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AT THE time referred to in this chapter (July, 1853), the plains between Los Angeles and San Pedro presented a lively spectacle, and the stranger who made the short journey at his leisure was constantly interested, and always felt compensated. The vast herds of horses, and their number seemed absolutely without limit, the many picturesque horsemen driving the neighing and snorting herds in all directions, the retainers of the Lugos, the Dominguez, Avilas and Sepulvedas, the Stearns and Temples, all of whose herds ranged over the plains referred to, made quite an army, and from early dawn to the shades of evening were continually on the move, with their jingling spurs, cavorting steeds and whizzing riatas.

A day or two after the grand Fourth of July celebration at San Pedro, described in the last chapter, there occurred a most wonderful and unaccountable stampede in those grand herds, the whole of which seemed to have lost their senses, and the equine paterfamilias seemed to have lost entire control over their unnumbered wives and sweethearts; old mares in mad frenzy trampled under foot their tender and cherished off-spring; the herds of Dominguez wildly mixed in with those of

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Sepulveda, the Lugos with the Avilas; and so wild and unaccountable was the stampede that the old major domos, with their well-trained and disciplined underlings, utterly failed to subject to control the wild, frightened, terrified mustangs. Said one old lazador, "The devil surely has got among the manadas," and he piously crossed himself. Along toward the afternoon of the day of the grand stampede, the major domo of old man Lugo, with the whole troop of vaqueros at his heels, rode wildly up to the ranch house, seemingly scared out of his wits, and said, in response to his angry master, the imperious Lugo's inquiry of "En el nombre de Dios, que hay?" A phantom! a phantom!" "El Diablo," said a vaquero, out of breath; "Una Espanta, muy grande," said another. And it required all of the authority of the astonished old master to learn from his much-trusted servant that an unaccountable something--a kind of a what-is-it--had appeared among the herds, and had caused the utmost demoralization, not only to the horses, but also to the vaqueros.

Fortunately "Bill, the Patron Saint of Los Cuervos, or Bill the Most Remarkable," in memory of whom a whole chapter will be devoted in the future, was at the castle Lugo, and mounting the old Don's favorite charger, which, according to custom, was held in constant readiness for the master's use, set forth in quest of the phantom, espanta, or "what is it?" which had produced the unaccountable hubbub. Bill was not afraid of phantom, ghost or dragon dire, and like St. George, went forth to fight and conquer the monster in whatever shape he might present himself. The bravery of Bill so inspired the major-domos and vaqueros, that in a short space of time he had quite an army at his heels, and at sunset returned to the ranch leading as gay an old mustang as the reader can imagine, with the late John T. Lafranco's pioneer sulky in good order and condition, safe and sound, hitched to him. The jolly laugh of Bill, who had conquered, subdued

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and captured the nondescript, explained everything. Lanfranco, returning from the Fourth of July festivities at San Pedro, landed on the roadside, and the gentle old mustang, whose forte had been for years to chase his fellows, feeling himself free, took to the herds as naturally as a duck to a mud-puddle; the plains were level and smooth, the sulky kept its legs, so did the old horse, and the herds, frightened at the strange appearance, wildly ran away, and the old horse, equally astonished at such manifestation of unfriendliness, wildly followed from herd to herd, and caused the strange commotion as above stated. The "phantom tarantula" was the by-word and joke of the day for a long time thereafter.

John T. Lanfranco, an enterprising young merchant of Los Angeles, in all truth a fortunate fellow, was paying court to the beautiful Dona Petra, daughter of Don Jose Sepulveda, del Rancho Palos Verdes, on San Pedro Bay. Notwithstanding he was a fine horseman, on one of his visits to San Francisco he espied the "phantom," and was so impressed with the advantage its possession would give him, purchased and shipped it to Los Angeles, and, after an infinite amount of trouble, found an honest old mustang, who was induced to submit to this queer change in the programme of his usefulness, and permitted himself to be harnessed to the "phantom," and the happy possessor of this novel way of ambulation became the envied of all the fashionables of the city, gringo as well as to the manor born. Lanfranco married Dona Petra. Tempus fugit;" so says the old school-book, which reminds this happy historian that his experience extends somewhat into the, to some, dim past, yet, feeling all the bloom and flush of youth, looks back through those twenty-seven years as to a midsummer night's dream, shaded by the fleecy clouds of gently flitting time. But alas! when he sees the children and grandchildren of John T. Lafranco and the beautiful Petra, he is forcibly reminded of the text that "time flies," and has taken a very long

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flight since the "phantom" so frightened the herders and stampeded the herds on our sunny southern plains.

Many, yes! too many, of the promising incidents of those happy times terminated in unfortunate ways. Not so this marriage. Both husband and wife have passed hence to the spirit-land, leaving four daughters well provided for, the three eldest of whom have married--the first to Mr. W. S. Maxwell, "a native son of the Golden West," and the pioneer exporter of wheat from Los Angeles; the second to Walter S. Moore, Esq., Deputy Collector of Internal Revenue; and the third to Mr. Samuel C. Cook, of New York, while the last is yet a schoolmiss.

Alas! alas! the author, by the above, is sadly admonished that, when time shall have taken another such flight, if still an inhabitant of this land of magnificent promise, he will have become an old pioneer.

Says the lamented Los Angeles centenial historian: "The first Methodist sermon was preached June, 1850, by Rev. J. W. Briar, at the adobe house of J. G. Nichols, where the Court House now stands." This pious historical fact reminds the truthful historian of a very sharp sermon preached by a divinely sharp practitioner in 1853. Judging from the prickly name of our pioneer preacher, we are free to surmise that his preaching must have been pointed and sharp. To say the least it was the entering wedge of that powerful politico-religious corporation, the great Methodist church that now wields so much influence among us wayward angels.

In the summer of '53, on a Sunday forenoon, quite a number of Rangers were congregated at that old pioneer place of resort, the "Montgomery," engaged in slinging slings, sipping juleps, and rolling ten-pins, when a tall, lank, well dressed, reverend looking individual, with a stiff white necktie, a stiff stove-pipe plug, with long black hair parted in the middle, and reverendly combed and brushed back behind his ears. The reverend looking

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gentleman walked past the bar into the great ten-pin alley, and addressing the crowd said: "Gentlemen, pray don't allow me to trespass upon your valuable time, but, after the game is concluded I have a request to make." So saying, he sat himself down on the big redwood bench, so well remembered by the Montgomery's surviving patrons. The game at once stopped for the reason that the strange appearance and the strange request of the stranger, at once excited general curiosity, and Getman requested the gentleman to proceed. The stranger, rising to his feet and divinely smiling, said: "Gentlemen, I have a favor to ask which I hope you will pardon, and at the same time grant. It is now five minutes past eleven. I was announced to preach in the Court House at eleven o'clock sharp. Punctual to the minute I was at my post, but not a soul confronted me to hear the word of God on this holy Sabbath. Gentlemen, I came here to preach, and I am going to preach, even if to dumb adobe walls, for you know the old saying that 'walls have ears.' Now, gentlemen, I ask you to do me the favor to come in and hear me preach, if for only a half hour."

"Woo-wu-wi-will you st-sta-sta-nd the drinks if we do?" said stuttering Aleck, looking wistfully toward the bar room.

"Silence," said Getman; "no irreverent joking here. Come, boys, all of you take a drink, and let's go in and hear one up and down old fashioned sermon; may be it will remind us of the old folks at home. I am going to close the house on this special occasion."

One adobe wall separated the Montgomery from the Court House, and after having imbibed freely of fluid inspiration, one and all betook themselves to the rude temple of the law to drink in the promised words of holy inspiration so freely offered. When all were quietly seated, Getman, who as well as being proprietor of the Montgomery, was Lieutenant of the Ranger Company, suggested to the pious pioneer that if he

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would only postpone his services for half an hour, recruiting parties would be sent out to drum up a respectable congregation. The proposition being acceded to, parties were dispatched, one to the Plaza de Toros, one to Nigger Alley, another to the Ranger Barracks, another to Aleck Gibson's, and one to drum around generally. Within the half hour the reverend stranger had a most rousing and interesting congregation, composed almost exclusively of Rangers, sports and general hard cases, and divine services were commenced. The gifted divine preached from the text "Jesus wept," and well he might, says this righteous Ranger. The sermon was good, it was entertaining, argumentative and persuasive. The gist of the argument was that even angels wept at the general depravity of poor human nature, as seen at the profane Sabbath exhibitions of bull and bear fights, maromas, Mexican circuses, horse racing and other kindred entertainments, which were the pride and glory of our angelic population at the time referred to. He eloquently exhorted us to abstain from ten- pins, mint juleps and gin slings on the holy Sabbath; also to beware of billiards, to close the monte-banks, and fail to patronize on that day the iniquitous places of amusement above enumerated, for, said the holy man, "Jesus weeps at such unholy profanations." The eloquent gentlemen made us all feel kind of ashamed, for every one of us was guilty of some of the "unholy profanations," and when the service was concluded, Getman made a few remarks and solicited a contribution for the strange preacher, and took up a hat into which the ever generous Cy Lyon tossed a slug. The hat went around and the gold fell in plentiful profusion, one conscience smitten gambler, it was said, put in two slugs, and when the hat had concluded its grand rounds and the proceeds were handed over to the impressive preacher he had a stake that would have gladdened the heart of the most sanguine missionary. The gentleman thanked the congregation for their

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noble generosity and said "the pious fund should be properly invested;" said he "would visit San Diego and endeavor to return and preach on the following Sabbath," pronounced his benediction, and the congregation dispersed. The week rolled around and many of us looked forward with no small degree of interest for the return of the strange and interesting missionary, but he failed to connect, and another week or two rolled by, when it was ascertained that the miserable wolf in sheep's clothing, the vagabond who had assumed the livery of heaven to be used in the service of hell, was a notorious up-country gambler, who, coming among us terrestrial angels flat broke, had successfully played us for a stake, had invested the "pious fund" in aguardiente, red shirts and striped calico, and had gone to the Colorado to gamble and trade with the Indians. We were all utterly sold and swindled, and well did we merit the outrage, and for the following reason: About six months prior to the happening of the sad event just related, that eminent christian and pioneer missionary, the Rev. Adam Bland, had flung his banner to the breeze and was then struggling like a hero to establish in an humble way the first Protestant church among us, and would have regarded as a great godsend the handsome sum thrown away on that itinerant vagabond. We deserved to be cheated, for the reason that we should have supported Mr. Bland and helped him along in the good cause in which he was so energetically engaged.

"Reminiscences of a Ranger" suggests to the reader border warfare, bloody raids, reprisals and hand-to-hand conflicts, and all of the Bombastes Furioso paraphernalia of yellow-backed literature, so appetizing to the hoodlum element of our modern population; and after the relation of one more pacific and legal exploit of the Rangers, the thirst of the impatient reader shall be appeased with blood. The author confesses that this history so far has been more of lawsuits than of war. He has written of the great court-martial that tried and sentenced the

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City Marshal. He has told of the first divorce suit tried and determined in our pioneer courts, and of other suits. He wore out a brand new pen in giving to the world an unbiased and impartial history of the terrific struggle between those pioneer legal Titans, the immortal Juan Largo and the long since dead and forgotten Juan Chapo, for the possession of that historical old mustang, that was the stepping-stone to the downward career of the two litigants. The great Largo, in sheer desperation, threw himself into the mad maelstrom of politics, and was swallowed up in its hungry vortex. That great historical lawsuit and the loss of that $10 mustang so preyed upon the mind of the poor, impecunious Chapo, that two years thereafter he was sent to the State Insane Asylum and died. That horrible legal battle ought to compensate the reader for oceans of blood. The gentle author could have told in the meantime of bloody broils, of assassinations without number, of travelers waylaid and murdered almost within hearing of the old plaza church bells. He could have written of men's ears cut off, strung on strings, and paraded as trophies in our halls and bar-rooms. He could have horrified the Christian reader by telling of men's heads severed from their bleeding trunks, and used as foot-balls on the public highways; of women outraged and murdered in our very streets; and of untold horrors, which the writer hopes will remain untold on this earth forever. The writer abhors the recital of such bloody horrors, but he delights in taking the ludicrous side of the horrible history of pioneer times, and will proceed to relate the brief facts of another great legal conflict between the Ranger Company and a pioneer Irishman for the possession of an innocent old jackass, after which he will give the reader some blood.

