The next Digger I noticed was of the gentler (but in this case not lovelier) sex.  She was an old squaw, who was in mourning.  The sign of her grief was the black adobe mud spread over her face.  She sat all day motionless and speechless, gazing up into the sky.  Her grief was caused by the death of a child, and her sorrowful look showed that she had a mother’s heart.  Poor, degraded creature!  What were her thoughts as she sat there looking so pitifully up into the silent, far-off heavens?  All the livelong day she gazed thus fixedly into the sky, taking no notice of the passersby, neither speaking, eating, nor drinking.  It was a custom of the tribe, but its peculiar significance is unknown to me.

It was a great night at an adjoining camp when the old chief died.  It was made the occasion of a fearful orgy.  Dry wood and brush were gathered into a huge pile, the body of the dead chief was placed upon it, and the mass set on fire.  As the flames blazed upward with a roar, the Indians, several hundred in number, broke forth into wild wailings and howlings, the shrill soprano of the women rising high above the din, as they marched around the burning pyre.  Fresh fuel was supplied from time to time, and all night long the flames lighted up the surrounding hills which echoed with the shouts and howls of the savages.  It was a touch of pandemonium.  At dawn there was nothing left of the dead chief but ashes.  The mourners took up their line of march toward the Stanislaus River, the squaws bearing their papooses on their backs, the “bucks” leading the way.

The Digger believes in a future life, and in future rewards and punishments.  Good Indians and bad Indians are subjected to the same ordeal at death.  Each one is rewarded according to his deeds.

The disembodied soul comes to a wide, turbid river, whose angry waters rush on to an unknown destination, roaring and foaming.  From high banks on either side of the stream is stretched a pole smooth and small, over which he is required to walk.  Upon the result of this post-mortem Blondinizing his fate depends.  If he was in life a very good Indian he goes over safely, and finds on the other side a paradise, where the skies are cloudless, the air balmy, the flowers brilliant in color and sweet in perfume, the springs many and cool, and the deer plentiful and fat.  In this fair clime there are no bad Indians, no briers, no snakes, no grizzly bears.  Such is the paradise of good Diggers.

The Indian who was in life a mixed character, not all good or bad, but made up of both, starts across the fateful river, gets on very well until he reaches about half-way over, when his head becomes dizzy, and he tumbles into the boiling flood below.  He swims for his life. (Every Indian on earth can swim, and he does not forget the art in the world of spirits.) Buffeting the waters, he is carried swiftly down the rushing current, and at last makes the shore, to find a country which, like his former life, is a mixture of good and bad.  Some days are fair, and others are rainy and chilly; flowers and brambles grow together; there are some springs of water, but they are few, and not all cool and sweet; the deer are few, and shy, and lean, and grizzly bears roam the hills and valleys.  This is the limbo of the moderately-wicked Digger.