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by O. P. Fitzgerald
The Digger Indian holds
a low place in the scale of humanity. He is not intelligent; he
is not handsome; he is not very brave. He stands near the foot
of his class, and I fear he is not likely to go up any higher.
It is more likely that the places that know him now will soon
know him no more, for the reason that he seems readier to adopt
the bad white man's whisky and diseases than the good white
man's morals and religion. Ethnologically he has given rise to
much conflicting speculation, with which I will not trouble the
gentle reader. He has been in California a long time, and he
does not know that he was ever anywhere else. His pedigree does
not trouble him; he is more concerned about getting something to
eat. It is not because he is an agriculturist that he is called
a Digger, but because he grabbles for wild roots, and has a
general fondness for dirt. I said he was not handsome, and when
we consider his rusty, dark-brown color, his heavy features,
fishy black eyes, coarse black hair, and clumsy gait, nobody
will dispute the statement. But one Digger is uglier than
another, and an old squaw caps the climax.
The first Digger I ever saw was the best-looking. He
had picked up a little English, and loafed around the
mining-camps picking up a meal where he could get it. He called
himself "Captain Charley," and, like a true native American, was
proud of his title. If it was self-assumed, he was still
following the precedent set by a vast host of captains, majors,
colonels, and generals, who never wore a uniform or hurt
anybody. He made his appearance at the little parsonage on the
hill-side in Sonora one day, and, thrusting his bare head into
the door, he said:
"Me Cappin Charley," tapping his chest complacently as he
spoke.
Returning his salutation, I waited for him to speak
again.
"You got grub--coche carne?" he asked, mixing his
Spanish and English.
Some food was given him, which he snatched rather
eagerly, and began to eat at once. It was, evident that Captain
Charley had not breakfasted that morning. He was a hungry
Indian, and when he got through his meal there was no reserve of
rations in the unique repository of dishes and food which has
been mentioned heretofore in these Sketches. Peering about the
premises, Captain Charley made a discovery. The modest little
parsonage stood on a steep incline, the upper side resting on
the red gravelly earth, while the lower side was raised three or
four feet from the ground. The vacant space underneath had been
used by our several bachelor predecessors as a receptacle for
cast-off clothing. Malone, Lockley, and Evans, had thus disposed
of their discarded apparel, and Drury Bond and one or two other
miners had also added to the treasures that caught the eye of
the inquisitive Digger. It was a museum of sartorial
curiosities--seedy and ripped broadcloth coats, vests, and
pants, flannel mining-shirts of gay colors and of different
degrees of wear and tear, linen shirts that looked like
battle-flags that had been through the war, and old shoes and
boots of all sorts, from the high rubber water-proofs used by
miners to the ragged slippers that had adorned the feet of the
lonely single parsons whose names are written above.
"Me take um?" asked Captain Charley, pointing to the
treasure he had discovered.
Leave was given, and Captain Charley lost no time in
taking possession of the coveted goods. He chuckled to himself
as one article after another was drawn forth from the pile which
seemed to be almost inexhaustible. When he had gotten all out
and piled up together, it was a rare-looking sight.
"Mucho bueno!" exclaimed Captain Charley, as he
proceeded to array himself in a pair of trousers. Then a shirt,
then a vest, and then a coat, were put on. And then another, and
another, and yet another suit was donned in the same order. He
was fast becoming a "big Indian" indeed. We looked on and
smiled, sympathizing with the evident delight of our visitor in
his superabundant wardrobe. He 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.
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