The Rangers went on a midnight secret raid about the month of August '53, of course, a strong impression prevailed that Joaquin was in the city. So it was arranged that the whole Ranger Company, mounted and on foot,

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should make a midnight sally and search every suspicious house and place within the city limits. High expectations of success were entertained. At the hour of mid-night three parties on foot set forth to operate in Nigger Alley, Sonora and other inside places, while parties of horsemen made rapid raids on all the Jacals and vineyards, the suburbs and out of the way corners. The search was well conducted and thorough, but utterly without fruits, and at daylight all the Rangers had reported back to headquarters, crestfallen and disappointed, all without captures and trophies except that one party brought in a forlorn-looking jackass that was promptly spouted in Nigger Alley for aguardiente, and became the prolific source of the remarkable lawsuit that is now the subject matter of history. On the day following, an Irishman discovered and laid claim to his ass-ship, which said claim was vigorously resisted by a ferocious looking Sonoreno who kept a cantina in Nigger Alley, and had advanced the liquid loan on the jackass security. That great and humorous pioneer lawyer, General Ezra Drown, appeared for the defendant Mexican, who called in the festive Rangers to defend his right to the possession of the embargoed burro. I believe Cameron Thom represented the Irish plaintiff, and a native Californian presided as Justice of the Peace. The Rangers chivalrously backed up the defendant, and threatening to maintain legal title to the bitter end, demanded a jury trial. All parties being present, including the Constable and jackass, and the jury being duly sworn to try the case and true verdict render according to law and evidence, the plaintiff Irishman was sworn and opened out, but before he could say jackass, defendant's attorney brought him up on a legal round turn, and asked him where he was born. He answered that he was born in County Downs, in the ancient and honorable kingdom of Ireland. Defendant's attorney then objected to the admission of the evidence on the ground that defendant was a citizen of

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the United States, and that the constitution of our great country precluded Irishmen from giving evidence against an American. It was very up-hill work in getting at justice in that Court for the reason that neither of the attorneys could speak a word of Spanish, and the Judge could not understand a word of English, and the two lawyers had to make their arguments and present their authorities through the medium of the "most useful man," who was the court interpreter on that great trial. The legal blows dealt and returned were ponderous. The authorities cited were voluminous and heavy; how they were interpreted and presented to, or understood by the Court are to-day enveloped in the mists of mystery and sleep in the grave with the "most useful man." Suffice it to say, that after two days of Herculean legal conflict, the Court rendered its judicial fiat on the legal fate of the irate and game son of Erin by saying, "that he himself, the Court, had personally read the great treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and knew that by said treaty the defendant was a full-fledged American citizen, and as plaintiff's attorney had failed to present any manner of treaty whatever that made the same transformation for the Irishman the Court was reluctantly forced to the exclusion of the evidence offered," and so the Court ruled. The game Irishman, not in the least discomfited by being legally sent to grass, at the call of time came smiling to the scratch and presented two stalwart Californian boys to prove his legal ownership to the contested property. Defendant's attorney, fully alive to the great responsibility resting on his broad legal shoulders, dealt plaintiff a stunning blow by objecting to the proposed evidence on the ground that the witnesses were not white men, and that defendant being a white man, none but white men could testify against him. Plaintiff's counsel maintained that having assumed the affirmative the burden of proof rested on defendant to prove the witnesses not to be white men. Defendant's attorney accordingly produced as

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experts in physiology the three learned men of the city, Doctors Swim, Gardner and Hannum, who, after testifying to their scientific attainments, were asked if they could by any scientific physiological certainty, determine the line of demarkation between a person of pure white blood and a mongrel. Answering emphatically in the affirmative, they were required to examine the two witnesses and inform the Court if they were white men or mongrels. For the information of the reader of more modern importation it is proper to know that at the time California was an ultra white man's government. The learned trio conferred together for a minute, when Dr. Gardner came up to one of the witnesses and seizing him by the nose and chin, ordered him to open his mouth, the witness indignantly resented the familiarity and glared defiantly on the learned man in physiology, laid his hand threateningly on the knife that was so conveniently sheathed in his leathern legging, and said: "Que quieres tu?" (What do you want?) The learned man, somewhat taken aback at this unexpected opposition to his scientific demonstration, called on counsel and Court for assistance and protection. The Court very sensibly inquired of the doctor the object of his unceremonious interference with the witness' legal right to protection from rude personal violence. Said the doctor, addressing himself to the interpreter, "Inform his honor that I was about to demonstrate to the Court the difference in the six salivary glands of a white man and those of mixed blood. Say to the Court that in a white man the sub-maxillary gland, which is situated within the lower jaw anterior to the angle and which opens into the mouth by the side of the frænum linguæ, and the lingual gland which is situated between the mucous membrane on each side of the frænum linguæ are elongated; in the mixed breed they are round." This scientific lecture being duly interpreted to the Court, the Judge said, "No entiende," and looked worried.

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Defendant's attorney then inquired of the learned experts if there was no other way of determining to a scientific certainty the great question at issue, and the grave and reverend seignors again mysteriously consulted. Then Dr. Gardner answered and said, "Yes, certainly there is," seizing the upper and lower eyelid of the other witness and turning his eye-ball inside out, and was greatly astonished at the subject springing to his feet, with tears streaming from one eye and sparks of indignation flashing from the other, and yelling carajo! The Court ordered the interpreter to inquire of the learned physiologist what he meant by such unseemly conduct, and through the same channel of converse the doctor addressed himself to the Court.

"Inform his honor that I was about to demonstrate that in a white man the two small orifices called punctalachrimalia, at their intersection with the nasal ducts, that is to say"--

"I am afraid," said the defendant's attorney, "his honor will be unable to understand a scientific anatomical lecture through the medium of an interpreter. Is there no more practical manner of settling this question?"

"Oh, yes," responded the doctor, drawing from his pocket a formidable pair of old pullicans; "you see, in the white man the wisdom teeth grow straight down into the body of the jaw, and have three strongly developed roots; in the black or mixed breeds the wisdom teeth grow solidly and firmly into the ramus, and have but one root, and to settle this matter definitely I will now proceed to extract a wisdom tooth," and the doctor returned to the charge, but the birds had flown. The prey had escaped, and from that day to this the author has never heard of any of our local courts settling that interesting question. The witnesses saved the Court the trouble of passing on their legal status by passing beyond the Court's jurisdiction. The game Irishman was knocked out of time, and having no bottle-holder, flung up the sponge, and the

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custody of the jackass was legally awarded to the constitutional American citizen, who called on the Constable for the property. The Constable was found drunk at the Ranger barracks, and on the day following, the jackass was found in an up-town cantina, where the Rangers had a second time spouted him for a liquid advance, and the Constable had fallen a victim to the speculation. Another suit followed, not less interesting than the first, and while that was in process of litigation the jackass was again abducted, and served to keep up steam at the Ranger barracks both night and day for over a fortnight.

Reader, bear with me another law suit and then we will have reached our bloody chapter. B. Cohn, a noted merchant, was at Ehrenburg, Arizona, and got into a law suit in a Justice's Court. The Constable was a Mexican. Cohn had no lawyer, while his opponent was represented by the celebrated counsellor, Charles Granville Johnston, Esq., who mounted his legal high horse and was demolishing Cohn with quartz-crushing power. Cohn stepped outside the court-room door and beckoned the Constable to him, and slipping a coin in the ever open official palm said, "Do you see that fellow cutting up so there?" "Si Senor, como no?" (and why not), answered the Constable. "Well," said Cohn, "I want you to take that fellow to the lock up." "Da me un papel pues;" (give me a paper), said the Constable, and B. Cohn stepped inside the court room for a moment and returned with one of his printed bill headings and gave it to the Constable, who said "Esta bueno." Then the Constable invited the counsellor outside of the court room and called a couple of stalwart Sonorenos and informed them that he had a heavy and refractory prisoner to carry to the calaboose, and desired their assistance, and the three piled in on poor Johnston and yanked him off to jail so fast that he hardly knew how he got there, and long before he regained his liberty Cohn had vanquished his opponent and won his suit.

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THIS chapter is to be a bloody one. Contrary to th natural instincts of the chronicler, the truth of history demands that once more he is to draw the attention of the gentle and refined reader from ludicrous legal exploits of pioneer lawyers, to a bloody relation of murder, rapine, treachery, midnight robbery and assassinations most bloody.

In September, 1853, the country in the southern mines became too hot for many of the bad characters who had operated under the famous Joaquin, and small bands would fly from the central organization and drift southward, signalizing their passage by deeds of blood and pillage, and woe be to the unfortunate gringo who fell in their way. Cattle buyers on their way south in parties of one, two or more, were invariably met and murdered by these fleeing bandits. One party of seven, including one woman, whose name I knew, but forget, murdered a party of Americans somewhere not far above San Luis Obispo, after which they halted long enough in the town to dispose of some of the effects of the murdered party and then continued their march southward. But few Americans then resided in San Luis Obispo, and the Sheriff

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feeling too weak for successful pursuit took passage on the steamer bound south, landed at San Pedro and arrived in Los Angeles late on a Saturday evening, and at once made known the object of his visit to Captain Hope, of the Rangers, whose name and the fame of whose company had become a household word with all the American settlers in the counties south of Monterey, and a like terror to the bandits. Detectives (and we had detectives, and money with which to pay them) were sent out to inquire if such a party had as yet made its appearance in the city, and at noon on Sunday it was ascertained beyond a doubt that the identical party was then encamped under the sombre shades of a great willow hedge in the rear of Mr. Rowland's (now Bliss') vineyard. That they were on the qui vive was a matter of certainty, for, said the informer, "The horses are all saddled, and the men booted and spurred." Our captain accordingly made his dispositions to successfully bag his game.

The first move was to send a party by way of Old Aliso street to Boyle Heights, there to lay in wait, anticipating that if the party escaped from the vineyard they would flee in that direction. Smaller parties were then sent down San Pedro street and came up in the rear of the villains, and were to be given sufficient time to get into position before the main move was made directly from the barracks to the robber camp, under the captain himself. At the appointed time the captain moved quietly down Alameda street and into Rowland's vineyard, and by the time we had well passed the house we heard the clatter of fleeing horsemen through the cornfield, inside the willow hedge. We had started the game, and one long blast of the bugle notified the watchers on Boyle Heights and the parties in waiting on the south to look out for the enemy, and the pursuit commenced. Did the reader ever engage in cavalry skirmish in a cornfield? If not, he has failed to participate in one of the most exciting pleasures that it is possible to conceive;

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as the girls say about dancing, "it is perfectly splendid." In a few moments the pop, pop, pop, of the revolver, the answering yell and hurrah of the intercepting Rangers, the defiant carajo of the robbers, and the crashing of the breaking cornstalks, admonished the captain that the game had become interesting, and in a moment he was among them. In less than five minutes you could hear the pop of the revolver, the yell and carajo, in every direction for a half mile or more away. The thieves having broken and scattered, nothing could be seen. The corn, the hedges, the vineyard and trees, would occasionally and momentarily reveal a flying and pursuing horseman. The Rangers separated, each bent on securing his man, and the chase became intensely exciting. More corn was trampled down, more grapes destroyed, in the skirmish and pursuit, the writer ventures to say, than were ever paid for. By sunset the Ranger company had reported back to headquarters, and the whole party of robbers, horses, bag and baggage, were our prisoners, and were duly placed under guard, including as pretty a little brunette woman as ever excited the lustful desires of a Mormon missionary, and, strange to say, the latter was the last to surrender, used her revolver like a trooper, and was the only one that escaped to Boyle Hights, which she did, and fell unexpectedly into the arms of the disappointed Rangers who were there in anxious waiting. The seven who appeared at San Luis Obispo had increased to ten, not counting the woman.

