SENTINEL PEAK-HUNGRY BILL'S RANCH KNAPSACK TRIP (Continued)

"The sun hung low over the Argus Mtns to the west, I threw down my blankets among the rocks, and mopped my brow as I gazed out and down, down, down. For there, 8000' below, lay Death Valley, its great white playa of salt coiling along its desolate lenght. Across rose the Funeral Range, aglow with every sunset color. And high above towered Telescope Peak, Lord of the rugged Panamints, its gigantic purple shadow moving slowly out over the valley.
Across that barren deep the '49ers had toiled with their oxen. There, in the distance, lay Salt Creek, near which. one party -- the Jayhawkers - had burned their wagons. And there to the south I could make out the dark clump of mesquite where another party had made their desperate camp. Luckless, indeed, were those first white comers to this wilderness, wandering down Furnace Creek Wash that bitter Christmas Day, in search of a short-cut to the California gold diggin's, only to find their way barred by the Panamints.
I, shouldered my blankets. Already I could smell the pungent odor of pinon pine smoke from the ledge above, and I knew that old Bill, almost the last of the Death Valley Indians, had already clambered up from his camp near a high spring to talk with me, as he had agreed. The trail was steep, my blanket-roll grew heavy, and the, suns last rays were touching the peak before I reached the fire. I looked about for Bill, there he stood on a high rock above, looking out over the now darkened valley.
"Hello," I shouted. he turned slowly, and without haste made his way down the slope.
"What were you looking at?", I asked as he neared me. He waved his hand off across the void. "My country, My valley,", he said. I thought of the centuries that had passed since his people had first camped in this wild desolation. To the emigrants this valley had signified only weariness and death, but the Indians had managed to eke out a living from the desert.
I spread out my blankets by the side of the cliff and sat down in the gathering dusk, my mind still on those unfortunates of '49.
"Bill, didn't your people see those first white men who crossed Death Valley back in the time of the gold rush?"
The old Indian spat into the flame and gazed for what seemed a long time at the glowing embers.
"They see 'em," the words came at last, And then, after a pause, "They follow 'em."
"Follow them?" I asked, throwing a pinon stick into the fire. "Sure." He spat again. "Follow 'em. Hide in mesquite. Watch 'em."
"How do you know?" "Oh, my father tell me. He was only little boy. He watch 'em too."
"But none of them mentioned seeing any Indians after they left Furnace Creek," I remarked, somewhat puzzled.
"They no see 'em, My people hide. Those white men crazy. Desert make 'em scared."
"Scared?"
"Sure, scared all the time they stay in Death Valley," Another long pause.
"Did the Indians fight any of them?", I asked, to break the silence.
"No use. Some Indian might get hurt. Better just wait 'til they die. Then take their things. No trouble then."
The phi1osophy of this remark struck me as excellent.
"But Bill," I protested, "I didn't think any of them died around here. Wasn't it away over in the Argus Mtns?"
"Sure, two fellows die over there all tired out," A pause. "No water."
He spat again, and then added, "Yep, they got away, most of 'em, But two die, here. One old man, down below Bennett Well. My father saw him."
 
Page Index Prev Page 5 Next Issue Index