The Lake of the Sky Part 6

"Never mind," said the grandmother, "don't you touch the basket!"

But the little girl kept teasing, "Oh, grandmother, what's in there?"

And the old woman would say, "Don't you touch it!"

The old woman turned her back just one minute and the little girl slipped up and raised the lid ever so little. There was a great whirring noise; the lid flew off and out came all the Indians. Off through the air they flew--Washoes to Washoe land; Diggers to Digger land; Paiutis to Nevada--each Indian to his own home.

The story given above is the one told by Jackson, but his wife, Susan, tells the same story with these essential differences. In her narrative there is no Evil One. The old woman scolded the young people for playing, but they are not all killed. It is the old woman herself who took a Paiuti water-bottle and after filling it with water, took wild seeds and placed them in the bottle, naming them the different Indian tribes. The seeds swelled in the water until they were as big as eggs and out of these the Indians hatched like chickens, and began to fight. It is the noise of the fighting that the baby hears.

As in Jackson's story the baby lets them out, but it is the wind that carries them off to their various homes.

HOW THE INDIANS FIRST GOT FIRE

The Indians were having a "big time" in a great log cabin.

All the birds were there too, for in those days the Indians, birds, and animals could talk to each other.

They were dancing all around the room and all were merry as could be. They had a huge wooden drum and, as they pa.s.sed this, the dancers kicked it to make music.

Now, among the birds who were there was a big blue-jay. He was a very saucy fellow, just full of mean tricks. When he came to the drum, he kicked it so hard that he broke it all to pieces.

Of course this caused a great commotion. Every one was so provoked by his rudeness that they threw him out of the door.

It was raining hard and the impudence was soon washed out of Mr. Blue-Jay. He begged at the door in vain, and at last he huddled up on the branch of a tree, thinking himself greatly abused.

As he sat there, suddenly, far off, he saw a strange light.

Now the Blue-Jay has an infinite amount of curiosity, so away he flew to investigate, quite forgetting his troubles.

It was fire which the Indian G.o.d had brought down to earth.

The Jay got a piece and soon came flying back to the great cabin where the dance was still going on.

When he called now at the door, saying that he had something wonderful to show them, they knew that he was telling the truth. They let him come in, crowding about him to see this wonderful thing. They did not know what to make of this strange new thing. Lest anything should happen to it, they dug a hole and buried the fire most carefully.

Tired out with the night's dancing the Indians all went off to rest, leaving the birds to watch the precious fire. But the birds were tired too, and it was not long before they were fast asleep. All except the owl. He was wide awake and he, being very wise, knew that the fire must be put in a safer place. He went out and calling the yellow snake, the rat, and the little "hummer" bird, he explained what he wanted them to do. The snake was to worm his way in under the logs and wait there till the hummer-bird brought him the fire. The rat was to go in and chew all the birds' wings so that they should not be able to catch the little hummer. They were all so fast asleep that the rat was able to do this very easily.

All went just as they planned. The snake took the fire and hid a little spark of it in every buckeye tree. And there the Indians found it when they needed it. For rubbing a piece of cedar and buckeye together, they very quickly make the spark, and produce fire.

A LEGEND OF LAKE TAHOE

The following legend was published some years ago in _Sunset Magazine_. It was written by Miss Nonette V. McGlashan, who heard it from a Washoe squaw. The story was told with strange gestures and weird pathos:

The ong was a big bird, bigger than the houses of the white man. Its body was like the eagle's, and its wings were longer than the tallest pines. Its face was that of an Indian, but covered with hard scales, and its feet were webbed. Its nest was deep down in the bottom of the Lake, out in the center, and out of the nest rushed all the waters which fill the Lake.

There are no rivers to feed the Lake, only the waters from the ong's nest. All the waters flow back near the bottom, in great under-currents, and after pa.s.sing through the meshes of the nest are sent forth again. Every plant and bird and animal that gets into these under-currents, and sometimes the great trout that are swept into the net-like nest are there held fast to furnish food for the ong.

He ate everything, he liked everything, but best of all he liked the taste of human flesh. No one ever heard or saw anything of such poor mortals as were drowned in these waters, for their bodies were carried to the ong's nest and no morsel ever escaped him. Sometimes he would fly about the sh.o.r.es in quest of some child or woman or hunter, yet he was a great coward and was never known to attack any one in camp, or when two or more were together. No arrow could pierce his feathers, nor could the strongest spear do more than glance from the scales on his face and legs, yet his coward's heart made him afraid for his toes had no claws, and his mouth no beak.

Late one fall, the Washoes were making their final hunt before going to the valleys and leaving the Lake locked in its winter snows. The chief's daughter was sixteen years old, and before leaving the Lake he must select the greatest hero in the tribe for her husband, for such had been the custom of the Washoe chiefs ever since the tribe came out of the Northland.