On Monday morning rumors of lynching began to circulate, and by noon it became quite evident that unless the robbers were protected by the Rangers their doom was certain. The United States District Attorney, however, went among the lynchers, and represented to them that the people of San Luis Obispo had the best right to administer justice in this instance, and it would not be neighborly courtesy for us to intervene in so delicate a matter, and that "it was not our hang," and Captain

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Hope informed them that the Rangers would deliver the prisoners to the Sheriff of San Luis Obispo on board the up-bound steamer, and would furnish him a guard, if necessary, on the passage up. On this emphatic assurance the lynchers subsided, the prisoners, including the amorous- looking little brunette, were safely delivered on board Haley's little steamer, were so securely ironed as to obviate the necessity for a guard, and arrived at the landing of San Luis Obispo. The town being seven miles from the landing, the Sheriff sent out for a guard to safely escort his prisoners to town, and the steamer waited. Haley was the most accommodating captain that ever ran on this coast, and somewhat more will be said in due time of this gallant old salt, who has so gracefully converted his old marine charts into legal parchment.

With the least possible delay, a detachment of citizens came down to assist in safely landing the chained bandits, and then safely escorted them to the first tree that presented itself on the bleak, treeless plain, and in the most gentle but positive manner possible proceeded to string up the whole party, including that game little vixen aforesaid--that frail, gentle looking brunette--and so endeth the first act in this bloody chapter.

About the same time an American cattle buyer named Porter, while coming from the Dominguez ranch to the city, was murdered and robbed in the outskirts, on Alameda street, by a man who had accompanied him in the capacity of servant and interpreter. The writer, on his way from San Pedro to Los Angeles, was informed at the Dominguez place that the American and his servant had just left for the city, and rode hard to come up with them, for the sake of company, but took the road that came in by way of San Pedro street. Dr. Wilson Jones, riding in from the Lugo's at about an hour before sundown, came on the murdered man, dead and bleeding, in the middle of the road, and rode rapidly to town to give the alarm. Ranger parties were at once sent out in all directions, although

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it seemed most certain that the assassin would go toward San Diego. Accordingly a well mounted party, under Lieutenant Stanley, took the road in that direction. Stanley always was a hard rider, and I presume that, notwithstanding the silver threads of time that now besprinkle the head of the gallant old Ranger, denoting the approach of an honorable old age, Stanley, if called on by duty or necessity, could make the same ride again. Phineas Banning, always ready to ride with the Rangers as well as to supply them with means, and Dr. Winston, then more of a light weight than at present, were of the party, and I believe the two Marshall boys were also along. The party rode all night, and ate a hasty breakfast at San Juan Capistrano, where they learned that the fugitive murderer was only a half hour ahead of them when they entered the little mission town. In the meantime it had been ascertained in the city that the murderer was one Manuel Vergara, a most notorious up-country assassin and robber, who had in some way ingratiated himself into the confidence of Mr. Porter, and in riding into town as above described had, from behind, shot him through the head, and robbed him of a considerable amount that he carried with him to pay on any purchases of cattle he might make. Lieutenant Stanley, who had intended procuring fresh horses, at once mounted his men, and driving their spurs in the bleeding flanks of their highly-groomed and well-fed, choice mustangs, without the loss of a minute dashed out of the village in hot and eager pursuit.

The fugitive was now an hour ahead of his pursuers, and the great fear of the Rangers was that he would procure a fresh horse, and gain this great advantage, otherwise they felt confident in their ability to overtake him. The Rangers had the best horses the country afforded; they were well-fed, groomed and exercised every day, and were in good keeping to be pushed to the utmost endurance of a California mustang, and it is conceded that a well-kept California horse will endure the most

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incredibly hard rides. The Rangers pushed on, and as they came in sight of the Mission of San Luis Rey they were gladdened by the sight of a horseman riding rapidly away. Then commenced the race for life. The fugitive was a mile ahead of Stanley's party, and, finding himself pursued, made every effort to gain on his pursuers. But the Rangers gained on him; every mile reduced the distance, and five miles from the Mission the Rangers, sometimes one ahead, sometimes another, commenced to fire on him with their revolvers, and at every shot the desperate scoundrel would howl back his defiant carajo, and so the chase continued for another five miles, when one by one the Ranger's horses commenced dropping behind, and the murderer's horse seemed as fresh as ever. The distance passed over in that flight and pursuit was full one hundred miles, and the writer would shrink from the relation of such a personal exploit, but not being of that party he declares the truth of what he writes. One Ranger's horse, however, continued to gain on the fugitive, and soon the two were far ahead of the other Rangers. Whether it was Stanley or one of the Marshall boys, or Banning, who continued to gain on the fleeing murderer, the writer is not sure, but is under the impression that it was Green Marshall. Finally the pursuing Ranger came so close up to the pursued, that he turned in his saddle and commenced to fire back at the Ranger. And thus the race continued until both had fired their last shot without effect. And let the reader be informed that men so blown and excited, so worn out and unsteady, are apt, under such circumstances, to shoot wide of the mark. The Ranger continued to gain on the fugitive until the two were brought side by side, and commenced striking at each other with their empty revolvers. Their horses were staggering and reeling, and about to fall exhausted on the plain.

The Ranger, out of breath, demanded the surrender of the fugitive, who, with glaring eyeballs and bated breath, hissed

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defiance through his closely set teeth. At last the Ranger seized the rein of the fugitive's bridle, and while holding on with one hand he tried to beat him down with his revolver in the other. Vergara was a full match for his antagonist, and succeeded in drawing his bowie, and in making his first cut at the Ranger cut his own bridle rein, which freeing his horse from the hold of the Ranger, who in the conflict had dropped his own rein, the two became in a moment separated. Vergara drove his spurs into his horse and he shot ahead like a bom-shell, the Ranger's horse veered off to one side, and in a harsh endeavor to bring him up, he reeled, fell and lay exhausted on the plain. Vergara, with a triumphant shout, pressed forward, and when the fagged out Rangers, who had been left behind, came up, the fugitive murderer had passed out of sight and escaped. Being unable to procure fresh horses for the pursuit the disappointed Rangers, utterly fagged out, exhausted, on foot, leading and urging on their broken steeds, managed to reach San Diego and laid the matter of their pursuit before that sterling old patriot, Don Santiago Arguello, who procured an Indian and paid him a large sum to carry a dispatch to the commanding officer at Yuma, and to double the amount if he should reach there ahead of Vergara, surmising correctly that the fugitive would make his way to that place. Procuring a fresh horse Vergara pushed on to Fort Yuma, where he camped on the edge of the river, just below the ferry. Major Heintzelman, who commanded at Yuma, had in the meantime received Don Santiago's dispatch, the Indian having successfully accomplished his mission, sent a Sergeant and file of soldiers down to bring the suspicious looking Mexican to headquarters. Vergara refused to go, drew his revolver on the Sergeant, and was shot dead by the soldiers.

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WHILE the Rangers were yet in pursuit of Vergara, poor old Jack Whaling, a brave, honest Irishman who had succeeded the Arkansas man as City Marshal, was assassinated boldly and publicly, in open daylight, on a corner of our most public street. His assassin, by name Senati, wiped the blood of the victim from his knife, gave expression to some fierce maledictions against the hated gringos, quietly mounted his horse and rode away. The town was thrown into an intense excitement, a meeting was held, a committee of safety was appointed, and it was resolved to purify the city and banish all the bad characters. Then, after a reconsideration of the subject in secret conclave by the committee, it was agreed that the step resolved upon would be dangerous, for the reason that the bad characters were evidently in the majority, and might turn out and banish the committee and their backers. The Rangers were all out, and the utmost alarm pervaded the civil part of the community. And now a digression is proposed, and the reader--especially the mercantile reader--is informed that the first commercial failure in Los Angeles was that of a Mexican merchant, Atanacio Moreno, who failed about August, '53, and not only disappeared from commercial circles, but also from the city. Moreno was a tall,

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straight, fine appearing white man, belonged to the best blood of Sonora, and up to the time of his disappearance stood well in society, and was highly respected. Every few days after the murder of Whaling, a robbery, or a murder, or some other outrage would be reported from some part of the county. The Rangers were kept busy but failed to make any important discoveries or captures. Sometimes they would be sent to the Soledad Canon, or the Santa Clara Valley; sometimes to San Juan Capistrano and around the country generally, following the Will-o'-the-wisp of some false alarm without any important result. In the meantime, news came of the killing of Joaquin, and the dispersal of his band in Monterey county, and that the frightened bandits were making their way southward. The excitement and alarm was fearful, the city was actually in a state of seige, business was at a standstill, and so October passed and November set in.

And now for another digression. In the month of November the steamer brought a small army of fair and frail sisters from San Francisco, the pioneers of the foreign element in the propagation of the social evil in our angelic and highly refined civilization. We had thieves and cut- throats of all nations under the sun, but up to November, '53, the monde and the demi-monde was represented by ladies to the manor born. The frail pioneers established themselves in a large house on Upper Main street, and made their debut by giving a grand opening ball, to which they invited all the principal gamblers of the city, and on the night of the brilliant affair, when dancing and drinking had grown to a fever heat, when mad revelry had run riot, a loud knock demanded admittance to the ball-room. On the door being opened a dozen Mexican bandits, armed to the teeth, marched boldly into the room and covered the astonished revelers with their revolvers and carbines. The leader was masked and spoke English. He informed the gamblers that the house was surrounded by a

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hundred armed men, and if they offered the least resistance they would be murdered without mercy, but if they submitted quietly they would be spared. The robbers, for such they were, then went through and plundered the house, finding most of the gambler's overcoats and revolvers in the adjoining wineroom. After which they passed the gamblers out of the ballroom into the wine-room, searching and robbing them one by one until the last man was fleeced, when they proceeded to search and rob the frail sisters, stripping them of their valuable jewelry and money. They then bade the household "buenas noches," mounted their horses and rode away.

The robbers betook themselves to the vineyard of a well-to-do Frenchman, who dwelt in that old-fashioned adobe house that now stands on the south side of New Aliso street, just beyond the venerable old Aliso tree, under the sombre shades of which the thieves halted and dismounted, and one part of the band holding the horses, the others entered the house, and after binding the owner, proceeded to search the house for money and valuables. By dint of rifling drawers and trunks, and by threats, they succeeded in obtaining a considerable amount of coin and valuable jewelry, among which was a valuable gold watch. They then perpetrated the last outrage on the poor wife of the Frenchman, and being now near on to daylight, they mounted and left the slumbering city.

The audacity of this exploit, the mysterious coming and departure of a band so formidable, and handled with such military discipline, the finesse and sang-froid with which they robbed the gamblers, who greatly magnified their number and formidable appearance, whence they came and whither they went, the dark mystery surrounding the adventure, led one to inquire of another, "Well, what next?" Alarm was changed into consternation, and general gloom and terror pervaded the gringo part of the population, especially those who owned stores and merchandise. The writer uses the convenient phrase

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"gringo" to signify the whole population except the Spaniards. The gringos at once assumed a bellicose attitude. All citizens were under arms. The Rangers were constantly in the saddle, and well does the writer remember the warlike appearance of Mayor Nichols and Solomon Lazard, as on a stormy night the two heroes, muffled in storm and rain-protecting blankets, weighed down with side-arms, and each with a double-barreled shot-gun carried at a "secure arms" to protect them from the pelting rain, marching to their respective stations on the hills west of the city to do picket duty; and how a cordon of armed citizens guarded every approach to the angelic stronghold; how the heroic and vigilant Lazard shot a brave old bull, who came lost and straggling into town on that eventful night; how the Rangers, in detachments, went into the country on the same rainy night; and how, to the utter surprise of the whole city, especially the Spanish part of the population, the robbers entered the city, raided Sonora, sacked several Spanish houses, and carried off forcibly several girls. Whence they came and whither they went was veiled in the mists of mystery.

