New York Dispatch

THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.
AN INDIAN LEGEND.

'A great many years ago, before even the Franciscan missionaries had thought of California as a probable field for their labors, the Santa Ynez Indians dominated all the country thereabout, from Santa Barbara even to the vicinity of the San Fernando Valley. This glen, at the head of Santa Ana creek, was the seat of their authority, and the site of their largest village and most impregnable stronghold. Here was the residence of their great chiefs, here was built their largest council-house, and here, when danger threatened, could be found ample accommodation for the whole tribe. Game and berries were abundant in the neighboring mountains, a boiling sulphur spring was available for the erection of a sweat-house, the Santa Ana swarmed with trout, and a hundred trusty warriors, stationed upon the cliffs and at the head of the trail leading up the stream, could defy unnumbered foes. Ordinarily, but the chiefs and their immediate families and retainers resided in this stronghold, the tribe being scattered over its broad domain in divers villages advantageously located, and only assembling at the central point in times of danger or to participate in great tribal religious observances.

'But there was another trail leading into the glen. Winding up over yon high cliff upon the western side of the gorge, it leads down into the flat by a long and circuitous route, at its upper or western end.

'The Spaniards came into the country and everything was changed. Gradually the Santa Ynez Indians were conquered and enslaved, or exterminated. One by one their villages had been destroyed and their burial mounds desecrated to make place for the flocks and herds of their arrogant masters. At last but a few hundred of them remained, and these, under the leadership of their last great chief, Matilija, had taken refuge in this glen at the head of the Santa Ana creek. Preparations were begun to dislodge the rebellious(?) savages. All of the young vaqueros in the country, all of the veteran government soldiers at the mission, and all the rancheros were enlisted in the extermination of a band whose existence was a constant peril to them. The troops approached the mouth of the rocky pass and halted to reconnoitre. The Indian scouts had signaled the approach of the soldiers, and Matilija was prepared. Within the gorge all was silent, save the rippling of the water in the shadows of the rock.

'A priest, bareheaded and gown-clad, advanced along the trail into the darkness, holding aloft a crucifix and calling upon the Indians for submission. High up upon the cliff a tufted head and bare brown shoulders caught for an instant the rays of the sun. There was the twang of a bow string, and an obsidian pointed arrow, whizzing down into the shadows, buried itself to the feathers in the breast of the priest. For an instant he stood still, holding aloft the crucifix, and then with a death moan his body fell forward into the water, and the trout below him sported in a crimson stream. Quickly dismounting, the Spaniards charged again and again into the narrow pass, and were as often repulsed.

'At last they drew off, seeing the hopelessness of the attack, and camped down upon the mesa below, determined to try the policy of starvation. Meanwhile the Indians strengthened their defenses and sent out hunters upon the hills that they might be prepared to endure the siege.

'Matilija, the last of a long line of chieftains, had no son to whom to transmit his honors, and, contrary to the usual custom of his people, had taken to himself but one wife. A daughter, Winona, was the fruit of their union, and Matilija had confided to her the knowledge of the secret trail leading from the glen. Like all women of her tribe, Winona had sojourned for a time at the mission, and while there, unknown to her father, the ceremonies and religion of the padres had taken a deep hold upon her savage imagination. While there, also, she had conceived a passion, deep and wild as her own untrained nature, for one of the young soldiers of the garrison, Jose Arenas, and he had not been at all derelict in pressing his suit upon the savage beauty.

'For weeks the siege continued, interspersed with brave charges which were always repulsed, until at last the Spaniards began to chafe at fighting with an unseen enemy, whose missiles dealt death at every blow. At last the disaffection grew open, and there began to be grave talk of abandoning the apparently fruitless siege.

'Meanwhile Winona stole away from her father's lodge each day at nightfall, and, passing over the secret trail, went down into the Spanish camp and passed hours with her lover beneath the shadow of some great oaks. Amid so many retainers her presence passed unnoticed, and when the day grew gray in the east she would glide like a shadow a short distance into the rocky gorge, and then diverging, seek again the secret path to return to her dwelling. Watching her depart one morning Jose saw her leave the gorge, and obeying a sudden and unaccountable impulse, started to follow her. Like a shadow he followed her swift steps from rock to rock, from crag to crag, until she disappeared into a narrow rocky canyon. Plunging into this Jose followed it down for a short distance, and emerging was startled to find himself within the Indian village. He had the secret trail. Realizing at once the importance of his discovery, he retraced his steps at once to the Spanish camp and sought the commander of the expedition.

'That night 200 picked men, under Jose's guidance, stole like shadows over the mountain path and ranged themselves in silent line above the doomed village. At the mouth of the gorge a guard of Spaniards shut off the escape of the Indians. From the deep defile below the village a musket report broke the clear gray stillness of the morning. It was the signal of attack.

'With one rattling volley the band of troops within the glen broke ranks and charged down upon the sleepy villagers just emerging from their huts. The Indians were stupefied with surprise, uncertain as to whether their gods had deserted them or their sentries had slept upon their posts, and were cut down, men, women and children, without resistance. Winona, starting in terror from her father's hut, saw Jose leading the besiegers, and realized what happened. Bounding to the side of her lover, she clasped her arms about him, and stayed his sword in its bloody work of murder. Matilija had followed his daughter from the lodge, and with loud cries was rallying his warriors in defense of their women and children. Seeing his devoted daughter clasped to the breast of a Spanish soldier, he thought he saw in her the betrayal of his people.

'With a savage howl of mingled rage, pain, and defiance, Matilija sprang forward and buried his stone hatchet deep in the brain of his offspring. With a piteous upward look the girl sank at her father's feet, and before Jose could recover from his stupefaction another blow of that strong arm had stretched the Spaniard's form lifeless and bleeding beside that of the girl. Then Matilija darted swiftly away, ascended with sure steps the dizzy cliff, and, uttering a defiant death-cry, sprang far out into the air, and was dashed to fragments upon the jagged rocks below.'