Page 211

WE WILL drop Aleck Bell for the present, in order to continue the history of the Filibusters. We have drifted out of '53 to '54, when our angel population was greatly increased by the influx of the rag-tag and bobtail of the exploded Walker Government of Lower California and Sonora, which gave up the ghost on the San Diego side of the line about February, 1854, after a brilliant existence of some four months. Many of our best citizens came from the "busted up" twin republics of Lower California and Sonora, all of whom have disappeared. The theory of filibustering, or manifest destiny was: "First, that the earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof, and we are the Lord's people; second, that all Spanish-American governments are worthless, and should be reconstructed, and that such is our mission; that the people of Lower California and Sonora are, or should be, dissatisfied with Mexican rule, and are, or should be, ripe for rebellion, and if not in terror of the Mexican central despotism would cry out for American aid to shake off their galling chains; the Sonorenos ought to rise, proclaim their independence, and cry for help from the geneous Filibuster, who stood ready to help the down-trodden Mexican and to feather his own nest in

Page 212

particular." We were, therefore, determined to succor the oppressed people of Lower California and Sonora, who were silently praying that we might come and relieve them from their cruel yoke, and their surplus supply of horses and such like, and possess the lands of the country and receive the thanks of a grateful people after we had won their liberties and relieved them of their property. Such were the noble sentiments that inspired the champions of manifest destiny, or the spirit of conquest run riot, and culminating in those piratical expeditions of 1851 to Cuba and 1853 to Lower California.

At that time in California it was as unpopular to be opposed to filibustering as it was to be opposed to African slavery, then our most cherished institution, and few had the courage to say aught against it. Then who should blame the man who shouldered a rifle and went to the field to maintain and vindicate the spirit of the times. As an instance of the spirit that prevailed at the time, I will state as a fact that in 1853 and 1854 Don Pedro C. Carrillo was one of the most popular and influential Democrats in the California Senate, and that when Walker was raiding and robbing ranches in Lower California, Don Pedro greatly impaired his popularity in the Senate by offering a series of resolutions in condemnation of the Filibusters. His resolutions were voted down, and ponderous blows were showered upon him as being opposed to the spirit of American liberty. Another was the judgment of Ogden Hoffman, of the United States District Court, in passing sentence upon Col. H. P. Watkins, Vice- President of the Republic of Lower California and Sonora, convicted of the crime of setting on foot a military expedition against the Rupublic of Mexico. Said the Judge: "From my heart I sympathize with the accused, but I am sworn to the execution of the law and must discharge my duty, whatever my sympathies may be. To the law and to the evidence, then, we must turn our exclusive attention. I may admire the spirited men who have gone forth

Page 213

upon these expeditions to upbuild, as they claim, the brokendown altars and rekindle the extinguished fires of liberty in Mexico, or Lower California. It may be that they are not adventurers gone forth to build for themselves a cheap fortune in another land. But even were such my opinion of their purposes, and their objects as glowing and as honorable as depicted by counsel, still, sitting as a Judge, I should regard only the single question, has the law been violated?" The Vice-President was convicted by a jury, and fined $1500 by the Judge, not one cent of which was ever paid, neither was there an effort to enforce its collection, and no imprisonment followed. Walker, the President, was afterward tried in the same Court, under a like indictment, and acquitted. To sympathize with filibustering at the time was popular. An actual Filibuster was a lion--a hero.

In the latter part of 1854 we had a most delightful accession to our angel population from the burst-up French filibustering expedition to Sonora under the leadership of the noble Count Gaston de Raousset Boulbon. Our population generally, when not engaged in broils, was, at the time, jovial, light-hearted and happy; but the arrival of some two hundred rollicking sons of Gaul gave additional zest to our happy times. The fifty per cent. of those Gallic vandals who came to our town were of the very essence of chivalry, gallantry and good humor. The most of them went to cooking and keeping restaurants, some to work in the vineyards and at wine- making, while not a few procured shotguns and made war on the rabbits and hares and other convenient small game with which the country at the time greatly abounded. The accession was valuable, and every Frenchman did his best to make himself not only useful but ornamental and agreeable. Who of the bon vivants of the time does not remember the inimitable cuisine of that great master in the art, Cascabel, who was chef at the famous restaurant of Madame Barrierre. Cascabel was

Page 214

a gentleman--a chevalier --and had been a line officer in the army of Algiers, had in some way or other drifted out of the service and into California, embarked in the expedition, and, like all noble Franks when in reduced circumstances, took to cooking as naturally as a duck to a mud puddle. Myself, my legal friend, A. J. King, Esq., and the noble cook formed three of a company in January, 1855, to explore the Kern river region, until then a terra incognita, since which I have had no account of Cascabel. I think the good cooking of the eminent artist added greatly to the venerable appearance of that prince of good livers, Judge Myron Norton, who was a geneous patron of the Cafe Barrierre.

Of all that Frankish immigration I believe there are only two survivors in our city, and one is Madame Begon, who is the owner of a very pretty property on Castelar street, in the upper part of the city, and the other is one of the prominent vignerons of the Vineyard city. At the coming of the French Filibusters the Madame was in the very prime of buxom womanhood, and started a small restaurant at the place where the Ferguson & Rose stable now stands, and for a reasonable compensation would give you, in addition to a well cooked dinner and bottle of wine, a vigorous lesson in rapier exercise, for which purpose she kept on hand a pair of gloves, foils and masks. The Madame was a master in the use of the foil, and my ideal hero, Bill, was the only one I knew who could stand up to her. The Madame was emphatically a militaire, had served twenty years in Algiers as a vivandiere, and as a natural consequence took easily to filibustering. How the Madame came to California I am unable to say, but should the reader be curious to know, let him call on the fat old gray- haired dame who reclines in her easy chair and lives easily off her rents, at her residence on Castelar street. As far as the French Sonora filibustering emigration to Los Angeles is concerned, Madame Begon stands high.

Page 215

Count Raousset was also an ex-French militaire, and of former high rank-- how high I could never learn, but I am free to maintain, on the honor of a truthful chronicler, that if not so high as general it was certainly above that of corporal; and had fortune prolonged his days of usefulness to the present, and to our city, he would have been at least a colonel. How the noble Gaston came to California it is not necessary to inquire, but it is fair to presume that like all of us, from the noble Duke of Sonora to the humble writer of these reminiscences, he came to better his condition, and the first step in that direction was into the kitchen of a French hotel in San Francisco, where he became chief cook. Our climate, however, having an elevating influence on the illustrious representative of the noble house of Boulbon, as well as on Americans, and pining for conquest, his first capital was invested in a shotgun, with which he sallied forth to war on the myriads of aquatic fowl which covered the face of the deep sloughs across the bay. The Count was successful in his new venture beyond his most sanguine anticipations, counted his accumulations by thousands, and thereby counted up a good bank account and sighed for worlds to conquer.

About this time the San Francisco world was venting its ridicule on the exploded Walker twin governments of Sonora and La Baja, which led the ambitious Boulbon to conceive a scheme of conquest worthy of the mettle of French valor. So having the ins and outs of cookery in San Francisco, he easily cooked up a kitchen cabinet and resolved himself to be Governor- General and Military Dictator of Sonora. With Gaston de Raousset to resolve was to act, to act was to achieve. So early in the season the ship Challenge spread her canvas to the breeze and sailed out of the Golden Gate, carrying "Cæsar and his fortunes," backed up by four hundred bristling bayonets. The noble Gaul was on his way, fully bent on ruling or ruining the Sonora roost. The Count was beyond

Page 216

question a good cook, and had counted on dishing up the Sonorenos like beef a la mode. But that peculiar people, being adepts in the business themselves, most effectually (as the sequel will show) cooked the poor Frenchman's goose and sent his scullions to h-- Los Angeles.

What the complications were that surrounded the expedition of Raousset de Boulbon were never fully understood, and if known at the time would have doubtless been forgotten. But if my memory serves me--and I only write from memory--I believe there was a rivalry between two military chieftains in Sonora, Yanez and Blanco, and one Don Luis del Valle represented that the gentle Sonorenos were honestly crying for help from the galling despotism of some one or something, (Don Luis was Mexican Consul at San Francisco); that every man, woman and child had a pair of old-fashioned plow clevises securely riveted on their ankles, with great Down East log chains imported for that particular purpose, welded into each particular clevis, which each particular man, woman and child in Sonora were compelled to drag around in all of their business, agricultural, commercial, domestic or mechanical, chafe or no chafe. Hence the wail of despair, the cry for help, as represented by the patriotic Don Luis. "A burnt child dreads the fire." The Americans had burnt their fingers in attempting to strike off the shackles of despotism in La Baja, and we would place our thumbs on our noses and gyrate our fingers at Don Luis when he talked about chains, and we would say, "Tell that to the marines." But the polite Frenchmen, not understanding our slang, fell into Don Luis' trap and so got their fingers burnt. The chains were red hot.

After landing at Guaymas a severe and hotly contested battle was fought between the Mexican regulars and militia under General Yanez, to the number of about four hundred, and Count Raousset and his unfortunate followers, of the same number. The battle lasted three hours, the Mexicans using artillery.

Page 217

The Count's men were dumbfounded at being attacked, whereas they had expected to be received as liberators. This surprise gave the Mexicans the advantage. The Count performed prodigies of valor, and after a loss of forty-eight killed and seventy-eight wounded he surrendered, was tried by military commission, condemned and shot on the beach at Guaymas, meeting his fate like a christian hero. He met his fate with so much dignity and firmness as to excite only admiration and respect on the part of the gentle people whose chains he wished to break.

When I come to think of it I remember that Don Luis del Valle was arrested, tried and convicted in the United States District Court for setting on foot a filibustering expedition. But as neither the District Attorney, the attorneys for the defendant, the judge or the jury could understand head or tail of the "complications," as they called them, the whole question was dismissed, greatly to the relief of all concerned, the government in particular.

Thenceforth for two long years the oppressed people of Sonora patiently bore their ills. Not a wail or cry for help was heard from that down- trodden people. The harsh clanking of those horid down East log chains that encumbered the limbs of the athletic Yaquis and their kindred, and dragged at the heels of the fair ladies of the land as they whirled in the giddy waltz, failed to reach the ear of the liberty-loving Filibuster, and Sonora was left to fight it out in the fashion of the Kilkenny cats until Crabbe put in an appearance early in 1857. Many deny that Crabbe was a Filibuster, but I affirm that he was, and the assertion is based on the following facts:

In 1856 the Walker government in Nicaragua was a conceded success, and filibustering was popular. Crabbe was a disappointed politician, having aspired to an election as the Know Nothing candidate for United States Senator on the meeting of the Legislature of 1856. He was ambitious and

Page 218

poor, and had married into a ruined family--that is, once rich, now poor and proud. Walker had conquered a firm footing in Central America, with the capital of Mexico as the objective point of his career of conquest. Crabbe would start in on Sonora, wage his conquests southward, and meet and greet us as common brothers in a common cause, and celebrate the conquest of Central America and Mexico in the ancient capital of the Montezumas. How do I know this as being the ambitious dreams of Crabbe when he left San Francisco for Los Angeles? This is the way I know it. Being in Nicaragua at the time, we received letters from our friends, members of the expedition; one in particular from Admiral Gift--that is, the late George W.--who was to command the navy of the grand invasion that was to "throw thirty thousand men into Mexico before the heat of summer falls upon us." In Nicaragua we had the secrets of the invasion, and were bantered as to who would be first at the feast in the City of Mexico. Crabbe was a Filibuster, and why not? Were we not all Filibusters at the time?

