to a string of jerked beef strung across the rafters. It required but little time to select a few dry pieces, and while I was eating them the fellow asked me if I had any tobacco. I handed him a plug, which speedily produced a good effect, for he got up and passed me a plate of cold tortillas. When I had somewhat satisfied the cravings of hunger, I asked him, in my broken Spanish, if he had heard of the murder—five persons killed in an old adobe house near by. "Quien sabe?" said he, in the same indifferent tone. "Muchos malhos hombres aqui." This was all he knew, or professed to know, of the murder.
"Amigo," said I, "if you'll get my mule and bring him here, I'll give you this watch."
He took the watch and examined it carefully, handed it back, and remarked as before, "Quien sabe?" The glitter of the gold, however, seemed to quicken his perceptive faculties to this extent that he got up from the bed, put on his spurs, took a riata from a peg on the wall, and walked out, leaving me to entertain myself as I thought proper during his absence.
Having finished a substantial repast of jerked beef and tortillas, I went out and rambled about among the ruins for nearly an hour. A few lazy and thriftless Indians, lying in the sun here and there, were all the inhabitants of the place I could see. This ranch must have been a very desirable residence in former times. The climate is charming, except that it was a little warm in summer, and the cattle ranges are richly clothed with grass and very extensive.
A SPANISH CABALLERO.
In about an hour my friend the vaquero came back, mounted on a broncho or wild horse, leading after him my mule, with the pack unchanged. From what I could understand, he had found the mule entangled by the bridle in the bushes, some three miles on the trail toward San Luis. According to promise, I handed him my watch. He took it and examined it again, then handed it back without saying a word.
"Amigo," said I, "the watch is yours. I promised it to you if you found my mule."
To this he merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Won't you take it? I have no money."
"No, señor," said he, at length, with a somewhat haughty air, "I am a Spanish gentleman."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Will you do me the favor, then, to accept a plug of tobacco?"
I opened my pack and handed him a large plug of the finest pressed Cavendish.
"Mil gracias!" said the Spanish gentleman, smiling affably, and making a condescending inclination of the head. "That suits me better. A watch is bad property here. I don't want to be killed yet a while."
Here was a hint of his reason for declining the proffered reward. But he did it very grandly; and I was quite willing to accord to him the title of Señor Caballero to which he aspired, though he certainly looked as unlike the Caballeros described by the learned Fray Antonio Agapida, who went out to make war upon the Moors of Granada, as one distinguished individual can look unlike another.
There was ample reason why I should regard my mule with dissatisfaction. All my misfortunes, so far, had arisen from his defective physical and mental organization (if I may use the term in reference to such an animal); but the fact is, it has been my fate, as far back as I can recollect, to have the worst stock in the country foisted upon me. Never yet, up to this hour, have I succeeded in purchasing a sound, safe, and reliable animal—except, indeed, an old horse that I once owned in Oakland, generally known in the neighborhood as Selim the Steady—a name derived from his unconquerable propensity for remaining in the stable, or getting back to it as soon as ever he left the premises.
The vaquero, or, as he aspired to be called, the Caballero, offered to barter his broncho for my mule, and, as an inducement, set him to bucking all over the ground within a circle of fifty yards, merely to show the spirit of the animal, of which I was so well satisfied that I declined the barter.