When Mayor Nichols was on his picket post the City Council sent the Marshal to bring him to the council rooms, where they were discussing measures of general defense and required his counsel and advice. "I will send them a message," said the Mayor, "and will send it verbally. Tell the honorables that the most proper measures for the defense of this city, would be for them to join the Rangers as volunteers or shoulder a shotgun and close the municipal shop for the present."

This raid on Sonora occurred about a week after the foray made on the gamblers and Frenchman. The angels became nervous, excited, feverish and impatient; a spirit of disappointment fell upon the Ranger company, constantly kept going on false information, always to be disappointed. They would occasionally jump an armed horseman who was so wary and

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skillful in his manoeuvers that not a single capture was made. That a formidable band of robbers were within easy striking distance of the city was a conceded fact. Where they were, none could tell. Wild and magnified rumors and reports of murders here, robberies and outrages there, were spread, with still wilder rumors of a Mexican invasion and expulsion of the gringos, all of which time the bandits were encamped within ten miles of the city.

How the spirit of cupidity gave birth to dark and bloody treason, and how the leaders of the robber band were murdered in cold blood, will now be in order.

When Senati murdered the Marshal, the Sheriff offered a reward of $1,500 for his arrest and delivery, dead or alive. Two months had elapsed and no account of the fugitive assassin. One rainy morning in December, when the excitement raged fearfully and anxiety became unbearable, the news spread like wildfire that the jail yard was full of dead robbers, among whom was Senati. A general rush was made for the jail, where in the yard in front of the jail door was found a Mexican cart, with the gory corpses of five bandits lying piled one on top of another, stiff and stark, exposed to the driving rain and presenting all of the horrible contortions in form and feature of men who died in fear and agony. An Indian boy drove the cart to town, arriving between midnight and daylight. The cart was guarded and escorted by a solitary horseman, and that horseman was Atanacio Moreno, the broken merchant; and this is the report he made to the Sheriff. He said that about a month previous he was taken prisoner by the bandits, who, supposing he had means, demanded a ransom, kept him a close prisoner, and threatened to shoot him unless the ransom was paid; that he watched and waited for an opportunity to escape; that Luis Vulvia, who had been Joaquin's Lieutenant, was Captain of the band, and Senati was Lieutenant. Moreno further said that his capture was

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subsequent to Senati's assassination of the Marshal, and he knew of the price set on his head by the Sheriff, and in sheer desperation he determined not only to escape, but to carry Senati's head with him as a trophy. With this determination he watched and waited for a favorable opportunity, which never came. Growing impatient and still more desperate, the band having gone on a foray and he being left alone with Senati and two guards, by stratagem he succeeded in obtaining possession of their arms, and killed, first Senati, then the two others. That the Captain, Vulvia, at this critical juncture unexpectedly returned to camp, and by a stroke of good management was also slaughtered, with his attendant, by the brave Moreno. This all occurred in one of the canons in the rear of the Brea Rancho, and after his brilliant exploit the freed and exultant Moreno accidentally encountered the Indian boy with the ox cart, pressed him into service, drove to the robber camp in the canon, loaded on the slaughtered bandits, drove to town as above stated, and now demanded the $1,500 from the Sheriff in conformity with his offer. Moreno was a hero.

In less than two hours the Sheriff had raised the money and paid it over. The town took a long breath of relief. The great agony was over, business began to resume its sway, and the excitement somewhat abated. About a week or two thereafter, Charlie Ducommun came, out of breath, through the back way into the drug store, at the corner of Commercial and Los Angeles streets, where he found Captain Hope and two Rangers. Hope understood that some one was robbing Charlie's crib, and biding him return quietly by the way he came, Hope, with his two Rangers, hastily proceeded up Commercial street. A horse was seen standing in front of Charlie's shop with the rope leading inside, which showed that a man was inside holding the rope. Arriving at the door, the man inside went for his revolver, but before he could draw he was seized, and after a desperate resistance was overpowered, and, to the surprise

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of all, he proved to be the hero Moreno. Then Ducommon explained that the prisoner offered to pawn the valuable gold watch stolen from the house of the Frenchman before referred to; that he at once recognized the watch, and pretending to go into his back room for money, had ran to the drug store and given information. Moreno was indicted, tried, convicted and sentenced to fourteen years in the penitentiary for the robbery of the Frenchman's house. He then confessed that he himself had been the captain of the robber band, and that Vulvia and Senati were his Lieutenants, that he was the commander of the robbers when they went through the gamblers and frail dames, and at the outrage at the Frenchman's; that, tempted by cupidity he had slain Senati, to effect which he sent the band out on service, retaining Senati in camp with three pickets posted on the mountain sides. The two being alone he killed Senati with a rear thrust with a sabre, and to his surprise Vulvia returned to camp and was treacherously shot down by his captain. The three pickets hearing the shot in camp, came in and were treacherously murdered in detail. The ox cart was procured as above stated, and the dead robbers brought to town. After being about a year in prison, Moreno and the veteran San Francisco forger, old Captain Tuft, attempted to get up an insurrection, disgracefully failed, and were severely punished. He was, after about four years' service, pardoned by the Governor, and was taken to Sonora by his friends; returned again to Los Angeles; recommenced his old tricks and was again sent up, and again pardoned in 1867, which is the last the writer knows of Moreno.

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"Time at last sets all things even."

THERE was but one military post within the limits of Los Angeles county at the time referred to in the previous chapters, and the domain of Los Angeles was then very great, including San Bernardino and the greater part of Kern counties, as heretofore stated. The post of Jurupa was established, I believe, in 1850, and was continued until 1857. Fort Tejon was not established until 1854. Jurupa, being an infantry post, could lend little or no assistance in breaking up the robber bands that so occupied the Ranger company and kept them so constantly going. Captain Lovell commanded at Jurupa--a sedate, methodical, sober kind of an officer, who seemed perfectly content to sit in his elegant quarters, issue orders to his little army of a dozen or so of well-fed, clean-shaved, white-cotton- gloved, nicely-dressed, lazy, fat fellows, who were seemingly happy and content on their $8 per month, while even a Digger Indian would naturally expect to earn even more than that sum in a day in the mines. They all, from Captain to Corporal, seemed resigned to a life of well-fed indolence.

Captain Lovell was sedate and sober, and comported himself with as much military decorum as though on duty at

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the War Department, and under the immediate eye of his illustrious commander, the lordly conqueror of the mighty Aztec capital. Captain Lovell exacted from his subalterns the utmost military punctilio, and ruled the military roost at Jurupa with all the rigor of a martinet. Every military collar at Jurupa must stand with the most mathematical uprightness; every military button, every military brogan, and every military tin cup, must be burnished daily in such brilliant style, so as to serve, if so required, as a mirror or shaving-glass. Quarters were daily inspected, and the whole camp subjected to the most rigorous military police. Kitchen, mess pans and camp kettles would receive the most critical attention from this model commander, whose daily custom was to visit the military kitchen and rub the kettles, plates and pans with his immaculate whit handkerchief, and woe be to the deliquent cook if th perfumed linen should be soiled or smutted by its contact with mess pans and camp kettles would receive the most critical attention from this model commander, whose daily custom was to visit the military kitchen and rub the kettles, plates and pans with his immaculate white handkerchief, and woe be to the delinquent cook if the perfumed linen should be soiled or smutted by its contact with his kitchen kit.

Lovell had one officer, however, whom he could in no way manage. Military discipline was not the forte of this officer, and although Lovell tried every means from commands to court-martials, Smith (such was the Lieutenant's name) was utterly incorrigible. Smith was so hard a nut that even Lovell couldn't crack him. Smith would consent to the wearing of a military jacket, but Mexican calzoneros, Mexican buckskin leggings of the most approved style and finish, Mexican jingling spurs with six-inch rowels, Mexican sash, Mexican hat, Mexican horse, saddle and bridle, and a brilliant Mexican blanket, a navy revolver belted to his side, and an elegant bowie neatly sheathed in his Mexican bota, went to make up the personal trappings of the gay, festive and roystering Quartermaster of Fort Jurupa, a boon companion of the gifted Myron Norton. Smith, with all his fondness for gay Mexican trappings, was also inordinately fond of Mexican women. "Wine and women" didn't begin to express the festive

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character of this gay son of Mars, who would start from Jurupa at sunrise and ride to Los Angeles, fifty miles, for breakfast, and empty two military canteens of double-proof Mexican aguardiente on the way, and then drink two bottles of first-class California wine at the breakfast table, which he was wont to designate as an appetizer to prepare him for drinking with his friends until dinner time, when he would do his principal drinking. Smith's fondness for women got him into serious difficulty with Lovell more than once, and one time in particular, he was restrained of his liberty and ordered to remain within the limits of his own quarters. A court-martial could not be convened and the District Commander, John B. Magruder, was appealed to by Lovell. The Colonel came to Jurupa and made himself the guest of the bejugged Quartermaster for about a week, during which time Magruder waived rank and he and Smith made night melodious with their roysterings. On taking his departure the District Commander released Smith from durance, which was the last time Lovell attempted his reformation.

Smith was very fond of the Rangers, and always, when opportunity offered, would accompany them on their expeditions. When he came to town he was the more than welcome guest of the company, who would lavish all their generosity on both master and horse, and the generosity of the Jurupa Quartermaster to the Rangers was without limit. If there were any extr rations, extra blankets, or other kinds of military stores at the post, they would be hoarded with miserly care for gratuitous distribution among the Rangers when opportunity offered. Smith was the prince of good fellows and the son of a Governor.

Smith entered the army as a private soldier during the war with Mexico, and for personal gallantry, and not through political influence, at the end of the war was promoted to a

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Lieutenancy in the 2nd Infantry. His father was Governor of Virginia, and was known as "Extra Billy."

During the hot times described in the bloody chapter, the robbers made a raid on the Mission San Gabriel, and among other outrages attempted the robbery of Mr. Iverson's house were gallantly repulsed and driven away by Evert, a boy of fourteen years. The robbers went toward the upper Santa Ana, and "Don Julian del Chino" (Isaac Williams) sent a trustworthy Indian to inform Captain Hope that a large force were in rendezvous at Temescal. Hope accordingly made his dispositions not to disperse, but to bag the thieves in their camp. An express was accordingly sent to Jurupa asking the assistance and co-operation of Captain Lovell, as also that of the Mormon authorities at San Bernardino, who were requested to rendezvous at Jurupa at night, with such auxilary force as they might be able to furnish. Fort Jurupa was ten miles below San Bernardino on the Santa Ana river, and the robbers, camp at Temescal was only about twelve miles from Jurupa.

The Rangers arrived at the Fort at ten o'clock at night, having left Los Angeles late in the afternoon, so as to make the latter part of the march under cover of darkness, and not be seen by the vigilant bandits. At the Fort we found the gallant Smith in all his glory, with half the garrison mounted on wagon mules, and ready to move. A half hour later, Cliff, the Mormon Sheriff, reported with a splendid company of mounted Mormons, and at midnight, under the guidance of the Indians sent by Colonel Williams, of Chino, we moved rapidly on the robber camp. The night was clear and calm, the moon shone brightly, and the burnished muskets of the soldiers, flashed warning signals as they gleamed and glittered in the moonbeams. The road was hard and rocky, the sharp clatter of our well shod mustangs, and the heavy tread of the wagon mules, assured us that only by a rapid and direct movement could we expect to surprise the robbers.

