As we rode on up the valley, I became more observant of the scenery than watchful for signs, when suddenly my attention was attracted by shadowy objects flitting past rocks and trees on the north side, some distance above El Capitan. Halting, I caught a glimpse of Indians as they passed an open space opposite to us. Seeing that they were discovered, they made no further efforts to hide their movements, but came out into open view, at long rifle range. There were five of them. They saluted us with taunting gestures, and fearlessly kept pace with us as we resumed our march. The river was here a foaming impassable torrent. The warriors looked with great indifference on our repeated efforts to discover a fording place. As we approached a stretch of comparatively smooth water, I made known to Chandler my intention of swimming the stream to capture them. His answer was: “Bully for you, Doc; take ’em, if you can, alive, but take ’em anyhow.” I started with Spencer, Firebaugh, French, young Stone and two others, for a sloping bank where our animals would most willingly enter the stream; but Stone spurred passed me as we reached the bank, and when Firebaugh’s mulish mustang refused the water, though given the spur, and all the other mules refused to leave the horse, Stone backed his mule over the bank, and we swam our mules after the “boy leader” across the Merced.
HOUSEWORTH & CO. PHOTO.
THE THREE BROTHERS.
(3,850 feet in height.)
The Indians, alarmed by this unexpected movement, fled up the valley at the top of their speed. By the time we had crossed, they had nearly reached a bend in the river above on the north side. We followed at our best gait, but found the trail obstructed by a mass of what then appeared to be recently fallen rocks. Without hesitation, we abandoned our mules, and continued the pursuit on foot, up to the rocky spur known as the “Three Brothers,” where entering the Talus, they disappeared. Find them, we could not. The obstructing rocks on the old north side trail were known as “We-äck,” “The Rocks,” and understood to mean the “fallen rocks,” because, according to traditions they had fallen upon the old trail. The modern trail for horses crossed the stream a short distance below, where there was a very good ford in a lower stage of water, but at this time, the early part of May, the volume of water rushing down the Merced was astonishing. We had crossed readily enough in the heat of excitement; but it was with feelings of reluctance that we re-entered the cold water and swam our mules back to where a few of our comrades had halted on the south side.
Mr. Firebaugh, having failed to get his mustang to follow us, had run him up on the south side as if to cut off the fugitives, and saw them hide behind a ledge of rocks.
When informed of the situation, Capt. Boling crossed to the north side and came down to the ledge where the scouts were hidden; but the Captain could scarcely at first credit Firebaugh’s statement, that he had seen them climb up the cliff. Our Indian scouts were sent up to hunt out the hidden warriors, and through the means of fair promises, if they came down voluntarily, Captain Boling succeeded in bringing in the five Indians. Three of the captives were known to us, being sons of Ten-ie-ya, one of whom was afterwards killed; the other two were young braves, the wife of one being a daughter of the old chief. The Indian name for the three rocky peaks near which this capture was made was not then known to any of our battalion, but from the strange coincidence of three brothers being made prisoners so near them, we designated the peaks as the “Three Brothers.” I soon learned that they were called by the Indians “Kom-po-pai-zes,” from a fancied resemblance of the peaks to the heads of frogs when sitting up ready to leap. A fanciful interpretation has been given the Indian name as meaning “mountains playing leap-frog,” but a literal translation is not desirable.
They hear the plaintive bull-frog to his mistress trilling sweet;
They see the green-robed sirens plunge down in waters deep.
But leap these mountains may not; they watch, with clouded brow,
Return of young Ten-ie-ya—heard not his death’s pow-wow.