A Drift from Redwood Camp | Page 6

not so much of an autocrat as many constitutional rulers.
. . . . . .
Two years of tranquil prosperity passed. Elijah Martin, foundling,
outcast, without civilized ties or relationship of any kind, forgotten by
his countrymen, and lifted into alien power, wealth, security, and
respect, became--homesick!
It was near the close of a summer afternoon. He was sitting at the door
of his lodge, which overlooked, on one side, the far-shining levels of
the Pacific and, on the other, the slow descent to the cultivated
meadows and banks of the Minyo River, that debouched through a
waste of salt-marsh, beach-grass, sand-dunes, and foamy estuary into
the ocean. The headland, or promontory--the only eminence of the
Minyo territory--had been reserved by him for his lodge, partly on
account of its isolation from the village at its base, and partly for the
view it commanded of his territory. Yet his wearying and discontented
eyes were more often found on the ocean, as a possible highway of
escape from his irksome position, than on the plain and the distant
range of mountains, so closely connected with the nearer past and his
former detractors. In his vague longing he had no desire to return to
them, even in triumph in his present security there still lingered a doubt
of his ability to cope with the old conditions. It was more like his easy,

indolent nature--which revived in his prosperity--to trust to this least
practical and remote solution of his trouble. His homesickness was as
vague as his plan for escape from it; he did not know exactly what he
regretted, but it was probably some life he had not enjoyed, some
pleasure that had escaped his former incompetency and poverty.
He had sat thus a hundred times, as aimlessly blinking at the vast
possibilities of the shining sea beyond, turning his back upon the nearer
and more practicable mountains, lulled by the far-off beating of
monotonous rollers, the lonely cry of the curlew and plover, the drowsy
changes of alternate breaths of cool, fragrant reeds and warm, spicy
sands that blew across his eyelids, and succumbed to sleep, as he had
done a hundred times before. The narrow strips of colored cloth,
insignia of his dignity, flapped lazily from his tent-poles, and at last
seemed to slumber with him; the shadows of the leaf-tracery thrown by
the bay-tree, on the ground at his feet, scarcely changed its pattern.
Nothing moved but the round, restless, berry-like eyes of Wachita, his
child- wife, the former heroine of the incident with the captive packers,
who sat near her lord, armed with a willow wand, watchful of intruding
wasps, sand-flies, and even the more ostentatious advances of a rotund
and clerical-looking humble-bee, with his monotonous homily. Content,
dumb, submissive, vacant, at such times, Wachita, debarred her
husband's confidences through the native customs and his own
indifferent taciturnity, satisfied herself by gazing at him with the
wondering but ineffectual sympathy of a faithful dog. Unfortunately for
Elijah her purely mechanical ministration could not prevent a more
dangerous intrusion upon his security.
He awoke with a light start, and eyes that gradually fixed upon the
woman a look of returning consciousness. Wachita pointed timidly to
the village below.
"The Messenger of the Great White Father has come to-day, with his
wagons and horses; he would see the chief of the Minyos, but I would
not disturb my lord."
Elijah's brow contracted. Relieved of its characteristic metaphor, he
knew that this meant that the new Indian agent had made his usual

official visit, and had exhibited the usual anxiety to see the famous
chieftain.
"Good!" he said. "White Rabbit [his lieutenant] will see the Messenger
and exchange gifts. It is enough."
"The white messenger has brought his wangee [white] woman with him.
They would look upon the face of him who hides it," continued
Wachita, dubiously. "They would that Wachita should bring them
nearer to where my lord is, that they might see him when he knew it
not."
Elijah glanced moodily at his wife, with the half suspicion with which
he still regarded her alien character. "Then let Wachita go back to the
squaws and old women, and let her hide herself with them until the
wangee strangers are gone," he said curtly. "I have spoken. Go!"
Accustomed to these abrupt dismissals, which did not necessarily
indicate displeasure, Wachita disappeared without a word. Elijah, who
had risen, remained for a few moments leaning against the tent- poles,
gazing abstractedly toward the sea. The bees droned uninterruptedly in
his ears, the far-off roll of the breakers came to him distinctly; but
suddenly, with greater distinctness, came the murmur of a woman's
voice.
"He don't look savage a bit! Why, he's real handsome."
"Hush! you--" said a second voice, in a frightened