The Ainzas were a family of Manilla Spaniards, an old man with three highly educated sons and several beautiful and accomplished daughters, the oldest of whom married Crabbe, the next married Racey Bevan, the third a gentleman named Cortelyou, the fourth a Dr. Talliaferro, a member of the Legislature of 1856. Cortelyou went with Crabbe to Sonora, and was killed. The sons were afterwards arrested and imprisoned in Sonora, and were released on demand of the United States, they being naturalized citizens. The Ainzas came from Manilla with immense wealth, and settled in Sonora, investing all of their capital in mines and lands, which were, in the due course of revolution, confiscated, and the family came to Los Angeles as refugees, afterwards settled in Stockton, and later in San Francisco, where they dwelt in 1855-6. In 1856 there was a rivalry between two chieftains in Sonora--Gandara and

Page 219

Pesqueira. Gandara was in, Pesqueira was out. So Crabbe made an arrangement with Pesqueira to help him oust Gandara, and Pesqueira was to restore the confiscated Aniza estate and reward Crabbe's followers with land grants, and horses, and such like privileges. That was only the entering wedge to the towering ambition of Crabbe, who was a man of confessedly great ability.

It seems that when Crabbe's plans were perfected he had about one thousand men enlisted. Possibly some two or three hundred went to Yuma, where some defection took place, and many abandoned the enterprise. Crabbe, like Pizarro of renown, gave all who chose the privilege of backing out, but informed them that after once breaking camp at Yuma all would be subject to strict military discipline, and desertion would be punished with death. He set out from Yuma, however, with about one hundred men, and made a temporary camp at a place on the Gila known to the present day as Filibuster Camp, in order to rest and prepare for the march across the arid desert intervening between the Gila and Sonora.

In the meantime, Pesqueira and Gandara had made up their quarrel on the common basis of "death to the Filibusters." On reaching the frontier town of Sonoita Crabbe was first made aware of Pesqueira's treachery, and that the compact between the two patriots was to be sealed with the blood of himself and his followers. He had gone too far to retreat. Crabbe was a man of true metal, and being in for it he determined to do or die. He accordingly issued a proclamation, here given word for word, setting forth his peaceful and legitimate object in coming, his determination to stay, his ability to defend himself is attacked, and then pushed forward to Caborca.

SONOITA, March 26, 1857.

Don Jose Maria Redondo, Prefect of the District of Altar:

SIR: In accordance with the colonization laws of Mexico, and in compliance with several very positive invitations from the

Page 220

most influential citizens of Sonora, I have entered the limits of your State with one hundred companions and in advance of nine hundred others, in the expectation of making happy homes with and among you. I have come with the intention of injuring no one; without intrigues, public or private. Since my arrival I have given no indication of sinister designs, but on the contrary have made pacific overtures. It is true that I am provided with arms and ammunition, but you well know that it is not customary for Americans or any other civilized people to travel without them; moreover, we are about to travel where the Apaches are continually committing depredations. From one circumstance I imagine, to my surprise, that you are preparing hostile measures and collecting a force for destroying me and my companions. I know that you have given orders for poisoning the wells and have prepared to use the vilest and most cowardly measures. But bear in mind, sir, that whatever we may have to suffer shall fall upon the heads of you and those who assist you. I could never have believed that you would defile yourselves by such barbarous practices. I also know that you have not ceased to rouse against us, by mischievous promises, the tribe of Papagos, our best friends. But it is very likely that, considering my position, your expectations will be baffled. I have come to your country having a right to do so, and as has been shown, expecting to be received with open arms; but now I conceive that I am to encounter death among enemies destitute of humanity. As far as concerns my companions now here and about to arrive, I protest against any evil procedure toward them. You have your own course to follow, but bear this in mind: should blood be shed, on your head be it all and not on mine. Nevertheless, you can make yourself sure, and proceed with your hostile preparations. As for me, I shall lose no time in going to where I have for some time intended to go, and am only waiting for my party. I am the leader, and my intention is to obey the promptings of the law of nature and of self-preservation. Until we meet at Altar I remain,

Your obdt. servt.,

HENRY A. CRABBE.

This letter is given to the Warden of Sonoita, to be delivered without delay to the Prefect of Altar. H. A. C.

Four days later Pesqueira issued the following modest Proclama to the gentle people of Sonora [Translation]:

Page 221

YGNACIO PESQUEIRA,

Substitute Governor of the State and Commander-in-Chief of the Forces of the Frontier, to His Fellow-Citizens:

FREE SONORENOS! TO ARMS, ALL!!

The hour has sounded, which I lately announced to you, in which you would have to prepare for the bloody struggle which you are about to enter upon.

In that arrogant letter you have just heard a most explicit declaration of war made by the chief of the invaders. What reply does it merit? That we march to meet him.

Let us fly, then, with all the fury of hearts intolerant of oppression, to chastise the savage Filibuster who has dared, in an unhappy hour, to tread our national soil, and to provoke, insensate, our rage.

Show no mercy, no generous sentiments, toward these hounds!

Let them be like wild beasts who, daring to trample under foot the law of nations, the right of States and all social institutions, dare to invoke the law of nature as their only guide, and to appeal to brute force alone.

Sonorenos, let our conciliation become sincere in a common hatred of this accursed horde of pirates, destitute of country, religion or honor.

Let the tri-colored ribbon, sublime creation of the genius of Iguala, be our only distinctive mark, to protect us from the enemy's bullets as well as from humiliation and affront. Upon it let us write the beautiful words, "LIBERTY OR DEATH," and henceforth it shall bear for us one more sentiment, the powerful, invincible bond that now unites the two parties of our State, lately divided by civil war.

We shall soon return covered with glory, having forever secured the welfare of Sonora, and having, in defiance of tyranny, established in indelible characters this principle: The people that wants liberty will have it.

Meanwhile citizens, relieve your hearts by giving free scope to the enthusiasm that oppresses them.

Viva Mexico' Death to the Filibusters.

YGNACIO PESQUEIRA

Ures, March 30, 1857.

Upon entering Caborca he was attacked in front, flank and rear, desperately fought his way to the plaza, and was there forced to assume the defensive, which was successfully maintained against twenty times his number for several days, and

Page 222

finally, under solemn guarantees and after more than half his men had been killed, and nearly if not all wounded, himself included, his ammunition exhausted, the house in which he had taken refuge burning over his head, Crabbe laid down his arms and surrendered. Within less than twelve hours the whole party, the well and the wounded, were murdered in the most barbarous manner. Their heads were severed from their mutilated bodies, and the head of Henry A. Crabbe was placed on a dish to adorn the head of the table at the grand dinner celebrated two days after the butchery, and over which his former ally, Ygnacio Pesqueira, presided. The bodies of his followers were left on the ground to be devoured by the swine, and of course in some degree contributed to the general weal of the good people of Caborca.

While Crabbe was besieged at Caborca a small party of about twenty men, under my Ranger comrade, Grant Oury, whose name I unfortunately omitted in naming the survivors of the Ranger company--Grant is now member of Congress from Arizona--started from Tucson to his relief, and reached the vicinity of the town just before the surrender, but could in no way aid him. They were surrounded by Mexicans and had to fight their way the entire distance to the American line. On his march Crabbe had left two sick men at a ranch on the American side of the line--men who never saw Sonora. A party of Sonora chivalry came over and dragged these two sick men from their beds and brutally murdered them. There was one survivor of the Crabbe party, a boy named Evans, aged fourteen years, who was permitted to witness the butchery of his companions and to be present at the feast of reconciliation. In the summer of 1857 I met this boy Evans, from whom I learned the details above stated, and which I believe are in the main correct. The reader will lose no time in coming to the conclusion that Pesquiera was a very great villain, whose true merits might be given the meed of his just

Page 223

deserts only by a second Shakspeare--an ordinary pen would fail to do him justice. The true actor and superlative villain in the horrible conspiracy and tragedy was one Fernandez, whose full name I forget, but whose antecedent history I am quite familiar with, and will proceed to give it, although it carries me back to the first exploring expedition to the then unknown region in 1844 by John C. Fremont.

Fremont says in his narrative, (which I have not seen since 1850,) that on his way from Los Angeles to Santa Fe in 1844, on reaching some springs somewhere in our present Arizona, he found a party of Mexicans recently murdered by Indians; that one very small boy, four or five years old, had escaped the general massacre, and when discovered was clinging to the body of his dead mother and crying piteously. The sight of the dead mother and living infant excited such sympathy and indignation in the minds of the brave men of Fremont's party that Kit Carson and Alexis Godey obtained permission to pursue the murdering savages, which they did (the two men only), following the trail for two or three days. They overtook, surprised, killed and routed the murderers, recaptured and brought back the horses of the murdered Mexicans--one of the most brilliant exploits recorded in the annals of Indian warfare, and places the names of Carson and Godey at the head of the column of American pioneer heroes. The little Fernandez was tenderly cared for, taken to Washington, adopted in the family of the great Benton, raised and educated as a gentleman. Attaining manhood he came to Los Angeles, and afterwards went to Sonora. It was he who negotiated between Pesqueira, the Ainzas and Crabbe, and procured the assistance of Crabbe for Pesqueira. It was he who negotiated the terms of peace between Gandara and Pesqueira, to be based on the massacre of the Crabbe party of Americans, and it was he who acted as chief butler and master of ceremonies at the feast of demons. Far better for the good name of humanity

Page 224

had Fremont been a day late at the scene of the murder of the boy's parents, in order that the jackals or vultures could have feasted on his infant carcass, and saved the world so great a shame.

The exploits of the pioneer heroes of the former great West, to us the East, has been the theme of song and story, as will our history of Indian fights, adventures and escapes of the early pioneers of California in crossing desert and mountain. Having in this chapter made a digression to record that marvelous performance of Carson and Godey, it will be quite apropo to relate two wonderful adventures in digger-land as related by D. M. Adams, Esq., the biographer of A. W. Potts, Esq., who has been Clerk of Los Angeles County for so long a time that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, a pioneer of '49, and one whom the people so love and honor, that he could be Governor of our great State but for his excessive modesty. Says his biographer:

"One evening, along in July, 1849, the train to which young Potts belonged went into camp on the banks of the Upper Humboldt. Not a stick of wood was in sight except on the opposite side of the river, which was running bank- full. Not even a handful of buffalo chips--the campers' last resort--could be found. It was plain that the crowd would have to go without coffee, slapjacks and fried bacon, as matters stood. But on the other side of the river stood a perfect thicket of partly-burnt, dead willows--just the thing for a good camp fire. Young Potts, who always was an expert swimmer, proposed to strip off, swim across and get enough to boil coffee with. And he did so--that is, he stripped and swam across, after which (and being naked) he walked some distance to where the willows stood, fearing no danger, although they were right in the midst of the Shoshones. He had just commenced breaking some willows when from all sides and within twenty or thirty, yards arose a perfect forest of Indian heads, and

Page 225

simultaneously, a wild, blood-curdling war-whoop from a hundred lusty throats, burst upon the air, and the way young Andrew Wilson Potts almost jumped out of his skin (all he had on) and cut for that river, was a caution to the jack-rabbits and telegraph lizards of that delectable region. The startled sage-hen whirred away in alarm, and the usually happy horned toad stopped short in his amorous antics and gazed in petrified amazement at the spectral form flying by with the swiftness of the wind. He reached the river; a plunge, a splash, and he was safely across, he hardly knew how. After reaching his own bank he ventured to look back, and there he saw a host of dusky maidens and warriors laughing loud and laughing deep, holding their very stomachs to keep from falling down, in their convulsive he-hawing. The aboriginal jokers of the desert had played it on him--had simply yelled to see him run--and were having their fun out at his expense. Of course they could have shot him dead at first if they had wanted to.

