The Tahquitch Maiden: a Tale of the San Jacintos

PREFACE

THE TAHQUITCH MAIDEN

IT WAS a perfect August day in the San Jacinto Mountains. The morning dew still lay upon the grass, but the early mists which hover as benedictions over the heated lower plains, were unneeded in the cooler air of our highland camp; and the soft blue of the summer sky suggested only rest and comfort.

My hammock was swung under the centuried pines of Strawberry Valley. I had slipped away from the family tents on the pretense of reading the Inferno; but the gentle soughing of the pines, the drowsy murmur of the flies which live even in mountain climes, and the subdued hum of my companion-campers’ voices threw me quite out of conceit with scenes of the lower world. My book fell from my hands, and my half-closed eyes followed unreproved my wandering thoughts.

Flecks of white cloud now floated in the air, now touched the summits of the range surrounding us, and brought out with amazing distinctness the dim outlines of hill and peak. Huge Tahquitch looked benignly down, and I could almost fancy that I saw the hoary head of old San Jack from above the line of intervening hills.

Suddenly I heard a sharp “Hello” from the direction of the kitchen camp, followed by Tom’s generous “Howdy” in reply. Turning my head I saw an alert individual in jeans and sombrero, with a dreary-looking pony grazing at his side. The man was talking eagerly, flinging his stalwart arm in the direction of the mountain whither my vagrant thoughts had just been turning.

“Can he be the discoverer of a new mine?” I wondered lazily. “Or perhaps a peddler of curios? Well, he shall not disturb me!” and I settled back into my hammock and took up my book with sudden energy. But Cousin Tom had spied me peering over my pillow, and in a moment he and his merry young wife and Cousin Mollie closed about my swinging couch.

“Oh, we’ve such a splendid chance to go to San Jacinto peak tomorrow!” they cried in a breath. And Cousin Mollie added, “It is the one trip needed to make this the happiest summer on record. How ridiculous that we ever thought of going home without making it!”

Then Tom went on: “The whole affair takes only three days; the trail is as easy as a floor, the guide says, and the expense just nothing at all!” And when I did not answer, “Why do you look so glum? You didn’t suppose we meant to leave you, did you? Of course you are going with us.” And the girls echoed, “Of course, of course!”

I turned upon my cousins with indignant scorn.

“Children,” I cried, “what are you talking about? Are you mad, clean, stark mad? I never rode a horse. I never saw a mountain trail. I should starve on bacon and dry bread. I am afraid to death of rattlesnakes and bears. Do you think I am an idiot? Of course I will not go!”

“Oh, now,” wheedled Tom, “don’t get excited. I’ll wager you will enjoy it the best of any of us. I tell you the trail is nothing. Rattlesnakes! and bears! Besides you are our guest, and we can’t go and leave you behind.”

“Only think of the view!” shouted the girls.

“Go to the mountains of the moon, if you feel inclined,” was my steadfast answer, “and take the view with you. I shall never, never leave Strawberry Valley on any such reckless venture.”

But even as I spoke I felt that sinking of the heart which portends defeat to foolish souls. As for my objections, Tom swept them away as though they were chaff and he a mighty wind. In mute despair I turned to pater- and materfamilias who had joined the group. Alas, for the first time they failed me. So, when there was no longer help in man—or woman—I yielded, firmly convinced that I should never see friends or kindred again, railing at my own weakness of will. But my good angel fluttered near, and so I went.

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.”

I had scarcely formed the thought when I heard once more the rumble, more distinct, nearer every instant. In spite of my eagerness to hear and see, I am confident that every hair of my head began to rise. Audibly sounder slept my doughty cousin.

Suddenly the rumble ceased, and a sharp gust of wind swept down from the mountain which lay at my right. I turned my face in that direction. The height was enveloped in a mist, and a light mist, hardly more than a haze, floated in the air around me. While I looked it began to assume form and color. It was a horrible dragon with outstretched claws and yawning mouth; no, a man-warrior with flecks of blood upon his shield. But even as I looked the awful presence took the dim outlines of a woman’s shape. I pinched myself. I was wide awake.

STRAWBERRY VALLEY CAMP
“My hammock swung under the centuried pines of Strawberry Valley.”

