I need not dwell upon the perils of the way. Sliding stones and slipping mules, frightened horses and snapping cinches—these are only incidents. He is preparing a gruesome future for himself who asserts that Tahquitch trail is “easy!” More than once, as my unwilling bronco balked or stumbled or insisted upon a wholly untrod path, my frightened lips framed—not a prayer! Then I girded anew the loins of my resolution and clung yet more frantically to the neck of my disgusted steed.
At noon we reached our first resting-place, a little valley just at the base of old Tahquitch. Then, fear almost forgot, the glorious wonder of the way took possession of me. Even now, as I recall that first highland camp, a dreamy restfulness steals over mind and heart. The soft, abundant verdure of that rugged floor; the girded strength of the everlasting hills; the burden of myth and legend investing every peak and rock and valley with half-suggested mystery—it was worth the labor, was it worth the fear?
Our resting space was all too brief, and again we mounted our still wearied horses. Another ride of terrors, and we camped for the night at the very foot of the lordly peak we were to scale next day. Hardly a more enchanting spot can be imagined than the little valley nest, apparently created for our immediate needs. Huge cliffs of rock on one side shut us protectingly from the lofty range of hills beyond. On the side opposite, the hills came down to the very edge of the valley, but lovingly, with no hint of the treacherous ravines which scar their slopes. Beyond loomed the hoary head of San Jacinto—threatening, awful, grand.
After our meager supper we prepared our beds of fragrant pine, topped with enormous blankets. That done, we gathered around the blazing camp-fire; and then followed tales of aboriginal California, Tom’s valiant stunt—an alleged Indian waltz—songs and songs, and bye-and-bye the glorious chant, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.” At ten o’clock the embers of our cook-fires and the flickering camp blaze were the only visible signs of life.
Our sleeping-rooms were scattered here and there, marked by different groups of stalwart trees. Mollie and I, for economy of warmth, made our bed together under a clump of gigantic pines, taller and larger than I had deemed it possible for pines to grow. Mollie, careful of my health and comfort, went to sleep upon the windward side, and in just compensation for her generosity claimed the heavier portion of the clothing. I felt the force of her philosophy, but philosophy would not keep me warm. My teeth chattered and I could not sleep. Moreover visions of the return over Tahquitch trail haunted me. As the probable catastrophes of descent were borne in upon my mind I groaned aloud. Why had I undertaken this wild scheme? Could I ever ride down those shelving rocks? Perhaps I should fall over the precipice where, the guide assured us, a horse had rolled the year before. Perhaps, and perhaps—I had lain awake too many weary hours not to recognize the symptoms. I was in for a sleepless night.
I raised myself upon my elbow and looked about me. When had I ever seen such another night! The moon was full and almost at its zenith. The tall pines waved their tops gently in the breezes of an upper atmosphere. The lower mountain wind swept in gusts through the valley. The camp-fire blaze still burned dully in the stronger light of the glorious moon. The shadows of the mountain stood out in the clear moonlight as sharply defined as in the day. I looked at my watch—it was half-past twelve; one; two. The night grew every moment more radiant, but would it never end?
I had just returned my watch to my pillow for the dozenth time, and had risen at last to stir into circulation my frozen blood, when my ear caught a low, peculiar rumble, unlike anything I had ever heard before. I stood motionless, too frightened to rouse Mollie, yet consciously wondering why she and the others did not wake. A moment—and then I said to myself, “It is an earthquake”; but knew perfectly it was not. Another rumble; another—louder, nearer, close at hand. My fear was almost lost in wonder. Suddenly I cried:
“It is the Tahquitch spirits!”
Mollie moved uneasily, disturbed by my voice. I was on the point of waking her still further when the noise ceased. I had forgotten the cold, but my teeth chattered now from excitement. I waited five, ten minutes—it seemed hours. Reluctantly I returned to my bed and nestled under my pitiable corner of blanket, but it had no warmth for me and in a moment I threw it off and sat up listening eagerly. Mollie still slept on.
“I will not waken her if I hear the sound again,” I said to myself. “Perhaps her lack of faith in unseen beings forbids any manifestation in her presence.”