"But A. W. subsequently got even on the redskin race for this practical business. After he had reached California, and had been here two or three years, he was engaged in mining on the Upper Merced. He and his partners had taken out considerable coarse gold from a bar in the stream, below which there was a very deep hole in the river. Some one suggested that a large quantity of the precious metal might have washed down and lodged on the bottom of this hole, and it was finally determined to get a diving apparatus and prospect the dirt at the bottom. A diving suit of guttapercha, completely enveloping the wearer, with huge round glass eye- windows, and a tube leading up from the head to let in the air, having been procured, one day one of the partners went down to bring up some of the dirt at the bottom of this deep hole, to see what was in it. Wilse sat on the bank holding the signal-string leading down to the diver. While thus occupied a lot of Indians, men,

Page 226

women and children, came along. Thinking Wilse was fishing, and taking great interest in everything having little work about it, they, too, sat down to look on and see if he would catch any fish. After awhile a jerk was felt on the signal-string. One of the bucks who could talk a little English remarked: "Heap big bite; heap catch em big fish!" Wilse nodded, and began to pull up. The Indians were all eyes and mouth in expectancy. But when the great, big, slick, black, devil-looking sort of a thing shot out of the water, with its great, round, glaring glass eyes, as big as saucers, words fail. A scream of terror, a yell of horror, and the Indian outfit disappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as though a ton of nitro- glycerine had burst in their midst and annihilated them. No Indian was ever after seen around that camp. One sight of the water-devil was enough."

It is written that in the early services of George Washington an Indian exhausted his ammunition in firing at him, but was unable to hit his mark. That afterward the Indian told the illustrious George that the Great Spirit had reserved him for some special purpose, for some great good; that he was not to be killed by a bullet. We are safe in surmising that the generous Potts in surviving those two remarkable adventures related by his biogragher, was reserved for much good to his fellow man, and in Mr. Potts, as well as in the immortal Washington, the same has been verified. We infer that in thankfulness to an ever protecting Providence in saving him from such dire danger the subject of the above sketch has almost devoted his life to the service of suffering humanity. His generosity is without limit. The Creator never made but one A. W. Potts.

Page 227

THIS chronicler of the salient features of pioneer times thought he had disposed of all the filibustering expeditions that had in any degree been connected with our angel history. But alas! for human calculations; he had reckoned without his host. After having disposed of the Flores expedition, the "twin republics" (our nearest neighbors and kindred), the unfortunate Gaston de Raousset and the ill-fated Crabbe, all of which required two chapters of truthful history, he congratulated himself and the reader on having reached the last of the filibustering angels, when lo! the expedition of Admiral Zerman looms up and illumines his memory. The kind of an Admiral Zerman was this historian will not vouch for, only that he was a Mexican Admiral, of Mexican fame, if not Mexican name, and as the unnautical editor of El Clamor Publico, in the times of the Crimean war, said of Rear-Admiral Bruce, so the writer declares of Zerman, that he was a "stern Admiral," for the reason that in point of achievement Zerman was certainly a long ways "astern" of any Admiral who appears on the pages of history. The only connection Zerman's expedition had with Los Angeles was that it carried away three of our most esteemed angels, the first a gentleman, one of two brothers, Doctor and John Cullen. The Doctor was

Page 228

the pioneer in the wool trade of Los Angeles county, and John, a noble fellow, opened the first grocery and provision store in this City of Angels. His specialty was not a success, as our angels then, as now, had human appetites, and in addition to their fondness for Chile peppers, partook largely of imported articles in the provision line, so poor John fell a victim to misplaced confidence and noble generosity, and got "busted" in business. That is to say, he believed in angel honesty, and gave credit to angels "to the manor born," as likewise to the gringo, and was thereby driven by a cruel destiny to close business, and cast his fortunes into the maelstrom of manifest destiny, and like thousands of nobel spirits of the time, was swallowed up in its remorseless vortex. The next was young Bob Baldwin, a true son of an honorable ancestry; that is to say, Bob belonged to one of the "first families of Virginia," and was a runaway from the University of that old State. When here Bob was about eighteen years of age, and was a firm believer not only in manifest destiny, but in his own star, believing that it was his peculiar destiny to become eventually, by some hook or crook, the ruler of Mexico. Poor Bob! what has become of him? I saw him at Vera Cruz in 1859 as a Lieutenant of artillery under Juarez, when that great defender of Mexican national integrity was besieged by Miramon. Bob had then been three years in the service, and had risen from the ranks, where he entered upon his release from his Mexican prison. He said when he reached a captaincy he would feel himself on the highway to the goal of his destiny. Poor Bob! I fear he never reached it. The third angel who went away with Zerman was Smith, and to distinguish Smith from all other angel Smiths, I will here assert that Smith was an angel blacksmith, and worked for John Goller and Jim Baldwin, on Los Angeles street, and was a very peculiar angel, and went filibustering just because it was born in him. Smith was a rover, out and out. Having met him in 1859, in Minatitlan,

Page 229

on the Coazacualcos River, the dividing line between Vera Cruz and Tabasco, and having known him here in Los Angeles, I gained his confidence, and not only obtained the history of the Zerman expedition, but his own private experience and exploits in California and elsewhere. He was the greatest rascal I ever knew, and as he told me so many peculiar circumstances connected with his own fortunes, after having told of the Zerman expedition I will relate a few of them--only a few of the least bloody ones.

In October, 1855, the brig Archibald Gracie sailed out of the Golden Gate, carrying Zerman and his foolish followers, to the number of about one hundred, bound for La Paz, which proved to be anything but a haven of "peace" to the great stern Admiral and his luckless expeditionists. Zerman claimed to have a commission from some high Mexican authority to rule Lower California, and on landing at La Paz presented his authority, sealed with the great seal bearing the symbolical nopal and Mexican reptile, to old General Blancarte, who ruled with a rawhide and laid the said rawhide on hard and heavy on all occasions. I say when Zerman presented his patent of authority and told Blancarte to get out, Blancarte called a file of ragged ruffians who collared Zerman, and Blancarte told Zerman to get in, and he was accordingly tumbled neck and heels into the La Paz lock-up, where he signed an order for his followers to land without arms and form in front of the Quartel General, which being in due form accomplished, old Blancarte had the whole batch of fools securely ironed and sent in to keep company with their stern leader. The upshot of all this was that the whole party were finally shipped across the gulf to San Blas, and compelled to foot it all the way to the City of Mexico, each patriot carrying a chain fastened to his ankle and conveniently thrown over his shoulder by way of ornament. Smith, who was refractory to the utmost degree, was specially honored with a pair of the aforesaid

Page 230

chains, one on each leg, and fastened together in the middle. They were imprisoned in the City of Mexico, and kindly treated, long enough to enable the proper authorities to inquire the reason of their foolishness, when they were released, the most of them finding employment, those who were mechanics, among whom was our angelic Smith, being placed in the government shops and foundries. Some took to the army, like poor Bob, others, following the bent of their inclinations, went to running their faces and playing monte, as had been their wont in this land of gold.

And so ended the ambitious designs of the stern Admiral on our poor neighbors of Lower California, whose poverty alone should have been a sufficient safeguard against the cupidity of the adventurous knights of manifest destiny. May they ever rest in their poverty alone is the wish of this writer of reminiscences.

Smith was a Maine man. I might have said "State of Maine," but why people should say State of Maine any more than they would say State of California, State of Kentucky, or State of Missouri, I could never understand; but hereafter, as now, I will simply say Maine, just as I would say California, always leaving out "the State of" as three words too many to express the same meaning.

Smith was a natural born cut-throat, but otherwise honest, save in one or two particulars, which manifestly, and on all occasions cropped out. He left Maine suddenly, between two days, and left blood behind him. That is to say, some old man refused to permit Smith to wed his daughter. Smith got mad and killed the old man, and then left his country for his country's good. He got on board a lumber vessel about to clear for California, in 1849, and, concealing himself, until the vessel was three days at sea, made his appearance and begged to be permitted to work his passage to the golden land. The

Page 231

murder not having been heard of on board, Smith was quietly and willingly disposed of in the forecastle.

As a sailor, however, Smith was a failure. He was insubordinate, and in constant broils, and while rounding Cape Horn knifed the second mate. As a consequence he made the remainder of the voyage to Valparaiso in double irons. The vessel dropped anchor in that great Chilian port at about dark, and about midnight Smith, having slipped his irons, slipped over the bow chains, dropped overboard, and swimming to the shore boldly struck out for the interior, and stood not on the order of his going till he reached Santiago, the capital, where he readily found employment in a government foundry. Forming a convenient connexion he lived happily until, coming home one evening, he caught his mistress in the very act of criminal infidelity. In a twinkling he stopped the wind of the luckless wight who had violated the sanctity of his garden of Eden, and then wrung the neck of the frail fair one as he would have wrung the neck of a Maine goose, and, leaving the two lovers to sleep the sleep that knows no waking, took up his line of march for Valparaiso, only killing one man on the road. He reached the port just in time to smuggle himself on board a steamer bound from New York to San Francisco.

On his arrival he at once struck out for the mines, and brought up at Rough and Ready, where he killed a gambler who had cheated him, before he had been there a week. The fellow beat him out of his money at monte at a gambling house. Smith waited outside until the game closed, and when the gambler came out he struck him on the head with a stone and killed him instantly. He said thereafter three Mexican gamblers beat him by cheating, and he waylaid them one at a time and killed the whole trio. In the last he was discovered, fled, and was pursued from camp to camp with "hue and cry," but succeeded in reaching San Francisco and went over to Marin island, then the penitentiary, where he found refuge,

Page 232

obtaining employ as a guardsman. Who would seek for a fugitive from justice among the guards of the State prison?

How long Smith remained in the employ of the State is not necessary to inquire. Suffice it to say that in 1852 he became a first-class angel, remaining here about two and a half years, and went away with Zerman. At Minatitlan Smith informed me on his honor that he had never killed any one in Los Angeles, notwithstanding, as he expressed it, he had "put the light out of at least a dozen while in California. However," said he, "I once went for old Temple's scalp, and but for an accident would have raised it, and made my pile to boot."

This is the way it was: Old John Temple used to bleed this county at the rate of about $100,000 a year, money received from his immense sales of cattle, all of which he would carry to the City of Mexico for investment. Dave Brown, Smith and another prominent person determined to waylay Temple on his way to San Pedro, murder him if necessary, but without fail to secure his bags of gold. Temple would start in the morning about sunrise, and the arrangement was that Smith, Brown & Co. would leave town during the night and lay in wait in the high mustard down about Florence, stop Temple and rob him, convey the cash to the river bed and bury it in the water and sand, and wait and take their chances. Fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader may choose to regard it, about twilight on the eve of the contemplated robbery, Dave accidentally let his revolver go off on the sidewalk in front of the Bella Union and shot himself in the foot, a circumstance well remembered by many pioneers. A lucky shot for old John Temple, surely.

Temple was at one time the richest man in Mexico. He almost owned the whole Mexican government; foreclosed a mortgage on the Mint at the City of Mexico, and coined money on his own account. He owned four hundred miles of sea-coast territory above and below Acapulco, was a brother of the

Page 233

late F. P. F. Temple, of La Puente, and was the cutest monte dealer that ever flipped a card for an angel to bet his pile on.

I will now go back to Mexico and finish up Smith. Our gentle angels finished Brown before Smith left, as will be hereafter and in the proper place fully related. When the Zerman prisoners were released in the City of Mexico, Smith, who was an excellent mechanic, was employed, as before stated, in a government foundry, where he formed the acquaintance of an English expert, who inducted him into the mysteries of coining money, and the partners were soon flush and bet their coin freely at the monte banks. It was only on Sundays and saints' days, however, when the foundry would be closed, that the twain would steal in, fire up, melt their metal and mould a supply of dollars. To the great honor of the saints, Smith and his pard had plenty of time in which to ply their vocation, only that the police were always vigilant to see that a proper respect was shown each particular saint, and to arrest any one who would profane the day by doing work. So on one occasion the police discovered and arrested the two worthies who were trying to turn an honest dollar, and on the following day they were roundly fined by the irate alcalde, who honored the saints, one and all. "Well," said Smith, with a grin, "we paid our fines out of the money we had struck off that day, and had a good stake to run on for a month or two."