A moment more, and the figure stood out, distinct as the clear lines of the landscape—a woman having the dark copper skin and the gleaming eyes of the Indian race, but with the height and bearing of the stateliest Caucasian. Her long blanket of scarlet and white hung trailing from her shoulder. Scarlet cords were around her wrists and ankles. A glittering chain of shells and nuggets encircled her neck, and a single massive nugget shone in her long, black hair which was held in place by a scarlet band. She raised her arm in a gesture, perhaps of silence. The hand was large and perfect and the arm well moulded. She looked at me a moment and then spoke.

“I am the Tahquitch Maiden. My people have many legends regarding me, but no Red man has seen my form nor heard my voice since the day I disappeared from yonder valley. For many generations I have dwelt upon the peak named for the Evil Spirit, whom my Indian kin believe I serve. Often I have yearned to tell the story of my fate—a fate so strange that none have guessed aright its cause and meaning. Often I have left my rocky fortress to hover near to them who seemed of mind and spirit like my own. But I have sought their comradeship in vain. In a long round of years, once only am I seen or may I speak. Whenever, upon the anniversary of the last night of my stay among my people, another golden moon lights up these scenes of beauty, if any wander near these mountain heights, whose hearts believe in truth and fortitude and noble love; if, unsleeping, they have watched throughout the hours which mark the time when last I suffered among mortals—to them I may appear and tell in language of their own my story.

“This is the fateful night. For many scores of years no other has been like it; and no one lives whose heart has heard my story.”

The maiden paused, and turned her face toward the mists of Tahquitch Mountain. I held my breath in silence, but my gaze followed hers. The distant peaks remained wrapped in clouds, which seemed too dense for sun ever to lighten.

“Until they melt away,” she said, following my thought, “none call me to return.”

Then she began her story.

“My father was the chief of a noble tribe, now vanished from the earth, then filling the valley named for its burden of wild strawberry. My mother was a maiden of a tribe removed from here, far to the east—perhaps a tribe of your own race. At least she differed much from my father’s people in face and form and mind. I have heard few words regarding her, and my memory of her grace and beauty is but the memory of a child. Of gentle heart she must have been, and my father, a stern, strong warrior among warlike men, made her his idol.

“I was an only child, and I grew up as other Indian children, with few events to make my years remembered. By my mother I was fondly loved; my father gave me little care or notice. Nothing stands clear in my past until one day, while I was still a child, there came a great change in my life. My father, with many stalwart braves, had gone upon a bloody expedition against a powerful foe some distance to the south, leaving behind a small band of men to guard our camp. These set out one morning to hunt the deer which then, more fearlessly than now, roamed over the neighboring hills. At nightfall they had not returned, nor did they ever come.

“All that day, haunted by a prophecy of evil, my mother wandered pale and anxious about the camp. The stolid Indian women, themselves unmoved by threat of danger, grumbled together at her restlessness and fear, but to her they said no word. As the afternoon wore away she could control herself no longer. Taking my hand she led me into the little teepee which, contrary to the custom of Indian men, my father had built for her with his own hands, beside the valley stream.

“When we were alone and sheltered from the gaze of her hard-faced companions, she took me in her arms and threw herself with me upon her couch of skins. Then she wept. I, who had never seen a man or woman weep, was filled with a strange, wild fear. I struggled in her arms, and when her tight clasp forced me to lie still, I lay panting with fright. Soon, seeing my terror, she checked her sobs and stroked my long shining hair until my fears were hushed. Then she said:

“‘Child, you are of your father’s mould and spirit. You will become his pride and joy, as I have been his love. Something tells me that soon I shall go far from you, into another land, among another people. You will know little of your mother’s life or love; for death will seal her lips, and pride and love and grief your father’s. Her kindred will be strangers to you, for they are far distant from this place and people, and when she left them to follow one she better loved, they ceased to speak, perhaps to think of her. Yet they are noble and true and tender, and sometime they will bring to you, perhaps, sympathy more than your father’s race can give. But this is not the thing I long to say. I would leave with you another message straight from your mother’s heart.

“‘Love fills the measure of a woman’s life. Fear not to take and give. But when suitors come to you from this and other tribes, choose from them not at all or else choose worthily. Rank, possessions, power are glittering ornaments, but look not long on them. Let your heart rest on him whose soul meets yours and at its best.’

