The axe of man has not yet attacked them. No machinery, no tearing
saws are in these early days destroying their noble symmetry. But
they are doomed. Fires and wanton destruction are yet to come, to
leave blackened scars over once lovely areas. Man mutilates the
lovely face of Nature's sweetest sylvan retreats. Down the great
gorge of the Yosemite, Valois rides past the giant Big Trees of
Calaveras. He finds no hidden treasures, no buried deposits. The
camps near Lagunitas disclose only some concealed supplies. No
arms, valuables, and treasures, torn from the murdered travellers,
in the two years' red reign of Joaquin, the Mountain Tiger.

Valois concludes that Joaquin divided the gold among his followers.
He must have used it largely to purchase assistance from his spies,
scattered through the interior.

The stolen animals were undoubtedly all scattered over the State.
The weapons, saddlery, and gear, booty of the native horse-thief
bands, have been sent as far as Chihuahua in Mexico. Valuable
personal articles were scarce. Few trophies were ever recovered.
The gold-dust was unrecognizable. Valois reluctantly gives up
the search. He returns convinced that mere lust of blood directed
Joaquin Murieta Carrillo.

The bandits under him represented the native discontent. Their
acts were a protest against the brutal Americans. They were goaded
on by the loss of all property rights. This harshness drove the
Indians, decimated, drunken, and diseased, from their patrimonial
lands. It has effected the final ruin of the native Californians.
Frontier greed and injustice have done a shameful work.