Times got so hot for Smith at the capital that he lit out for Vera Cruz, where the Mexican detectives shadowed him. So he sailed for Minatitlan, where he started a shop and did work for the mahogany cutters, but kept an eye open for an opportunity to "shove the queer." One evening in the soft tropical moonlight in front of Jim Rawle's hotel in Minatitlan, while listening to Smith's bloody adventures and talking about Los Angeles, the Rangers, and of familiar persons, a portly looking Mexican walked past us and into the bar room. "D--n him," said Smith, "I know him, and will put his light out in less

Page 234

than a week." "Who is he?" said I, "Why," said he, "he's one of them City of Mexico detectives and he's after me. I'll get him." Smith did get him in less than a week, by knocking him on the head and throwing him in the river. The steamer from Vera Cruz had arrived during the day on which the portly Mexican had come as a passenger. On the return of the steamer to Vera Cruz the author was a passenger, and saw no more of our Los Angeles journeyman blacksmith or of the mahogany cutters of the Coazacualcos. But in January, 1862, I met Jim Rawle in New Orleans and talked of matters in Minatitlan, and inquired for Smith. "Ah," said he, "two days after you left he killed a great Mexican detective, was arrested, taken to Vera Cruz, and shot at the castle of San Juan de Uloa."

The reader will of course grieve after our lost angel, and lament our bad luck in losing a fellow citizen who, had he been spared us, might have become so conspicuously prominent. This truthful historian begs the reader's pardon in carrying him so far away, but why should so shining an example as the gentle Smith be lost to posterity?

Page 235

THE California Spaniard was in the olden time an over average Christian and good fellow, full of jovial good humor, hospitable even to a fault, patriotic, liberty-loving, and jealous of the integrity of his native land to such degree as made him fly to arms and unfurl to the balmy breeze the standard of revolution on the slightest possible pretext, and sometimes without any pretext whatever. In a past chapter I gave a truthful account of the sanguinary rebellion of the angels under Castro against the Mexican satrap, Micheltorena, culminating in the grand battle of Providencia and the improvident slaughter of that patriotic Mexican mule, the expulsion of the Mexican tyrant from the sacred soil of California and the elevation of Don Pio Pico as the last of the domineering Dons, to be soon thereafter succeeded by the anti-revolutionary gringos. In those glorious old times before the coming of the gringo, revolutions were of ordinary happening and generally harmless. The soil of our angel land is fertile, naturally so. The soil of this beautiful land was never fertilized to any great extent by the blood of tyrants and their minions, slain by the

Page 236

irate sons of the soil in their resistance to the Mexican oppressor. Ante- gringo revolutions in California were as frequent and harmless as raids on hen-roosts in the sunny South at the present writing. Still the olden-time Californian could no more exist without his periodical revolution than he could without his bull-fight, his game of monte, his horse-race, or his gallos on St. John's day. The gringo nation is great, the affirmative of which this military scribe is free to maintain on horseback or on foot, with spear or pen, because he belongs to that immaculate race himself; but there is an old adage which is as truthful as the writer hereof, and that is, that "the gringo spoils all other peoples with whom he is brought in contact."

The noble race of California Spaniards has greatly deteriorated by its association with the conquering gringo. The truth is, "the gringo spoiled him." He isn't half the man he was in the days of revolutions and rawhides. The author has heretofore referred to the Jack Powers revolution in Santa Barbara, and will hereafter relate the revolutionary effort of Juan Flores. But this most truthful chapter will be devoted to John Raine's revolution, which occurred in the city of angels in December, 1852. Times were lively; money was most abundant; monte dealers and merchants were waxing rich; the cattle market was buoyant. Fandangos and fiddling was the order of the day; festivities throughout the land ran high; everyone seemed happy, everybody was over-prosperous, and everyone ought to have been happy. The California Spaniard was the most prosperous mortal on the footstool, and should have been the happiest. He had everything his longing heart could crave, except his revolution; that was his dearest and most sacred privilege, and the only one the generous gringo refused to accord him. When the gringo planted his liberty-pole on Fort Hill, he sealed the doom of revolution in California. Still the noble Dons pined for a revolution, as the Jews hungered

Page 237

for the flesh-pots of Egypt. Guadaloupe Sanchez, with a half dozen hot- headed followers, raised the standard of liberty one beautiful summer's night in '52, occupied the plaza, fired off their revolvers, gave the grito de libertad and muere los gringos, got gloriously and patriotically drunk, trailed their banner in the dust, and so ended that revolution. John Raines was an untamed mustang, full of mischief, and up to all kinds of deviltry. The angel city was full of idle, wild, harem-scarem fellows, of the vagabond persuasion, who did little else than play at billiards, buck at monte, kill time and have a good time generally. No better material could have been found anywhere, and John concluded to edify the longing Spaniard with a revolution as would be a revolution.

So the bold leader put himself about organizing. Two weeks were thus occupied. Two hundred men were enrolled. The utmost secrecy was observed; not a soul but the initiated knew aught of the plot. Hodges was Mayor. The eventful night arrived as they always do. At midnight the revolution broke forth in all its fury. The plaza was occupied, and " Viva la Republica y muere los gringos" burst forth on the midnight air, rekindling the dormant fire that slumbered in the patriotic bosom of the slumbering Dons, and carrying dismay to the uninitiated and surprised Gringo awakened from his sleep by this pandemonium let loose. In fifteen minutes fifty indomitable gringos under Jim Littleton stood in defiant phalanx in front of the Bella Union, determined to maintain gringo supremacy, even if they sacrificed the last bar-keeper and bottle in all angel-land. A detail was accordingly made to raid the Bella Union bar, and another to hunt up the Mayor to take command and oppose the uprising. In due time both objects were accomplished, and wine flowed as wine had never flowed before, and whisky was free. By this time the gringo lement was awake; the clatter of cavalry resounded on the midnight air as they dashed up and down upper Main

Page 238

street. A hurried council of war resulted in the conclusion that the cabildo and the court house would be the first objects of attack. So armed gringos were hastily thrown into those places. The jail on the Hill was also occupied. Then the Littleton phalanx, leaving a reserve at the junction of Main and Commercial, with a picket at Commercial and Los Angeles streets moved bravely to the plaza, the Mayor marching valiantly at the head of the column; he however suggested that Jim Littleton should be the commander in action, and should be entitled to all the honors consequent on victory, while he, the Mayor, would be present and sanction any and all measures necessary to an effectual suppression of the revolution. Reaching the corner of the plaza where the Pico House now stands, the Littleton-Gringo-Phalanx were received by a scattering fusilade from all quarters of the plaza, with the battle cry of the revolution: "Viva Mexico y mueran los gringos," and a stentorian voice roared out "rodealos, rodealos," and "cavalleros!" (surround them! surround them!) and the clatter of cavalry was heard going through Nigger Alley like a tornado, which causes the General to order the phalanx to fall back, which it did in quick time, as the question was which would reach the Baker Block corner, first--the rebel cavalry or the gringo phalanx. Intermediate between the plaza and Arcadia street, stood at that day the first monument of gringo enterprise, a brick culvert, which ran diagonally across the street and was about forty feet long, four feet wide at the base, and forming an arch, which was just high enough to admit a person in a low, stooping posture. Now that old culvert was a most infernal nuisance, being frequented by vagabond Indians as a place of convenience, which rendered the interior thereof unpleasantly odorous. General Littleton, finding that the cavalry would reach the objective point first, came to a sudden halt at the culvert, and seizing the Mayor by the arm, said: "Hodge, it's our only chance; get in, quick; we're cut off,

Page 239

sure." To hesitate was, as the Mayor thought, certain death, so into the culvert went the chief gringo of this semi-gringo city, bearing the honors of the great gringo nation on his broad back. His honor was safe, and the phalanx, dividing itself, took position at either end of the Mayor's bomb- proof, and opened a defiant fire on the exultant rebels, who now charged them on all sides. The conflict was terrific; the din of battle was fearful. Above all could be heard the lion-like roar of Jim Littleton as he urged the phalanx to stand their ground and "Remember the Alamo," and let the last man die rather than yield. The Mayor was safe. He was as snug as a bug in a rug, and never a word did speak; until an immense gringo cheer announced victory to the phalanx, and a few scattering shots gave proof that the rebels had been repulsed. Then his honor emerged from his place of refuge and rejoined the victorious gringos with the inquiry, "How many are killed?" "Are we all right, Jim?" Then the commander ordered the phalanx to fall back on the reserve at Commercial street--an order easier given than executed--as the wounded were so numerous that the movement was consequently slow and painful. Several were left dead, or apparently so, at the culvert, the Mayor suggesting that "no further harm could befall the poor fellows."

Samuel Arbuckle's store at the corner of Commercial and Main was the gringo headquarters, and the back rooms thereof were converted into a hospital, whither the Mayor was conducted. On entering all the horrors of war presented itself to his terrified gaze. Surgeons with sleeves tucked up, bloody bandages; wounded men, groaning in agony, lying around everywhere, while every minute some poor fellow would be brought in by his comrades in a desperate condition. The doctors had their hands full.

Some one said to Doc. Jones, "The Mayor is wounded; why don't you attend to him?" upon which said suggestion two or three sympathetic attendants laid hold of his honor with

Page 240

a view to removing his coat and vest, when all at once they hold up their hands to the light and commence an examination thereof, with exclamations of "P-e-w! Great eternal polecat, where has he been? No blood! but what?" Then "the most useful man" put in, "Why, Hodge, what does this mean? It's awful." "It is that infernal culvert," responded his honor. "Them d--d injuns; I always wanted the Council to abate that culvert as a nuisance, and by the holy poker, if I live, and if we save the city, I'll bet they don't use that culvert for that purpose again. But it was a fortunate thing for us to-night, sure." Then his honor bethought himself of Dona Maria, the fair and frail sharer in the dignities and profits of the Mayoralty. The lady Mayoress was in imminent peril, and might fall into the hands of the rebels. Dona Maria dwelt near the plaza (at present a fair dame of Los Angeles street), and she must be rescued at all hazards; but who would take the risk--the danger was great; yet the attempt must be made, Littleton called for volunteers, and five heroes stepped forth from the phalanx ready to immolate themselves on the altar of chivalry; and with an assuring word to his honor, the brave fellows, with Jim at their head, set forth on their mission of gallantry. They were gone an hour, during which time desultory firing, cheers, vivas and carajos were heard all over the city, and the Mayor was in awful suspense concerning the lady Mayoress. Every few minutes some bleeding victim of the revolution would be brought in, and the doctors had their hands full. It was now near daylight and at last Jim Littleton came in with the lady Mayoress, who was received with every demonstration of delight by his honor, the Mayor, whose first inquiry to the weeping lady was, "Ah, Querida mia, they have hurt you." whereupon the lady turned bitterly upon Jim Littleton with the exclamation of "Ah que sin verguenza." (You shameless vagabond.) Dona Maria had fallen a victim to the fury of the

Page 241

revolution and the Mayor was as mad as a hornet. Daylight dispels the sombre shadows of night. The orb of day gilds the Eastern horizon. The verdants hills smile in beauty when kissed by the morning sun. Peace reigns supreme in the Angel City. The night of disorder is succeeded by the morning tranquility. The trembling senora peeps timidly forth from her window expecting to see the prickly pear flag of Aztec land floating from every adobe wall in the redeemed city, but, alas! nothing of the kind is to be seen. Grave Dons and frightened gringos appear on the streets to inquire for the dead, but no dead are to be found, unless, perchance an over-patriotic gringo was found dead drunk. No blood was to be seen anywhere. Was all this a dream; certainly there was no reality in it. The Mayor went to the culvert and found no blood, notwitstanding when he retreated from that glorious battlefield only six hours ago the ground was covered with dead heroes. Men whom he had seen under the surgeon's hands in the agonies of mortal pain, now smilingly greeted him with, "Hello! Hodge, old boy, how goes it?" Their recovery had been miraculous. His honor would willingly believe it all to be a nightmare only for the queer accident that had happened to Maria, and he was certain there was no nightmare about that.