Fairer than ever maiden had been was this daughter, and every unmarried brave and warrior in the tribe wished that he had performed deeds of greater prowess, that he might be certain of winning the prize. That last night at the Lake, around the big council fire, each was to recount to the chief the n.o.blest achievement of his life, and when all were heard the chief would choose, and the women join the circle and the wedding take place. For many years the warriors had looked forward to this event, and the tribe had become famed because of acts of reckless daring performed by those who hoped to wed the chief's daughter.

It was the morning of the final day and much game and great stores of dried trout were packed ready for the journey. All were preparing for the wedding festivities, and the fact that no one knew who would be the bridegroom, among all that band of warriors, lent intensest excitement to the event. All were joyous and happy except the maiden and the handsome young brave to whom she had given her heart. In spite of custom or tradition her love had long since gone out to one whose feet had been too young to press the war-path when last the tribe gave battle to their hereditary foes, the Paiutis. He never had done deed of valor, nor could he even claim the right to sit with the warriors around the council fire. All day long he had been sitting alone on the jutting cliffs which overhang the water, far away from the laughter and shouts of the camp, eagerly, prayerfully watching the great Lake. Surely the Great Spirit would hear his prayer, yet he had been here for days and weeks in unavailing prayer and waiting.

The afternoon was well-nigh spent and the heart of the young brave had grown cold as stone. In his bitter despair he sprang to his feet to defy the Great Spirit in whom he had trusted, but ere he could utter the words his very soul stood still for joy. Slowly rising from the center of the Lake, he saw the ong. Circling high in the heavens, the monster swept now here, now there, in search of prey. The young brave stood erect and waited. When the ong was nearest he moved about slightly to attract its notice. He had not long to wait. With a mighty swoop, the bird dashed to earth, and as it arose, the young brave was seen to be clasped fast in its talons. A great cry of horror arose from the camp, but it was the sweetest note the young brave had ever heard. The bird flew straight up into the sky until Lake and forest and mountains seemed small and dim. When it reached a great height it would drop its prey into the Lake and let the current draw it to its nest.

Such was its custom, and for this the brave had prepared by unwinding from his waist a long buckskin cord and tying himself firmly to the ong's leg. The clumsy feet could not grasp him so tightly as to prevent his movements. At last the great feet opened wide, but the Indian did not fall. In a mighty rage, the ong tried in vain to grasp him in his teeth, but the strong web between the bird's toes sheltered him.

Again and again the bird tried to use his horrid teeth, and each time his huge body would fall through the air in such twistings and contortions that those who watched below stared in bewilderment. But what the watchers could not see was that every time the huge mouth opened to snap him, the young brave hurled a handful of poisoned arrowheads into the mouth and down the big throat, their sharp points cutting deep into the unprotected flesh. The bird tried to dislodge him by rubbing his feet together, but the thong held firm. Now it plunged headlong into the Lake, but its feet were so tied that it could not swim, and though it lashed the waters into foam with its great wings, and though the man was nearly drowned and wholly exhausted, the poison caused the frightened bird such agony that it suddenly arose and tried to escape by flying toward the center of the Lake.

The contest had lasted long and the darkness crept over the Lake, and into the darkness the bird vanished.

The women had been long in their huts ere the council fire was kindled and the warriors gravely seated themselves in its circle. No such trifling event as the loss of a young brave could be allowed to interfere with so important an event, and from most of their minds he had vanished. It was not so very unusual for the ong to claim a victim, and, besides, the youth had been warned by his elders that he should not go hunting alone as had been his habit of late.

But while the warriors were working themselves up into a fine frenzy of eloquence in trying to remind the old chief of their bygone deeds of daring, an Indian maiden was paddling a canoe swiftly and silently toward the middle of the Lake. Nona, the chief's daughter understood no more than the rest why her lover had not been dropped into the Lake, nor why the ong had acted so queerly, but she knew that she could die with her lover. She took her own frail canoe because it was so light and easy to row, though it was made for her when a girl, and would scarcely support her weight now. It mattered nothing to her if the water splashed over the sides; it mattered nothing how she reached her lover. She kept saying his name over softly to herself, "Tahoe! My darling Tahoe!"

When the council was finished, the women went to her hut to bid her come and hear the decision her father was about to render. The consternation caused by her disappearance lasted until the rosy dawn tinged the Washoe peaks and disclosed to the astounded tribe the body of the ong floating on the waters above its nest, and beside it an empty canoe. In the foreground, and gently approaching the sh.o.r.e was the strangest craft that ever floated on water! It was one of the great ong's wings, and the sail was the tip of the other wing! Standing upon it, clasped in each other's arms, were the young brave, Tahoe, and the daughter of the chief.

In the shouts of the tribe, shouts in which warriors and women and children mingled their voices with that of the chief, Tahoe was proclaimed the hero of heroes! The decision was rendered, but the ong's nest remains, and the drowned never rise in Lake Tahoe.

CHAPTER V

THE VARIOUS NAMES OF LAKE TAHOE

We have already seen that Fremont, the discoverer of Lake Tahoe, first called it Lake Bonpland, after Humboldt's scientific co-traveler.

That name, however, never came in general use. When the great westward emigration began it seemed naturally to be called by its Indian name, Tahoe.