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The camp was located in the valley just above the Temescal hot springs. Entering the valley we went on a full charge up the road, leaving Smith's mounted infantry, but not Smith, far in the rear, and turning a bend in the road just below the hot springs, we came in sight of the burning camp fires. The game had escaped. The bandits decamped, and when quiet and silence had been restored, we could hear their retreating clatter as they went up Coldwater canon. Pursuit was impossible at night, owing to the roughness of the mountain and mountain gorge in which the robbers had taken refuge. We accordingly made our camp, fed our mustangs from the wallets of barley furnished by the provident Smith, and while some boiled coffee in their tin-cups, others, fatigued with the more than sixty miles gallop, were soon quietly resting in the arms of Morpheus. With a breakfast of coffee, Mexican cheese and Jurupa hard tack, at daylight we took the trail of the retreating bandits, and followed it up Coldwater canon, sometimes in the bed of the stream, and sometimes clambering along the brink of some frightful precipice. In a little while Smith sent his infantry back to the fort, they being unable to follow the difficult and dangerous trail. After an infinite amount of scrambling, danger, and hard labor, we stood on the very summit of the Temescal mountain, now by some called Santiago mountain, and called by Captain Bonneville, nearly fifty years before, San Juan mountain. The day was clear and beautiful, and we were repaid for our difficult ascent by the same view as described by Bonneville, the original American explorer, who said: "Standing on the summit of the San Juan mountain, with my face towards the sea, I behold the great Pacific ocean with its numerous islands spread out before me, while to my left are the limitless plains of San Luis Rey, and to my right the great volcano and lava fields of San Gabriel," all of which that Ranger-Mormon infantile army beheld with pleasure (a sublime view, more than worth

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the journey and ascent), save and except the "volcano and lava fields" described by the adventurous Captain Bonneville--because there were none: Bonneville was mistaken. Resting a few minutes, we followed the trail along the ridge, bearing to the east, for several miles, and then descended to the plains, and by the time we were well out of the canons and foothills the sun had gently gone to rest, and another beautiful moonlight night set in. Our poor mustangs were jaded, still we pushed on, and reached San Juan Capistrano late at night, and aroused Juan Forster ("Bless his old soul!"), who inhabited the only inhabitable part of the old, dilapidated, vermin-infested, tumbling-down Mission buildings that Truman, in his "Semi-Tropical California," gets so enthusiastic over. When speaking of the Mission and Juan Forster, he says "Bless his old soul," meaning Juan. Juan Forster was not blessed by that Ranger-Mormon expedition on that occasion; neither did Smith "bless his old soul," as the sequel will show.

We roused Don Juan up. He had no knowledge or information as to thieves. He guided us into an old open courtyard, with old, broken-down corridors, dusty, dirty, brick floors, that had been inhabited by hungry hogs and mangy curs since Don Pio had laid his despoiling hand on the doomed Mission. We were worn out, hungry and sleepy; still, having a little barley, we tied and fed our worn-out mustangs, spread our blankets, and were soon sound asleep, regardless of the fleas, tarantulas, lizards, or any other kind of vermin.

We slept, with what degree of comfort I will not pretend to say; nevertheless, we slept until about four o'clock in the morning, when it commenced a cold, deluging, driving November rain, and in a little while we were all on our feet, shivering with cold and drenched with water. What with our fatigue and want of sleep, we had lain under our blankets until half drowned and frozen, and when daylight came we presented a

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pitiable spectacle--our poor mustangs, drawn up, hungry and half-frozen, our blankets soaked and muddy, and the rickety old roof above us pouring down deluges of water. Our Captain said: "Don Juan will be out presently, and will furnish us with better quarters, and whatever there may be of good cheer in the Mission, Don Juan will supply." (Bless his old soul!) Capt. Hope didn't say that, but doubtless, at the time, he meant it.

Time wore apace, but Don Juan failed to put in an appearance. We were hungry, we were wet, cold and chill. We tried to saddle our horses, but our fingers were so benumbed that we could scarcely use them. The poor horses refused to move, but would herd and huddle under the lee side of the wall for protection against the driving blast. Finally, our Captain lost faith even in the proverbial hospitality of an old English salt, and detailed a foraging party which, in the course of an hour, reported back with a sack of barley, an armful of jerked beef, and some dry willow poles ruthlessly torn from one of Don Juan's corrals, ("bless his soul.") We still had some coffee and we had our tin cups, and after many failures we succeeded in starting a fire, and having an abundant supply of water, we went to boiling coffee, fed our horses on barley, masticated jerked beef, and anathematized the soul of Juan Forster, who was still hibernating in his own hole. Hot coffee is a great restorer of circulation, and in a little while Smith and Cliff and one or two Rangers sallied forth in search of adventure, while the others continued to brew and drink coffee. The day wore on, mid-day passed, the storm increased in violence and Don Juan Forster hybernated, the Smith-Cliff party returned with a goodly supply of aguardiente in canteens. We held a council of war, some suggested calling Juan Forster out and demanding shelter, which he could have afforded, others that we saddle up and leave; but where were we to go to, even if our horses could travel? Finally our Captain said that he would not

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force the hospitality of any one who by all moral obligation should be more than willing to accord That Don Juan Avila el Rico, who dwelt at the Aliso Rancho, only eight miles on the Los Angeles road, had a large house and always kept an abundant supply of forage and provender, and that we would feed our mustangs on what was left of our barley, fortify ourselves with what was left of our coffee, and light out, trusting to a kind Providence and the hospitality of Juan Avila el Rico. The rain still poured down in torrents, we kept the fire burning in a kind of a sheltered corner. Smith was the first to saddle. His horse, whom he called Vallo, was a noble animal, and Smith was as devoted to him as was ever a Bedouin Arab to his courser. Juan Forster's principal room fronted on the Mission square, and had a large, unglazed, open, iron-barred window, and Juan Forster had been seen sitting at that window during the day. Smith had imbibed freely from his canteen, and while we were still brewing coffee and getting ready, Smith went out and took position in front of the large, open window and bawled out at the top of his voice: "D--n Juan Forster! -- d--n Juan Forster!" which he continued for a full hour, vociferously roaring, "D--n Juan Forster,"--and a general d--m--g, by which time we emerged from the miserable old corral, in the most dilapidated and wretched plight that it is possible to imagine, and in doleful procession filed out of the Mission square, passing Juan's open window, and joining in chorus with Smith's doleful refrain, "D-- -- -- --n Juan Forster."

As night set in we reached a haven of rest, a place of fullhanded hospitality, where we were received with hearty, christian welcome, and although our party was large the generosity of our noble host was yet larger, and the household and Don Juan Avila, "bless his soul," went to work in good earnest to ameliorate our wretched condition, and when the sun burst forth in all its glory on the following morning, with

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well-fed mustangs, dry clothes and full stomachs, we saddled and took up our line of march, the Mormons to San Bernardino and the Rangers, accompanied by Smith, to Los Angeles.

The most of that Ranger-Mormon party have crossed over the river. Juan Forster owns a princely estate--fifty miles of the Pacific Coast. The generous Don Juan Avila stands in the presence of Him who rewards all acts of generosity. The gallant Smith left the army and joined the legions of the Lost Cause, and I believe is yet living. He was brave, and more than generous, and during the bloody days of fraternal strife I could imagine seeing him leading where only the brave dare follow, with his terrific battle-cry of "d-- -- -- -- --n Juan Forster.

"Time at last sets all things even."
-- Mazeppa.

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SOON after my arrival at the Angels it was my good fortune to visit the home ranch of possibly the most eminent Spaniard in California, Don Antonio Maria Lugo, by the Spaniards designated as "El viejo Lugo," by the Americans as "Old man Lugo," the patriarch of the numerous Lugo family, once so rich, powerful and influential. Don Antonio Maria Lugo was eminent, not as a politician or as a man of learning, but as a man of princely possessions, of great generosity and unblemished honor. To be a kinsman of old man Lugo, in the remotest degree, was an assurance of an ample start inlands and cattle with which to commence the battle of life. To give the reader an idea of his great importance, it was always said, and I believe truthfully, that old man Lugo could ride from San Diego to Sonoma, a distance of seven hundred miles, sleep every night on his own land, change horses every day from his own herds, and eat beef slaughtered from his own cattle on the entire journey. As a man of vast possessions, of unbounded generosity and strict integrity, old man Lugo was without a peer on the whole California coast. Originally a Spanish soldier, he obtained his discharge, settled in this country, commenced the business of stock-raising, was sober, industrious, managed his herds successfully, extended his

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landed interests, and founded a family whose present numbers and various ramifications exceed any other family in the State. "Los Cuerbos," where Compton is now situated, was the home rancho of old man Lugo.

The old Don, then ninety years old, was tall, straight and supple, with a splendid military carriage, elastic step and measured tread, which gave evident proof that the training received in the King's army had made such lasting impression as would endure to the end of his life. When mounted, the old man was the beau-ideal of a horseman, and was the envy of all the young Dons, who were emulous of acquiring the style and carriage known and designated as "el cuerpo de Lugo"--the carriage of the Lugo.

The old hero died, I believe, about 1860, at the age of 98 years, maintaining up to within a short time of his death all of his physical vigor, and could ride on horseback, and, if necessity required, could swing and throw the lasso with as much vim and precision as the most expert youngster. His mental faculties, of the highest order, were perfect and unimpaired until the last minute. Old man Lugo died comparatively poor; but he left a heritage to his legion of descendants, if only understood and appreciated by them, worth more than leagues of land or cattle on a thousand hills. He left a name that stands honored, unsullied, and a bright example to be imitated by generations to come, and any man or woman, high or low, rich or poor, should feel proud to say, "I descended from Don Antonio Maria Lugo, who lived a century--a long life of usefulness--and died honored and wept by all, the friend of mankind, and without an enemy."

Having disposed of old man Lugo, this timid historian approaches the difficult task of trying to do justice to the most remarkable character that he has ever known, and he believes he has met and known in his thirty years of adventure many curious and strange characters. Several times has this

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truthful historian essayed this difficult and trying subject, and at each time his pen refused its office and flanked off on some lighter and easier task. Had Byron lived and known "Bill," he might have done justice to his many virtues; his thousand peculiarities; his eminent learning and great scientific attainments; his curious history, wonderful adventures, great knowledge of the world and mankind; his extensive travel; his great familiarity and personal acquaintance with noted persons, including Louis Napoleon and Don Carlos, the Spanish pretender; the Royal Isabella and the Duke of Wellington; King Gumbo Jumbo, of Timbuctoo, and Kamehameha, King of the Cannibal Islands. Lopez, the Cuban patriot and martyr, and Omar Pacha, had been his school fellows. He was a partner of Gen. Grant in Knight's Ferry, and mined with Jim Savage on the Tuolumne; was sailing master on the ship of the desert on her last voyage of discovery on the mythical Widney sea, and was chief architect of the construction of the Casa Grande on the Gila; and in a private letter had told Raglan how to capture the Malakoff, he having examined it professionally for the Czar, with a view to strengthening its immense defences. Having been a friend and partner of Grant when the now great man enacted the role of Charon for the wandering Argonauts, he became the confidential agent and correspondent of the Government at Washington in the dark days of the rebellion, and stood guard over the interests of the Union on the Pacific Coast, and kept a weather eye on a Governor suspected of disloyalty, and contributed greatly in preserving the integrity of the Union and holding the City of the Angels to a proper appreciation of the "best government," and preventing the actual seccession of California. There is no question that Bill ran this angelic stronghold in the interests of the Union during the dark days, and but for him the angels would have gone in the interest of the Jeff. Davis Government; and during the four years of strife and turmoil, the four years that

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tried men's souls, and filled the pockets of many, Bill was the big dog of this boneyard. He was the boss of this burg; he ruled this angelic roost, and although he frequently begged the Government for leave to go to the battle's front, he was found to be the right man in the right place, and Grant and Lincoln implored him to stay here and fight it out if it took forty summers; and stay here Bill did, and here he fought the great battle for the Union; and though the odds were ten to one against him, still he won the great battle, and I hope his friends and all who know him will accord him the distinction, as does the historian, of being the Boss Angel or Bill the most remarkable. Henceforth, however, the chronicler will presume on his more than quarter of a century of unbroken, uninterrupted friendship and close intimacy, and designate this grand historical character with the familiar cognomen of Bill.

