California illustrated

by J. M. Letts

Its first name originated in the execution of two men, a Spaniard and a Frenchman. They were guilty of murder and robbery, tried before Judge Lynch, and executed, all within twenty-four hours.

Soon after this, a man or lad, who was known as Irish Dick, had a difficulty with a person at a gaming table, in the Eldorado, after which he waylaid and murdered him. This was the second murder of which he had been guilty, and for this, his own life fell a sacrifice. The miners took him in charge, tied a rope round his neck, then giving him the other end, compelled him to climb a tree, go out on one of the limbs, fasten the end of the rope, and at the drop of a handkerchief, jump off. He complied with apparent cheerfulness, and died without a struggle.

This is now the first stopping-place for the overland emigration, from which cause, as well as that of the superior richness of the surrounding mountain gorges, it has become a place of much importance. At the time of which I am writing there were several rude houses constituting the town, all under the supervision of males—females, like the visits of their illustrious prototypes, being few and far between. I think the first one had not yet made her appearance.

No nation with less genius than the “universal Yankee,” could have survived the privation, and even of these it required the genuine “wooden nutmeg” species, a couple of specimens of which are faintly portrayed in the accompanying plate. Their garments are of a cut not generally adopted in the Atlantic cities, yet I can assure the reader they are eminently fashionable in California. The general appearance of these individuals is a true index to the order and systematic arrangement that pervade the interior of their habitation. Nothing is done for show or ornament; everything bearing the impress of practicality and economy—one frying-pan, two tin-plates, both slightly touched with “ile,” to prevent rust, their knives in their pockets and forks in their hair. They are just going in, having finished their day’s work. They are practical miners, both having made fortunes at the business. Their house is well known by every one who has traveled through that region of the country, and many will associate with the “Yankee House” pleasant recollections, it having been a general resort and nightly scene of a sociable soirée, or something more brilliant.

There are numerous herds of wild cattle in these mountainous regions, which have never been hunted or molested by man, until since the discovery of gold, and even now their wildness and impetuosity render their capture extremely uncertain and perilous. The mountaineers, who always carry their lives in their hands and court danger in every form, are extremely loth to attack a wild bullock, even when well armed and mounted.

The grizzly bear is a universal terror, and is rarely molested by experienced hunters, yet their capture is thought less perilous than that of a wild bullock, for these when wounded become frantic, and nothing can withstand them. Mr. Lewis, a neighbor who had gained a notoriety by his success in hunting the grizzly bear, having captured two in one day, and several others at different times, all through the fleetness and superior training of his mule, resolved to make an attempt upon a herd of wild cattle that were in the mountains not far distant. He considered his mule equal to any emergency, and having a rifle that plainly spoke for itself, he started on his perilous adventure. He found the herd feeding in a ravine, and approached very near before they eyed his mule with suspicion. They seemed quite unconscious of approaching danger, until one of them, catching the scent of the foe, threw up his head, gave the peculiar signal, and all were in motion; at this instant the rifle was discharged, the ball taking effect in the neck of one of the bullocks, bringing him upon his knees; he immediately recovered, and wheeling about, bounded with headlong speed in the direction of the mule. The moment was a critical one, the mule under the sting of the spur was doing his utmost, the bullock in hot pursuit, his eyes flashing fire, his tongue hanging from his mouth, the blood streaming from his nostrils, and he foaming and bellowing with the most terrific fury, gaining upon his adversaries at every bound. At length, he was upon them, the rider seeing no other alternative, caught the limb of a tree letting the mule pass on. The next bound, however, was his last, for the bullock overtaking him, struck him in the side bringing him to the ground, and after goring him several times, bounded away in the direction taken by the herd, and soon disappeared. Upon visiting the location of the above-described occurrence a few days thereafter, in passing through a slight gorge, I came upon

the bodies of three Indians who had been dead apparently about two weeks, each bearing the marks of the unerring rifle; they had been among the whites as their dresses indicated, two of them having on jean shirts, the other a blue flannel. Two of them were shot through the chest, the other through the head; the sight was a sad one, and gave rise to melancholy reflections, for here these poor beings are hunted and shot down like wild beasts, and these no doubt fell by the hand of the assassin, not for lucre but to satiate a feeling of revenge.

In an adjoining territory the “red man” had a quiet home; their “wigwams” were always supplied with venison, their corn-fields ripened in autumn, their rude traps furnished clothing for the winter, and in the spring they danced in praise of the “Great Spirit” for causing flowers to bloom upon the graves of their fathers; but the white stranger came and took possession of their hunting grounds and streams, and harvested their corn. They held a council and decided that the Great Spirit had sent the white stranger, and it would be wrong not to give him all he wished; they collected their traps, bows, and arrows, and prepared to fall back in search of new streams and hunting grounds; they paid the last visit to the graves of their fathers. What were their feelings? The moon threw a pale, dim light through the foliage, the air breathed a mournful sigh as they reached the lonely mound; the stout-hearted warrior drew his blanket to hide his tears as he bowed down to commune for the last time with the spirits that had so often blessed him in the chase; his heart was too full, and he fell upon his face and wept bitterly. But, a last adieu; they rise, cross the arrows over the grave, and walk mournfully away; the Great Spirit gives them a new hunting ground, and the corn ripens on the plain, but soon the white stranger comes and tells them to fall back. They are at the base of the mountain; there are no hunting grounds beyond; if they go into the mountain their corn will not ripen, and their “papooses” will starve in the wigwam; they hold a council and decide to defend their homes against the encroachments of the white stranger. The whites were strong, and drove the red man into the mountains, and for the crime of having tried to defend their homes and offspring, they are placed under a ban, and hunted down like wild beasts. No matter where they are found the crime of being a red man is a forfeiture, not only of all right to property but to life itself.