It was a sell, an out and out sell, gotten up by John Raines and Jim Littleton to sell the town generally, to sell the Mayor in particular, and to relieve the general monotony of the California Spaniard, and gladden his heart with a first-class revolution.

Revolutions are not revolutions without their usual concomitant of outrages, and of course there must of necessity be some kind of an outrage to give respectability to our present one. So Jim Littleton, to carry out the simile, had perpetrated the last outrage of revolutionists on Dona Maria, the lady Mayoress of the City of Angels, which was all that was real in the whole affair.

Page 242

THIS historical Ranger in his juvenile days and before visiting this semi- Latin land, had been an ardent and enthusiastic student of Spanish history, and was a great admirer of the chivalry of the race, the high tide of whose civilization had, before the Mayflower was wedded to the salt sea wave, penetrated to the very heart of what is now the United States; of the marvelous achievements of the Great Conquistador and his handful of followers, whose unparalleled audacity led them into the very jaws of a powerful and cruel despotism, there to assume the role of dictator, was so wonderful that to my mind the words "Spanish Cavalier" meant all that was brave, enterprising and chivalrous; of the deeds of Vasco Nunez, Pizarro, and others of minor note in the subjugation to the dominion of the cross, the vast empires of Darien and Peru filled my mind with the highest possible opinion of the descendants of those mighty adventurers; while the insane wanderings of Ponce de Leon and De Soto seemed to give the only true romantic tinge to our own matter of fact conquistorial history. So when the chronicler made his advent into this old-time Spanish capital, this angel city, handed over to the rule of the Saxon, he was prepared to admire anything that had the glare and glitter of Mexico or of Spain, as well

Page 243

the rodea, the annual execution of that ancient rapscallion Judas Iscariot, the cock-pulling feats on St. John's Day, the Maromas, the fandango, the sanguinary encounters between bulls and bears, and more important than all, the bull fights, wherein man, the image of his Creator, boldly enters the gladiatorial arena to meet in mortal combat the noble lord of the animal kingdom, the untamed bull. Therefore, soon after my induction into angel society I was raised to the seventh heaven of delight in beholding the announcement in largely lettered placards, "Gran Funcion de Toros, el Domingo proximo a las tres a la tarde;" (grand bull- fight on Sunday next at 3 o'clock,) with a list of the renowned Dons who would participate on that important occasion, with a great flourish about a very brave and eminent Don bearing the name of "Jesus," who was represented to be the most intrepid of all the toreadores who had carved their names on the temple of fame for heroic deeds done in the Plaza de toros of the City of Mexico. This important announcement was made about midweek, and immediately thereafter active operations commenced and a great fever of excitement possessed the angel mind, gringo as well as native. Great speculation was indulged in as to who the mighty hero bearing the Holy Name could be, and every stranger Don felt complimented when some knowing one would suggest the possibility of his being the "gran toreador" from "la capital de Mexico." On Saturday the arena was complete-- a fence built of green willow posts set in the ground to which were lashed, with raw-hide thongs, stout poles forming a circle about forty feet in diameter. On one side elevated seats were arranged, one above the other, in theatrical style, for those who were to pay; while the rabble had the privilege of peeping through the poles without price. At one end of this improvised dress circle, a canvas enclosure was made for the accommodation of the toro and the toreador, the lazadores, the banderilleros, the picadores, and the master

Page 244

of the arena, in order that they might be obscured from vulgar eyes until their grand entrance into the arena of blood and battle. In order that the bull and bull-fighters might meet as utter strangers, and on the theory that familiarity breeds contempt, a rag petition divided the belligerents. On the right flank of the dress circle are seated, on an elevated platform, the musicians, who discourse Mexican national airs, while, to the great disgust of the grand marshal, the gringos possess the poles of the willow fence, smoke their cigars, and are all on the tip-toe of excitement, and this truthful historian is carried back in imagination to the geography pictures he used to gaze at with such reverential awe in his school-boy days. "Now," thought I, "we are to behold a bull fight such as were formerly seen in glorious Madrid," and my excitement knew no bounds.

The music ceases, and the herald proclaims the grand entry. The canvas door is thrown open, and the lazadores, with gilt and glitter, spangles and spatters, lance and pennon, mounted on elegantly-caparisoned, high- mettled steeds, enter, followed by the picadores a pie, and the banderilleros and the matador, all radiant in green silk, tinsel and stripes. The brilliant outfit are all, in glittering array, ranged before us, save and except the " gran toreador" and the toro, which in rude Saxon means Jesus and the bull. The music bursts forth in patriotic and warlike strains, the senoritas wave their handkerchiefs, and the rabble cry " viva!" Again the herald waves his baton of office, the music stops, the senoritas cease from waving, the rabble discontinue their vivas, and the gringos maintain their grave demeanor, smoke away, and whittle on the green poles. The herald now proclaims that "the greatest, most renowned and famous bull fighter, either living or dead, the hero of more than a thousand bloody fights, the champion of the world, will now make his entrance before this august assemblage." Two ushers now divide the canvas door, and the music don't play "Hark! the Conquering Hero Comes," but it plays

Page 245

something of equal grandeur, and the "gran toreador," as though disdaining the earth upon which he trod, enters the arena, faces toward the senoritas, places his right hand upon his heart, makes a profound salaam, and is greeted with a shower of bouquets. The gentlemen ushers respectfully pick them up, bow to the senoritas, bend the pregnant hinges of the knee to Don Jesus, who haughtily makes the about face, bows patronizingly to the gringos and the peons and pelados, and speaks: "Soy valiente" (I am very brave); "tengo mucho honor" (I have a great deal of honor); "que es de vivir sin honor?" (why should one live without honor?); "es mejor a morir valiente que vivir sin honor" (it is far better to die game than to live with a taint upon one's honor). "I am the bravest man in the world, of which you shall have due proof when you see me encounter the most ferocious bull that could be found on the thousand miles' expanse of California plain. I am ready to conquer or die," and Don Jesus bowed to the herald.

The two ushers now very carefully approach the bovine corner, and remove a barricade of rawhide ropes, the music again bursts forth in martial strains, and the ferocious bull of the California plains makes his debut, not with wild and flashing eyes, distended nostrils, tossing head and high- waving tail, but as gentle-looking, mild-visaged an old ox as ever tugged at a creaking Mexican cart, with eyes as honest and sleepy as a crocodile's, with head neither erect nor depressed, tail dangling in an old-fashioned, ox-like way between his legs, and still worse than all, the poor old fellow's head bore signs of the recent lashings of a Mexican yoke, and his honest old horns were sawed off so near his head that the blood slowly oozed and trickled in honest indignation at the outrage. When this tough veteran entered the arena the music played, the "Ponchada," the peons and the pelados yelled, the gringos grinned, and the senoritas looked disappointed. Don Jesus, to prove

Page 246

his valor, rushed in front of his disarmed adversary, and waving a red flag in his face, said tauntingly, "Ha, Toro!" which didn't disturb the ox in the least. Then a banderillero manoeuvred around, and flung a rosette dart, called a banderilla, into the old gent's flank, which didn't seem to discomfit him, only being a gentle reminder of his old acquaintance the goad. Another banderilla strikes him in the other flank, and one in the rump, and the old fellow looks around innocently, as much as to say, "Well, did I ever?" all of which time "the bravest man in the world" flaunts his red flag in front of the bull and yells "Toro!" A lazador now makes a dash at the bull, seizes him by the tail and sloughs him around, and a banderilla is stuck into him, to which is attached a string of firecrackers, and a brave picador valorously fires them, and another picador bounces on his back, and Don Jesus kicks him on the nose, at which act of daring the peons and pelados " viva!" and the poor old ox loses his patience and makes a rush at "the bravest man," who runs and climbs over the fence, and a lazador has the old boy by the hind leg with his lazo, and another by the fore foot, and before the old ox can tell what he is about they stretch him roughly upon his back, and the banderilleros fill his body with rosette darts and firecrackers, and the old fellow is permitted to regain his feet, by which time he is again confronted by the "bravest man" with his red flag, and the banderilleros cover his flank and rear and ply their cruel darts and crackers, and the bull makes another dash at Don Jesus, who this time nimbly dodges the bull and springs upon his back, at which the senoritas scream with delight, the peons and pelados yell themselves hoarse, the drums roll and rattle, the fife screams, the horns toot, and the flute and flageolette give forth sweet sounds of victory; the old ox strikes a gallop, and the "bravest man" turns a back somersault and gracefully alights on his feet, and again confronts his bovine foe.

Page 247

By this time the gringo part of the audience have become friendly to the bull, so called, and somewhat disgusted at the cruelty of his tormentors, and in English they discussed the situation and conclude, at the first favorable opportunity, to make a diversion in favor of the bull. Of course what they said and proposed to do was wholly unknown to the Dons in the arena, who did not understand English. So the next time the honest and tormented old ox made a well-directed charge on the "bravest man" and he attempted to climb over the fence, Cy Lyon, who was seated thereon, gave the august, the disdainful, the proud, the champion toreador, a well- directed push with his foot, which he planted solid in the pit of Don Jesus' stomach, which landed him fair and square on the gory horns of the bovine hero, whose eyes now flashed livid fire of rage, his nostrils dilated, emitting foam and blood, his tail erect and waving, head so low that his nose touched the ground, he looked the very incarnation of victory, and seemed to throw all of his immense strength into one grand, revengeful toss of the head, and we all thought for sure that the grand toreador was imitating the cow that jumped over the moon. It was certainly the biggest raise that Mexican ever got in his life. The going up was awful, but the coming down! well, Don Jesus, the champion bullfighter from "La Capital de Mexico," was a month recovering from the immensity of the shock. It was said he suffered great damage, and it was over a month before he could resume his duties of stewing carne, making hash and slinging pots, for such was his every-day avocation, oh! reader! and when this painted and bespangled hero, this champion bull-fighter from the City of Mexico, this gran toreador, was divested of his tinsel and stripes, his spangles and spatters, his red embroidered jacket, his green breeches and his red hose, his jaunty cap, and his gorgeous parti-colored sash, when his face was washed of the dust of the bull-pen, of the blood that freely flowed from his eyes, nose and ears, and the

Page 248

thick coating of paint, this ass in lion's disguise turned out to be John O. Wheeler's cook. When poor Jesus went up the Lazadores made a rush for the infuriated ox, who was now a formidable monster and eyed Jesus as he went up and coolly waited for him to come down, and in a moment they had him on the ground as harmless as a lamb, and so ended the "gran funcion de toros," and so ended my romantic idea of a Spanish bull-fight, and so ended the glorious career of Don Jesus, the gran toreador in the bull-pens of this ancient angel capital, and so endeth this story. It is only fair to say, however, that none of the respectable Spanish ladies and gentlemen of Los Angeles patronized the bull-fights.

The gringos were sold, badly sold, beaten. A gringo is willing to beat but is always averse to being beaten, and the gringos determined to avenge themselves upon the Dons' for having so disappointed them in their anticipations of a grand bull-fight, and soon the opportunity offered.

We had a humorous genius among us, Frank Ball, a great practical joker, who determined to sell the Dons in revenge for their imposition in the bull-fight. Frank accordingly bought an old and used up mustang, had him elaborately blanketed and stabled at Pete Rohrer's, where Ferguson & Rose's stables now are, and advertised in English and Spanish, in all the newspapers and by great posters, that on a certain day he would start from San Pedro and make a voyage to Santa Catalina and back, on horseback; that he would ride the great swimming horse Hippopotamus, a horse of a peculiar Kanaka breed who had swam all the way from the Sandwich Islands to San Francisco. That for the period of ten days prior to this great marine- equine performance, the great swimming horse could be seen in his stall and examined, in order that people might satisfy themselves that in appearance Hippopotamus was the same as any other horse. Admission, 50 cents; ladies, half price; children free. The Star, and Wheeler's paper

Page 249

puffed Hippopotamus and lauded Frank Ball's great enterprise in having procured this great amphibious curiosity for public inspection and edification. The consequence of all this was that there was a great run on Hippopotamus, and four-bit pieces fell in plentiful profusion into Frank's coffers. The Dons came in crowds to see this marine monster. Vaqueros from the country examined him, the patrons of the bull-pen planked down their coin, and the sell was a financial success. But how was Ball to get out of his promise of making his voyage to Santa Catalina, thirty miles and back? He got out of it by having some one abduct Hippopotamus on the night previous to the great swimming performance, made a great fuss about it, pocketed the coin and avenged the gringos for having been so sold on the bull fight.