This careful chronicler first met and made Bill's acquaintance on his first visit to old man Lugo's. I was somewhat impressed with his personal appearance on first sight. He was of medium hight, of muscular but graceful figure, with a complexion dark as a Spaniard, a head that in intellectual balance and massiveness would have equaled that of the immortal Webster, and would have made a perfect model for a sculptor in giving cast to the head of a Roman Senator, a countenance as soft and sweet as the most gentle woman, with the most peculiar eye I ever beheld in mortal man, a sort of philosophic, poetic, sleepy eye, that seemed so soft, quiet, kind, benevolent and dreamy but still so changeable. At the slightest insult or offence those poetic, dreamy eyes would change and flash like the lighting of a match or the flashing of gunpowder. His mouth was expressive of great firmness, with a peculiar smile, so pleasing yet so dangerous to a thoughtless woman. Bill, however, had a chivalrous feeling, amounting to a kind of homage, an excessive gallantry, toward the fair sex, otherwise he would have been a rake. That mouth of his was

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the kind of a mouth that always leads a weak woman to her ruin. There was this much animal in Bill, and with the single exception, and that flashing of the eye that indicated kinship to the Bengal tiger, he was all intellectual. He was a scientist and a philosopher of the true school of philosophy.

As said before, I was somewhat astonished at Bill's peculiar physical and intellectual appearance, supposing him to be a Spaniard, but when he spoke in the most elegant and grammatical English, and in a manner and tone of voice that would have been the envy of the most cultivated courtier, or diplomat, my surprise bordered on curisity, and immediately on taking our departure I inquired of my companion about him and who he was. The only information he could afford me was that he was "old man Lugo's friend, general manager, interpreter and confidential adviser; that there was an air of mystery surrounding the gentleman, that he was polite, amiable and genial, but whence he came, who he was, his nationality, antecedents, former history, et cetera, he kept to himself." His name was English, though surely he was not an Englishman, neither did he resemble an American. He spoke the Spanish language as spoken in Madrid, as also the French, with fluency and pure Parisian accent; still he was evidently neither English, American, Spanish or French, so the question presented itself to my mind, who and what is he? Broach any scientific subject, and he would show himself to be master of it; any matter of history was as much at his fingers' end as though he himself had made it to order; chemistry seemed to be Bill's favorite science, and he applied it to everything, from making tortillas, cooking beans and making coffee, to the making of first-class cognac brandy out of the most villainous Mexican aguardiente, and by the most simple process of distillation he would convert the crude asphaltum, with which our streets are paved, into pure and refined camphene; and thereby hangs a tale.

It is known that asphaltum exists in inexhaustible

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quantities in Los Angeles County, and was always extensively used in roofing houses and paving streets. Now Bill's scientific knowledge pointed the way to boundless wealth to himself and to Los Angeles County in converting the unlimited supply into pure camphene; and he would revolutionize the camphene trade, then so great. So he fitted up a laboratory in the old building that has since been so altered and improved upon, and is now known as the "Signoret Building." The main floor of the two-story frame was occupied as a drug store, while the upper story was used by an old gentleman mentioned by our deceased centennial historian as having been a most wonderful compadre, and of having been the padrino of more children than any other man in California, if the reader knows what that means and his very pious and christian old wife--the couple being childless--as being a very eminent comadre. Now, if the reader labors under the misfortune of being a "gringo," and don't know the mearning of "compadre" and "comadre," then it is the reader's misfortune and not his fault, and the author will endeavor to throw some light on that matter.

The old gentleman referred to as having been so eminent as a compadre, lived to a ripe old age and went to his grave full of honors and was generally lamented. I could never understand how he bore up under the infliction of so many compadres. This to the author has been a long prevailing mystery. I once had a compadre who came near being my financial ruin. The author became a compadre in San Francisco in early times. To be a compadre is to stand as god-father for some one's child at baptism, then you become compadre to both parents and the father becomes your compadre and the mother becomes your comadre. Now it came to pass that I was in a solid financial situation at San Francisco, as aforesaid, and made the acquaintance of a most elegant Peruvian Don, a near kinsman and partisan of the great hero of Inca-land, the renowned

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Echinique. I was very proud of my aristocratic friend, and felt a great elevation of dignity when promenading Montgomery street with this, the only man I ever saw who knew how to wear a Spanish cloak, and how to carry a cane, and who knew how to gracefully give his cigar to a person to obtain a neighborly light from, and when we, arm in arm, entered the parquette of a theatre the eyes of the audience would be diverted from the stage to gaze upon his magnificence, so thought I in my youthful pride. It so happened that my friend was a married man, and had a most interestingly languid, lisping, tropical beauty for a wife, and the high-born pair had a baby. One day my friend informed me that their nina was to be baptized and that I must stand as padrino to the child, and thereby the friendship between us would be cemented--we would be compadres. I at first demurred to the proposition, but the honor was so great that I surrendered at discretion and won the distinction of being and having a compadre, as also a comadre.

My compadre was a millionaire in his own country, but on account of the great Echinique being temporarily under a cloud, was an exile, and was living in a very modest way in San Francisco. But he received a letter from Lima by the last steamer, informing him that on the next departure of the Royal Mail Steamship a thousand doubloons would be sent to his private account, and ten thousand with which to proceed to New York and purchase arms for his great kinsman in case they could not be procured in San Francisco. All of this I learned at the time he requested me to stand for the nina. The time arrived and I was all excitement; I was about to have for a compadre a nephew of the great man at whose frown all Peru trembled.

On the morning of the important day my friend delicately hinted that a few presents to his wife, my soon to be comadre, was expected on this occasion; also some toys, a little silver

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plate, or some trifles for the nina. To save me the trouble he would buy them, but of course I would have to pay for them. I didn't wish to seem mean, so I inquired about how much coin would be necessary for the trifles, and he mentioned a sum that seemed to me to be very large, but, said he with a Spanish shrug of the shoulders, "que vale este," (a mere trifle). Well, through I, such honors don't fall to the lot of ordinary gringos, and I handed over the cash. I next learned from my soon to be comadre that I was expected to make a small present to the priest, a silver service of some kind, and so grand did I feel by this time that I would have bartered away my birthright rather than to seem penurious in the eyes of such people, so away went another investment. At the hour set the company met at my friend's residence on Telegraph Hill, Lombard street. A grand dinner and confection was being served. Costly wines in large quantities were being brought in, and I was duly informed that as a matter of honor the padrino was obliged to foot the bill. By this time, however, under the inspiration of wine I felt grander than any Spanish or Peruvian grandee that ever spent his million a year, and a hundred dollars seemed to me as small change, and away went my capital.

The nina was duly baptized, and I became a compadre; went to my room about daylight, fell into a kind of a slumber and dreamed that my grand Peruvian compadre had made me the present of a fee-simple title to a great sugar plantation in Peru. It was near noon when I awoke and my aristocratic compadre was at the door. Some little bill remained unpaid and I was the only one who had the right to pay on such occasion--$40 would square the thing up. I soaked my head in a basin of cold water, went down town with my compadre, handed over the coin, felt so bad that I returned to my room and to bed. Never more did I behold my only compadre. My comadre ever after to me was a vision of the past; and the nina, God

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only knows. A few days after my accession to the honor of being a compadre, I learned that the kinsman of the great Echinique had gone to Stockton and opened a monte bank.

Bill's laboratory was in the back room of the drug store, and most fortunately the room immediately over it was the old lady's oratory (the comadre's), and was inhabited by San Francisco, the greatest and most wonderful saint, possibly, that ever took up his earthly residence in this City of Angels. This eminent saint has performed, and still continues to perform, many and wondrous miracles. San Francisco is to-day, at the very time the author is reverently engaged in writing his praise, performing miracles, occupies elegant quarters, and is ministered to daily by the kind old widow of the old departed compadre. The writer avers, asseverates and declares the truth to be that San Francisco has performed, and still continues to perform, miraculous cures, and is decorated from the top of his saintly head to the tip end of his saintly big toe with testimonials of his many and miraculous cures; and if the reader refuses to believe this most truthful writer, then let him verify the truth of history, and pay a visit to this remarkable saint, who is so famous in the City of Angels that he is as easy to find as the Round House, or the famous Round House George.

If the reader should visit this renowned saint, possibly the first thing that will attract his attention will be a beautiful golden ornament, representing a woman's breast. Now, the significance of that golden ornament is this: An Angelic lady had a badly diseased breast, which medical science failed to cure; so the poor woman was recommended to try San Francisco. She accordingly went to a jeweler and had a golden duplicate made of her well breast, and hung it up in the oratory as an offering to San Francisco. The result was that almost immediately her diseased breast resumed its former beauty, and was perfectly healed. A christian gentleman had a lung disease that was hurrying him to the grave. His physicians

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informed him that their efforts in his behalf would be unavailing--that he must die. He was recommended to try San Francisco, so he had some expensive ornaments made, representing a pair of healthy lungs, hung them up as an offering to that saintly practitioner, and in a twinkling his lungs were healed. On two occasions the house in which old San Francisco hung up was nearly consumed by fire. Both times the fire raged fearfully until it reached the part of the house occupied by the most potent saint, when it mysteriously smouldered and went out. Notwithstanding Bill was personally present and directed a host of fire fiends against the consuming element, the fire, as before stated, continued on its devouring course until it came near San Francisco's elegant quarters, where the good old lady was engaged in supplicating his intercession, and right there it stopped.

These are only instances of thousands of most wonderful cures effected by this most wonderful saint, and the subduing of the raging conflagration on the two occasions referred to, are only instances likewise of the potency for good of the ancient Francisco.

The reader will soon be brought to understand why it was fortunate that San Francisco was quartered in the room directly over Bill's asphaltum camphene laboratory. It was a hot day in September, 1854, that all the elegant angels of leisure were kicking their heels in the cool piazza of the old Montgomery, which was immediately in front of the house wherein Bill was industriously engaged in his laudable design of benefitting mankind in general, and himself and his adopted city in particular, when all at once chebang! boom! fire, flame, window-glass, a shivered door, and a general bust up in Bill's laboratory. It seemed as though the old frame house was lifted two feet bodily off the ground, and came down with a seeming great crash. The elegant angels kicking their heels, as aforesaid, ran to the rescue, and, in a short time, under the

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cool direction of Bill, who had stepped into the drug store to divert his mind in the chemical concoction of a "Wellingtonian cocktail," and was fortunately absent when the explosion took place, the fire was subdued and the question of damage was gone into generally, which proved to be quite heavy; and right here the point comes in. If Bill's works had not been directly under San Francisco, that frail old house, then new, would have been blown sky high. You know it would have been entirely out of the order of things to have blown up a saint of such great merit as San Francisco.

