University of Virginia Library

MUCK-A-MUCK.
A Modern Indian Novel.
AFTER COOPER.

1. CHAPTER I.

It was toward the close of a bright October day.
The last rays of the setting sun were reflected from
one of those sylvan lakes peculiar to the Sierras of
California. On the right the curling smoke of an
Indian village rose between the columns of the lofty
pines, while to the left the log cottage of Judge
Tompkins, embowered in buckeyes, completed the enchanting
picture.

Although the exterior of the cottage was humble
and unpretentious, and in keeping with the wildness
of the landscape, its interior gave evidence of the
cultivation and refinement of its inmates. An aquarium,
containing goldfishes, stood on a marble centre
table at one end of the apartment, while a
magnificent grand piano occupied the other. The

floor was covered with a yielding tapestry carpet,
and the walls were adorned with paintings from the
pencils of Van Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, Michael
Angelo, and the productions of the more modern
Turner, Kensett, Church and Bierstadt. Although
Judge Tompkins had chosen the frontiers of civilization
as his home, it was impossible for him to
entirely forego the habits and tastes of his former
life. He was seated in a luxurious arm-chair, writing
at a mahogany écritoire, while his daughter, a
lovely young girl of seventeen summers, plied her
crochet needle on an ottoman beside him. A bright
fire of pine logs flickered and flamed on the ample
hearth.

Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins's
only child. Her mother had long since died on the
Plains. Reared in affluence, no pains had been
spared with the daughter's education. She was a
graduate of one of the principal seminaries, and
spoke French with a perfect Benicia accent. Peerlessly
beautiful, she was dressed in a white moire
antique robe trimmed with tulle. That simple rosebud,
with which most heroines exclusively decorate
their hair, was all she wore in her raven locks.

The Judge was the first to break the silence:

“Genevra, the logs which compose yonder fire
seem to have been incautiously chosen. The sibilation
produced by the sap, which exudes copiously
therefrom, is not conducive to composition.”

“True, father, but I thought it would be preferaable
to the constant crepitation which is apt to attend

the combustion of more seasoned ligneous
fragments.

The Judge looked admiringly at the intellectual
features of the graceful girl, and half forgot the
slight annoyances of the green wood in the musical
accents of his daughter. He was smoothing her
hair tenderly, when the shadow of a tall figure,
which suddenly darkened the doorway, caused him
to look up.

2. CHAPTER II.

It needed but a glance at the new comer to detect
at once the form and features of the haughty aborigine—the
untaught and untrammeled son of the forest.
Over one shoulder a blanket, negligently but
gracefully thrown, disclosed a bare and powerful
breast, decorated with a quantity of three cent postage
stamps which he had despoiled from an Overland
Mail stage a few weeks previous. A cast-off beaver
of Judge Tompkins's, adorned by a simple feather,
covered his erect head, from beneath which his
straight locks descended. His right hand hung
lightly by his side, while his left was engaged in
holding on a pair of pantaloons, which the lawless
grace and freedom of his lower limbs evidently
could not brook.

“Why,” said the Indian, in a low sweet tone,
“why does the Pale Face still follow the track of
the Red Man? Why does he pursue him, even as,

O-kee-chow, the wild-cat, chases Ka-ka, the skunk?
Why are the feet of Sorrel-top, the white chief, among
the acorns of Muck-a-Muck, the mountain forest?
Why,” he repeated, quietly but firmly, abstracting a
silver spoon from the table, “why do you seek to
drive him from the wigwams of his fathers? His
brothers are already gone to the happy hunting
grounds. Will the Pale Face seek him there?”
And, averting his face from the Judge, he hastily
slipped a silver cake-basket beneath his blanket, to
conceal his emotion.

“Muck-a-Muck has spoken,” said Genevra softly.
“Let him now listen. Are the acorns of the mountain
sweeter than the esculent and nutritious bean of
the Pale Face miner? Does my brother prize the
edible qualities of the snail above that of the crisp
and oleaginous bacon? Delicious are the grasshoppers
that sport on the hillside—are they better than
the dried apples of the Pale Faces? Pleasant is the gurgle
of the torrent, Kish-Kish, but is it better than the
cluck-cluck of old Bourbon from the old stone bottle?”

“Ugh!” said the Indian, “Ugh! good. The
White Rabbit is wise. Her words fall as the snow on
Tootoonolo, and the rocky heart of Muck-a-Muck is
hidden. What says my brother the Gray Gopher of
Dutch Flat?'

“She has spoken, Muck-a-Muck,” said the Judge,
gazing fondly on his daughter. It is well. Our
treaty is concluded. No, thank you—you need not
dance the Dance of Snow Shoes, or the Moccasin

Dance, the Dance of Green Corn, or the Treaty Dance.
I would be alone. A strange sadness overpowers
me.”

“I go,” said the Indian. “Tell your great chief
in Washington, the Sachem Andy, that the Red Man
is retiring before the footsteps of the adventurous
Pioneer. Inform him, if you please, that westward
the star of empire takes its way, that the chiefs of
the Pi-Ute nation are for Reconstruction to a man,
and that Klamath will poll a heavy Republican vote
in the fall.

And folding his blanket more tightly around him,
Muck-a Muck withdrew.

3. CHAPTER III.

Genevra Tompkins stood at the door of the log
cabin, looking after the retreating Overland Mail
stage which conveyed her father to Virginia City.
“He may never return again,” sighed the young girl
as she glanced at the frightfully rolling vehicle and
wildy careering horses—“at least, with unbroken
bones. Should he meet with an accident! I mind
me now a fearful legend, familiar to my childhood.
Can it be that the drivers on this line are privately
instructed to dispatch all passengers maimed by accident,
to prevent tedious litigation? No, no. But
why this weight upon my heart?”