“That night our camp was entered by the stealthy foe who had surprised and killed our band of hunters. My mother slew with her own hands the dark-faced warrior who had rushed into our tent to take me captive. She in turn was pierced by the poisoned arrow of another of the enemy. At midnight she lay dead.

“Before the first glow of another sunrise had touched yon peak, my father returned laden with spoils from a vanquished foe. But his chant of victory was changed to wailing. All that day he mourned alone; but when midnight came again, he summoned all his people, and, with solemn dance and dirge, they buried my mother beside the stream where she had dwelt. Then he wreaked upon the enemy who had despoiled his home, vengeance unspeakable.

“After my mother’s death my father’s heart was turned toward me. I became his frequent companion. Near the spot where my mother’s teepee once stood, one was reared for me. Indian maidens waited upon me to do my bidding. Indian youths brought gifts from the forest and the sea. As I grew into womanhood, I kept my mother’s skill and quickness; I was like her, too, in form and bearing. But I was like my father in my dark face and hair and, most of all, in my unconquerable spirit. As my mother had predicted, I became his pride and joy. Braves from our own tribe sought my hand, but I gave no sign of pleasure; and for a time my father seemed content. At length my haughty beauty was known outside my people, and dark-browed warriors came from other tribes to win my favor. Some brought gifts of skins and shells, gold, woven blankets, and trophies of their strifes, and lay them at my feet. Some performed before me feats of skill or of endurance; some boasted their rank and power. When they told my father of their gifts or asked him for my hand, at first he smoked in silence. Then, when many went away unsatisfied or displeased, he turned questioningly to me.

“‘What would you have?’ he asked, and a gleam of anger showed itself in his dark face.

“‘I would have the one I choose, as strong and brave as these,’ I answered proudly, ‘but something more. No one of these has touched my heart. They are all selfish and untrue. Something tells me to choose no one among them.’

“This I said truly; but more than spoken cause was the remembrance of my mother’s words, ‘Set your heart on him whose soul meets yours and at its best.’

“My father uttered only the grim ‘Ugh!’ which meant, I knew, a latent wrath; and for the first time I was touched with a vague uneasiness.

“Soon other suitors came and went. I grew at length anxious and unhappy. When would a lover come whose soul was true, whose heart moved mine? My father made me daily less his companion. At last, when a young chief from the most powerful of our neighboring tribes, offering his gifts in vain, turned wrathfully away, my father looked at me a moment in dark displeasure. Then he led me to the mighty oak which grew upon the outskirts of our camp. It was the Tree of Judgment, and underneath its spreading boughs had many a trembling victim heard his direful sentence.

“‘No maiden of our tribe has lived unwedded,’ he began. ‘You shall not disgrace me nor my people. Other maidens are given, without wish of their own, by chief or parent to whom these will. You are the daughter of a chief. To you I grant the gift of choosing; but choose you must. Though you were ten times worthy; though your beauty moved the gods above,—one from the mortals who seek your hand you still shall wed. Or, if you fail, in three moons you shall die.’

“He said, but his words fell upon a heart as proud as his; a will as strong as his to do or to endure. Yet I loved life, and longed, too, with all a maiden’s fervor, for a heart which should control my own. The days went on, and no one appeared whom I could love and trust. The warriors and maidens of our tribe perceived my father’s anger and held me in contempt. Those who had served me ceased to do my bidding. Old women turned hard faces toward me and muttered curses whenever I went near them. But my will was still unconquered and my pride unbent. Like a queen I moved among the petty beings whom once I had ruled. My father no longer looked upon me. My heart yearned for his love but I could not speak; I would not yield. No human being praised, nor gave me words of sympathy, save one alone.

UNDER SAN JACINTO
“The shadows of the mountain stood out in the clear moonlight.”

“One day as I walked near the stream, beside whose channel had flowed the good and evil of my life, a crippled youth, a white captive whom my father, moved by strange feeling, once had saved from death, suddenly appeared before me from behind a neighboring tree. Without the word of formal welcome wherewith he had been used to greet me, he said, and looked not at me as he spoke, but at the mountain rock which hung above our camp:

“‘Brave daughter of your mother’s people, you have done well. Endure. God—Manitou—will not forget.’

“In a moment he was gone. I, who had heard for long days no friendly voice and who, hidden within my heart, carried no little of my mother’s tenderness, sank upon the spot where I was standing and wept for joy.