In _Innocents Abroad_ Mark Twain thus petulantly and humorously expresses his dislike of the name, Tahoe, and sarcastically defines its meaning.

"Sorrow and misfortune overtake the legislature that still from year to year permits Tahoe to retain its unmusical cognomen! Tahoe! It suggests no crystal waters, no picturesque sh.o.r.es, no sublimity. Tahoe for a sea in the clouds; a sea that has character, and a.s.serts it in solemn calms, at times, at times in savage storms; a sea, whose royal seclusion is guarded by a cordon of sentinel peaks that lift their frosty fronts nine thousand feet above the level world; a sea whose every aspect is impressive, whose belongings are all beautiful, whose lonely majesty types the Deity!

"Tahoe means gra.s.shoppers. It means gra.s.shopper soup. It is Indian, and suggestive of Indians. They say it is Pi-ute--possibly it is Digger. I am satisfied it was named by the Diggers--those degraded savages who roast their dead relatives, then mix the human grease and ashes of bones with tar, and 'gaum' it thick all over their heads and foreheads and ears, and go caterwauling about the hills and call it _mourning_. _These_ are the gentry that named the Lake.

"People say that Tahoe means 'Silver Lake'--'Limpid Water'--'Falling Leaf.' Bos.h.!.+ It means gra.s.shopper soup, the favorite dish of the Digger tribe--and of the Pi-utes as well.

It isn't worth while, in these practical times, for people to talk about Indian poetry--there never was any in them--except in the Fenimore Cooper Indians. But _they_ are an extinct tribe that never existed. I know the n.o.ble Red Man. I have camped with the Indians; I have been on the warpath with them, taken part in the chase with them--for gra.s.shoppers; helped them steal cattle; I have roamed with them, scalped them, had them for breakfast. I would gladly eat the whole race if I had a chance.

"But I am growing unreliable."

With all due deference to the wisdom--as well as the humor--of Mark Twain as applied to Lake Tahoe, I emphatically disagree with him as to the Indians of the Tahoe region, and also as to the name of the Lake.

Tahoe is quite as good-sounding a name as Como, Lucerne, Katrine or Lomond. A name, so long as it is euphonious, is pleasing or not, more because of its a.s.sociations than anything else. The genuine Indian, as he was prior to the coming of the white man, was uncorrupted, uncivilized, unvitiated, undemoralized, undiseased in body, mind and soul, a nature-observer, nature-lover and nature-wors.h.i.+per. He was full of poetic conceptions and fired with a vivid imagination that created stories to account for the existence of unusual, peculiar or exceptional natural objects, that, in brilliancy of conception, daring invention, striking ingenuity and vigor of detail _surpa.s.s_, or at least equal, the best imaginative work of Kipling or _Mark Twain himself_. It seems to me that his--the Indian's--name for this Lake--Tahoe--is both euphonious and full of poetic and scientific suggestion. It is poetic in that it expresses in a word the unequaled height and purity of so large a body of water, and scientific in that it is truthful and accurate.

But Fremont, the discoverer, evidently did not ask or seek to know its Indian name. As stated elsewhere he erroneously conceived it to be the headquarters of one of the forks of the American river, flowing into the Sacramento, and he so depicts it on his map, giving to it the two names "Mountain Lake" or "Lake Bonpland." But neither of these names was acceptable and they practically dropped out of sight.

When the first actual determination of Tahoe's outlet through the Truckee River was made is not definitely known, but its approximate location was well enough established in 1853 to enable the official map-maker of the new State of California to depict it with reasonable accuracy, and, for some reason, to name it Lake Bigler, after John Bigler, the third Governor of California.

Citizens are still living both in Nevada and California who well remember when the Lake held this name, and the majority of people undoubtedly used it until 1862. Officially, also, it was known as Lake Bigler in 1862, for in the Nevada _Statutes_ there is recorded an Act approved December 19, 1862, authorizing certain parties to construct a railroad "to be known as the _Lake Bigler and Virginia Railroad Co_., to commence at a point on the Kingsbury-McDonald road known as the Kingsbury and McDonald Toll House, thence along the southern and eastern sh.o.r.es of _Lake Bigler_, and in most direct practical route, to the divide between Virginia City and Washoe Valley on east side Washoe Lake, over and through the most practical pa.s.s to Virginia City," and a further right to construct branch road from Virginia to Carson City, Nevada.

In 1861, however, while Downey was Governor of California (he having been elected Lieut. Governor, and taking the office on the resignation of Governor Latham in January 1860), an attempt was made to change the name from Bigler to the fanciful one of Tula Tulia, but fortunately it failed and the old name remained in general use.

But in 1862 another effort was made in an entirely different direction and this time with success. It was brought about through the work of William Henry Knight, still living in Los Angeles, who has kindly furnished the following account:

In the year 1859 I was the youngest member of an overland company which crossed the plains and mountains from St. Joseph, Mo., to California. Our train was in three divisions and consisted of about twenty persons, and forty horses and mules.