She seated herself at the piano and lightly passed

her hand over the keys. Then, in a clear mezzo-soprano
voice, she sang the first verse of one of the
most popular Irish ballads:

But as the ravishing notes of her sweet voice died
upon the air, her hands sank listlessly to her side.
Music could not chase away the mysterious shadow
from her heart. Again she rose. Putting on a
white crape bonnet, and carefully drawing a pair of
lemon-colored gloves over her taper fingers, she
seized her parasol and plunged into the depths of
the pine forest.

4. CHAPTER IV.

Genevra had not proceeded many miles before a
weariness seized upon her fragile limbs, and she
would fain seat herself upon the trunk of a prostrate
pine, which she previously dusted with her handkerchief.
The sun was just sinking below the horizon,
and the scene was one of gorgeous and sylvan beauty.
“How beautiful is Nature,” murmured the innocent
girl, as, reclining gracefully against the root
of the tree, she gathered up her skirts and tied the
handkerchief around her throat. But a low growl
interrupted her meditation. Starting to her feet,

her eyes met a sight which froze her blood with
terror.

The only outlet to the forest was the narrow path,
barely wide enough for a single person, hemmed in
by trees and rocks, which she had just traversed.
Down this path, in Indian file, came a monstrous
grizzly, closely followed by a California lion, a wild
cat, and a buffalo, the rear being brought up by a
wild Spanish bull. The mouths of the three first
animals were distended with frightful significance;
the horns of the last were lowered as ominously. As
Genevra was preparing to faint, she heard a low voice
behind her.

“Eternally dog-gone my skin ef this ain't the puttiest
chance yet.”

At the same moment, a long, shining barrel
dropped lightly from behind her, and rested over her
shoulder.

Genevra shuddered.

“Dern ye—don't move!”

Genevra became motionless.

The crack of a rifle rang through the woods.
Three frightful yells were heard, and two sullen
roars. Five animals bounded into the air and five
lifeless bodies lay upon the plain. The well-aimed
bullet had done its work. Entering the open throat
of the grizzly, it had traversed his body, only to enter
the throat of the California lion, and in like manner
the catamount, until it passed through into the
respective foreheads of the bull and the buffalo, and
finally fell flattened from the rocky hillside.

Genevra turned quickly. “My preserver!” she
shrieked, and fell into the arms of Natty Bumpo—
the celebrated Pike Ranger of Donner Lake.

5. CHAPTER V.

The moon rose cheerfully above Donner Lake.
On its placid bosom a dug-out canoe glided rapidly,
containing Natty Bumpo and Genevra Tompkins.

Both were silent. The same thought possessed
each, and perhaps there was sweet companionship
even in the unbroken quiet. Genevra bit the handle
of her parasol and blushed. Natty Bumpo took
a fresh chew of tobacco. At length Genevra said,
as if in half-spoken reverie:

“The soft shining of the moon and the peaceful
ripple of the waves, seem to say to us various things
of an instructive and moral tendency.”

“You may bet yer pile on that, Miss,” said her
companion gravely. “It's all the preachin' and
psalm-singin' I've heern since I was a boy.”

“Noble being!” said Miss Tompkins to herself,
glancing at the stately Pike as he bent over his paddle
to conceal his emotion. “Reared in this wild
seclusion, yet he has become penetrated with visible
consciousness of a Great First Cause.” Then, collecting
herself, she said aloud: “Methinks 'twere
pleasant to glide ever thus down the stream of life,
hand in hand with the one being whom the soul

claims as its affinity. But what am I saying?”—and
the delicate-minded girl hid her face in her hands.

A long silence ensued, which was at length broken
by her companion.

“Ef you mean you're on the marry,” he said,
thoughtfully, I ain't in no wise partikler!”

“My husband,” faltered the blushing girl; and she
fell into his arms.

In ten minutes more the loving couple had landed
at Judge Tompkins's.

6. CHAPTER VI.

A year has passed away. Natty Bumpo was returning
from Gold Hill, where he had been to purchase
provisions. On his way to Donner Lake, rumors
of an Indian uprising met his ears. “Dern
their pesky skins, ef they dare to touch my Jenny,”
he muttered between his clenched teeth.

It was dark when he reached the borders of the
lake. Around a glittering fire he dimly discerned
dusky figures dancing. They were in war paint.
Conspicuous among them was the renowned Muck-a-Muck.
But why did the fingers of Natty Bumpo
tighten convulsively around his rifle?

The chief held in his hand long tufts of raven
hair. The heart of the pioneer sickened as he recognized
the clustering curls of Genevra. In a moment
his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a sharp “ping,”

Muck-a-Muck leaped into the air a corpse. To dash
out the brains of the remaining savages, tear the tresses
from the stiffening hand of Muck-a-Muck, and dash
rapidly forward to the cottage of Judge Tompkins,
was the work a moment.

He burst open the door. Why did he stand transfixed
with open mouth and distended eye-balls?
Was the sight too horrible to be borne? On the
contrary, before him, in her peerless beauty, stood
Genevra Tompkins, learning on her father's arm.

“Ye'r not scalped, then!” gasped her lover.

“No. I have no hesitation in saying that I am
not; but why this abruptness?” responded Genevra.

Bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced
the silken tresses. Genevra turned her face aside.

“Why, that's her waterfall,” said the Judge.

Bumpo sank fainting to the floor.

The famous Pike chieftain never recovered from
the deceit, and refused to marry Genevra, who died,
twenty years afterwards, of a broken heart. Judge
Tompkins lost his fortune in Wild Cat. The stage
passes twice a week the deserted cottage at Donner
Lake. Thus was the death of Muck-a-Muck avenged.