Unable to cope with the Mexican intruders, these degraded tribes are also an easy prey to disease. They live without general intercourse, and lurk in the foothills, or hide in the ca¤ons.
Juanita finds the Indian women peaceable, absolutely ignorant, and yet tender to their offspring. The babes are carried in wicker baskets on their backs. A little weaving and basket-making comprise all their feminine arts. Rudest skin clothing covers their stunted forms.
Don Miguel encourages the visits of these wild tribes. He intends to use them as a fringe of faithful retainers between him and the Americans. They will warn him of any approach through the Sierras of the accursed Yankee.
The Commandante, reared in a land without manufactures or artisans, regarding only his flocks and herds, cherishes his military pride in firmly holding the San Joaquin for the authorities. He never turns aside to examine the resources of his domain. The degraded character of the Indians near him prevents any knowledge of the great interior. They do not speak the language of his semi-civilized mission laborers from the Coast Range. They cannot communicate with the superior tribes of the North and East. All their dialects are different.
Vaguely float in his memory old stories of the giant trees and the great gorge of the Yosemite. He will visit yet the glistening and secret summits of the Sierras.
Weeks run into months. Comfort and plenty reign at Lagunitas. With his wife by his side, Miguel cons his occasional despatches. He promises the Seflora that the spring shall see a chapel erected. When he makes the official visit to the Annual Council, he will bring a padre, at once friend, spiritual father, and physician. It is the first sign of a higher life—the little chapel of Mariposa.
Winter winds sway the giant pines of the forests. Rains of heaven swell the San Joaquin. The summer golden brown gives way to the velvety green of early spring.
Juanita meekly tells her beads. With her women she waits the day when the bell shall call to prayer in Mariposa.
Wandering by Lagunitas, the wife strays in fancy to far lands beyond the ocean. The books of her girlhood have given her only a misty idea of Europe. The awe with which she has listened to the Padres throws a glamour of magic around these recitals of that fairy world beyond the seas.
Her life is bounded by the social horizon of her family circle; she is only the chatelaine. Her domain is princely, but no hope clings in her breast of aught beside a faded middle age. Her beauty hides itself under the simple robe of the Californian matron. Visitors are rare in this lovely wilderness. The annual rodeo will bring the vaqueros together. Some travelling officials may reach the San Joaquin. The one bright possibility of her life is a future visit to the seashore.