“That night the youth was burned beneath the Judgment Tree.

“At last arrived the day when I must die; for none had come whom I could choose, and the strong words of the dead youth had helped me to endure. At sunrise of the fatal day, my father called a meeting of his people. Me he led before them into the shadow of the dreaded oak. When every woman and man and child had come into his presence, he spoke briefly:

“‘This maid, no longer child of mine, has refused to do my will. She shall die; but she shall die as befits the time when she moved among you, the daughter of a chief. When the moon rises full, come again into this place.’

“To me he said no word, nor looked upon me. All the long hours till night I spent in secret dread, but with no signs of fear upon my face. When night approached I robed myself as now, and when the messengers came to lead me to my death, I walked erect and calm as I had done in days of yore. As we passed the spot whereon my mother’s teepee once had stood, I thought I saw her there with hand upraised in blessing. I felt no longer dread or fear.

“Beside the tree where I had stood in judgment twice before, was reared a lofty pyre. Thither I walked and with firm step mounted to its top unbound; for the proud heart of my father knew that I would never quail, even before the deadly flames. He, clad in the garments of his rank, stood beside the towering mass, and when I reached its summit he gave a gesture of command. At once a slow and mournful dirge began, but it was one of curses, not of grief.

“Then gathered round the spot all whom I had known in youth and childhood—warriors whose favor I had slighted; maidens jealous of my power; women who had known my mother and despised her for her gentleness and beauty; children, half-grown youths who looked in taunting wonder. On all their faces was visible exulting joy. Long the fearful dirge continued, and with each succeeding measure the looks of hatred and of triumph deepened.

“When at last the dread midnight came and passed, my father hushed the crowd to silence. Then he stooped and lighted my pyre with his own hand. Once only his eyes sought mine, and in that loveless glance I saw—not pity, but unbounded pride. As the flames rose high around me, then, indeed, the frenzied triumph of the crowd below burst from all bonds. They danced and shouted and waved their clumsy weapons in the air.

“Suddenly a crash louder than the loudest thunder, broke through the shouts of wild excitement. A rumble followed, growing every moment nearer. The men and women threw themselves upon the ground and shrieked with terror. The fire at my feet was quenched. A lurid mist encircled Tahquitch Mountain. The moon’s light was covered with a cloud. Then a voice from out the darkness hushed to frightened stillness the cries of the prostrate people.

“‘O child of noble heart,’ it said, ‘you have been true. Your reward shall be beyond the thought of mortals.’

“In an instant I had left the earth, borne in the strong arms of wingèd warriors. They carried me to the peak which, from that time, men have named, in mistaken faith, for the Spirit of wrath and evil doing.

“Since that day, from behind my stony fortress, I have looked down upon the deeds and ways of men; but no earthly care touches me with sorrow. Sheltered from mortal strife, serene among the gods I live—happy, content, save for the sometime yearning of my still human heart for human warmth and understanding.

“The tribe of my people, smitten upon the day I disappeared, I have seen die, and their name has been forgotten. The oak under which I stood, captive to truth and purity, has crumbled to the earth; but I live on and shall ever live, blessed with unfading youth and happiness.”

Again I heard the low, long rumble which had startled me at first. The clouds on my right were lifted. The first rays of the rising sun touched the camp with glory. I turned my eyes, brimming with tears, to meet its splendor, and when I looked again, the maid had vanished.

Mollie still slept on. The stern lines of San Jacinto stood out, more threatening than beautiful. Our camping horses neighed, restive under their night-long tethers. The trail we had passed the day before, remained a vague, still dreadful memory; but my heart was free from terror. I was conscious of a strange, exultant joy. What to me were crags and stones and bursting cinches? What—hardship, hunger, weariness? What—the matchless mountain vision we should soon behold?

I had seen the Tahquitch Maiden!

HERE ENDS THE TAHQUITCH MAIDEN A TALE OF THE SAN JACINTOS TOLD BY PHEBE ESTELLE SPALDING. THE DECORATIONS BY JEAN OLIVER. PUBLISHED BY PAUL ELDER & COMPANY AND PRINTED FOR THEM BY THEIR TOMOYE PRESS, UNDER THE DIRECTION OF JOHN HENRY NASH, IN THE CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO, DURING THE MONTH OF JULY AND YEAR MCMXI.