Page 250

AT THE time of which I write, early in the '50s, grizzly bears were more plentiful in Southern California than pigs; they were, in fact, so numerous in certain localities, as Topango Malibu, La Laguna de Chico, Lopez and other places, as to make the rearing of cattle utterly impossible. Those ferocious brutes were the terror of the aboriginal tribes, and dreaded by the California Spaniard, whose only weapon of offensive warfare against them was the riata and lance, more commonly called in gringo parlance the lazo.

When burly bruin, in quest of carne, would bodly emerge from his lair in the fastnesses of the Sierra and make his appearance on the plain, he ran nine chances out of ten of losing his scalp. When beset by three or four lazadores, he was most generally overpowered and spitted, and this is the way in which that most wonderful feat, lassoing a grizzly, was performed by those most formidable men on horseback, whose likes will never more be known--the California ranchero. When seen on the open plain, a party of the most intrepid, cool-headed, well-mounted and expert lazadores surround him. Bruin, finding himself corraled, seats himself upright on his haunches, and takes the defensive position of the pugilist. A

Page 251

lazador now approaches him and swings his riata. The must be no mistake about it; the bear must be caught by one of his fore feet. That is the first thing to be done. Bear in mind, reader, the monster may be of 2000 pounds weight, and if caught around the body or neck, he takes hold of that riata and draws in the horse and rider hand over hand, as easily as a fisherman would draw in a catfish. The coil of the lazo describes a rapid circle, whizz! whirr! Bruin's eyes wall from side to side in the vain endeavor to know where the blow is about to fall, and his two immense arms gyrate wildly, as though he intended to make the right, left, front and rear parry at one and the same time and motion. Whizz, whirr, whirr, whip, goes the riata, and lord grizzly is caught by the fore paw. In the twinkling of an eye, whizz, whirr, whip, goes another riata, and the astonished monster is caught by the other fore foot. He now angrily, and with gnashing teeth and terrific growls, stands erect, and waltzes around like a grenadier; but the next thing he knows, whizz, whirr, whirr, whip, and a riata tightens on his hind foot, and before he can enter his growling protest he is caught by his other hind foot, and is tripped up and falls heavily upon his back, where he struggles desperately for life; but four well-trained horses, and four coolheaded, fearless riders, with their terrible riatas are too much for him, and in a few minutes the monster, with groans and growls, with heaving chest and dilating eyes, surrenders at discretion and lies on his back as helpless as a child. Whereupon he is approached by one or two lookers on and is dispatched with their lances.

This is the way grizzly bears were captured and slain in the olden California times, a dangerous performance surely, for even now with needle guns and Winchester rifles it is a most hazardous undertaking to attack a bear, and whomever does it runs more risk of life and limb than he would ever have ran at Shiloh or Antietam. I could relate many sanguinary

Page 252

encounters with grizzly bears in early times and will now relate a few that are more fixed in my mind.

The first of which I remember was that of Jim Boggs of Sonoma county, in 1850. Jim was out one day with a companion and espied a goodly-sized grizzly grazing along on the green sward. Jim's partner, being somewhat dextrous in throwing the lazo, caught the old boy around the body. Whereupon the bear took a seat and quietly drew in the man and horse, and most unfortunately the end of the riata was tied to the saddle. The horse struggled to escape, the saddle was turned, the rider fell off and was caught by the bear, and by some means or other the horse freed himself from the saddle and ran away. Boggs finding his companion in the terrible toils of the monster drew his revolver and bravely approached, placed the muzzle against the side of the bear's head and fired. The bear at once released the man, who took to his heels and left Jim and the bear to fight it out. Jim got in one more shot and then the bear pounced upon him and killed him, as the bear thought. Finding himself in the monster's clutches, Jim pretended to be lifeless, was only considerably bitten and torn to pieces. The bear left him and started away. Jim said, "I turned over a little, raised my head, and there went the old bear, licking her chops, but just as I raised my head she turned her eye and we looked each other square in the face for an instant, when the bear turned around and sprang upon me just as I've seen a cat spring upon a mouse. It took my whole face in its mouth, and crushing the bones, slung me around and shook me until I was senseless, and for many days it was quite unnecesary for me to make believe dead, because I was on the very doorstep of eternity." Jim was horribly mangled, bones broken generally and the flesh in places literally stripped from his limbs and body.

Colonel William Butts was, in '54 and '55, senior editor of the Southern Californian, published under the firm name of

Page 253

Butts & Wheeler--John O. Wheeler being the associate editor. The paper was most ably conducted, and edited with a degree of ability rarely exceeded within the limits of the State. Butts was an adopted son of the great Thomas H. Benton, and had served as an officer in the regular army, a daring spirit who always courted danger and sought adventure, was in '53 the hero of a bear fight, the most remarkable of which I ever had knowledge. It happened in San Luis Obispo county. I believe it was at the ranch of Captain Wilson that a party was made up to kill an immense grizzly who would pick up a fullgrown cow and walk away with her in his mouth, with as much ease as a mastiff would carry a rabbit. Butts was the only one of the party whom I knew, and as he was the hero, is the only one to be mentioned. The grizzly was found on the edge of the plain near a chaparral, and was immediately attacked by the hunters who lodged several balls in his body with which he escaped. The party commenced to beat the bush to get the bear out, and against the remonstrances of all Butts followed the bear's trail into the thicket. The trail soon entered the dry, gravelly bed of an arroyo and was easily followed. Butts had followed the bear's track for about a half mile when suddenly he lost it. Being confused he stopped to deliberate, and was standing withing a few feet of the bear that had lain down in the shade of a clump of chaparral on the side of the arroyo. With a great growl it sprang upon him so suddenly that he had no possible chance of using his yeager, but as he went down under the ponderous weight of the bear he got his hunting knife out of its scabbard, and then the mortal strife commenced. Butts declared that he never lost his presence of mind, but endeavored to stab the bear in its vital parts, and that time after time he thrust his eight-inch blade to the hilt in the bear's body as it stood over him biting and tearing him with its claws. Butts said "the last sensation I had was the brute dragging itself

Page 254

over me, and its entrails trailing across my face." A half hour later the two combatants were found--the bear dead, Butts torn into pieces and apparently so. After examination showed that the bones of his face were so crushed that he was disfigured for life; the bones of his left arm and right leg were fractured in several places; some of his ribs were crushed in, and his body and legs were literally cut into strips.

It turned out that the bear had been severely wounded by the shots fired into it, but not mortally; that Butts' knife had twice penetrated the lungs and once entered the heart, and that an incision was made in its bowels nearly a foot long. A litter was hastily constructed and poor Butts was carefully carried to the ranch, a surgeon sent for, and then some of the party with some Indians and a Mexican cart and oxen went for the bear which, after an immense amount of difficulty was successfully transported to the ranch, skinned, cut into pieces, and when weighed pulled down 2100 pounds avourdupois--almost incredible to believe.

We had a bull and bear fight here in Los Angeles in '54. The bear was a half-grown young fellow, and would have weighed not exceeding 500 or 600 pounds. Colonel Butts went to the arena to take a look at the combatants prior to the fight. After examining the bear critically he turned away, remarking, "Well, if I couldn't whip that bear in a rough-and-tumble, I wouldn't consider myself anything in a bear fight."

Although possessed of considerable capital, and with a rare editorial ability, the restless spirit of the gallant Butts must find a more prolific field for adventure, than the dull times that fell apace upon California in '55 and '56 afforded, so with a legion of others of like spirit he went to Nicaragua to uphold the flaunting flag of manifest destiny, and was there so wounded and riddled with bullets that after his return to Ohio, the place of his birth, he died thereof. The City of Angels

Page 255

never had in her firmament a brighter star than the brave and talented Butts.

In '54 Andy Sublette was mortally injured by a bear in one of the canons near Santa Monica. I believe it was the Malibu, commonly called Malaga, and preliminarily I must state who Andy Sublette was, and then how he came to be killed. There were three brothers of the Sublette family, Bill, Andy, and the other one's name I forget, Andy being the only one known to me personally. The Sublettes were Rocky Mountain princes, leaders among the mountaineers of the times anterior to Fremont's explorations, the Mexican war and the golden crusade to California. They were the founders of Fort Laramie, from which stronghold they dictated terms of peace to the haughty tribes of the Rocky Mountains, and declared war when war was more to their fancy than peace. The Sublettes sold Laramie to the American Fur Company, of which one of the Cheauteaus of St. Louis was chief. That Company, in '48, I believe, sold the fort to the United States, and it has since then been maintained as a military post. What memories of romance and adventure cluster around that romantic and historic place, in the spur of the great mountain chain! Emerson Bennett, in his inimitable pictures of Indian life, casts a halo of interest around Laramie that is perfectly enchanting. It is a beautiful and romantic spot situated on the west bank of the Laramie fork of the Platte, a few miles from its confluence with the latter stream. In June, '50, on our journey hither we stopped at Laramie for a week and cut our wagons up and made them into pack-saddles, and traded our fine American horses to Kit Carson for Mexican mules preparatory to encountering the great barrier. Well, as I before said, Andy Sublette was a Rocky Mountain prinees, and in addition thereto was a natural born gentleman, with manners as refined, gentle and polished as though he had never been beyond the confines of the most cultivated society, and I may say almost the same of all that

Page 256

old first-class Rocky Mountain Men,--they were peculiarly sedate and quiet in their manners. Andy had only recovered from severe injuries received in an encounter with a bear at Elizabeth Lake when in company with Jim Thompson he went on a bear hunt that was to be his last. Somehow or other he became separated from the party and found a grizzly and shot him, but before he could reload the fierce brute was upon him. Poor Andy! it was his last fight, and gallantly did he maintain his former renown. His faithful dog, "old Buck," was with him, and the two fought, Andy with his knife and old Buck with the weapons furnished by nature, and gained the victory over the mountain king. When Thompson found them the bear lay dead, Andy was insensible and "old Buck," lascerated in a shocking manner, was licking the blood from poor Andy's face. Tenderly were the two, man and dog, brought to the city and comfortably lodged and cared for in the Padilla building, the present U.S. Hotel corner. For many days the struggle between life and death was fierce. Sometimes Andy would get the better of the grim destroyer only to be again driven to the wall. Old Buck was as tenderly cared for as was his gallant master, Jim Thompson, with his great, good heart, watching night and day by the bedside of the two heroes, while other friends stood ready to assist. Old Buck lay on a nice pallet at the side of Andy's bed. When his master was unconscious the old dog would almost break his heart with piteous, subdued moaning, and when Andy in his delirium would imagine himself still fighting the bear and would say "seize him, Buck," "at him, old fellow;" "we'll get him yet," and like expressions, old Buck would raise his forepaw on the side of the bed and would give a bewildering growl. Finally death came out first best, as he always does, and poor Andy was one of the first to be interred in the Fort Hill cemetery. Old Buck rode in the wagon that took Andy to his last resting place, he and Jim Thompson being chief mourners.

Page 257

About every gringo in the place turned out at Andy's funeral, and it is safe to aver that there was not one person who left that graveyard with tearless eyes, on account not of the loss of a gallant man, a friend and christian neighbor, but for the doleful distress of poor old Buck, who utterly refused to be comforted and to be removed from his dead master's grave. So there he was left to exhaust his grief, which we all thought he would do in a little while. Twice, and sometimes three times a day, Jim Thompson and other kind-hearted friends would take Buck food and drink, and tried in vain to induce him to leave the grave. The faithful old dog refused to be comforted, refused to eat or drink, and on the third day he died, and was buried at the feet of his dead friend and master. Does the reader believe that dog had a soul worth saving, a soul that was saved, or that when old Buck died of grief, when his great heart was broken that that was the end of the brave, faithful, honest old dog; or that when Gabriel sounds his resurrection horn, that the spirit of Andy Sublette will be reunited in a happy hunting ground with the spirit of his faithful friend? Quien sabe? We will see.

