California Sketches, Second Series | Page 5

was in full-dress, and
enjoyed it. But he made a failure at one point--his feet were too large,
or were not the right shape, for white men's boots or shoes. He tried
several pairs, but his huge flat foot would not enter them, and finally he
threw down the last one tried by him with a Spanish exclamation not fit
to be printed in these pages. That language is a musical one, but its
oaths are very harsh in sound. A battered "stove-pipe" hat was found
among the spoils turned over to Captain Chancy. Placing it on his head
jauntily, he turned to us, saying, Adios, and went strutting down the
street, the picture of gratified vanity. His appearance on Washington
Street, the main thoroughfare of the place, thus gorgeously and
abundantly arrayed, created a sensation. It was as good as a "show" to
the jolly miners, always ready to be amused. Captain Charley was
known to most of them, and they had a kindly feeling for the
good-natured "fool Injun," as one of them called him in my hearing.
The next Digger I noticed was of the gentler (but in this case not

lovelier) sex. She was an old squaw, who was in mourning. The sign of
her grief was the black adobe mud spread over her face. She sat all day
motionless and speechless, gazing up into the sky. Her grief was caused
by the death of a child, and her sorrowful look showed that she had a
mother's heart. Poor, degraded creature! What were her thoughts as she
sat there looking so pitifully up into the silent, far-off heavens? All the
livelong day she gazed thus fixedly into the sky, taking no notice of the
passersby, neither speaking, eating, nor drinking. It was a custom of the
tribe, but its peculiar significance is unknown to me.
It was a great night at an adjoining camp when the old chief died. It
was made the occasion of a fearful orgy. Dry wood and brush were
gathered into a huge pile, the body of the dead chief was placed upon it,
and the mass set on fire. As the flames blazed upward with a roar, the
Indians, several hundred in number, broke forth into wild wailings and
howlings, the shrill soprano of the women rising high above the din, as
they marched around the burning pyre. Fresh fuel was supplied from
time to time, and all night long the flames lighted up the surrounding
hills which echoed with the shouts and howls of the savages. It was a
touch of pandemonium. At dawn there was nothing left of the dead
chief but ashes. The mourners took up their line of march toward the
Stanislaus River, the squaws bearing their papooses on their backs, the
"bucks" leading the way.
The Digger believes in a future life, and in future rewards and
punishments. Good Indians and bad Indians are subjected to the same
ordeal at death. Each one is rewarded according to his deeds.
The disembodied soul comes to a wide, turbid river, whose angry
waters rush on to an unknown destination, roaring and foaming. From
high banks on either side of the stream is stretched a pole smooth and
small, over which he is required to walk. Upon the result of this
post-mortem Blondinizing his fate depends. If he was in life a very
good Indian he goes over safely, and finds on the other side a paradise,
where the skies are cloudless, the air balmy, the flowers brilliant in
color and sweet in perfume, the springs many and cool, and the deer
plentiful and fat. In this fair clime there are no bad Indians, no briers,
no snakes, no grizzly bears. Such is the paradise of good Diggers.
The Indian who was in life a mixed character, not all good or bad, but
made up of both, starts across the fateful river, gets on very well until

he reaches about half-way over, when his head becomes dizzy, and he
tumbles into the boiling flood below. He swims for his life. (Every
Indian on earth can swim, and he does not forget the art in the world of
spirits.) Buffeting the waters, he is carried swiftly down the rushing
current, and at last makes the shore, to find a country which, like his
former life, is a mixture of good and bad. Some days are fair, and
others are rainy and chilly; flowers and brambles grow together; there
are some springs of water, but they are few, and not all cool and sweet;
the deer are few, and shy, and lean, and grizzly bears roam the hills and
valleys. This is the limbo of the moderately-wicked Digger.
The very bad Indian, placing his feet upon the attenuated bridge of
doom, makes a