Bill was one of the coolest, yet one of the most determined of all the desperadoes of the southern counties. It is to be understood that Bill was not in any manner of speech a desperado, though in all truth he always got away with the desperado by whomever tackled. I will now proceed to relate a few individual instances of Bill's successful encounters with the knights of the trigger and blade. Once upon a time there was an attempt to assassinate Judge Benjamin Hayes, now deceased, one of our most eminent pioneer lawyers, which created quite an excitement. Parties of gringos went out in all directions (this was in 1851) to try to get a clue to the perpetrators of the dastardly attempt, one party under the "most useful man," accompanied by one Pete Monroe, a discharged dragoon and first-class desperado. The party brought up at old man Lugo's and interviewed Bill, who was deemed to be insolent in his demeanor to the inquisitive gringos, and was informed by Pete that if not more respectful he (Pete) would dismount and slice him with his sabre, which he carried at his side. Bill responded by stepping inside and returning with old man Lugo's long, straight Toledo blade, naked and in hand, and with one of his sweetest smiles invited Pete to dismount and try his metal. In a moment Pete was on the ground with his spurs and coat thrown aside, and as a preliminary made his bright dragoon blade describe a fiery circle as he derisively laughed at Bill and

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made the "right and left moulinet." Pete advanced; Bill, smilingly stood on his guard; Pete made a tremendous "right cut," intending to slice Bill's head from his shoulders; Bill turned his finger-nails down, slightly elevated his wrist, there was a slight clanking of steel, and Pete's heavy blade glanced off harmlessly, and Bill quietly remarked: "If you do that again I will disjoint your right elbow." "You will, will you?" said Pete coming back to a guard, "Now we'll see, damn you!" and he brought his "right hand to his left shoulder" with his gleaming blade at a perpendicular "edge to the left;" Bill, who stood on "guarde in carte," made a slight turn of the wrist, which brought him in "tierce," then as Pete launched forth the full force of his muscular right arm, Bill gave a dexterous turn of his wrist, slightly raised his elbow, and Pete's arm and blade fell, the sabre to the ground and his arm helplessly to his side. "Now," said Bill, "come in and let me fix your elbow, it is only out of joint." "I'll give you a thousand dollars if you will teach me that trick," said John Floyd Jones, one of the party who sat quietly on his horse. "Where in the name of all that's damnable did you learn that," said Pete, looking at his bleeding elbow that Bill was now engaged on, and demonstrating a skill in surgery not inferior to his dexterity in swordsmanship. "Learn what," said Bill, "that was nothing, I know you are a good swordsman of your school, but of my school you are mere child's play. I could take the ramrod from your carbine and disarm a half dozen such swordsmen all attacking me at once. And now," said Bill, addressing himself to John Floyd Jones, who was a well-bred gentleman: "If you gentlemen will now dismount and apologize for the rudeness of this buffoon, you will be more than welcome to the best we have on this ranch." The invitation was good naturedly accepted, the whole party turned their railery on the wounded and crest-fallen Pete, complimented Bill, and gladly partook of the hospitality of the Lugo family, and the polite and well-bred

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Bill, who, like one of the knights of old would fight a man one minute and minister to his wants the next.

Bill and Joaquin were chums before the eminent cut-throat's outlawry, and Bill was suspected of over-intimate relations with "Vicenta," Joaquin's favorite and pretty sister, who at the time of the bloody career of her brother dwelt among us terrestrial angels. A surveillance was constantly kept over Vicenta, and necessarily at times fell upon my present hero, whose knowledge of the secret operations of the robber chief was not only suspected, but was known, believed, and since confirmed. Still Bill's honor and chivalry was a safeguard to Joaquin, that he must have had full faith in, for the reason that developments subsequent to his death proved that Bill, if so minded, could have surrendered the chief at many times, had not Vicenta and honor protected him.

Mike Chevallier was a renowned hero of the Texas revolution and the Mexican war, was a graduate of the most high school of desperadoes, and famous for his many exploits on the classic shores of the Bonny Bravo. Of course Mike came to California in the palmy days of gold dust, monte games, free fights and revolver rule, and took a prominent position in the upper crust of bowie-knife society. He never missed his man until he met Bill, who had been cutting up such extraordinary rusties with the fighting fraternity that his fame extended from Calaveras to San Diego, and Mike felt his prominence waning. Bill had taken all the wind out of Mike's sails, who wrote to Bill from Monterey that he "was coming to Los Angeles to crop Bill's wings, and to be prepared to give him such reception as his great fame entitled him to." In due time Mike arrived, put up at the Bella Union, and dropped a note requesting Bill to meet him at Taos', in Nigger alley, at a certain hour, and to be "heeled." Bill answered the note, and assured the gentleman who had done him so great an honor "that at the hour designated he would be there, and would be heeled."

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Accordingly, at about nine o'clock in the evening, Bill might have been seen at one of the great gambling tables at Taos', looking on and bucking an occasional slug, and manifesting the most careless demeanor. Still those peculiar eyes were in all parts of the great gambling-room. Bill had a Colt fiveshooter, which he carried in his sleeve--a most beautiful way to carry a knife or revolver, so convenient-like, you know. Reader, if you want to be sure of getting the draw on a man, then learn to draw from the sleeve. Bill drew from the sleeve. The quick eye of Bill soon descried Mike quietly approaching with his right hand under his coat. Mike drew from the hip. Mike's tactics were common to desperadoes, to approach Bill unseen, and say, "Draw and defend yourself," and turn loose on him. Bill went on carelessly bucking, with an eye all the time on Mike. Just as Mike was going to say "Draw," Bill faced about, and, covering him, said smilingly: "Mike, I've got the draw on you. One movement, and you're a dead man." "True as Gospel," said Mike, "you are the first man that ever got the draw on Mike Chevallier. Shoot, or name your conditions." "My conditions are," said Bill, "that you leave town before daylight, never to return. Give me your word to that effect, and you can go; refuse it, and I will shoot you dead." Mike made the promise, and Bill put up his pistol and invited Mike to drink to future friendship. The two then went off together and took several friendly drinks, and when about to separate Bill said: "Mike, do you know the reason I didn't kill you?" "No," said Mike. "Well, Mike," said Bill, "you remember that I am the Grand Master of the Military Order of the Lone Star, and that after establishing that Order in General Houston's army, after San Jacinto, that you were one of the first initiated by me. Do you remember our vow, and do you see now why it was I spared you?" "Great God, Colonel, am I to believe my own senses; I now for the first time recognize you," responded Mike. Bill now with

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great dignity of manner turned upon his heel, and Mike was left alone to brood over his discomfiture.

The truth of this matter is that Bill had in his former experience belonged to the Carbonari of Italy, and when he entered the Texas Revolutionary army as Chief of Engineers he translated the ritual of the Carbonari and made it applicable to his new Order of the "Lone Star."

True to his knightly word, Mike saddled his horse and left the slumbering angels before day, returned to Monterey gloomily, fixed up his earthly affairs, willed his revolver and bowie to Bill, and committed suicide by taking two ounces of laudanum. Alas, poor Mike! He for the first time in his wild career mistook his man.

After an experience of years' duration, and after mature reflection on this interesting question, this thoughtful writer feels justified in advising the rising generation of would-be desperadoes to learn to draw from the sleeve. It is a most difficult and beautiful art, but when once master of it, you always get the draw on your man. Young man, learn to draw from the sleeve.

I became very intimate with Bill, even on short acquaintance, and found him a most agreeable companion. He was a great cook as well as a great compounder of mysterious mixtures. When I say cook I wish to be understood to mean scientific cookery. Bill used to say, "No one can cook a square meal unless he is familiar with the science of chemistry; no person should be permitted to cook unless familiar with this most useful of sciences." One time this very temperate writer started to the Dominguez Ranch in company with Myron Norton. I think maybe Jack Watson was also of the party. The trio were of the total abstinence persuasion, but somehow or other when we halted at Los Cuerbos, it was discovered that we were well armed with first-class Mexican aguardiente, which we used to wash the backs of our mustangs

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when we removed the saddle cloth, a time-honored custom among old Rangers. You will never gall your horse's back on long rides if you will only carry some good aguardiente with you and when you remove the saddle cloth, just pour about a gill of the fiery liquid on the heated hide of your horse; good brandy or whisky will do, but don't drink the brandy--if you do your horse may suffer. Well, when the very abstemious trio halted at old man Lugo's, that most interesting ceremony was gone through with, and our horses were staked out, and we stopped for dinner, and feasted on one of Bill's favorite dishes to-wit: "Soo Loo curry." Reader, did you ever eat curry? If not, did you ever eat the Mexican national dish, "carne con chili." Now, if you ever ate "carne con chili" you need have no fear of a future hell. "Carne con chili" is moderately cool in comparison with Bill's "Soo Loo curry." Curry is hot and when washed down with aguardiente it must be if possible, still hotter. We, however, used our aguardiente on our horse's backs, otherwise we might have "combusted."

The point this non-scientific writer is coming to is the "transmutation of liquids," which is only known to adepts in chemistry like Bill. After "curry," without having curried our mustangs, we continued our pilgrimage to Don Manuel Dominguez', leaving two bottles of aguardiente with Bill, well knowing that our heated mustangs would need some on their backs on our proposed return on the morrow. The morrow came, of course, and with the morrow came the three "sons of temperance" to Los Cuerbos, and when Bill produced a bottle of the aguardiente of the day before, we bathed the heated hides of our horses with as superior an article of old cognac as ever tempted the fidelity of a California voter or a Los Angeles Councilman--all the bona fide result of Bill's inimitable science.

At the time of which I write, Bill was about thirty years old, judging from appearances; but judging from his vast

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knowledge, great travels, marvelous campaigns and voyages, Bill must have been at least three hundred and sixty-five. He was born on the mighty Ganges, was the son of an officer of high rank in the East Indian service, while his mother was said to be the daughter of a powerful Begum, one of the leaders in the bloody Sepoy rebellion. After passing through Eton, Oxford, and graduating in some of the continental seats of learning, and after protracted travels in the more civilized portions of the world, our hero returned to his native jungle, and in due course of time took an official station in the East Indian service. The biographer confesses himself somewhat befogged in placing Bill in command of a British war ship, or the manner in which he attained to such high station, but such is the truth of history. The writer also declares the truth to be that the "Soo Loo" pirates had been harassing the Indian Chinese merchantmen to such degree that Bill was sent to chastise them, and what does the reader suppose my old Ranger comrade did in that emergency? To be frank, then, and to the point, Bill converted that royal ship into a full fledged pirate, he pulled down the royal cross and ran up the piratical flag of Soo Loo, made common cause with that grand and defiant horde of pirates, declared war against the world, and became the terror of the Chinese Seas.

The result was as might have been expected. In less than half a year a whole squadron of the Royal navy was hot after him, and very soon our hero found that part of the world too small for him, and so he steered for the Sandwich Islands, where he intended to refit, victual and water his ship. No sooner did he appear in Hawaiian waters than a full-rigged and heavily armed British cruiser took up the chase, and Bill headed his ship for the California coast, scuttled and burned her off Cape Mendocino, took to his boats, and became the discoverer of Humboldt Bay, where he landed with what was left of his crew, and being surfeited on adventures on the

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mighty deep, boldly struck out on an exploration of the then unknown interior. This was in 1842, and here comes a most astonishing assertion-- that this pioneer party of fugitive Britons, fleeing from the wrath of the enraged British Lion, became the original discoverers of gold on the Trinity River. We will not claim that Bill's fugitive sailors were the original discoverers of gold in California, but, that they had all left the Trinity gold mines with their purses well filled long before Sutter's mill was even projected, and before the historical Marshall had crossed the snowy mountains. This writer was one of the pioneers of the Trinity mines, and it was well known and marveled at, at the time, that "Sailor Bar" (no one knowing how it got its name) had evidently been worked, and nearly worked out, long before the pioneers of 1850 commenced their operations.

When the great allies declared war against the Northern Colossus, Bill was on his way to San Francisco with a few thousand of old man Lugo's fat cattle which he disposed of, and when about embarking for San Pedro a letter was placed in his hand bearing the monogram of the Horse Guards. Hastily opening the missive he found it to be a letter from Lord Raglan with a request to meet him in the Crimea, with the assurance that it was all right with the Queen on account of that little Soo Loo business.

The day following, Bill was on his way to New York by way of Panama, having sent a statement of his account to old man Lugo, retaining may be $15,000 or $20,000 with which to defray his expenses to the seat of war. We will not follow him on his journey, but we next find him at the Allies Headquarters in the Crimea, where Raglan urges him to accept a position as Chief of the Royal Sappers and Miners, and his old college chum, Omar Pacha offers him the command of a regiment of Turkish cavalry, which offer, after many apologies to his cousin Raglan, he accepts, and becomes a Pacha of Three Sails,

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to be known thenceforth as "Gillermo Pacha." With much ceremony my friend the Pacha was inducted into his command, and to his surprise, when putting them through the drill for the first time, he found them insolent and insubordinate. After dismissal he sent for the Adjutant and Sergeant-Major to enquire why this was so, and was coolly informed by them that this particular corps was the oldest in the Turkish army, that it was once commanded by the Prophet himself, and that it acknowledged no commander save the Sultan. Said the Sergeant-Major: "When a commander is placed immediately over us who don't suit, he never lives to see his second battle."

