My recollections of the interviews with Colonel McKee, are of a most agreeable character. The sincerity with which he advised me with regard to my individual affairs, and the correctness of his representations of the prospective condition of the Tejon Pass, if it should prove a valid Mexican grant, was serviceable to me, and subsequent events verified his judgment. Colonel McKee was a high-minded christian gentleman, but really unsuited to deal with the political element then existing on the Pacific-coast. The other two commissioners, Colonel Barbour and Dr. Woozencroft, I never became acquainted with, though upon one occasion I met Colonel Barbour at head-quarters, and received a very favorable impression of his character. In leaving Colonel McKee after my second interview, I could not at once relinquish my design of ultimately establishing myself near the Tejon. Having completed my business, I reported myself to Henderson as ready, and found that he also had been able to despatch his affairs, and had no business to detain him longer. Together we took a stroll through the principal street, and visited some popular resorts. However angelic the unseen portion of this city—of then less than two thousand inhabitants—may have been, it appeared to us as a city of fallen angels with their attendant satellites. Although our observations were made in a dull portion of the day, we witnessed on the street one pugilistic encounter, two shooting affrays, and a reckless disregard of life, and property rights generally, never allowed in a civilized community. We soon discovered that good arms and a firm demeanor were the only passports to respectful consideration.
The authorities seemed too indifferent or too timid to maintain order, or punish the offenders against law. Satisfied that the “City of Angels” could exhibit more unadulterated wickedness than any other town in the State at that time, we shook the dust from our feet, and in order to get an early start the next morning, rode out to the vicinity of Col. Fremont’s camp. Our party was increased by the addition of two gentlemen, who joined us for protection and guidance. The name of one of them has escaped my memory; the other was Doctor Bigelow, of Detroit, Michigan, a geologist, who at one time was engaged in a geological survey of a portion of Lake Superior; We left our camp before sunrise, Henderson and myself riding in advance; our guests, Indian and pack-mule bringing up the rear. This order of traveling was maintained as a matter of convenience, for being well mounted, Henderson and myself were able to secure deer, antelope and a supply of smaller game, without hardly leaving the trail or delaying our progress.
Among the foot-hills of the mountain slopes we saw several black bears cross the trail ahead, but not being out of meat, we did not urgently solicit their company. We did, however, once have our appetite aroused for “bar meat,” but failed to supply the material for the feast. Halting for a rest at the foot of a ravine, and being very thirsty, we followed the indications to water exhibited by our mules. These were secured while we explored the brushy ravine for the water-hole. As we reached the desired water, two fat cubs came waddling out of the pool, and ran into a clump of dwarf willow.
Congratulating each other on the prospect of roast cub for supper, we tried to get a shot with our revolvers, but a rousing demonstration from the parental bear, which suddenly appeared, alarmed our cautiousness, and we retreated hurriedly, but in good order, to the place where we had carelessly left our rifles. Hastily mounting, we returned the compliment by at once charging on the bear and her cubs, which were now endeavoring to escape.
As we approached near enough for the mules to see and scent the game, they halted, and commenced marking time. Neither spurs or the butts of our rifles could persuade them to make a forward movement. Thinking I might secure a cub that stood temporarily in sight, I raised my rifle, but in so doing slackened the reins, when with the ease and celerity of a well-drilled soldier, my mule came to an “about face,” and instantly left that locality. Henderson’s mule became unmanageable, and after a lusty “we-haw! we-haw!” followed me, while the affrighted bear family scrambled off in search of a place of security. Pulling up as soon as we could control our frightened animals, Henderson congratulated me on possessing one so active on a retreat, while I complimented the intelligence of his own, which would not voluntarily endanger his master.
After a hearty laugh at our comic illustration of a bear hunt, it was mutually agreed that a mule was not reliable in a charge upon bruin.
A mule may be the equal of a horse in intelligence, but his inferiority of spirit and courage in times of danger prevents his becoming a favorite, except as a beast for work or mountain travel.
On arriving at the rancheria of the chief Vincente, I induced Henderson to stop and explore the country. The luscious watermelons and abundant supplies of vegetables were strong arguments in favor of a few days’ rest for our animals and recreation for ourselves. In the meantime Doctor Bigelow had told us of a traditional silver mine that he had been informed existed somewhere in the locality of the Te-jon. I found the pompous old chief fond of displaying his knowledge of agriculture, which was really considerable, and I complimented him upon his success, as was deserved.
After paying him for the things liberally supplied our party, and which with a show of Spanish courtesy he intimated he had given us because he was “a good Christian”—though he frequently crossed himself while expressing his fear of “witches” or demons—I opened up the subject of the old silver mine. I designated it as some kind of a mine that had once been worked by an Englishman. We were told by “Don Vincente” that such a mine had been discovered many years before, by white men, who, after working it for awhile, had been driven off or killed; “but for the love of God” he could not tell which. We expressed a wish to visit the old mine, and asked permission of the chief. He told us it was not in the territory claimed by him, and he was thankful that it was not, as the location was haunted. When asked if he would furnish us a guide, who should be well paid for his service, he answered, “Go, and God go with you, but none of my people shall go, for it would bring upon us evil.” We were shown the mouth of the ravine, after some persuasion, but no argument or inducement could procure a guide to the mine.
“Don Vincente,” like all the Mission Indians of California, I found to be strongly imbued with the superstitions of the wild tribes, and a firm believer in the power of human departed spirits to harm the living. Many, like those of the east, believed that the wizards or sorcerers could put a spell upon a victim, that if not disenchanted would soon carry him to his grave.