Night after night, sounds of wailing came from the adobe homes of the Indians. When Tuesday (May 12) came, many of them went to the little adobe chapel to pray, and then gathered for the last time among the unpainted wooden crosses within the rude stockade of their ancient burying ground, a pathetic and forlorn group, to wail out their grief over the graves of their fathers. Then hastily loading a little food and a few valuables into such light wagons and surreys as they owned, about twenty-five families drove away for Pala, ahead of the wagon-train. The great four and six-horse wagons were quickly loaded with the home-made furniture, bedding and clothing, spotlessly clean from recent washing in the boiling springs; stoves, ollas, stone mortars, window sashes, boxes, baskets, bags of dried fruit and acorns, and coops of chickens and ducks.
While I helped Lay-reader Ambrosio's mother to round up and encoop a wary brood of chickens, I observed the wife of her other son, Jesus, throwing an armful of books—spellers, arithmetics, poems—into the bonfire, along with bows and arrows, and superannuated aboriginal bric-a-brac. In reply to a surprised query, she explained that now they hated the white people and their religion and their books. Dogged and dejected, Captain Cibemoat, with his wife Ramona, and little girl, was the last to go. While I helped him hitch a bony mustang to his top buggy, a tear or two coursed down his knife-scarred face; and as the teamsters tore down his little board cabin wherein he had kept a restaurant, he muttered, "May they eat sand!"...
At their first stop for dinner they lingered long on the last acre of Warner's Ranch, as though loath to go through the gates. At night, at Oak Grove, they drew the first rations ever issued to the Cupenos by the government—some at first refused to accept them, saying they were not objects of charity....
Although devout church members—scarcely a name among them being unwashed by baptism—they refused the first Sunday to hold services in the restored Pala Mission, or anywhere else, asking surlily of the visiting priest, "What kind of a God is this you ask us to worship, who deserts us when we need him most?" Instead, thirty of them joined some swart friends from Pauma in a "sooish amokat" or rabbit hunt, killing their game with peeled clubs thrown unerringly while galloping at full speed.
Monday, however, the principal men, better pleased after an inspection of the fertile and beautiful valley of Pala, had a flag-raising at the little school-house—the only building now on the site of the projected village. An Indian girl played the organ, and a score of dusky children—who will compare favorably in intelligence with average white youngsters—joined in singing the praises of "America—sweet land of liberty." School was opened, and later a policeman—young Antonio Chaves—was elected by popular vote.
The Pala Chapel and Campanile After Restoration by the Landmarks Club.
The Interior of Pala Chapel as it Appears Today.