Bears are sometimes peculiar as well as dogs, and one of the most peculiar and funny freaks of a bear I know of is the following, which is a well- known fact, and the infantile hero of this bear story was a well-known and prominent man in our country, quite recently deceased. Well, the story is to this effect: A ranchero who dwelt near the mountain's base, near our angel burg, had a wife and one child, a little boy about three years old. The husband was absent one day, as was his daily habit, looking after his herds, and the young wife, leaving the little Vicente to manage his own affairs, went to the spring to wash some clothes, being absent about an hour. When she returned what was her alarm and horror to find an immense grizzly playing pranks and cutting up rusties with the infantile Vicente, the two seeming to be on terms of the most

Page 258

affectionate intimacy. The old bear would lay on her back, and would hold the little fellow up in her great paws, and would toss him around and tenderly hug him, and the little Don would scream with delight, so pleased he seemed to be with his new-found friend. What was to be done was the absorbing question in the mind of the poor mother, so the only thing she could do was to pray to the saints to deliver her boy; but the boy did not want to be delivered, and the two newly-made and strange acquaintances continued their gambols until near the close of day, when Madame Osa, leaving little Vicente, who was fain to follow, took up her line of march for her home in the Sierra. The anxious mother lost no time in securing the youthful renegade, who had conceived so strange an affection for a bear, and who in later years was wont to speak of his mamma La Osa.

Fred Stacer, now a wealthy farmer in Indiana, when here in early times was quite a boy in years, but one of the most cunning woodsmen and formidable hunters I ever knew. Camp wherever we might, Fred would sally forth with his old Mississippi rifle, one that he had picked up on the gory field of Buena Vista (the truth being that as a boy he had accompanied Gen. Joe Lane to Mexico in the capacity of Orderly), and in a little while he would return with a supply of venison. Fred was also a bear hunter, and had on more than one occasion come out first best in a bear fight. One time a party of us were encamped in one of the many mountain valleys of our beautiful coast range, and Fred as usual had gone out with his gun. In due course of time he came in, limping along in a doleful plight, his clothes torn in tatters, his face, arms and body scratched and clawed in a fearful manner; in fact he was dreadfully used up, but as he said in response to our anxious inquiries, "Boys, I'm pretty badly whipped, but not quite done for." He then told us he had killed a young grizzly, and that the old bear mamma had got hold of him. He said he was walking along down on one side of a steep descending ridge

Page 259

or backbone, and suddenly came upon two young grizzlies, and shot one of them dead. Hastily reloading his rifle he took after the other, which ran along the mountain side in a horizontal line, which soon brought it and also its pursuer to the backbone or summit of the ridge. The cub had from the first set up a terrific squalling, and it so happened that the old she bear had been on the opposite side of the ridge when her first cub was killed, and followed in the direction taken by the frightened young survivor. The result was that the old she bear, Fred Stacer and the cub all met on a converged line. When the old bear saw Fred she ran back a few paces, stopped, looked at him for a moment, and then commenced to walk deliberately toward him. Fred knew he could hit her directly in the eye, so he quietly awaited her approach until she got within ten feet of him, when he pulled away, and lo! for the first time his gun missed fire. He had forgotten to put a cap on the tube. As quick as a flash the old bear sprang upon him, and the two commenced to roll down the steep mountain side, Fred struggling to escape, and the bear plying teeth and toe-nail as best she could. The further they went the more rapid became their motion, and finally the two plunged over a perpendicular, rocky precipice more than fifty feet high, and lodged in the top of a live oak tree that grew at the bottom. Fortunately when they struck the tough but yielding branches of the tree Fred was on top, and lodged, and held on for dear life, while the bear went crashing through to the bottom, and thus was the luckless and lucky Nimrod delivered from the clutches of the mountain monster. Leaving poor Fred in camp, we proceeded to the place of encounter and found the dead cub, the rifle, and then descended the rugged mountain side to the precipice and the place where the old bear had fallen, but she was gone.

One more bear story and this subject will be disposed of. In February, 1855, a party consisting of Aleck Bell, Zack Moore, W. T. Clark, Nelse Williamson, the author, and that

Page 260

famous ante-bellum pioneer and ex-officer of the Fremont battalion, Bill Bradshaw, who gave name to the Bradshaw District in Arizona, were prospecting for placer gold on the head waters of Kern River. One day Bradshaw was out on a hunt, had an encounter with and a narrow escape from a grizzly. Bill was a very cool and brave fellow but excessively nervous, and sustained in addition to considerable physical injury, a great nervous shock. We were camped in a thicket and at about midnight were awakened by a shot and cry of distress from the brush. Springing to our feet, to our horror we found that Bradshaw had shot Williamson, who had quietly arisen and had retired a few paces into the bushes. Bradshaw hearing him, sprang up, rifle in hand, and having nothing but grizzly on his mind, and imagining the noise in the bushes to proceed from a bear fired, and shot poor Nelse through the body. We then had to carry the wounded man on a mule litter more than one hundred miles to Fort Tejon, where he received the first surgcal assistance, and a few months thereafter was brought to Los Angeles, and lingered on the very door-step of eternity for two or three years and finally recovered, being now, in 1881, nearly eighty years of age, hale, hearty and happy, and except a difficult limp and painful recollection, has nothing to remind him of this my last bear story.

Page 261

ALONG about May, '53, a most remarkable character hung up his hat at the Bella Union for a brief period and then turned his face westward for the upper country, making a halt of sufficient length of time in San Luis Obispo to have himself elected to the Legislature and to play hob generally with the honest Obispoans. Had this most enterprising individual domiciliated himself in our terrestrial paradise there is no telling to what distinction he might have attained. However, he scorned to be an angel and with the angels dwell, and as before stated honored the good people of San Luis with his gringo presence. The ardent adventurer now brought before the reader was the renowned Parker H. French, by many known as one-armed French, and when he hung his hat on the hotel peg of our venerable Bella Union, his said hat and his very limited wardrobe generally had the musty smell of a Mexican prison on them. The old hat and damaged dry goods soon went to the gutter, and Parker arrayed his wellformed person in elegant vestments, and made a dashing hotel figure during his brief stay in Los Angeles.

Our hero was a gifted man, and one of his peculiar gifts was his ability to beat tailors and dry goods men. Hotel

Page 262

keepers were his special delight. Our jew-merchants were generous, jovial and jolly. Either Lazard, Morris, Kalisher or Kohn would sell the most seedy newcomer a suit of raiment and trust to his honor or good luck for their pay. These guileless Hebrews must have cast a vast amount of bread upon the waters in those pioneer times, which I fear me will never return to them. I am sure that whoever it was that arrayed the ragged French in rare cloth and fine linen never got so much as thank you for their pay, for be it known Parker's rarest gift was ingratitude. So whenever a person sold anything to him he, the vendor, sold himself at the same time.

Notwithstanding, when Parker made his appearance in our Angel City he was as penniless as a preacher, it cost a million dollars to get him here, as well as having cost him his good right hand, which he was so fain to use in appending other men's names to his own paper. French was an Illinois man, and in the spring of '49 made his appearance in San Antonio, Texas, with a letter of credit from Howland & Aspinwall, of New York, for $750, 000, and at once set himself at work to organize an overland passenger train to the land of gold. In a space of time, so brief that the good people of Bexar had no time to marvel at the marvellous manner which marked the movements attending the organization, the hitching up, and the hauling out of the most magnificent passenger train that ever took its departure westward from that famous starting point.

One hundred splendid ambulances, to which were attached six hundred beautiful mules, in splendid harness; in each ambulance were seated a driver and six passengers--each passenger paying, in advance, the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, passage money to Sacramento City. Accompanying this beautiful train were baggage and provision wagons, a herd of extra mules, and horses, with a corps of cooks, herders and hunters, with Quartermaster, Commissary and Wagon Masters, mounted

Page 263

men as outriders, flanquers, videttes and rear guards, with pomp and parade, with flags flying, music and song, and to the melody of

"Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me,"

This brilliant train of ardent Argonauts clattered through the narrow streets of San Antonio de Bexar, and made its first day's march to Castroville, thence, ho! for California! Everything went as merry as a marriage bell until the train arrived at El Paso, when lo! a military cavalry guard from Texas overhauled the train, with orders to capture and detain the property of the expedition, and arrest French and send him back to San Antonio.

With his forged letter of credit, French had drawn on Howland & Aspinwall for near a million of dollars. The assistance of the Government had been evoked, hence the military pursuit and order of arrest, as above set forth. Parker H. was not to be caught napping--he was too sharp for that-- he rallied around him a few desperadoes, resisted the military, and succeeding in crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico with quite a following of mounted men, and struck out for, and, without any serious mishap, reached the City of Chihuahua, and there rested.

Many of the deluded passengers found their way on foot, and as best they could, to San Diego and Los Angeles, others were cruelly murdered by the Apaches in their vain endeavors to accomplish that journey, while still many others managed to get back to Texas, and thence found some other way of reaching our golden shores, and a few discouraged, remained in New Mexico, or drifted over into the Latin-Aztec Republic. In my early mining experience I was in company with a Dr. Jackson, a Mr. Wm. Hazeltine and "Yank" Bartlette, the latter now residing in Arizona, and the only living person of whom I have any knowledge who was of that rascally-romantic unfortunate passenger expedition. From those gentlemen I learned the facts as I now give them.

Page 264

French was in Chihuahua out of money and could not raise a dollar, and with his party undertook to rob his way to Mazatlan, and the whole batch brought up in the Durango Mexican prison, where, in an attempt to overpower the guard, French had his arm shattered at the elbow with a musket ball, several of his comrades were killed in the attempt, all were overpowered and French's arm was amputated in the prison. Whatever became of those men I never knew; one Malcom was released and reached Los Angeles in '52, and started the first livery stable in the city at the place where now the north-east corner of Central block, belonging to the Lanfranco family stands. French regained his liberty--how I never knew--reahed Los Angeles in '53, and when the Legislature met at Vallejo the same year, Parker handed in his credentials as Senator and so seated himself. He however gave little attention to matters legislative, but gave a great deal of attention to selling and mortgaging the ranchos of his constituents to San Francisco money-lenders and speculators. He soon disappeared from halls legislative, and from places speculative, and to the general consternation of the credulous and confiding Obispoans, their Senator, by forged powers of attorney, had sold and mortgaged about every ranch in the county worth the trouble. Where the Senator went to the devil only knew, and was never more heard of till he turned up in this way. When Walker was in Nicaragua in '56, a lake steamer with passengers from New York to San Francisco in passing over Lake Nicaragua was fired into from Fort San Carlos, then held by the enemies of the Walker-Rivas government in Nicaragua. French was a passenger, but whether bound for San Francisco, or had come out to join Walker is of little moment; suffice it to say the steamer lay to and Parker raised a crowd of roughs who were on board, took the boats, landed, and with their revolvers stormed and captured the fort and forced the garrison to lay down its arms and surrender at discretion; for which act of

Page 265

gallantry the Walker-Rivas Government sent him as "Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Government of Washington." With his Filibuster credentials this enterprising vagabond presented himself to Secretary Marcy, and with the cool audacity of a Tallyrand demanded the recognition of his Filibuster-Manifest-Destiny Government of Nicaragua.

Marcy, in language forcible but politely diplomatique, informed Mr. Envoy that if he did not clear out and vamose the capital, and hie himself to his own country, he would have him handed over to the authorities as an offender against the laws of the land. So Parker took the hint and vamosed the ranch, cleared out, cut stick, and returned to Nicaragua, threatening war and dire vengeance on perfidious Yankeedom.

