The Valiant Runaways [23]
were
they the heroes of many wars. The Indians were comparatively safe until
morning; nevertheless, Anastacio was too good a general to relax
vigilance. When night came he and the two boys went down the mountain
and sent the outpost back to sleep. They ventured out where the trees
grew far apart, and the brilliant stars of California illumined the
great valley like so many thousand watch-fires.
The three sat down side by side, their gaze directed steadily downward
and outward.
"Why do you fight at all?" asked Roldan. "You could stay in these
mountains until the Californians were dust, and not be caught."
"And live like hunted beasts. I like the valley; the sun in winter, the
cool mountains in summer. If I am victor to-morrow, all the Indians in
California will call me chief. They will run here from every Mission and
hacienda, and from every hill and mountain, like little ones to their
good father; and we will drive the priests out of the country, and make
the hidalgos, the caballeros, the soft silk-dressed donas our friends or
our slaves--as they wish. California belongs to us. The Great Spirit
put us here, not the white man. If it was for them why did they not grow
out of the earth as we did? Why were we put here at all if our land was
not for us? We were happy until these priests came to drive us mad
making boots and mud bricks and wine all day, driven like dogs to the
kennel, flogged when we wanted to lie in the sun--"
"But, Anastacio," interrupted Roldan, who had listened to this strange
outburst with the vague consciousness that the soul of an expiring race
had opened its lips for a brief moment, "you are far more clever than
most Indians. If it were not for the priests you would be no better than
the most ignorant of them."
"If I am clever now, senor, was I not clever in the beginning? You do
not make cake out of bran. The Great Spirit sent his light into me and
said: 'Thou shalt be a great chief.' I could have done as well and
better without the priests. What good did it do me to read and tell my
beads and make chocolate? Was I happy at the Mission? Not for one moon,
senor. I felt as if I had a wild beast chained in me that choked and
panted for the free life of my youth, of my fathers. I ran away from the
Mission twenty-three times--and was brought back and flogged. Many times
I would have crushed my head with a stone had it not been that all the
other Indians of the Mission ran to me like dogs, and that I could make
them tremble with a word and obey with a look. I knew that the Great
Spirit had given me what these poor creatures had not, and that one day
I would give California to them again. It has begun."
"But we have better things to eat and drink and more comfortable houses
and clothes than you have in your pueblos. I like what the priests call
'civilisation.'"
"It is for the white man, not for the Indian with a skin like the earth
and a heart like the wild-cat. If we did not know of fine bread and thin
wine and heavy shoes and cursed bags about our legs we should not want
them. Padre Flores says that he and the other priests came here to make
us happy. Why not let us be happy in our own way? We needed no
teaching."
Years after, Roldan, who grew to know the world well and many men,
recalled the conversation of that night, and meditated upon the strange
workings of the human mind: the fundamental philosophy of life differs
little in the brain of the savage and the brain of the student-thinker.
"We are told that we must progress, grow better," he said.
"Hundreds and hundreds of years Indians lived and died here before the
priests came. All legends say they were happy. Now they 'progress,' and
suffer--in the body and in the spirit. One life is for us, another for
you. Should the white man have many children and children's children
until all the mountains and valleys of California are his, then will all
the Indians die, even though they are treated well for they are slaves--
no more. Are they happy? For what were they made? To be slaves
they the heroes of many wars. The Indians were comparatively safe until
morning; nevertheless, Anastacio was too good a general to relax
vigilance. When night came he and the two boys went down the mountain
and sent the outpost back to sleep. They ventured out where the trees
grew far apart, and the brilliant stars of California illumined the
great valley like so many thousand watch-fires.
The three sat down side by side, their gaze directed steadily downward
and outward.
"Why do you fight at all?" asked Roldan. "You could stay in these
mountains until the Californians were dust, and not be caught."
"And live like hunted beasts. I like the valley; the sun in winter, the
cool mountains in summer. If I am victor to-morrow, all the Indians in
California will call me chief. They will run here from every Mission and
hacienda, and from every hill and mountain, like little ones to their
good father; and we will drive the priests out of the country, and make
the hidalgos, the caballeros, the soft silk-dressed donas our friends or
our slaves--as they wish. California belongs to us. The Great Spirit
put us here, not the white man. If it was for them why did they not grow
out of the earth as we did? Why were we put here at all if our land was
not for us? We were happy until these priests came to drive us mad
making boots and mud bricks and wine all day, driven like dogs to the
kennel, flogged when we wanted to lie in the sun--"
"But, Anastacio," interrupted Roldan, who had listened to this strange
outburst with the vague consciousness that the soul of an expiring race
had opened its lips for a brief moment, "you are far more clever than
most Indians. If it were not for the priests you would be no better than
the most ignorant of them."
"If I am clever now, senor, was I not clever in the beginning? You do
not make cake out of bran. The Great Spirit sent his light into me and
said: 'Thou shalt be a great chief.' I could have done as well and
better without the priests. What good did it do me to read and tell my
beads and make chocolate? Was I happy at the Mission? Not for one moon,
senor. I felt as if I had a wild beast chained in me that choked and
panted for the free life of my youth, of my fathers. I ran away from the
Mission twenty-three times--and was brought back and flogged. Many times
I would have crushed my head with a stone had it not been that all the
other Indians of the Mission ran to me like dogs, and that I could make
them tremble with a word and obey with a look. I knew that the Great
Spirit had given me what these poor creatures had not, and that one day
I would give California to them again. It has begun."
"But we have better things to eat and drink and more comfortable houses
and clothes than you have in your pueblos. I like what the priests call
'civilisation.'"
"It is for the white man, not for the Indian with a skin like the earth
and a heart like the wild-cat. If we did not know of fine bread and thin
wine and heavy shoes and cursed bags about our legs we should not want
them. Padre Flores says that he and the other priests came here to make
us happy. Why not let us be happy in our own way? We needed no
teaching."
Years after, Roldan, who grew to know the world well and many men,
recalled the conversation of that night, and meditated upon the strange
workings of the human mind: the fundamental philosophy of life differs
little in the brain of the savage and the brain of the student-thinker.
"We are told that we must progress, grow better," he said.
"Hundreds and hundreds of years Indians lived and died here before the
priests came. All legends say they were happy. Now they 'progress,' and
suffer--in the body and in the spirit. One life is for us, another for
you. Should the white man have many children and children's children
until all the mountains and valleys of California are his, then will all
the Indians die, even though they are treated well for they are slaves--
no more. Are they happy? For what were they made? To be slaves