Bill thought over this matter all night, and by morning had come to the conclusion that his old friend Omar was playing a joke, and made up his mind what to do. At the next drill he ordered the regiment to parade dismounted, and when they were drawn up in line Bill took his position facing it, and eighty paces to the front. He then ordered the Adjutant to make a detail of one man from each company, to report under the Sergeant- Major, all of which was done in a sluggish kind of way that was indeed provoking. But after awhile the Sergeant-Major reported his detail of ten men. Dressing them up neatly, Bill drew his sabre and slapped off their ten heads, ordered the Sergeant-Major to his post, and went on and put the command through their drill in a greatly improved way from the day previous.

The next day the same operation was repeated; ten more heads were cut off. The next day ten more, and on the fourth day, just as the regiment came most beautifully into line, the Commander-in-Chief, the great Omar, with his full staff, rode up. Bill saluted him, and caused the regiment to present arms. Omar inquired, "How do you like your regiment?" "I am delighted with it," said Bill. "Do they obey orders promptly?" Omar again inquired. "Most beautifully,"

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answered Bill. "Give me an example," said Omar. There was a battery near by, with the guns loaded, and a sentry standing by with a burning port fire. Bill motioned to a Captain on the extreme right to approach. Then Bill called his First Lieutenant in the same way, and the two saluted and stood before their Colonel. "Captain," said Bill, "go and place your head at the mouth of that cannon." He obeyed. "Lieutenant, take that port fire and fire off that gun." The Lieutenant obeyed, and the Turkish army lost one of its bravest captains. Bill then saluted the Commander, and said, "You now see to what discipline I have reduced this refractory tribe, and I hope your highness is satisfied, and will approve the desperate remedy which was necessary to make them what they ought to and will be while under my command--the most perfect corps in the allied army." The great Omar did not only approve of what Bill had done, but in addition thereto sent him as a present three most beautiful horses belonging to his stud.

Does the reader now wonder at the seeming mystery surrounding this curious character, as stated at the beginning of this brief sketch of one whom this historian could write volumes about.

I have given Bill somewhat of a fictitious character, but in all truth and honesty he is one of our most honored and respected citizens, and now stands at the very head of one of the scientific professions, and one whom this old Ranger delights to call his friend and to write about.

All I have written about this great cosmopolite is true, and is vouched for on the veracity of this veracious writer, who founds his veracity on Bill's own statements. And Bill is truthful, more truthful than the average '49er, and why should he not be? Did he not first inhale the truth- inspiring air of California seven years prior to the coming of the Argonauts?

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NOVEMBER 12, 1851, late of a bright moonlight evening, standing alone at the door of his office, Main street, where now is the Oriental, Benjamin Hayes was shot at by some one within three feet, on horseback. The ball, says the Star, "passed through the rim of his hat and lodged in the wall on the opposite side of the room, perforating in its progress the door, which is fully an inch in thickness. The assassin (?) then instantly galloped off. A party of three, including the Sheriff, J. R. Barton, tracked him about ten miles to a house where they were received by five or six men on horseback, who charged upon them, fired several shots, and drove them from the ground. The Sheriff deemed it prudent to return to the city. He did so, obtained a posse, went back to the place of encounter, and made a search that proved ineffectual. It has always been believed that this assault was intended for another individual."

So writeth the "Centennial Historian," and hereby hangeth a tale of more than ordinary interest, of bloody import. Notwithstanding this chronicler is forced to take issue with his respected and departed friend, the lamented historian aforesaid, and maintain the truth to be that Benjamin Hayes was the very person intended to be assassinated on the occasion above referred to in quotation, and the reason thereof to be that

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Judge Hayes was then the legal luminary of the city and county of the Angels, and was engaged in the prosecution of two of the numerous Lugos, charged with murdering some Americans in the Cajon Pass in San Bernardino county, and it was possibly thought best by the friends of the accused to end the prosecution by ending the Prosecuting Attorney, hence the attempted assassination. Now the reader can easily surmise why it was that the party of gringos under the "most useful man" went to old man Lugo's, and their inquisitorial intentions on that visit and the very delicate, not to say dangerous, position of Bill on that occasion, and his satisfactory definition of his position in his successful encounter with Pete Monroe, mentioned in the preceding chapter.

Sometime early in 1851, the Indians raided the San Bernardino rancho, then the property of the Lugo family, a branch of which occupied the ranch.

The successful raiders drove off a herd of gentle horses, and went out through the Cajon Pass. Two of the Lugo's, with half-a-dozen of their dependents, followed on the fresh trail of the desert Indians, and in the Cajon they found some four or five Americans, and one half-breed Cherokee Indian. The Cherokee being the only one of the party who either spoke or understood Spanish, in response to inquiries, informed the Lugos that there were only three Indians engaged in driving off the herd, and that they (the party) never suspected that they were other than vaqueros legitimately engaged. The Lugo party pressed on, overtook the raiders at the Point of Rocks on the Mojave, and at once, and without counting noses, charged them, and to their intense chagrin and astonishment found the party to consist of some twenty warriors, instead of three. A fierce conflict ensued, hand to hand, in which three of the Lugo party were killed, and several Indians were made to kiss the desert sands. Fortunately the Lugos, armed with Colt revolvers, achieved a splendid victory over the

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Indians and recovered the entire herd. On their triumphal return with the gory scalps of their enemies dangling at their saddle-bows, they found the same small party yet in the same camp, when the chief Lugo demanded of the Cherokee why he had deceived them about the number of the Indians. The Cherokee replied that he was anxious to see them recover their stock, and was afraid to tell the truth, knowing that they would be too cowardly to follow a party of Indians respectable in numbers. This brought on words, which ended in the Lugo shooting the Cherokee dead on the spot. A short, sharp and decisive conflict then ensued, which resulted in the Americans being entirely wiped out, and hence the prosecution against the Lugos and the attempted assassination of the District Attorney, Benjamin Hayes. The Lugos were finally tried and acquitted, the pioneer lawyer (Brent) who defended them receiving, as the writer has been informed, $20,000 for his fee--surely a fair legal starter in a small frontier town.

One or two more reminiscences of the bloody times of 1853, and the reader will be drifted over into the more quiet times of '54, when matters became somewhat more pacific, but not less interesting.

Notwithstanding the then unsettled state of society, and the general insecurity of life in this angelic population, balls, fandangos and festivities were the order of the day.

The gringo reader may not know the difference between a ball and a fandango, and the writer will inform him thereon. The ball, or in Spanish baile, means the same thing as in English, a select gathering of invited guests for dancing and general jollification and amusement, and in Spanish society is even more exclusive than among the Americans. On the other hand a fandango is open and free for all. Ladies of the higher ranks of society never go to a fandango, and Dons of the upper ton only go in a half-way clandestine manner. A fandango of the olden time was a curious agglomeration of all the elements

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of the population so promiscuously thrown together in this, at that time, curious, quaint old town. Everybody then dressed extravagantly fine. It was nothing to find a senorita of the most humble walks in life arrayed in all the costly silks and satins of China and India, resplendent with costly jewelry, and to find one unexpensively clad was the exception, and always elicited remarks at her expense. Gentlemen attending the fandango were always expensively and elegantly dressed, and a fandango was a brilliant but over-crowded show. All of the old Spanish houses had one grand room or sala, flanked by two other rooms, which made up the front of the houses. Two large wings extending back, with rooms generally used as dormitories, and a great high wall in the rear, forming an interior court or square, with wide corridors or verandas on the three sides, both outside and inside generally paved with brick tiles, a good pine plank floor in the three front rooms, and if not in the rear dormitories, they had brick tile floors, the same as the floors of the veranda; adobe walls, well whitewashed, with chair-boards around the sala, good and substantial doors and windows, with shutters generally painted green, as were also the cornice and columns supporting the verandas, the whole covered with a flat roof, and now you have a description of an old-style angel habitation. The ruins of many yet remind us of the good old times. The happy days of joyous revelry; the gay baile; the noisy fandango and the hospitable fiesta of the times when the Spanish Californian was so full-handed and happy, that in his bountiful hospitality he gave little heed to the "sore- foot or the rainy day," and reveling in the happy present thought not of the future. Alas! the future is the present, and he has lived to see it with sorrow.

Sentimental writers speak of the "old mud hovels of the Spanish regime." No greater libel was ever perpetrated on a comfortable house than to call one of those old models of cool comfort, one of our old first-class adobes, a hovel. The writer

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hereof, although no longer a man of war, but emphatically a man of peace and of letters, is ready and willing to maintain, on foot or on horseback, that one of our old respectable one-story adobes of the olden time was the most comfortable house, one of the most enjoyable homes, the most admirable piece of rural architecture that ever reared itself from the sacred soil of California.

This writer stands by the adobe house as the coolest house, the warmest house, the cheapest house, and the most earthquake proof house (might as well try to shake down a haystack), and the best house for fandangos that ever existed in this old city, of yore so famous for her fights and fandangos. Nothing but an adobe house could have stood an old-fashioned fandango. A modern earthquake is no comparison to an old-fashioned California fandango, especially such as we had in those good old times in this angelic city. Alas! alas! we will never see the likes of them again. The old fashioned fandango is a thing of the past. Reader let us go to a fandango in 1853. Before we start let us examine well our revolvers, oil the cylinders, and see that the tubes are open, free from rust, and well capped. We will dress as we please, only we must dress expensively fine. We must be sure and wear a red vicuna hat with a broad brim and a sugarloaf crown, a gold cord wound twice around, and heavy tassels. We can either wear a blue clawhammer with gilt buttons, or a modern black frock, or an elegantly fitting blue jacket, with a little gold embroidery, a red Mexican sash, sky blue pants and a gold bullion stripe down the side will make up an outre fashionable fandango costume, and the last being the Ranger uniform we are in fine feather and ready for the fandango. To be elegant we must still have a shining patent leather scabbard with silver mountings for our revolvers. We are not, however, required to wear the Ranger costume, still we must have the vicuna hat and must not omit the gold cord and tassels,

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otherwise we may be regarded as gringos, and then we would fail to enjoy ourselves, and if we dance it will have to be with some old woman, whose jealous Don might give us a dig in the ribs with his punal as we elbow our way through the dense crowd in taking our departure. A gringo stood no sort of a show at an old fashioned fandango.

We are now in front of the fandango house, where we elbow our way through a dense crowd of Indians, peons and pelados, the riff-raff, scruff and scum of our angel population, and amid jibe and jeer we gain the corridor or veranda, where we find rancheros on foot or on horseback, all drinking, those dismounted, however, maintaining careful hold of the hair ropes of their horses, never daring to tie them up, or the peons and pelados in the rear will run them off and spout them for aguardiente. After an infinite amount of crowding and squeezing, we gain the door, inside of which we find a dozen or more dismounted ranchers holding their hair ropes with their horses' heads in near proximity without. As soon as discovered by the dismounted rancheros, they at once open the way with the polite salutation of "Pasan Vds. caballeros," (pass in, gentlemen); for be it known, reader, that the California ranchero was never rude. Even if he choked one with his lasso he would be polite about it. Now we are in the grand fandango room, and what do we see and hear?

The fandango is in full blast. The musicians seated in one corner of the room perform on the harp, guitar, violin and flageolet, and make very good music for the initiated; but to the gringo, somewhat discordant, especially when broken in upon with a horrible essay at vocalism. The room is packed to its utmost capacity, a waltz is going on, gaudily dressed rancheros, fashionable and unfashionable gamblers, store clerks, county officials and well-to-do merchants, with representatives from all lands under the sun, except China. John never was much on the dance (his foot and figure not being in accord with

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the light fantastic); Hindoostan was represented, however, in the person of Abdul Krim Mullah, called by vulgar angels the "Royal Bengal Tiger;" a brilliant array of Rangers, with quite a sprinklin of Jews and one or two young army officers, went to make up the male part of the fandango, while the female part of the house consisted of a brilliantly gaudy crowd of senoritas of various