When, on his return, the illustrious Envoy presented himself at the National Palace in Nicaragua, his ardor was somewhat cooled, and his threats of vengeance were modified, when Walker, the great Filibuster chief, who was chagrined at French's failure, took him roughly by the shoulders, faced him about, and kicked him out of the country. Where he went to thence we may, if we so desire, inquire of Old Nick, for surely Parker belonged to him; but in '59 he played some pranks on the people of Mississippi, which caused him to suddenly shake the dust of that State from his fleeing feet, and hie him thence for fields prolific. That was the last of Parker, so far as any one knoweth or careth to know, except the following: After the battle of Antietam, in which the author participated, and after three campaigns in Virginia and one in Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi, I went to New York City recruiting, for recreation, pleasure, rest, and a general good time, so much enjoyed by a soldier on leave. Well, I went down to see Boston, and to visit my old and gallant scouting comrade in the first campaign of the war, J. W. Gordon, Major of the 11th U. S. Regulars, and commanding Fort Warren. I also visited Fort Lafayette, and saw the prisoners of state, among whom it

Page 266

grieved me to find several well-known Californians; and more important than all, I found the Illinois store clerk, the Texas forger of a million of dollars, the bandit in Mexico, the Bella Union guest in Los Angeles, the San Louis Obispo Senator, the Nicaragua "Envio Extraordinario y Ministro Plenipotentiario," Parker H. French. I inquired how he came there, and was informed that he had been arrested as a most dangerous and enterprising spy of the Southern Confederacy. And so endeth the author's knowledge of this remarkable character, and so endeth this chapter, devoted to his transcendant and misguided genius.

Page 267

TELEGRAM.

EL PASO, September 23d, 1880:--"Governor Tarrasas offers a reward of $1, 000 for the scalp of Victorio."

On reading the above it occurred to the mind of the chronicler hereof that Chihuahua's Governor should use a careful discrimination, and make sure of the identity of the scalp referred to before he paid out his coin, or he might be cheated, and get one other than that of the celebrated Victorio. Dealing in scalps is a dangerous business, as the sequel will show. Those who have read Jere Clemens' "Mustang Gray," will remember that the hero of that book (a real character) was a noted Texas Ranger, that he had a boy protege, John Glanton by name, whom he instructed in all the mysteries of Indian fighting, hunting, trailing, lassoing mustangs, and scalping an occasional Mexican, whose appearance failed to favorably impress the two heroes. At fifteen years of age, John was one of the most noted Rangers on the frontier; at sixteen he was Captain of a Ranger Company, and as such served through the Mexican war, and won great renown as a scout. Sometime during the summer of '49, Glanton, at the head of a party of desperate

Page 268

adventurers, left San Antonio overland for California, leaving behind him a newly wedded wife, a most estimable and highly cultured lady, of one of the best families of that romantic frontier city. The expedition, in due course of time, arrived in Chihuahua, and halted for recreation and pleasure. At this time the Apaches were peculiarly bold in their raids, murdering citizens and desolating villages and outlying ranchos. They had become so annoying that the Governor of the State had offered two ounces ($32) for each and every Apache scalp taken by any one whomsoever.

Glanton and his party proposed a campaign, but had not the necessary means of procuring supplies. At this juncture Benjamin Riddle, a merchant and American Consul, and John Abel, an American resident, patriotically supplied the cash ($2,500) on the venture, and being thus supplied with the sinews of war, Glanton lost no time in preparations, and was soon on the warpath. The campaign was brief, bloody and brilliant, and productive of a bountiful supply of scalps.

The Apache warriors, accustomed to cope with the unwieldy, half-starved, ill-paid and poorly armed Mexican troops, whom, if unable to whip, they could always elude by their celerity of movement, were taken completely by surprise by this new foe, who carried a pair of six-shooting pistols of that terrible old Texas pattern in their holsters, and a navy at their belt, their only arms, except the bowie. Well mounted, thoroughly trained in the arts of Indian warfare, of such esprit du corps as led every man to do his utmost to excel his comrades in the carnival of blood, Glanton and his Rangers made an easy campaign and a brilliant success.

Returning to Chihuahua they were publicly received at the Governor's palace, marched under triumphal arches, delivered their scalps to the government agent, received two doubloons for each scalp, were feasted, feted and made the lions of the town in that gay Mexican capital. Fandangos, gambling and

Page 269

carousing succeeded for the month following, and the restive Rangers were ready for another campaign. So confident had the authorities become that they gratuitously furnished supplies for the second campaign, and the scalp-hunters were again on the war-path. This second campaign was more brief and productive than the first, and the good citizens of Chihuahua congratulated themselves, returned thanks to the saints, feasted the Rangers, and believed the period for exterminating los barbaros had finally come. Shortly after the second campaign it was whispered around that Mexican rancheros had been killed and scalped by foes other than the Apaches. Matters became dangerously suspicious, and the Rangers were on the alert.

The trouble with the authorities of Chihuahua was the difficulty of distinguishing between the scalp of an Apache and that of a Mexican. The Rangers who remembered the Alamo, Goliad, and other places of Mexican outrage and blood, hated the Mexican more than they did the Apache, and, as with them, it was a question of dollars and cents, and not of either love or patriotism, had found it more convenient and less hazardous to raise the hair of a Mexican than that of an Apache, and such was the product of the second campaign.

The Mexicans are a gentle people, and have more virtue than the " Barbaros del Norte,"--which means us blue-bloodedAmericans--ever gave them credit for. They are not an excitable people, and as a people are hard to raise; but when once raised, as they were on the memorable cinco de Mayo, they are more irresistible than the hurricane or the piercing norther that sweeps their favored land. Once raised they are a fury. As a people they were not raised against the American invasion of 1846. As a people they were raised against the French and Austrians in '61-'67, and astonished the world with their deeds of devotion and of heroism.

When Glanton and his Rangers heard the murmur of

Page 270

the coming storm, they, dissembling innocence, prepared to escape it and flee the wrath to come, that is to say they quietly, and in the hour when honest people seek their pillow and thieves do go abroad, saddled their well-fed chargers and cut stick for the shores of the western ocean.

Pursuit was organized, but too late; the bloody scalpers had escaped. They had secured safety by their well-timed departure and the fleetness of their horses.

The next we hear of Glanton and his desperate band is at the mining town of Jesus Maria, in the northeastern part of Sonora, where Messrs. W. T. B. Sanford, afterward of Los Angeles, and Frank Carroll, he who kept the whisky mill in the priest's cottage residence at San Gabriel, were the only American traders. The Glanton party held high carnival during their short tarry at this obscure Mexican village, which the simple minded poblanos bore with their usual patience until Glanton perpetrated the last outrage, which raised a second storm, from which the festive fellows were again glad to escape by taking to their heels and plying spur. John Glanton rode into the quartel, hauled down the Mexican flag, tied it to a mule's tail, lashed the mule into fury and turned it loose in the town. The Rangers escaped the fury of the outraged populace, so did Sanford and Carroll; but the two latter escaped on foot, leaving behind them, to the fury of the mob, their stores, accumulations of hard years of toil and danger, and barely got away with their lives. Arriving at Tucson, the Rangers found the place besieged by the renowned Apache chief, Mangas Colorado, the place being defended by a handful of frightened Mexican soldiers, a few old men and the boys, the able-bodied men having gone in a body to the new El Dorado in California.

The Rangers rode through the Apaches into the beleaguered town and joined its frightened defenders. Mangas Colorado then sounded a parley, and with several of his chiefs met

Page 271

Glanton under some cotton-wood trees, at the little cienega east of, and just outside the town.

The great chief--and the Apaches never had a greater than Mangas-- expressed his surprise at the Americans assisting their enemies, the Mexicans, and fighing against those whom they should treat as friends and allies. Glanton, however, informed him that Americans always defended the weak, and that unless the arrogant chief and his barbarous horde should depart before sunrise the following day, the Americans would turn loose their "saddles" on them, meaning in the expressive Apache dialect their holster pistols, a something the Mexican cavalry never carried. Mangas said he would not fight his amigos, the Americans, but proposed that if permitted to slaughter seven bullocks to be furnished by the Mexicans, and feast his warriors thereon, in the Plaza of Tucson, and to drink mescal himself with the American chief, while his warriors were so feasting he would depart in peace. He said he did all he could to restrain his braves from killing Mexicans, as a general thing, as contrary to his policy; "For," said he, "if we kill off the Mexicans, who will raise cattle and horses for us?" The proposed plan was agreed to and the programme carried out to the letter, the Rangers preserving an armed neutrality in the meantime, after which Mangas Colorado, which means Red Mantle, quietly withdrew his barbarians and departed. Then came another carnival of joy. The grateful Tucsonians plied the Rangers with every comfort and delicacy that their poor town afforded, refused them nothing, and the old men wept and the women wailed when their chivalric deliverers departed. This was the last act of American manhood performed by that brave band of abandoned men.

Arriving at Yuma, they found a solitary American, who kept a ferry-boat, and an immense number of Indians, camped at and near the crossing. The poor ferryman, after crossing

Page 272

the party over, was murdered by some of the band, because he persisted in his denial of having aguardiente or mescal.

Dave and Charley Brown, the two survivors of Glanton's band, informed the chronicler of the termination of this bloody ride. The party camped on a grassy flat on the west side of the river, just below the crossing, and quietly passed the night. Early in the morning the camp was astir preparatory to resuming their line of march over the great desert.

The two Browns had, at early dawn, gone to the ferry-boat with camp- kettles to procure water with which to cook breakfast. While they were at the river the Ranger's camp was secretly surrounded by the Yuma Indians, under old Pasqual, a venerated chief of to-day, who, to avenge the murder of their friend, the ferryman, massacred the whole party, save only Dave and Charley, as before stated. When the camp was attacked they, with well- timed judgment, quietly boarded the ferry-boat, shoved into the stream, and floated down the river wholly unobserved by the Indians, who supposed they had killed the whole party. After descending the stream a few miles, the two survivors landed, filled their camp-kettles with water, and started westward across the desert, and after unparalleled suffering arrived at San Diego, in a condition little better than walking skeletons; and such is the history of John Glanton and his Chihuahua scalp-hunters, and such was their deplorable end.

The two Browns were not of kin, Dave being a red-headed, good-natured American, while Charley was a quarter-blood Cherokee. Dave was hung at Los Angeles in 1854, by an irate mob of California Mexicans, most of whom were his personal friends, and hung him only in vindication of principle. That is to say, the Americans of the Angel city were in the habit of amusing themselves by hanging some luckless Mexican, and the Mexicans wished to show that they could play at

Page 273

the same game, and so seized on poor Dave as a fit subject for demonstration, apologized for the liberty they were taking with him, which Dave laughingly accepted, and was then swung up. Dave had always lived the life of an unprincipled fellow, he died in vindication of a principle, that is, to show that the native Californians knew how to hang a man in the most approved gringo fashion.

The other Brown also fell a victim to principle. He went to Nicaragua under the banner of manifest destiny, and died in vindication of the principles thereof.

Poor Dave set a most beautiful example to the young people who witnessed his interesting taking off. He said he had committed a great many crimes, but not of sufficient magnitude to deserve hanging. The only great crime he had ever seriously contemplated was running for Councilman of our pure and lovely municipality, and should he have done so, and been elected, and have served, then "I would have felt that I deserved death;" but fortunately, said Dave, in going into the presence of the great Judge, I can at least claim that I was never either Mayor, or member of the Los Angeles City Council. Alas! poor Dave, his crimes were many, but these last mentioned were not charged up against him in the "kingdom come."

Some years ago the writer was in San Antonio, where he frequently met a pale, sorrowful-looking, elderly lady, accompanied by a younger one, the latter very beautiful, both in deep mourning, one the widow, the other the daughter of the reckless Glanton, the Chihuahua scalp-hunter.